When the Sky Falls

by Phil Earle

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  PRAISE FOR WHEN THE SKY FALLS

  ‘An EXTRAORDINARY STORY with historical and family truth at its heart, that tells us as much about the present as the past. Deeply felt, movingly written, a remarkable achievement’

  MICHAEL MORPURGO

  ‘COMPLEX, DARK, INTENSE AND MYSTERIOUS, When the Sky Falls is an astounding work of fiction. The characters have the knotty awkwardness of real people, and the whole book has that unfakeable FEELING OF TRUTH. For years now Earle has been one of our FINEST WRITERS for young people and here he is at the height of his considerable powers’

  ANTHONY McGOWAN

  ‘When the Sky Falls is heart-racingly good. POWERFUL, KIND AND THRILLING. An urgent reminder that when we have the courage and compassion to stand up for others – animals as well as humans – they often save us right back’

  LAUREN ST JOHN

  ‘A BOLD and BEAUTIFUL story’

  ABI ELPHINSTONE

  ‘Packed with ADVENTURE, MYSTERY AND A WHOLE LOT OF HEART, When the Sky Falls feels like an instant classic’

  LISA WILLIAMSON

  ‘A RAW AND BEAUTIFUL story about the power of kindness and hope’

  ANNA JAMES

  ‘A POWERFUL, REMARKABLE story. It is heart-soaringly wonderful’

  JENNIFER BELL

  ‘A RAW, TOUCHING TALE of a boy in WWII Britain whose biggest war is with himself. Powerful, convincing, full of heart and love’

  MICHELLE HARRISON

  ‘Phil Earle writes from the heart: a story about LOVE and FRIENDSHIP and how animals can connect people in the darkest of times and allow them to heal’

  GILL LEWIS

  ‘Enormously POWERFUL AND VIVID – a real heart-wrenching evocation of the Blitz’

  LISSA EVANS

  ‘BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN, heart-tugging and fierce. I loved it’

  JENNY DOWNHAM

  ‘A writer whose words hold a CLARITY OF COMPASSION and can carry any reader to a world that feels as real as one’s own’

  NON PRATT

  ‘A lovingly crafted piece of work with a POWERFUL EMOTIONAL ADVENTURE at its heart – how to survive, how to love others, and how to let them love you. One of those books that makes you forget where you are when you’re reading it. Highly recommended’

  MELVIN BURGESS

  ‘I was gripped by this POWERFUL STORY OF FRIENDSHIP set against the backdrop of the Blitz. I read it in one breathless sitting and felt like I was walking alongside Joseph every step of the way. It’s A RAW, BEAUTIFULLY TOLD STORY. I loved it’

  JENNY McLACHLAN

  ‘Kes meets The Machine Gunners in a story that MADE ME THINK AND FEEL and remember why we need to love and be loved’

  TOM PALMER

  ‘I knew I was going to LOVE it from the opening lines’

  MARCUS SEDGWICK

  ‘Impressive depths and fathoms of emotion and COMPASSION run beneath a highly affecting story of lives and landscapes ravaged and torn apart by war. Based around a true story, it will touch heart and mind alike’

  JAKE HOPE, CHAIR OF YLG

  ‘Absolutely wonderful. I literally couldn’t stop reading it. Continuously exciting, increasingly moving, and the whole effect is AMAZINGLY POWERFUL. A truly brilliant performance. It deserves accolades and prizes but, more profoundly, it’s a fabulous gift for readers who, I think, are going to LOVE IT FIERCELY’

  SIMON MASON

  This edition first published in 2021 by

  Andersen Press Limited

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road

  London SW1V 2SA

  www.andersenpress.co.uk

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  The right of Phil Earle to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Text copyright © Phil Earle, 2021

  Lyrics for ‘Vane Tempest’ by The Lake Poets, written by Martin Longstaff, are reproduced with kind permission by BMG and Sony/Membran

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  ISBN 978-1-78761-208-2

  For Pete, who planted the seed . . .

  and for Louise, who brought it to life.

  I look into your eyes, and I can see

  Another life and a mind worth reading

  When you look into mine,

  I hope you see not a boy,

  but the man you made me

  When you were down the mine,

  under the sea, You held a dream

  that you passed onto me

  You said, ‘You can be the man,

  you want to be

  Just keep in mind

  what my own dad told me’

  Because there will come a time

  There will come a time

  There will come a time

  Oh, there will come a time

  There will come a time

  For people like me and you

  ‘Vane Tempest’, The Lake Poets

  1

  The platform was a battlefield: seventy yards of carnage transplanted straight from the coasts of northern France.

  Smoke billowed; people clung to each other. There were cries of pain, howls of despair as loved ones were ripped apart. There were silent tears too, quiet reassurances whispered into ears: that this was temporary, that it changed nothing, I am still your mother, your parent.

  Against the tide of devastation walked a boy: tutting and huffing at the tears and carrying-on. He looked just like any of the other evacuees in the station: regulation case, tag and gas mask box. But instead of being shoehorned onto a train, he was marching away from one, having just arrived.

  He had no idea where he was heading, nor any real sense of who he was to look for, but he knew he wanted no part of the drama going on around him. He scoured the crowd, cursing at the smoke that bit his eyes. It didn’t take much to light the end of his fuse, and the long journey down had been more than enough to start him smouldering.

  He seethed under his breath, then over it, not caring who heard. He’d give it a minute; see if anyone
presented themselves. And if they didn’t? Well he’d just sneak onto a train and be pulled back north. He’d hide out in the guard’s van, amongst the musty sacks of letters from soldiers begging to come home. He knew how they felt. He wanted to go home too, despite everything. He certainly didn’t want to be here.

  It had been two months since his father had marched to war. Long months, both of them, and every day had hardened him, tightening the cog in his gut, winding up his anger, his fury.

  He peered again at the faces by the barrier, not knowing who he was looking for, nor how he’d react if someone had the audacity to smile or beckon him forward.

  He didn’t know the woman he was meant to be meeting, nor did he want to, and now that she’d failed to present herself, he was not disappointed.

  I’ll go home, he said to himself. Didn’t have to be to his grandmother. The cow. He’d not go anywhere he wasn’t wanted. Not any more. He’d find an empty place. There were plenty of them around. He’d live off scraps, whatever he could find. He’d not let anyone stop him. No one would dare.

  But as the boy spun to return north, he felt a hand on the strap of his box. Not a gentle hand. It clutched at him like a barn owl would a mouse.

  ‘Joseph Palmer?’ The boy recognised the tone, he’d heard it plenty of times before. A bobby, he was sure of it.

  ‘Joseph? Is that who you are?’

  A face craned over his shoulder and into view, too close to focus on. He couldn’t see the chin strap of a policeman’s helmet, just a shocking frizz of greying red hair that sprung in all directions.

  ‘I’m here to collect you, lad.’

  A woman. A hard face – lived-in. And a deep, gravelly voice. The boy looked in her eyes and dared her to look back. She did, and seemed about as happy to be there as he was.

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, Missus. I’m just leaving. Sending me to the country, they are, with the others.’

  The woman gripped harder at the strap. ‘With an accent like that? I don’t think so, Joseph.’

  The boy didn’t like the way she was holding him, or how she was challenging him, even if it were true. He shrugged his shoulder, then swung it, all the time eyeing her angrily, but her clasp didn’t give a bit.

  ‘Get your hands off me, will you? I don’t know you. Get your hands off me or I’ll make a right scene.’

  The woman didn’t doubt it. She could feel the power in the boy, despite his meagre frame.

  Much of her would have been only too happy to walk away, she neither needed nor wanted this, but there was a promise, wasn’t there? She might have made it a long while back, but it was still a promise, and she didn’t have it in her not to keep it. Or at the very least, to try.

  ‘Joseph,’ she sighed, ‘I know it’s you. So you can kick and scream and deny it as much as you want. I’ve grappled bigger beasts than you, my lad, and I’ve not lost yet.’

  The woman turned on her heel, pulling Joseph with her, despite his spirited struggles. But within ten yards she felt her progress thwarted. The boy had put the brakes on.

  She turned, ready to bite. But as she made to speak, she saw it wasn’t Joseph who’d stopped them, but a suited man who’d taken hold of Joseph’s other arm, leaving Joseph stretched and angry in the middle.

  ‘Are you this boy’s grandmother?’ He didn’t look like he was about to congratulate her.

  Joseph felt her bristle at the suggestion.

  ‘I’m not, no.’

  ‘But you are responsible for him?’

  Joseph could tell she didn’t particularly like that either, but the man had her there. The second she’d arrived at the station, she’d crossed that uncomfortable line, and she was now responsible for Joseph, whether either of them wanted it or not.

  ‘I am.’

  Joseph flinched at this, before bucking between them like an unbroken stallion.

  ‘Well, he’s stolen from me.’

  The words stopped the boy’s thrashing, just for a second, before he stepped up a gear, releasing himself from the man’s grip, but not hers. She held on effortlessly.

  ‘Is this true?’ she asked Joseph, ending his thrashing with one firm tug, though she saw a wildness shoot into his eyes.

  ‘He’s lying,’ he spat. ‘Idiot’s got nowt I’d want. Nowt.’

  Her eyes moved from the boy to the man.

  ‘He says he’s taken nothing,’ she said, as if the man couldn’t translate Joseph’s unruly northern twang.

  This did nothing to appease the gent. ‘Then he’ll not mind opening his case.’ He ripped Joseph’s luggage from his hand and took a step back as the boy aimed a kick at his shins.

  ‘I’d suggest you keep the child under control,’ he said, and struggled with the case’s clasp, before realising there was only a loop of twine holding it shut.

  It surrendered quickly to his demands, and the case fell open.

  The woman leaned in, wincing at the god-awful smell rising from inside.

  ‘If there’s anything in there belonging to you,’ she told the man, while recoiling from the cloying stench, ‘why on earth would you want it back?’

  But the man was not to be deterred, his hands flinging aside socks and underpants that looked like they had reluctantly survived the trenches some twenty-five years earlier.

  ‘Aha,’ he cried, as he came upon two large wedges, wrapped in brown paper. ‘Care to explain this?’

  Joseph didn’t flinch as he gathered his shabby clothes back into the case. ‘Sandwiches.’ He shrugged. ‘Mother made me them for the journey down.’

  The woman sagged visibly and at that moment Joseph knew he had given himself away, to her at least. He had no idea why this woman had volunteered to take him in, or of the link that existed between them, but she clearly knew he had no mother: he saw it in her eyes. And her knowledge bothered him.

  ‘Nonsense,’ yelled the man. ‘You are a thief, and I’ll prove it.’ With a grandstanding flourish, he ripped the paper from one parcel to reveal a block of cheese so substantial it could wedge open a stable door. As if that wasn’t enough, he then revealed enough sliced bacon to feed a sizeable platoon in the other.

  Both were responsible for the smell. Both had been out of a cool pantry for too long.

  ‘You see?’ he spat as he wrapped them back up. ‘The boy is a liar, and a thief. He took these from my bag while I slept. I want an apology from you, Sunshine, and I want it now.’

  But he would not get one. He had lit the boy’s fuse, and Joseph now lurched forward, fists raised, forcing the woman to pull him back by the scruff of his neck.

  ‘Enough!’ the man shouted, pointing over to the ticket booth. ‘There’s a policeman over there. Two, in fact. One word from me, my boy, and you will find yourself in real bother. As will you, my dear,’ he added, pointing disdainfully at the woman. ‘You should be ashamed, with everything going on, to let your boy run wild like this, taking whatever he likes.’

  It seemed to Joseph that while the woman could accept the man’s words about him, something had snapped when his attention turned to her. A snap that propelled her towards the man, then beyond him, ripping the parcels from his grasp as she passed.

  ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ he said.

  ‘Exactly what you asked,’ she replied without looking back, making the man scamper to catch up. ‘If it’s the law you’re after, then let’s get it over with. They’ll be surprised to see one man in possession of such large rations, though. But I’m sure there must be a legitimate reason for it, what with you being so morally upstanding and all.’

  The man’s face flushed. ‘Madam, wait...’ he blustered, though the woman, if anything, accelerated.

  ‘I won’t!’ she insisted. ‘This is an awful, squalid business, and if there has been a theft of any kind, then we need to have done with it. Immedia
tely.’

  ‘Well, perhaps... I was a little... rash. I mean, it’s clear the boy is troubled. I could see that from his demeanor on the journey from Yorkshire. Perhaps it would be best... for him... if we were to forget it ever happened.’ He made to wrestle the parcels from the woman’s grasp, but found no give in her whatsoever.

  ‘Now that would never do, would it?’ she said, deadpan. ‘I can’t, with good conscience, allow for any crime to take place, and for the guilty party to go unpunished. As you said, these are difficult times. We need to be standing together, not stealing from each other.’

  The policemen were mere strides away now, and the woman began to wave the parcels in their direction. Joseph reckoned the bobbies could probably smell them, and half expected them to bolt in the other direction in revulsion.

  Instead, they stepped forward, towards the woman, which was enough to see a river of sweat break across the man’s brow. With a desperate lunge, he ripped one of the parcels from the woman’s hand, and ploughed back into the crowd, out of sight.

  With a movement equally deft, the woman grabbed Joseph by the hand and changed direction, making it appear she was waving at someone near the exit and not at the police at all. The officers stood down, and the pair weaved through the scrum towards the street.

  Joseph allowed it all to sink in. He had no desire to be in this place, with this woman, and after what he’d just seen, he didn’t like his chances of getting a single thing over on her, either. Not that it would stop him trying.

  ‘Cheese for supper then,’ he said. ‘Call it a gift from me, Missus.’

  The woman didn’t break pace. Nor did she look in his direction. Instead, she let the parcel fall from her hand into the next passing bin. Joseph’s face fell a mile.

  ‘Eat that and you’d be glued to the lav for a month,’ she said. ‘That might suit you, but some of us have better things to be doing. So, let’s get two things straight. I’ll not tolerate thieving. Steal as much as a glance in the future and I’ll turn you in myself. And secondly, I’ll thank you not to call me Missus neither. My name is Margaret Farrelly. My friends call me Mags. So to you, I’m Mrs F. You hear me?’

  The boy said nothing and showed nothing, either, his emotions securely locked down. For now.

  ‘We must dash, so no dallying. If that siren sounds, we don’t want to be anywhere near here, believe me.’