‘When we finish,’ said Rupert. ‘We’ll tell Da when we finish.’
Billy dropped his brush.
‘No! You can’t!’
‘Shhh!’ hissed James. ‘Be quiet, Billy, you’ll get us in trouble!’
‘But you can’t!’ Billy pushed past James and ran over to Rupert, grabbing him by the shirt. ‘Please say you won’t! You won’t tell them!’
He yanked at the shirt until Rupert gave James a warning look that told him he was moments from pushing Billy away if James didn’t get there first. James dropped his own brush and pulled Billy back. He held him by both arms and glared down at his terrified face.
‘Billy Alexander Cooper!’ he said, the way his mother did when she was cross, as if a child’s full name carried some encoded power to quell it.
‘James, please,’ sobbed Billy.
He shook him again. Already he could feel the uselessness in his actions. He wasn’t strong enough for this. He didn’t have the power of a parent. All he had was the frustration of an older brother who didn’t feel very old himself.
‘What the devil is the matter with you?!’
Billy seemed to sag in his grip. He turned his eyes up pleadingly at James. He didn’t recognise this look. It wasn’t the same old look he used on their mother to get his own way back home. This was something else — the beginnings of some true and desperate feeling that had suddenly crashed into his young heart.
‘James…’
‘Tell me!’
Billy sniffed and sighed.
‘I told you there was a man, James. I told you I knew. And he’s cold and sick and injured and hungry and far, far from home, and if we tell them he’ll be in trouble, real trouble James.’
‘How did you know he was there?’
‘I don’t know. I just do.’
‘Did you go to the forest on your own? If I find out that’s what you did, Billy, so help me God I’ll skin you alive.’
‘How could I? I’m with you all the time, James. All the time.’
James searched his brother’s face. It was true. They were never out of each other’s company. He relaxed his grip and let him go, but to his surprise, rather than turn and run, Billy threw himself into his arms. James felt as cold and empty as the shed, and he pushed his brother firmly away.
‘If we tell Mr and Mrs Sutton, they’ll help him.’
Billy wiped his eyes and made a half turn of his head towards Rupert.
‘No,’ he said, flatly. ‘They won’t.’
‘Of course they will,’ said James. His voice shook with the cold of inactivity. ‘They look after us, don’t they? They’ll find him and bring him in by the fire and give him soup and look after him.’
‘No,’ said Billy again, more assertive this time. ‘They won’t.’
‘Billy, what on Earth do you think they’ll do?’
‘I know what they’ll do.’
His voice had changed. The tears had gone and he was speaking calmly.
‘I know very well what they’ll do.’
‘Billy, stop playing your stupid little games.’
‘I know!’
Billy kicked the brush that was lying at his feet. It clattered across and hit the wall. He stared up at his brother, jaw set, breathing hard through his nose.
James, taken aback, tried to steady his voice.
‘What do you mean, you know?’
Billy took a step towards him.
‘I know, because I remember.’
The shed was quiet and still. Lucy put down her brush and came to stand next to Billy. She looked up at him as if he was some strange star that had landed in her life and that she wanted to keep.
James’ body shook like a newborn lamb. Whether it was the temperature of the shed or the creeping fear his brother’s words had instilled in him, he was not sure.
‘How…how can you remember?’
‘I remember.’
‘I believe you, Billy,’ said Lucy. ‘I do.’
‘You’re just a boy,’ said James. ‘You can’t remember what your own father looks like, let alone…’
‘I do. I remember lots of things.’
‘And he’s just, he’s just…’
‘He’s German,’ said Rupert. James looked across the shed. This tall boy — this boy he had been thrown together with, whose house he had invaded, whose food he ate, whose mother’s attention he now drew unwillingly — stood silhouetted in the gaslight’s dirty glare.
‘I saw his uniform.’
James had seen it too. The peakless helmet, cracked by his side. The dark wing on his chest, the top of that terrible black mark poking out beneath the sheet.
Lucy looked between her brother and James.
‘Does that mean he’s a baddy?’ she said.
‘It means they won’t look after him,’ said Rupert.
‘Well, they’ll hand him in then,’ said James. ‘To the home guard. He’ll be taken prisoner.’
Rupert went back to his work.
‘You don’t know my father,’ he said.
JUST A TRICK
AFTER THEY HAD FINISHED, and Mrs Sutton had given each of them a furious wash in the tepid bath, they sat warming themselves in front of the fire. They had a grey wool blanket each, and their hunger had been partially sated by bowls of soup. Poppy was asleep on the hearth, twitching with dreams fuelled by chicken skin and a small rat she had caught earlier. Lucy lay on the floor beneath her blanket, resting her head on the warm dog’s neck.
Mrs Sutton left them alone while she ironed sheets in the kitchen.
‘Da couldn’t fight,’ said Rupert. ‘They wouldn’t let him.’
‘Because he’s a farmer?’ said James.
Rupert shook his head.
‘That’s what he tells people, but it’s not true. It’s a small farm. It could easily have been run by the older workers, those outside of conscription.’
‘What’s constripshun?’ said Lucy from the floor. Her mouth was muffled by Poppy’s stiff fur.
‘Conscription,’ said Rupert. ‘It means men have to go and fight in the war.’
‘Conscripshun,’ said Lucy, scratching Poppy’s nose.
‘He wanted to fight?’ said James.
‘Iss,’ said Rupert. James had been perplexed by this word when he had first arrived and heard it said by the men around the farm, until Mrs Sutton had explained to him — somewhat perplexed herself — that it meant yes in Cornwall. He was slowly getting used to the strange new dialect, although most of the time, especially with the farm workers, they may as well have been talking in a different language.
It made the gap between where he was and where he wanted to be that much wider. That train journey from London a year ago — crammed into half a seat, the carriages yowling with tears and excitement and faces pressed against glass — had been the farthest he had ever travelled. It had taken the best part of a day, but he was old enough to know that they were not that far from London in comparison with the size of the planet.
In the weeks after his father went to war, he had spent hours tracing his hands over an old atlas he had found in the bookshelf, trying to find the places he thought he might be. Strange names, long distances, mountains rising miles into the sky and oceans so deep it made him dizzy. And the space between London and Cornwall was just a sliver of his fingernail.
He sometimes wondered: If this was how difficult it was to understand others who lived only a few hundred miles away, how could people ever hope to understand each other across oceans and over plains and mountains? How would his father understand what was being said to him in these foreign countries?
‘Then why didn’t he, if he wanted to?’ said Billy.
Rupert tugged the blanket under his chin.
‘They wouldn’t let him. He got hurt when he was younger. A barn door fell and crushed his leg, and he still has trouble walking sometimes. So they wouldn’t let him.’
They watched the flames jumping.
‘You’
re lucky,’ said James.
Rupert didn’t answer.
The fire spat a smouldering pellet onto the hearth near Poppy’s nose, to which she responded with a growl from her sleep.
‘Is that why he’s angry?’ said James.
‘What?’ said Rupert.
‘Because he’s not allowed to fight. Is that what makes him so angry.’
Rupert sat up and shook his head.
‘My da’s not angry.’
James shrank a little into the chair.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that when he…’
Rupert threw off his blanket and went to the fire, adding another log to it.
‘But he hits you,’ said Billy. James shot him a look. ‘Our daddy would never hit us.’
Rupert rose up from the fire and turned to where James and Billy sat. His face was hot from the flames. For a moment, James thought he might go for Billy. He felt the familiar pull to protect or distance himself. But Rupert sat down and pulled up his blanket.
‘Then you’re the ones who’re lucky,’ he said.
‘He’s not angry,’ said Lucy. ‘He just wants to kill Germans. It’s not his fault. My daddy’s not a baddy.’
Rupert looked down at his sister. James saw the same look on his face that he felt himself having sometimes, when all those frustrations of being an older brother fell away and all that you were left with was helpless love. There was a sadness there too, as if he wished he felt the same as Lucy did — as if he wished he didn’t know the truth of it.
‘Will you do your magic, Billy?’ said Lucy.
Billy sat up and glanced at his brother, who shook his head. Billy sank back into his seat.
‘Not tonight,’ he said.
‘Please?’ said Lucy.
‘Go on, Bill,’ said Rupert. ‘You don’t mind, do you, James?’
James shrugged and picked up a book.
‘Fine, play your silly trick.’
Lucy squirmed with delight and sat up, leaving Poppy bereft on the hearth.
‘I’m ready,’ she said.
Billy sat up again and took a small pack of playing cards from the side table. He shuffled them and gave them to Lucy.
‘Take one, but don’t show it to me.’
Lucy rummaged through the deck. She stopped halfway and gave Billy an accusing look.
‘Don’t look,’ she said, turning her back.
‘I won’t, I promise,’ said Billy. He sat back and covered his eyes.
‘All right, I have one.’
‘That’s super, Lucy, well done. Now give it to Rupert. Don’t let me see it.’
Lucy handed the card to her brother, who glanced at it and hid it beneath his blanket.
‘Right,’ said Billy. ‘Now think about it really hard.’
Lucy screwed up her face and clenched her fists.
‘Now concentrate. Are you thinking about it?’
She nodded her head furiously.
‘Sure?’
She nodded again.
The room was silent for a minute. James tried hard to keep his head buried in the book, but at last he couldn’t help himself. He peeped over the top and saw his brother’s face turned to the stone floor, calm and empty like a silent sea. Then he blinked and looked up.
‘Lucy, it was the eight of hearts.’
Rupert held up the card.
‘Right again, Bill!’ he laughed.
Lucy squealed and pulled her blanket over her head.
‘How did you know?’ she said.
Billy grinned.
‘Tell me, tell me!’ shouted Lucy. She threw her blanket off and jumped up. ‘I want to know! Tell me, I want to know!’
‘It’s just like I told you before, Lucy,’ he began. ‘I —’
Then he caught his brother’s eye. His smile fell and he sat back in his chair.
‘It’s just a trick, Lucy,’ he said.
Lucy stood before him, wobbling with thought and biting her nail.
‘I don’t think it’s a trick,’ she said. ‘I think you’re special, Billy. I do.’
She turned and lay down on Poppy again.
‘I really do.’
Rupert gathered the cards together.
‘If we tell about the man in the forest,’ he said. ‘They’ll find him and they won’t turn him in.’
‘How do you know?’ said James. ‘Isn’t that illegal? You’re supposed to tell people, aren’t you?’
‘Da doesn’t care about what you’re supposed to do. He never has done. They’ll hurt him.’
‘I know,’ said Billy. His face was terrified. ‘I know they will.’
James felt something in him harden, like ice.
‘So what?’ he said, eyes glazed. ‘He’s the enemy. That’s what he would do to us.’
Suddenly Poppy jumped up and stood, facing the door.
‘Ow, Poppy!’ said Lucy as her head lost its pillow and met the stone floor.
They heard voices outside and boots on the concrete. The door rattled and burst open and Mr Sutton walked in, bringing in cold air and the smell of smoke, paraffin and manure. Three other men — one of whom James recognised from the farm and two he thought might be from the village — lurked behind him on the porch. Poppy barked and jumped up, ignoring the lazy swats of her master’s hand.
Mr Sutton took cast his eyes around the room.
‘You clean that shed?’ he said.
Rupert nodded.
‘Iss, Da.’
He nodded again, then took off his hat and placed it on a hook. He turned to the three men behind him.
‘Get in. Cold,’ he said.
They followed him in and shut the door. Then they traipsed through to the front room, shutting that door too. The children heard murmurs and glasses. Then a tinny voice spoke through the crackle of static. Billy sat up.
‘Is that the radio?’ he whispered. ‘What are they listening to?’
‘News,’ said Rupert. ‘Of the war.’
Billy shook off his blanket and hopped onto the floor.
‘Where are you going?’ said James.
‘I want to hear!’ said Billy. He pattered across to the door and stood looking up at it. James jumped up and followed him.
‘Billy, get back!’ he said.
‘You’re not allowed in there!’ said Lucy. Her face shone with excitement.
‘I’m not going in,’ said Billy. ‘I only want to hear.’
He pressed his ear against the door. James found himself by his brother’s side, the urge to pull him back now overridden by his own curiosity. He put his own ear on the other panel, facing his brother as they listened.
‘What are they saying?’ said Lucy, bouncing beneath them.
‘The man on the radio’s saying place names,’ said Billy.
‘Somewhere in France,’ said James. ‘The men are talking too. I can’t hear them properly.’
‘Out the way.’
Rupert appeared and pushed Billy gently aside. He leaned in. James watched his eyes move up and down the wood as he listened intently to the mumbles, chinks and coughs from inside.
‘Boats in the English Channel,’ he said. ‘Germans have been dive-bombing them. Da’s angry. Uncle Davey keeps talking, I can’t…’
His face went pale.
‘One was hit. A warship…many men killed.’
There was a roar from inside and the sound of furniture scraping. A glass smashed and the children sprang from the door. There were more raised voices, what sounded like Mr Sutton pacing up and down as another voice — much younger and quieter — calmed him. When the noise had reduced back to murmurs, Rupert and James put their ears back to the door. Eventually Rupert’s eyes stopped moving and they looked dead straight at James.
‘A plane,’ he said. ‘Uncle Davey says he saw a plane. It came down at sea.’
‘What kind of plane?’ said James.
‘German.’
Lucy gasped.
‘Da says it’s nonsense. They would have he
ard.’
‘But the man!’ said Billy.
‘Uncle Davey wants to search.’
‘Shh!’ said Rupert. ‘Can’t hear!’
Billy ran to James’s side and grabbed his pyjama top.
‘James! The man!’
‘Quiet, Billy!’
‘But they know! They’ll get him!’
James spun round and faced his brother.
‘So what if they get him?’ he said. ‘He’s German! He’s the enemy, don’t you understand that?’
‘Be quiet!’ said Rupert. ‘My Da, he’ll —’
Suddenly the door opened and they jumped back. Mr Sutton stood looking at them, an empty brown bottle in his hand. Behind him the other three sat in chairs around the wooden radio. The room was filled with cigarette smoke and dark but for the flames of a newly made fire. One of the men craned his neck to look past Mr Sutton at the terrified children.
Mr Sutton pushed past them and replaced the empty bottle with a full one from a shelf above the sink.
‘Bed,’ he said, as he passed them again and closed the door.
The wind grew worse as the night wore on. Sheets of rain swept up the hill, and the tree in the yard thrashed wildly about, scraping its bare branches on the farmhouse windows. It was after midnight and the children lay awake. They had not slept, each waiting for the sound of a door slamming and boots marching out into the night with torches swinging. But nothing had come.
They lay in their beds staring upwards — all but Billy, who stood at the window looking out at the merciless night.
‘We have to do something,’ he said.
‘Get in your bed, Billy,’ said James. ‘You’ll freeze.’
‘If I’ll freeze in here, imagine what he’ll do out there,’ said Billy.
‘I can’t sleep,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m worried about him.’
‘He’s cold,’ said Billy. ‘He’s very cold. He thinks he’s going to die.’
Rupert turned over so that he was facing James.
‘James,’ he whispered. ‘How does he know?’
‘He doesn’t know; he’s just imagining things.’
The Other Lives Page 12