by Mike Pannett
‘Like a flame-thrower,’ Phil said. ‘Could be a new secret weapon.’
By now the sun had disappeared behind the surrounding bushes and Gus was looking at his watch.
‘Another half hour or so and we should see the moon coming up,’ he said.
He glanced at the sky, which had turned a delicate pale blue. There were just a couple of golden wisps of cloud. A flight of birds, in V formation, flew across our field of vision, heading inland.
‘Aah,’ Gus sighed. ‘Couldn’t have asked for a better night, could we?’
We mumbled agreement, our mouths crammed full of sausages. They tasted better than any I’d ever had. Juices dribbled down our chins and wrists as we tried to eat one and cook the next at the same time. As we finished them off and scraped the last of the beans from the pot, Gus got to his feet and said, ‘Time to see where that moon’s got to.’
We went out into the field. I think that was the first time I’d ever stood and watched the moon rise. It came up fat and red and huge. It was almost frightening, certainly awe-inspiring. Gus explained that it wasn’t enlarged at all, just that it always appeared so on the horizon. I wasn’t convinced. It seemed to me that it was a giant moon, its size fitted to the excitement of this special night.
We watched it for quite some time, our red faces cooled by a gentle on-shore breeze which carried the smell of seaweed and the rhythmic swish of the waves landing on the rocks below the cliff. Bats were darting around us in pursuit of their insect prey. A fox yipped in the distance. As the moon rose in the sky so it lost its pink colour and grew brighter, its light almost painful to the eye.
‘The only drawback to a moon like that,’ Gus said, ‘is that you won’t be able to see the stars so well. It outshines most of them. Otherwise you’d see the Milky Way. Still, we can’t have everything, can we?’ We agreed that you couldn’t. ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘we can have crumpets. Would you like that?’
We hurried back into the garden and sat down by the fire. Gus handed out the crumpets and we toasted them as we’d cooked the sausages, our faces illuminated by the red glow. Once we’d dealt with those Gus fetched a garden rake and gathered up all the bits of half burned wood to re-kindle the fire.
‘That’ll give us a bit more light,’ he said. ‘Best capitalise on it and get our beds organised, don’t you think?’ He waved away a small cloud of midges that had gathered around us. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘you boys gather a few handfuls of long grass from over there.’
‘What for?’ I asked.
‘You’ll see.’
When we brought him what he’d asked for he set it down beside the fire and threw a few tufts onto the hot coals. Immediately a column of thick white smoke rose into the night air and spread across the little garden, hanging over it in thick skeins.
‘Those midges can’t stand smoke,’ Gus said. ‘This’ll scatter them while we get ready for bed, eh?’
We unrolled our blankets, spreading them on the grass. Gus had an old eiderdown, but before he laid it out he went and got a garden spade. With that in his hand he surveyed an area of grass near the fire, lay down on his side, wriggled around, turned over and wriggled some more, then got up. He peered at the little patch he’d flattened. Then he struck it with the spade, squatted down and dug a shallow depression no thicker than the turf he lifted out.
‘What’s that you’re doing?’ Phil asked.
‘Ah. It’s an old trick I learned with the Chindits,’ he said. ‘When we were chasing the Japanese across Burma. We marched two thousand miles in hobnailed sandals carrying our full kit, and every night we had to sleep in the jungle. Just imagine. Night after night when you’re worn out from marching you have to make camp, mount a guard and hope you don’t get bitten to death by the insects.’ He shuddered. ‘My goodness, they had some fearsome bugs out there. But hey ho. Worse things happen at sea, as they say.’ He pointed to the little hollow. ‘Anyway, one thing I learned was that the worst part of camping, what bothered me most – apart from the mosquitoes, that is – was my hip-bone. Used to ache like billy-ho. It was an Irishman, a soldier some years my senior, who told me the answer. First thing when you’re sleeping out, he said: make a hollow for your hip. You’ll be a lot more comfortable. Probably wouldn’t trouble supple young fellows like you, but …’ He tailed off, unrolled his cover, and settled down. ‘If I start snoring,’ he said, ‘you just wake me up, won’t you?’ He settled down, then said, ‘That same Irishman had us in stitches one night. We had a plague of fireflies. Lovely things and perfectly harmless, but after weeks of beating off the mosquitoes, old Paddy sits up and shouts, ‘Bejasus! Now dey’re coming at us wid searchlights!’
Phil and I snuggled down under our blankets, using our empty back-packs as pillows. The grass was soft and springy. The fire was slowly dying, but each breath of wind stirred the ashes and sent a ripple of red through them, and an odd spark drifted up into the sky. Above us was the bright round moon and a thin scattering of stars.
I remembered something Dad had told me, about how ancient people got to know them all and had names for every constellation. I could make out the Plough, at least, but that was it. Jack had taught me that one night when we were in the farmyard – and told me how you could locate the North Star from it. But I’d forgotten that already. I lay there in silence, hoping to see a meteorite.
I was loving this new experience, the cool night breeze caressing my face, my body snug and warm under the blanket. I lay awake for what seemed like hours.
‘Phil?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Wass the time?’
I heard him wriggle around, untangling his blanket and freeing his arm. ‘Er, half-past ten.’
‘Oh.’
‘What’s up?’
‘I thought it was midnight.’
‘Nah. Nowhere near it. You wanna be asleep by then.’
‘Why?’
Phil laughed. ‘Because that’s when the vampires come out.’
Trust my big brother to try and unsettle me. But as it happened I did fall asleep pretty quickly after that. I was reassured by Gus’ steady breathing, and the fire, which seemed to be dozing rather than expiring. Surely ghosts and the like were scared of firelight?
I awoke before the sun had cleared the hedge top. Phil was still fast asleep but Gus had thrown some dry twigs on the fire and was poking it back to life.
‘Ready for a spot of breakfast?’ he asked.
He’d rigged up a sort of metal tripod and suspended from it a blackened kettle.
‘There. We should be able to brew up some tea before too long.’
While we waited for the water to boil Gus started packing up an easel and some brushes.
‘It looks a perfect day for a seascape,’ he said. ‘Nice breeze to put a bit of life into it, a few white-caps. I’ve a little spot on the cliff-top, just below the path,’ he said. ‘Spend hours and hours down there and, do you know, I’ve never been disturbed.’
After Phil woke up we drank our tea, polished off the last of the crumpets, and rolled up our beds.
‘Well,’ Gus said, ‘it’s been a pleasure having you boys to share my little hideaway. I don’t often have company here. You must call by again some time.’
And with that he was off, through the gate and across the field with his painter’s equipment bouncing on his stooped back.
We watched him go, then made our way home. Neither of us spoke. We knew we’d experienced something special, and each of us absorbed it in our own way.
Friday Tea
It was Friday. It was teatime. In fact, it was past teatime. Dad had come home from work and gone straight down the garden to sow his broad beans. Mum was in town shopping. We were all on the sofa watching children’s television. As soon as the news came on we turned it off and headed into the kitchen, where we shared out the last few slices of bread, and the scrapings from a jar of home-made raspberry jam.
Just then Mum staggered in through the back door carry
ing three bags of shopping in each hand.
‘What’s for tea?’ I mumbled the words through a mouthful of bread.
‘Tea?’ she said, a look of alarm on her face. ‘Oh dear. I never gave it a thought. How about beans on toast?’
‘Beans on toast?’ Christine said. ‘But we’re starving.’
‘Me too,’ Mum said, and dumped the week’s groceries on the kitchen table. ‘But at least you lot had your school dinners. I’ve been on the go all day. Never had time for a bite.’
‘It was rotten old mince for school dinner,’ I said. ‘I hate mince.’
Mum looked at her watch. ‘And I’ve a Guides meeting tonight. Oh dear. Well, there’s simply no time to cook. We’ll just have to manage, that’s all.’ She looked at the four of us. ‘Unless anyone wants to volunteer,’ she said. ‘Anyone?’
Phil and I backed away from her. The girls stood their ground. They knew they were safe: they had to help Mum at Girl Guides. It was us she was after.
‘Dad said never volunteer for anything,’ Phil said.
Mum laughed. ‘Oh, did he? I can’t think where he got that from. Most likely your Grandpa. Typical old soldier.’
‘Anyway,’ Phil said, ‘what we volunteering for?’
‘Ah, that’s for me to know and you to find out,’ Mum said. ‘But here’s a hint.’ She took her purse from her handbag and pulled out a crisp green £1 note. She reached forward, holding it under our very noses. ‘Come on, you can keep the change. How about that for a deal?’
Before Phil could make a move, I grabbed it. Then I asked, ‘What is it? What’s the job?’
‘Get your bike,’ she said. ‘I want you to go and fetch … fish and chips. One of each six times.’
‘Oh great!’ Phil shouted. ‘Fish and chips! Fantastic!’
‘And scraps!’ Christine said. Then she gave me a shove. ‘Go on, get a move on. Before we all die of hunger.’
‘What, you want me to ride my Chopper all the way to Easingwold? That’s miles.’
‘Nah,’ Phil said. ‘Use my old one – and clip the basket on the front.’
‘But Easingwold?’
Phil gave me a shove. ‘Easy-peasy,’ he said. It’s two and a half miles. You can be there and back in … I dunno, just get your skates on,’ he added as I made for the door. ‘We don’t want ’em going cold.’
I ran outside and took the bike from the garage. I checked the basket was securely in place and set off. As I pedalled furiously down the hill I tried to do the sums in my head. How much was one of each? And if I got six portions, how much change would there be?
Easingwold Church bell was sounding the half hour as I sped up to the little parade of shops and hurled my bike to the ground.
‘One of each six times!’ I blurted out as I ran inside.
A row of stern, hungry faces turned to stare at me. Men in overalls, women with their hair in curlers, and a couple of mothers with young children were lined up from the counter all the way to the door.
‘You wait your turn, lad,’ the lady at the till said. ‘We’ll serve the workers first if you don’t mind.’
I tagged on to the end of the queue and caught my breath.
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.
Slowly the queue edged forward. We were all watching every move as slippery white portions of fish were dipped in batter and dropped into the hot fat. There was a sharp intake of breath as the shout went up from behind the fryer, ‘Out of cod!’
I watched as a stout woman bent over and scooped handfuls of fresh-cut chips into a wire basket and handed it to the head fryer. He lowered it into the fat, then pulled out a basket of partially cooked ones, squeezed a sample between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Nearly there,’ he said.
At the head of the counter another woman was handing a stack of wrapped suppers about three feet high to a customer. The man in front of me in the queue pulled a face and said, ‘I hope she’s left some for t’rest of us.’
‘Be a few minutes for the cod,’ the big man behind the counter said. ‘Anyone want fishcakes?’ There was a shaking of heads.
The longer I waited the more my stomach rumbled. The smell of frying, the sight of all those golden chips piled up behind the transparent covers, the tang of vinegar being splashed over yet another portion. It was torment.
Another satisfied customer peeled away. He had his supper open on the paper in his hand. As he edged past me he held it out to me. ‘Go on, son, grab yourself a chip.’
I pulled out a long, fat one and shoved it in my mouth. ‘Thanks,’ I said, breathing sharply in to cool my tongue.
I was near the head of the queue now. Just three in front of me. I leaned on the hot shiny steel and gazed at the crispy battered fish, my mouth watering. One by one they were taken out, then replaced with fresh ones, plucked from the seething beef dripping.
‘Yes, lad. What can we do for you?’
It was my turn at last.
‘One of each six times with scraps,’ I said.
The man at the counter grinned and said, ‘Why, you must be a hungry, lad.’ He didn’t seem to expect an answer.
One or two people chuckled as he took his metal scoop and shovelled out a pile of chips. I said nothing. I was all eyes on what he was doing. He placed the fish on top of the chips. I was hoping to see which fish was the biggest, and try to make sure I collared it, but they all looked the same. I watched fascinated as he repeated his choreographed routine, while his assistant sprinkled the vinegar, then the salt.
‘And scraps, you said?’
‘Yes please.’
Someone in the queue laughed and said, ‘Why, he’s nowt but a scrap himself.’
I moved to the till. It was time to hand over my pound note. How much change would there be?
‘That’ll be six times twenty,’ said the lady. ‘That’s one-twenty to you, lad.’
‘But me Mum only gave me a pound.’
I’d had it in my hand since I ran into the shop. It was warm and damp from sweat. I held it out to him, aware that all eyes in the shop were on me.
‘Aye, well, they’ve gone up since she was last in. Inflation.’ She took the note. ‘Where d’you live, lad?’
‘Crayke,’ I said.
‘And they’ve sent you all this way on your bike?’
‘Yes.’
‘Been a bad lad have you? What was it, breaking the greenhouse window?’
Everyone laughed. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I volunteered. They said I could keep the change.’
More laughter. ‘Well, they sold you a right dummy, lad.’ She picked up the white packages. ‘What do they call you?’
‘Michael … Michael Pannett.’
‘Right then, Michael Pannett, what you’ll have to do – are you listening? – is take this lot home and bring me the money tomorrow. We open at midday. Can you do that?’ She looked around at the customers. ‘Plenty of witnesses, mind.’
I told her I’d be there on the dot, and she handed me the six parcels. Outside I stacked them carefully in the wire basket and set off. It had been easy coming into town. Now it was going to be all uphill and I was going to have to give it everything if I were to keep these fish suppers nice and hot. I wished I had a watch and could time myself, because whatever my record was for riding back from town I knew I was about to break it.
I arrived home, gasping and sweaty, to find Mum setting out the plates on the table, Christine spreading butter on the sliced bread, and Gillian taking a big pan of peas off the stove.
‘Ah, here he comes,’ Dad said, ‘the man without whom …’
‘Mum, Dad, I’ve to go back and pay another twenty pence. They’ve got inflation and it’s one pound twenty and we’ve got to take them money by tomorrow or – or – ’.
‘Or what?’ Dad said.
‘They didn’t say.’
‘But they let you go?’ Mum said. ‘Did they make you promise?’
‘Aye, the woman at the till. And she had witnesses.’
Dad lo
oked at his watch. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll drive down tonight, right after we’ve eaten. It’s a credit to you, Michael, that they trusted you. Don’t you think so, everybody?’
They did – and when we went back to the shop after tea, the woman in the chippy agreed.
‘He looked a decent lad,’ she said. ‘Hungry too. So what else could I do?’
‘What else indeed?’ Dad said.
Gone Fishing
As I’ve already mentioned, Dad was a very clever man who continued to learn and grow in his mature years. I suppose these days you’d call him a bit of a late developer. He studied, at his own expense and in his own time, way into his thirties, and became highly qualified in his chosen field of electronic engineering. He acted and even looked like a boffin.
He was a man of few words, but they were always well chosen. Like many of the quieter types I’ve met in my life, he always thought before he answered a question – sometimes for such a long time that you’d think he hadn’t heard you.
He liked peace and quiet, and was generally quite content with his own company. When he wasn’t down the vegetable garden he was often in one of the outbuildings, or in his workshop, experimenting with things he was involved with at Vickers.
Other than spending time in the workshop or the garden, he liked to read. Mostly it was history, biography, technical stuff: he had piles of books, but not many novels. He hardly bothered with television, and indeed we were one of the last of all the families we knew to get one, when I was six or seven years old.
Dad must have found us kids a bit of a trial at times. We were a noisy bunch, always laughing, fighting, arguing and tearing around the place. ‘Rambunctious’, as Mum used to say.
Sometimes when we were in the living room with a gang of our mates from around the village, television blaring, and us all shouting at the tops of our voices, arguing over a game of Monopoly, the door would suddenly burst open and the handle would slam against the wall.
‘Will you lot quieten down?’ Dad would bellow at us. ‘A fellow can’t hear himself think in this house.’