At the Firefly Gate

by Linda Newbery

  ‘Sorted,’ Henry said, though he had an uneasy feeling he was going to be caught out. ‘I just said there was a change of plan and I’m in school today.’

  There were whispers, giggles and nudges as Henry sat down in the spare seat next to Simon. When Mrs Mobbs, the supply teacher, called the register, no one pointed out that there was one extra person in the class. From the name, Henry had pictured Mrs Mobbs as grey and grandmotherly, but she was nothing like that. Yes, she had grey hair, but it was cut very short and boyishly and she wore track pants and trainers like a PE teacher.

  ‘Just watch out at playtime and lunch,’ Simon warned him. ‘Don’t draw attention to yourself —’

  ‘As if I would!’

  ‘No, but you know what I mean. Whichever teacher’s on playground duty might wonder who you are, even if Mrs Mobbs won’t.’

  The morning was fun. It was after lunch that things went wrong.

  Afternoon assembly with the head teacher, Mrs Tregarth, was the most likely time for Henry to be noticed, but Year Six were right at the back of the hall, and no one paid them much attention. Mrs Tregarth wore a long dress with huge red poppies on it, which made her look rather holidayish, but she had the sort of soft voice that sounded as if it could turn firm when necessary. Next they had rounders, out on the big field, and although Jenny forgot herself enough to shout, ‘Go, Henry!’ when he managed to give the ball a flukey hard whack that sent it soaring and gave him time for a whole rounder, Mrs Mobbs didn’t seem to notice. Then there was play, and afterwards art.

  Mrs Mobbs’s art lesson sent everyone back out to the field, to look at the long grasses that grew at the edges and bring back at least six different kinds to draw or paint. ‘There’s only one kind of grass, isn’t there?’ Simon whispered to Henry. ‘Green stuff.’ But no, there wasn’t. Mrs Mobbs had already started her own collection and had put it in a vase like a proper flower arrangement. She placed the vase carefully underneath one of the lights so that everyone could see how beautiful the flowering grasses were.

  ‘So you think it’s just green stuff, do you, Stephen?’ Her grasp of names might be poor, but her hearing was sharp as a cat’s. ‘Green stuff to play football on? Well, it’s not. Not this time of year, when it flowers. Come and look at all the colours here.’

  Peering closely, Henry had to admit that he’d never properly looked at grass before. There were purples and silvers and browns, shimmering in the light; there were silky strands and silvery tufts and golden beards and plump seeds like oats. He wanted to run his fingers through the grass waterfall.

  ‘Off you go. See what you can find.’ Mrs Mobbs waved them out of the door. ‘Ten minutes, then back here. I got all these from just one roadside verge.’

  By now — the last session of the school day — Henry had almost forgotten that he had no right to be at school. He, Simon and Jonathan wandered round the field’s edges, collecting their grasses, then returned past the big hall windows towards the classroom.

  ‘Hey, we haven’t got this one,’ Simon was saying, darting towards a fringe of long grass that had been left uncut beside the building.

  ‘Simon Dobbs!’

  The voice made him jump back abruptly to where Jonathan and Henry were standing with their grasses. Henry almost dropped his bundle; but there was nowhere to hide. Mrs Tregarth, the head teacher, appeared at the open window. You dingbat, Simon! he thought, not knowing whether to shrivel up or to run away fast. He’d led him right past the head’s window!

  ‘Who’s that boy with you?’ Mrs Tregarth sounded puzzled rather than angry.

  Simon blushed scarlet. ‘It’s Henry, Miss,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Henry?’

  ‘He’ll be in our year at Hartsfield. He came with us on Tuesday, so I thought it’d be OK for him to come to school for the day,’ Simon explained.

  Mrs Tregarth looked astonished. ‘Oh, you did, did you? I think you’d better come in here, all three of you. Jonathan, go back to your classroom first and tell Mrs Mobbs you’re with me.’

  ‘Duhh!’ Henry couldn’t help saying it, as he and Simon entered the building through the glass doors of the hall.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me.’ Even the tips of Simon’s ears were bright red. Henry felt himself panicking as they approached the office door. He hated being told off — even by someone who wasn’t actually his head teacher. What on earth was he going to say?

  ‘Come on in and sit down.’ Mrs Tregarth left the door ajar for Jonathan, and pulled over an extra chair. ‘So you’re Henry, are you? Henry Stirling, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry, staring at the red poppies on her dress.

  ‘Come in, Jonathan. Sit down. Now where —’

  ‘It’s not his fault, Miss, honest —’ Simon tried to interrupt, but Mrs Tregarth shushed him and said, ‘Henry can speak for himself, I’m sure.’

  Henry began to feel a little better. Mrs Tregarth didn’t look as if she was going to be angry; she nodded and even smiled while he explained that he’d just wanted to join the others for the day. Then she turned to Simon and Jonathan.

  ‘So! You two can claim responsibility for this bright idea, can you?’

  Jonathan looked sidelong at Simon, who said, ‘It was me.’

  ‘Well, Simon, it’s very kind of you to take it on yourself to make arrangements for Henry, and I’m sure Henry’s pleased to have made friends so quickly. But you have to understand that we can’t have people coming into school quite unaccounted for. The teachers and I are responsible for everyone in school — that’s why we take registers morning and afternoon. That’s why we have fire drills. That’s why all visitors have to sign in and out and wear a badge while they’re on the premises. We can’t be responsible for someone we don’t even know is here. You understand that, don’t you?’

  Mumbled yeses.

  ‘And what’s more, I think you’ve taken unfair advantage of Mrs Mobbs. Simon, you know you’d never have got away with this if Miss Murphy had been taking the class as usual. It was a bit sneaky, don’t you think?’

  A barely audible yes from Simon.

  ‘Henry, I’m going to have to phone your parents to explain what’s happened today. But what I’m going to suggest is that I phone the authority and ask for special permission for you to attend school for the last two days of term — since you’re so keen to be here.’ She looked at him kindly. ‘It’s a big change, isn’t it, leaving primary school? You might as well enjoy the last two days. Simon and Jonathan, go back to your classroom. As soon as the bell goes I want you back in here. I’ll tell Mrs Mobbs what’s happened and you can apologise for messing her about. Henry, you stay here while I make some phone calls.’

  Simon gave a rueful backward glance as he slipped out of the door behind Jonathan, abandoning Henry. But Mrs Tregarth smiled at him and said, ‘Well! I’ve heard of people truanting out of school, but this is the first time I’ve had someone truanting in!’

  FOURTEEN

  HENRY THE NAVIGATOR

  Henry had another telling-off from Mum and Dad — but not too serious, as he could tell they thought it quite funny that he’d smuggled himself into school. Mrs Tregarth had phoned the education authority, and for the last two days of term Henry was added to the class list as a visitor. To Class 6M, though, he was Henry the Stowaway, Henry the Illegal Immigrant. Oddly, it made him quite popular.

  ‘Here’s the boy who loves school so much he couldn’t bear to stay away!’ Miss Murphy greeted him. ‘Simon, are you sure there’s no one else you’d like to invite to join the fun?’

  The lessons today were hardly lessons — there was a team quiz, with prizes, and then a coach trip to the swimming-pool (Mrs Tregarth had told Henry to bring swimming things) and, lastly, making a huge collage on a whole side of the hall. Henry was looking forward to tomorrow, when everyone was bringing food for a party, and there was going to be a special visit from a theatre company.

  The weather, though, didn’t match his cheerful mood at all
. The sky turned so dark and heavy that Miss Murphy had to put the hall lights on. By home-time, as Henry waved goodbye to Simon and Elissa and walked across to Pat’s, the bruised, purplish-grey clouds seemed to be smothering the village, and the first rain-drops — fat and warm — were spitting at the dry, dusty ground. Henry had the uneasy sense of something bad waiting to happen. A low, thundery growl rumbled in the distance.

  Grace, holding her school bag over her head, ran up the path behind him while he waited for Pat to answer the door. She pushed past Henry and dumped her bag, with only a grudging ‘Hi’ to her mother. Henry hadn’t seen her yesterday, as she’d gone to Tracy’s after school. Since Tuesday he’d been looking forward to trying out the flight simulation game; he hoped she hadn’t forgotten.

  Pat put a finger to her lips in a shushing gesture — not that anyone was making any noise — and told them that Dottie was lying down in her room. ‘She’s not feeling too good. Must be this muggy weather. If it’s going to rain, that’ll clear the air, I hope. Might make her feel better.’

  ‘Aunt Dottie’s always ill,’ Grace grumbled.

  Henry gave her a hard look, which she didn’t even notice. So much for being upset about Dottie, he thought. She was Two-faced Grace, all right.

  ‘I suppose you’re going to say don’t use the computer?’ Grace whinged, pausing on the bottom stair.

  ‘No, you can, as long as you keep the sound right down,’ Pat said.

  Grace ran on up; Henry dithered, not sure what to do, with Dottie in bed and no one in the garden.

  ‘Why don’t you go up too, Henry?’ Pat suggested. ‘Grace can show you the game John’s borrowed for her.’

  ‘All right.’ Henry knew Grace didn’t want him, but he’d put up with that to get a look at the flight programme.

  The door to the back room — Dottie’s room — was closed. Grace was clumping about in the room above. In Henry’s house this was the attic, reached only by a trap-door, but here it had been converted into an extra bedroom with its own narrow flight of stairs. Reaching the top landing, Henry saw that the extra storey was all one room, with walls that sloped with the angle of the roof. Slanting windows, on the garden side, let in light. The room contained Grace’s bed, some bookshelves, a curtained-off hanging space and the desk with the computer on it. There was a Tornado poster on one of the sloping walls. Grace was sitting on the only chair.

  ‘What’re you doing up here?’ She gave him a disparaging glance before turning back to the screen.

  ‘Come to see the flight simulation. You said —’

  ‘Yeah, right. You can get better ones than this now, but it’s still good practice for me. Like being a real trainee pilot. You can watch if you like.’

  On to the screen came a row of dials, below a view of a runway seen head on. It was all amazingly detailed and realistic. From the computer’s speakers came the sound of an idling engine, reminding Henry of his Lancaster dream. The sound merged with the thunder that was grumbling in the distance like a lion about to stir itself. Butterflies quivered in Henry’s stomach as if he really were going to fly. He had only flown twice in his life, to Ireland and back, and he remembered how anxious he’d been. It would be different if he understood. How could such an enormous metal machine, full of people and luggage, get into the air and stay there?

  ‘I’m going to take off,’ Grace said. ‘You use the mouse, like this, see.’ She demonstrated various movements. ‘Watch this.’

  RELEASE PARKING BRAKES appeared on the screen above the dials. Grace clicked the mouse and Henry watched as the dotted line along the centre of the runway began to move towards him, faster and faster, as the engine noise increased. He heard the plane lift off. Now he was looking down at the criss-cross runways of the airfield, which tilted and fell out of view as the plane banked. He was flying out, over the sea. He could see the coastline dipping and rising as Grace made the plane swerve, using the mouse and keys.

  ‘Can I have a go?’ he asked, torn between nervousness and an itch to sit in the pilot’s seat.

  ‘Wait till I’ve finished,’ Grace said impatiently.

  Then, above the engine noise, they heard Pat’s voice from the landing below, whisper-shouting because of Dottie. ‘Grace! Gracie? Come down here a minute!’

  Grace tutted, then passed the mouse over to Henry. ‘OK, you can take over. But only till I come back.’

  She went down the twisty stairs, out of sight.

  Henry could only think about the buzzing sensation in his ears and the fluttering in his stomach. He hoped he wasn’t going to heave. With an effort, he made himself swallow, and the buzzing cleared a little. It was always like this — fighting himself, trying to get the better of his own fear. The plane was flying level now, into the darkness, but he knew from his instrument panel that the water was eight thousand feet below, and the English coast two miles ahead. To the others, he was Henry the Navigator, always calm, always working away at his calculations and his compass bearings; but perhaps they all shared the same sick terror that was only just kept under control.

  That stupid song came into his mind, the one they sang in the mess: They scraped him off the runway like a dollop of strawberry jam . . . He hated that song; it made him feel sick to think about it, but when the others sang it he joined in anyway and pretended to laugh — as if he didn’t care, as if crashes were something to joke about.

  All day, he’d had a bad feeling about tonight, with Rusty out of action, in sick bay with flu. The crew had always flown together, the seven of them, mates, for each of their twelve flights. This was number thirteen and, instead of Rusty, they had Ian Davy, a new flight engineer straight from training. At least they still had Skipper, a safe pair of hands if ever there was one.

  You should never let yourself think you’d made it, not till you were safely on the runway, not even then . . .

  When the impact came — jarring all sense out of him — his first coherent thought in the confusion was that he’d been expecting it. A fighter? Another bomber? There was no way of knowing. All he knew was that the aircraft had dropped abruptly and was yawing to the left, that he’d been thrown right out of his seat and there was a cold wind tearing through the fuselage. This is it, this is it, he thought, covering his ears, waiting for the implosion into the sea that would surely be the last thing he ever knew. Then, slowly, he registered that the plane was still flying, though God alone knew on what course. Somehow he was unhurt, but while he staggered to his feet he was being grabbed and pulled forward.

  ‘You’ll have to take over!’ It was Jackson, the wireless operator: shouting, frantic. ‘You’ll have to take over! Skipper’s right out of it and the new lad’s hurt bad. The back’s shot to pieces. It’s you or no one.’

  Henry had done some flying during his training, but had never flown a Lanc before, let alone a seriously damaged one in darkness over the North Sea. Oddly, though, he felt less afraid now — with the plane almost falling to bits around him — than he had earlier, wrapped up in superstitious fears. The Lanc was still flying, somehow, and if anyone was going to get it down — and save the others on board, however many of them were still alive — it would have to be him.

  Jackson dragged the unconscious Skipper out of his seat and Henry groped himself into position. He gripped the control wheel and stared at the row of dials, at the flickering needles. All sense had been knocked out of them too: airspeed zero? That was nonsense for a start. But the Flight Engineer — the new young chap, Rusty’s stand-in — was slumped lifeless against the wing-spar. It was bitterly cold in the cockpit. Henry felt blasted by icy air; the heating system had packed up altogether.

  ‘If you can just nurse the old kite back to the coast,’ Jackson said, ‘we might make it.’

  ‘You’d better bail out,’ Henry told him. ‘You and anyone else who can.’ It was a horrible prospect — the jump into the dark, the cold sea — but the chance of survival would be greater than staying in a plane that might burn up, disintegrate or
crash-land.

  Jackson, peering at the dials beside him, shook his head. ‘We’re staying put. All of us.’

  Henry adjusted his feet on the rudder pedals and opened the throttles a little. The plane creaked and groaned in protest. Squinting, he could see nothing below, nothing at all. It was like flying into a black well, even if logic told him that every second was a second nearer home and safety. They might stay up here for ever, hanging on, coaxing the wounded aircraft — but then he looked at the fuel gauge and realised that of course they couldn’t. They’d have to come down, somewhere. And if they didn’t strike the coast soon, it would be in the sea.

  They scraped him off the runway . . . Well, that was one thing he needn’t worry about. There wasn’t going to be any runway, just the sea. The North Sea, all of it . . .

  ‘Getting a bit lighter now,’ Jackson said.

  Straining his eyes, Henry saw a line of foam and dark shore beyond.

  ‘We can make it. We can.’ Jackson was only whispering, not daring to say it out loud. But all Henry could think was: Unlucky thirteen. Unlucky thirteen. We’re not down yet.

  He was aiming for the black rim of coast. As soon as they’d crossed it, he’d look for a level field, somewhere he could bring the plane down. It would be a messy landing but with luck they wouldn’t actually crash. They’d have to hitch a lift back to Risingheath when it was properly daylight. He’d promised Dottie . . .

  If only he could see somewhere clear of trees . . .

  He was letting the aircraft lose height, its failing engines giving up the struggle. His ears went fuzzy as the plane dropped steadily; all the time his eyes were searching the gloom. He saw the whiteness of surf as they crossed the coast at a sharp angle. The darkness was retreating slowly, washed with palest pink as dawn approached. Henry was staring, staring, till he thought his eyeballs would burst with the strain.