For a second Henry caught himself looking round for Dottie, knowing how pleased she’d be, before remembering that of course she wasn’t there and couldn’t know. A wave of regret washed through him, but there was no time to stop and think, as Grace — Grace! — came over to clap him on the back and say, ‘Well done, Strawberry. You did really well.’
It was generous of her, Henry thought, because it was obvious she’d have won if it had been a straight race between her and Simon. ‘You too,’ he said gruffly.
‘Yeah, well. Your team was better.’
Henry wondered what she’d say if he told her that Dottie had come to cheer him on, just as she’d promised. He scanned the faces of the people standing at the trackside, imagining Dottie’s face creasing up with pleasure, grinning in triumph, like when she’d got the eighty-six at Scrabble.
Already competitors were lining up for the sack race. ‘Lissa’ll win this, you watch,’ said Simon, and he was right. By taking quick little steps with her feet pushed to the bottom corners of the sack, Elissa beat all the people who took giant bounds and tired themselves out. Next, there was a slow bicycle race. Henry hadn’t tried that, but it looked like fun. Anyone who fell off their bike or had to put a foot on the ground was disqualified. It went on for so long that Simon and Henry got bored and wandered off to the Wellie Whanging, at which Henry’s dad was surprisingly successful.
‘Dog Agility is about to begin,’ said the commentator (who, Henry had realised, was the man who ran the Post Office). ‘Will all dogs wishing to take part please bring their owners to the Dog Agility course.’
Simon went to collect Pogo from his father. It was like TV programmes Henry had seen — the dogs had to weave through poles, leap up to a table and lie down, and go over miniature show jumps. Some of the dogs and owners looked very professional, but others were just having a go, like Simon. He told Henry, ‘Pogo’s ace at this. Just you watch.’
‘Simon Dobbs and Pogo,’ called the commentator, and Simon entered the ring with his dog obediently at heel.
‘He’s very well trained!’ said Henry’s mum, who had just joined them, carrying a straw basket full of plants.
‘Well, I do my best. The dog’s not bad, either,’ joked Simon’s dad.
The whistle sounded and Simon set off at a jog, whistling. But the collie was too overwhelmed with excitement even to look at the jumps; he dashed in mad circles, barking, while Simon tried to show him what to do. In the end Simon gave up with Pogo and completed the whole course himself, hurdling jumps, weaving through cones and even lying on the table while the collie looked on in puzzlement. Everyone applauded wildly as Simon left the ring, very red in the face, with Pogo bounding beside him looking as pleased as if he’d done everything perfectly.
‘You want to enter that lad for Crufts,’ one of the dog-handlers said to Simon’s dad.
Henry’s dad slipped him a two-pound coin. ‘Go and buy ice-creams for yourself and Simon. He looks as if he could do with one.’
‘I’ll take Pogo,’ offered Simon’s dad. ‘Course, it’d have been different with me in charge. Knows his master’s voice, that dog.’
‘Stage-fright,’ Simon told him, ‘that’s all it was. Dad, is it OK if Henry comes round tomorrow?’
‘Course,’ said Simon’s dad. ‘Tomorrow afternoon? Gran and Grandad’ll be there as well.’
As he and Simon crossed the field to the ice-cream van, Henry thought of all the things he had to look forward to. It was the summer holidays now, and he was going to Simon’s, and Grace was going to teach him to ride properly. In two weeks’ time he was going to Scotland with Mum and Dad, and when they got back Nabil was coming to stay. At the end of it would be school, but he needn’t worry about that yet, and anyway he had friends who would be just as new as he was. He’d run well in the race and — he couldn’t be certain, but he felt fairly sure — he’d grown a little bit taller, just a tiny bit, since they’d come to live in the village. When they got home, he’d ask Mum to make a new pencil mark on his bedroom doorframe, so that he could keep a check.
He looked across the field to the line of roofs and chimneys that was Church Cottages and home, and felt for the first time that he belonged here.
SEVENTEEN
RUSTY’S LUCK
Simon’s house was in Upper Crickford, a few miles away, and was one of a pair of farm cottages, with flinty walls. Everyone was in the garden — garden-living had become normal, this long, hot summer. Henry wondered what it would feel like to go back to rooms and sofas and fires.
In all the excitement of the fête, he’d forgotten that Simon’s great-grandad was Rusty Dobbs, but remembered in the instant of meeting.
Rusty Dobbs had grey hair, but otherwise looked like a much older version of Simon. He didn’t look nearly as old as Dottie. Henry realised that it must have been Dottie’s illness that made her so old and frail, but Rusty Dobbs could hardly have looked healthier. He played boisterous games with Pogo, told lots of jokes and laughed loudly at them. His wife, Simon’s great-grandmother, had just come from the swimming-pool, and her hair was still wet.
When, for a moment, Rusty and Simon and Simon’s dad all stood together admiring the runner-beans, Henry had the odd feeling of looking at a family of Russian dolls, all with the same smile. Just for a second, he thought of another family — Henry the Navigator, grey like Rusty, and Dottie, and someone around Dad’s age, and a boy of about ten, and a little girl in a pushchair. The family that never was, he thought. The family-to-be, that crashed into the sea with Henry.
Rusty Dobbs was amazed when Henry told him who Dottie was. He stared and stared, then shook his head like a dog shaking water out of its ears after a swim.
‘Yes, I remember Dottie all right,’ he told Henry, suddenly sounding much younger. ‘Lovely girl, she was — those blue, blue eyes, I remember, and that laugh! I always claimed it was me saw her first —’
‘You watch what you say!’ said Simon’s gran.
‘That was before I’d met Mary, of course.’ Rusty gave one of his grins and took her hand. ‘But Dottie only had eyes for Henry. And you mean she’s been over in Crickford St. Thomas the last few weeks and I could have gone over and had a good old natter? And now it’s too late?’
‘She’d have loved that,’ Henry said sadly. ‘Talking about Henry.’
‘Sad. Sad.’ Rusty was silent for a few moments; then he said: ‘Still, I’ll go and pay my last respects. Buy her a big bunch of flowers. You must get Simon to bring you round to our house some time,’ he added. ‘We’re in Stowmarket. I’ve got loads of photos I can show you. There’s quite a few of Henry.’ Then he gave Henry a sideways look. ‘You know what? You remind me of him.’
‘Dottie said that,’ Henry told him.
‘Yes, I can see why. Same dark hair, same eyes, same look. No wonder you brought all the old memories back, for Dottie. I’ll always remember him — a good mate, he was. Tell you what,’ said Rusty. He reached into the back pocket of his trousers and pulled out his wallet. ‘I’m going to give you something. Something of his, to keep.’
Henry could feel his heart beating. In the second before he saw it — something Rusty Dobbs kept in his wallet, in a screw of paper — he knew what it would be.
Henry’s sixpence. The sixpenny-bit Henry had given Rusty the very first time they’d seen Dottie.
‘You can’t give me that!’ Henry burst out. ‘It’s yours. For luck —’
Rusty gave him a curious stare. ‘Well, how d’you know that? You’re right, though. Henry gave it me and told me to keep it for good luck. And I always have. Now I reckon it’s your turn.’ He put the coin in the palm of Henry’s hand.
‘What’s that?’ Simon came over to look.
It still looked shiny and new. It showed the head of King George and the date, 1943. It had been in Henry the Navigator’s pocket and could easily have been spent at the canteen. But it had become Rusty’s Luck.
‘Wait!’ Henry protested. ‘What if your
luck runs out, if you give it to me?’
‘Well, you know?’ Rusty gave a contented chuckle, and looked around the garden, then up at the sky, then at Simon. ‘I reckon I’ve had all the luck I could ever want, in my life. Now it’s your turn. You keep it, lad.’ He took the coin back, rewrapped it in its twist of paper and handed it to Henry. Henry put it carefully in his shorts pocket.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thanks a million.’
It didn’t seem enough.
What if Henry had kept it for himself, he wondered? Would things have been different? Surely not. It was only a coin. But he was going to keep it carefully, keep it always. He would find it a special place.
‘Tea’s ready!’ shouted Simon’s dad from the patio. There was a garden table laid with big platefuls of sandwiches and scones and doughnuts. Suddenly, Henry was ravenous.
‘Jam doughnuts! My favourite,’ said Rusty Dobbs.
When he got home, the first thing Henry saw was Dottie’s Scrabble box on the table.
‘Pat brought it round,’ Mum explained. ‘She thought you might like to have something of Dottie’s, to keep.’
EIGHTEEN
AT THE FIREFLY GATE
Henry was too excited to sleep.
He kept reliving the events of the past two days — Rusty Dobbs, the race, Dottie’s voice coming to him from nowhere, the surge of energy that pushed him towards the winning tape. He wouldn’t have believed it if the red certificate — First Place, Relay — hadn’t been propped against the bookshelf, with his name on it along with Simon’s, Ellie’s and Neil’s. They’d been given one each.
It wasn’t fully dark. The bedroom curtains stirred in a faint breeze, and through them he could see the almost-lightness of a summer night that would soon turn to early dawn. Henry thought of the strange night when he’d lain in bed and listened to the Lancaster bombers flying overhead, out towards the sea. And not just heard them, but seen them; or if not, it had been an extraordinarily vivid dream.
He didn’t think he’d carry on seeing and hearing things any more.
Dottie’s funeral was to be held on Thursday, in the village church. ‘Not a very nice start to the summer holidays for you,’ Mum had said. ‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.’
Henry didn’t know whether he wanted to go or not. He didn’t like the idea of a funeral. There would be lots of people and flowers and there was a proper way of doing it, all solemn and dignified, but it wouldn’t have much to do with Dottie.
‘Oh, I can’t be doing with all that fuss,’ he imagined her saying.
But Rusty Dobbs was going. Henry was pleased about that. It seemed right; a proper ending to something that had taken all these years to reach an end. In a way, Rusty would be saying a final goodbye to Henry. Rusty had had all the luck and Henry the Navigator hadn’t. Now it was Henry’s turn to keep Rusty’s lucky sixpence. Mum had found some special silver-polish; now, as bright and shiny as in his dream, the sixpence was on his bedside table, next to his lamp, where he could keep looking at it.
Henry thought about Rusty’s bout of flu. If only Henry had caught it too! Then his story and Dottie’s could have had a different ending.
And if Rusty Dobbs hadn’t caught the flu, Henry wouldn’t have Simon for a friend.
He hadn’t told Simon, yet, about all the things he knew; maybe he never would. Perhaps it was meant to be his secret; his and Dottie’s. And Henry’s.
He threw back his duvet and slid out of bed, feeling the warm smoothness of floorboards with his feet. Dottie’s Scrabble set was on top of his chest of drawers. He hadn’t yet opened it, but now he lifted the lid, took out the board and put out one letter-rack. Would the letters still say anything that made sense, now that Dottie had gone?
Closing his eyes, he picked seven tiles, as if getting ready to play a game all by himself.
U B K E L Y C
He hardly needed to start moving them around before he saw what they spelled out.
BE LUCKY.
Thank you, he said silently.
He went to the window and opened it wide. Nighttime smells wafted in — mown grass and roses and the honey-sweet smell of the lime trees in front of the Old Rectory. Somewhere, over the fields, a bird screeched.
He couldn’t see them at first; then they started to appear, one by one, like someone lighting tiny candles. The fireflies, dancing round the gate as if showing the way.
Someone was walking towards the gate, beneath the trees. Henry stared, his eyes making out shapes through the twisted branches. Hunched shoulders, hands deep in pockets. Feet walking as far as the gate, then stopping. A face in profile, looking towards the Old Rectory.
Henry’s haunt! Henry was waiting for Dottie at the firefly gate, still waiting, keeping the promise he had kept for years. But he couldn’t know that Dottie wasn’t here any more.
Am I dreaming or am I awake? Henry wondered how he could tell. On an impulse, he leaned farther out of the window. ‘Henry!’ he shouted.
For an instant the young man’s face turned in his direction. Then another voice called out, ‘Henry!’ from the village end of the orchard, and both Henrys turned to look.
Dottie was running along the path, her long hair streaming.
Henry knew it was Dottie. It was the girl he had seen at the canteen van; the girl of the orchard; the girl with the amazing blue eyes, though he couldn’t see them now. She wore the sky-blue dress with the white collar, and her feet were in white plimsolls. She ran as lightly as a moth skimming the grass, the skirt of her dress floating out like papery wings.
Henry the Navigator held out his arms to her, and for a moment the two figures were locked together in the middle of the firefly dance.
Then they moved away, arm-in-arm, talking, beneath the trees.
Dottie laughed, a mischievous giggle that rippled into Henry’s ears, as her blue dress faded like smoke beneath the apple trees.
‘Goodbye, Dottie,’ he whispered.
But she had gone.
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition of this work as follows:
Newbery, Linda.
At the firefly gate / Linda Newbery.
p. cm.
Summary: After moving with his parents from London to Suffolk near a former World War II airfield, Henry sees the shadowy image of a man by the orchard gate and feels an unusual affinity with an elderly woman who lives next door.
[1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. World War, 1939–1945—England—Fiction. 3. England—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.N4715Att 2007
[Fic]—dc22
2006001796
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