by Joe Layburn
Suddenly a tremor went through the arch where we were sheltering and my ears were filled with the roar of a massive explosion: it seemed to suck all other sounds out of the air. Bits of masonry began falling and we were showered with rubble and dust.
Instinctively, I started to run. Richard tried to pull me back. He was shouting but it was as if we were underwater. I could see his mouth moving but nothing audible was coming out. I felt my way along the wall and peered into the adjoining street. There was a crater as long as a bus. Three houses in a terrace were in flames and there seemed to be pieces of burning paper and clothing swirling and dancing in the hot air. As my hearing returned, I could hear the mad yapping of a terrified dog echoing further down the road.
“You silly moo. Will you get yourself back here?”
The dust had started to settle and I could see that our railway arch was still standing pretty much as before. Richard looked wide-eyed and paler than ever. There was a smudge of dirt on his right cheek but he seemed to be unharmed.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Just a bit shaken.”
As I stumbled across the fallen rubble towards him, an air raid warden in a tin hat appeared from the other side of the arch. His round face was red, as if it had been boiled and he had a pencil-thin grey moustache above blubbery lips.
“You still in one piece?” he wheezed.
“We’re fine,” Richard told him. “Never been better.”
“What d’you mean we?” the warden asked, looking around. He looked right through me and I realised with an icy shiver that I was invisible to him. I walked right up to him, so close that I could have flicked the tip of his nose with a finger. I shook my head to and fro, stuck my tongue out, rolled my eyes, but he simply looked straight over my shoulder at Richard, his eyebrows raised.
“I mean me and her,” Richard said.
He pointed in my direction, but the air raid warden simply spun round and looked behind him.
“I’m talking about Aisha here,” Richard said, perplexed. “My mad mate from Somaliland.”
The air raid warden’s eyebrows dropped down now and knitted together into a frown. “Don’t be fooling with me, sunshine. There’s a war on, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“He can’t see me!” I squealed. “Only you can, Richard.”
I reached up and flipped the air raid warden’s tin hat so that it fell off his head and landed with a clatter at his feet.
“Oi!” he shouted, spinning around again and almost losing his footing on the loose rubble underneath his black boots. “What the bleeding hell’s going on?”
Richard stifled a laugh with his hand.
“Nothing’s going on,” he said. “Look, there’s only me here and I’m as happy as a sandboy.”
The air raid warden picked up his helmet, dusted it down and stamped off the way he had come.
“Oh, Richard,” I said taking his hands in mine and spinning him around as though we were dancing partners. “I thought you were my ghost. But it seems I’m yours too.”
***
I felt lightheaded as we scampered through the darkening streets to where Richard lived. He was anxious to check on his grandad, of course. Some of the houses we passed were just piles of bricks and rags. In others, treasured ornaments were still on a mantelpiece, or a table had been laid for a meal, but the rest of the room was gone. There were lonely-looking staircases that pointed up into the sky and groaning bedroom floors that sagged down towards the rooms below. Torn curtains flapped in the wind through empty window frames. Everywhere was the smell of smoke and the crackling sound of fire.
We arrived to find Richard’s grandad wrapped in a blanket, his wild white hair full of dust and grit, leaning on the gatepost and looking ruefully at the smoking mountain of rubble and broken furniture that had once been his home.
Many houses in the street had simply collapsed under the reverberations of a bomb that had set the nearby church ablaze; flames licked around a metal cross on top of the spire, while grey slates crashed down from the roof. The sun seemed to be setting in the east today because fires at the docks had turned the sky a coppery orange.
Many of Richard’s neighbours were milling around in the street. Some carried bundles of clothing and food. Others had rescued things that were dear to them: a silver framed photograph of a uniformed father away at the front; a wooden toy tank painted army green; a yellow canary in a metal cage. It was clear that many more Nazi bombers would be back that night – their path guided by the burning homes and factories that the fire brigade were powerless to put out.
The people standing around me needed shelter; they were frightened and uncertain. I saw one mother absent-mindedly stroking her daughter’s long black hair and I realized that she was doing it to comfort herself as much as her little girl. I knew that bewildered look. I had seen it on the face of my own mother when we were forced to flee our home in Somalia. These people were refugees now and I knew all about refugees.
Two air raid wardens appeared, one an old man with no front teeth, the other a red-haired boy who looked no more than fifteen. The older man whistled when he spoke. He seemed nervous about talking to such a large group of people.
“Listen up folks. They’ve found a place where you can stay, those of you as have got no homes. You’re to go to Trentham School. There’s already a big crowd there, so if you want a decent spot to bed down for the night you’d best get over there.”
Richard’s grandad looked doubtful. “So they want me to go back to school now, do they?” he asked.
Richard squeezed the old man’s arm. “I don’t see there’s much choice. You can’t stay here and a railway arch is no good for you, out in the cold all night.”
His grandad made the kind of face you see on little children when they want a sweet or some other treat. “Will you come with me, Rich?”
It was the grandson’s turn to look dubious. “They’ll be trying to evacuate all the kids that go there now, I know they will. I don’t want to leave London. I need to stay here and keep an eye on you.”
“I won’t let them send you anywhere, Rich. Come with me. I’m not going on my own.”
I felt really worried about all this. We’d been outside the school when the bombs started falling earlier that day and it wasn’t like it was protected or reinforced or anything. Still, if that’s what the authorities were insisting, what could Richard, or his grandad or anyone do?
***
When we arrived, the school was in chaos. Mothers were nursing babies in the classrooms and corridors. Whenever one child started crying, all the others began howling too. There were sums chalked up on a blackboard; it seemed they’d still been teaching lessons until recently, but now there were blankets and mattresses everywhere and half-dressed people, many of them elderly. Five relentlessly cheerful women were rushing around with mugs of tea and hastily-made corned beef sandwiches. A man with his face covered in bandages was slumped against a wall singing in a low, monotone voice.
“Will you shut your bleeding row, or you’re getting no tea from me?” one of the volunteer workers called over to him. He ignored her and carried on his mournful song.
“Well it ain’t exactly the Ritz,” Richard’s grandad said.
“And you ain’t paying Ritz prices,” said a volunteer who was passing by with a fistful of tea mugs. “D’you want one of these? A cup of tea makes most things better.”
Richard’s grandad took a mug and thanked her. “Are you staying then?” he asked Richard when she’d bustled off.
Richard sighed, raised his hands in the air then let them fall to his sides. “I’m staying.”
The two of them found a spot in the corner of a classroom away from the windows. Richard’s grandad lay down on his back, still wrapped in his blanket and, within minutes, was asleep, grunting, spluttering and snoring like an old dog. Richard and I sat down next to him with our backs against the cold tiles of the wall.
“Maybe they won’
t come back tonight,” I whispered.
Richard looked so weary, as if he hadn’t slept in days. “They’ll be back. They haven’t finished the job yet.”
I rested my head against his shoulder.
“Tell me about this Chevon,” he said.
“Chevon?”
“The one who upset you.”
I looked up at the ceiling. There was an ugly crack across part of it shaped like a fork of lightning. “She doesn’t seem such a big deal now.”
“Still, if she upset you.”
“She’s just in my face all the time. I’ve tried to understand why she does it.”
Richard clenched and unclenched a fist as if he was squeezing a tennis ball. “You can’t give in to bullies. Whatever they do and however much they upset you, you mustn’t give in. Just like with Hitler. He’s the biggest bully of them all but we’ve got to stand up to him. He can knock down all our houses, but he can’t get rid of all of us. One day we’ll sort him out, I promise you.”
I smiled and shook my head. “Chevon’s not in that league, Richard. She’s pretty pathetic when I think about it. Just a schoolgirl with issues.”
“Don’t let her get you down, Aisha. You’re worth more than that.”
I liked that. He was right, I was worth something. I fell asleep, leaning against him, still with a smile on my face.
CHEVON, MEET RICHARD
I woke up in my own bed aching all over.
“You fainted,” my mum told me as I blinked my sleep-gummed eyes open and saw her round face peering down at me, anxious as usual. “You were fighting with a girl and you fainted.”
Still groggy, I carefully explored a bruised area on the back of my head with the tips of my fingers. Ouch!
“You banged your head,” my mum said.
I opened my right hand and examined my palm. The wound was scabbing over.
“Also from fighting,” my mum explained. “Why do you have to make such trouble?”
I shifted round on to one elbow so that I could see her better. The sun was streaming in through grimy net curtains. “I’ve got to stick up for myself, Mum. I can’t be pushed around by that girl any more.”
My mum made this deep tutting sound that she makes. “You hurt her very badly. They are talking about suspending you both from school. Miss Brown has taken your side, though. She says you must have been provoked to do what you did.”
My head was throbbing and the sunlight was hurting my eyes.
“Did you eat properly yesterday?” my mum asked.
“I think I did.”
She picked at the stitching on my duvet. “You must eat properly, Aisha. And I know that you’re not sleeping properly either.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Sometimes I hear you moaning and calling out. Other times I come in here and you’re staring at the ceiling. Are you dreaming about your father?”
“Maybe. Look, I don’t know. What time is it anyway?”
“Don’t change the subject, girl.”
“No, seriously. I’ve got to get to school so that I can talk to Miss Brown about the Second World War.”
My mum frowned and shook her head. “Haven’t we had enough war? I’m sure that’s what your poor father would say if he was here.”
I swung my legs out of the bed and gingerly stood up. “This is really important, Mum. I’ve got to find out about the Nazis and bombers, and the people who lived round here in 1940.”
My mum looked doubtful. “First it was crying all the time at school, now it’s fighting.”
“I’m not going to get in trouble today. I promise. But Mum, I’ve got to go.”
“You must eat some breakfast first,” she snapped.
“Once I’ve eaten my breakfast,” I said.
She watched in silence as I ate three spoonfuls of porridge and half a banana. Then she made that tutting sound again.
Whatever! I thought as I slammed the front door shut behind me.
***
I signed in late at the school office and skirted round the big hall, avoiding the bedlam of an infant PE lesson. I crossed the playground where the older children were on break and climbed up to 5A’s classroom. The steps were wet from a cloudburst of rain and the windows were fogged with condensation.
Miss Brown was usually here at breaktime. She was small with straightened black hair scraped back in a ponytail and big eyes that were always smiley apart from when she was trying to reason with some of the more difficult children. Then she looked so sad and serious, you wondered if she was actually going to cry. I’m making her sound weak, which she wasn’t. She just seemed to care a great deal about all the children, even the ones who spent the whole lesson trying to mess up the things she’d planned for us to do.
I knocked on the door and heard a voice say Enter. But it wasn’t Miss Brown, it was Chevon. Despite my brave talk about standing up to her, I began to tremble.
“Why don’t you come in, Aisha? We got lots to talk about.”
Here we go again, I thought.
“You were so out of order, yesterday, Aisha. I ain’t going to forgive you. I don’t care if they expel me. I’m going to hunt you down, in school or out of school. I showed my sisters what you done to my neck and they said they’re comin’ here from senior school to have a word with you. This ain’t over, Aisha. Believe me.”
I was angry as usual, frightened as usual. But suddenly my mood lifted, because, just behind Chevon, there appeared a pale, skinny boy with curly blond hair and a devilish look on his face.
I laughed out loud.
“You got some front,” said Chevon, scowling, oblivious to the ghostly figure now beside her.
I laughed again because I saw that he was holding a piece of chalk in his hand. He flicked it at Chevon and it pinged against her right ear.
“Oi!” she squealed, before looking with some surprise at the piece of chalk that had fallen at her feet. “How did you do that?”
She hadn’t seen the half of it. Richard walked slowly across the classroom and began examining the class globe. He found Africa, then Somalia and pointed at it, grinning. Chevon turned slowly to see what I was looking at. I, of course, saw Richard lift the globe carefully off the counter and walk solemnly towards her. But since he was invisible to Chevon, all she could see was an inanimate object hovering slowly towards her.
“Oh my God!” she shrieked.
Richard threw the globe at her. She ducked just in time and it crashed against the blackboard.
Next he reached for a flowerpot on Miss Brown’s desk that contained a leathery green succulent. I shook my head. Miss Brown loved this ugly-looking plant. But there was no stopping him. Again, Chevon saw it rise up from the desk, then hurl itself across the classroom at her. Her eyes were wide with fear and she was whimpering like a puppy.
“Seen enough yet?” I roared at her.
“Just stop, please, Aisha. Whatever you’re doing please make it stop.”
“You reckoned I was a witch, Chevon. Want to see what else I can do?”
The board rubber flew across the room, followed by some paint brushes.
“Please stop. I’ll never do nothing to you again. I promise.”
The strip lights above our heads were flickering on and off as Richard fooled with the switches on the wall.
“Aisha, for God’s sake stop it! I’m sorry I was mean. I’m sorry I said that stuff about you and Omar. You got to stop this.”
“Chevon,” I said, “you are a weak, pathetic bully. Don’t you dare bother me or anybody else again. If you do, you’ll see some real fireworks. Understand?”
She nodded, clearly terrified.
“And you won’t tell no one about this, will you Chevon? I’ll know if you do.”
She shook her head vigorously.
“Now get out of here, before I chuck the tables and chairs at you.”
Trust me, you have never seen anyone make a quicker getaway. She skidded across the carpet tiles, flung
the classroom door open and jumped down the flight of steps outside. I moved to the window, wiped away some of the condensation, and watched her gallop like a bolting horse across the playground.
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” I said to Richard, who was laughing so hard the tears were running down his face. I grabbed the dustpan and brush from under Miss Brown’s desk and began scooping up the soil from the plant pot.
“That was amazing,” I said, my heart beating fast, my head as light as a balloon. I glanced up to see if he had managed to compose himself, but Richard had disappeared – gone as suddenly as he’d come.
By the time Miss Brown came back to the classroom, I’d cleared everything away: the globe was back on the counter, the ugly plant squatting once more on the corner of her desk. She pushed the door open with her foot, labouring under a teetering pile of books. She must have been concerned about the incident in the playground the day before, but she managed a smile for me, her brown eyes all twinkly.
“How are you, Aisha? I wasn’t really expecting you today. Do you want to talk about what happened?”
She placed the books carefully on a chair.
“There’s actually something else I’d like to talk about first if that’s OK.”
“Go on,” she said, nodding.
“I’d really like to find out more about the Second World War and what happened in this area.”
Miss Brown was nodding even more enthusiastically now. “Well, we will have to discuss the Chevon situation at some point, Aisha, and Mrs Greening will want to see you in her office too, but, since everyone’s at games now and I very much doubt you’re feeling up to that, I suppose we could have a chat about the War.”
She indicated for me to sit down next to her at one of the tables.
“Did you know, Aisha, that two and a half million Asians, 375,000 Africans and many thousands of West Indians fought for Britain in the Second World War? Most people don’t know that – they should, but they don’t.”
“Is that right?” I said. “It’s actually more the War in this part of London that I’m interested in.”