by Lewis Orde
Mercifully, the class finished, and Roland slipped the racing form into his blazer pocket. As he was passing through the door, clutching the bag of sandwiches he always brought from home in preference to school lunches, Spott-Mandray called him back.
‘Eagles, it is a great pity that you do not apply yourself as diligently to religious instruction as you do to other subjects.’
‘I do, sir,’ Roland lied. ‘I just find other subjects easier.’
‘Easier – or more important?’ Spott-Mandray countered, and Roland knew that he was about to launch into one of his sermons. Old Spotty’s life seemed to be ruled by religion; his favorite time of day was morning assembly when he led the school in prayers. ‘The Bible, Eagles, is the most important work of literature ever written. We can all learn to live decently from its teachings.’
Roland recalled the episode in the cellar the previous evening. What did the Bible teach? That you could only associate with – only marry – your own kind or forever be damned? In that light, the Bible taught hatred and bigotry, and Roland wanted none of that.
Spott-Mandray was far from finished. ‘Do you study the scriptures at home? Are the members of your family churchgoers?’
‘We belong to a church, sir.’ That seemed to be the easiest way to answer. In truth only Roland’s mother and younger brother and sister ever went; his father refused to have anything to do with religion, and Roland followed his lead.
‘How often do you attend?’
‘I don’t sir.’
‘Why not?’ Spott-Mandray said in an angry tone, challenging him.
‘Because my father taught me that it’s what’s here that counts,’ Roland said, pointing to his heart. ‘If there is a heaven you’ll get there by your actions, not by regular church attendance.’
Spott-Mandray’s pale face turned even whiter. Roland thought he might be summoning up one of the plagues they had discussed during class, but all the headmaster could manage was a disgusted wave of dismissal. Roland needed no urging; he turned and left quickly before the headmaster could change his mind.
Sitting in the playground, Roland gulped down his lunch. After throwing the empty bag into the trash can – cleanliness was another thing Old Spotty was crazy about, constantly posting notices that it was next to godliness – Roland left the school and walked across a busy intersection to a small, dingy tobacconist’s shop located on the opposite corner. Two customers were in the shop and Roland busied himself by pretending to look at newspapers while they made their purchases. After they’d left he approached the middle-aged, balding man behind the counter.
‘Hello, Lenny, how’s business?’
The shopkeeper acknowledged the greeting with a dismal shake of his head. ‘Could always be better. Have you come here to place a bet or pass the time of day?’
Roland pushed a sheet of paper and two half-crown coins across the counter. ‘Five-shilling win double on Turkish Delight in the one-thirty and Queen Bess in the two-forty.’
Lenny who acted as a commission agent for a local bookmaker, dropped the sheet of paper and the coins into a special drawer. ‘Got a tip direct from the stable, have you then?’
‘From the horses themselves,’ Roland said cheerily. ‘I’ll see you after school for my winnings.’
‘Some hopes, Roland. You’ve got two chances with that pair – slim and none. Seriously, did you get a tip?’
‘Where would I get a tip, from one of the prophets we talk about in religious instruction?’
Lenny’s laughter followed Roland out of the shop. He didn’t need to hear tips; he could handicap efficiently all by himself . . . Turkish Delight had finished second in its last three races; today it would be wearing blinders for the first time to break it of its habit of being distracted by other horses. And Queen Bess was a derivation of his mother’s name, Betty, which was short for Elizabeth. Intuition and superstition – the perfect basis for a two-horse bet – and Roland’s own formula for success at the track.
At one-thirty that afternoon during history class, Roland looked at his watch and then closed his eyes, picturing the race in his mind, silently willing Turkish Delight to win. He repeated the action at two-forty, during geography, this time urging Queen Bess across the line. The remainder of the afternoon he devoted to his studies, free of distractions.
When the last class finished he ran down to the playground. Instead of jumping onto his bicycle and heading home, he raced across the street to the tobacconist’s shop. Lenny gave him a doleful look when he entered.
‘What have you got, a crystal ball or something? Or do they teach fortune-telling in school these days?’
Roland grinned at the complaints, figuring that his hunches must have paid off. ‘What were the prices?’
‘Turkish Delight came in at four-to-one. Queen Bess paid nine-to-one.’
‘That’s twelve pounds ten you owe me.’
‘I know. Mind like a bloody adding machine you’ve got.’ Lenny handed across a brown envelope. Roland ripped it open, counted the money, then passed half a crown across the counter.
‘Have a drink on me.’
‘Thanks. Next time come back when you’ve got a loser.’
Holding the money, Roland left the shop and looked around the intersection. Another day, another profit to be entered into his ledger and more money for his post office account. Careful research and deserved luck, Roland thought, congratulating himself, that was all success needed. He was about to cross back over to get his bicycle when he noticed an elderly woman standing at the curb, testing the ground with a white stick. Roland hesitated, then stepped forward.
‘Want to cross with me?’ he asked.
The woman held out her hand and Roland allowed her to grasp his arm. He waited patiently for a break in the traffic, then slowly crossed the road toward the corner next to the school entrance. His eyes trailed downward to the tip of the white stick, fascinated as it leaped around like a snake’s tongue discerning obstacles.
‘All right now?’ he asked as the woman stepped onto the curb.
‘Yes, thank you.’ The woman released Roland’s arm and started forward confidently. Roland stood transfixed with horror as she walked straight into the railings surrounding the school. He moved toward her to help her recover her bearings, then froze as the woman swung at him.
‘You little fool!’ she screamed at where she thought he stood. She lashed out with the white stick, catching Roland painfully across the hands as he raised them in protection. ‘You took me to the wrong corner!’
Roland felt his face redden as people turned to look. Uncertain what to do, he chose flight. He spun around, brain pounding in panic as the woman’s furious screams followed him and ran toward the school entrance, wanting only to be on his bicycle heading home. Instead, he ran straight into Mr Spott-Mandray.
‘What the devil’s going on, Eagles?’ The headmaster had been about to get into his car when he had heard the woman’s screams. Roland struggled against his grip, surprised that Old Spotty had the strength to hold him. ‘What did you do to that blind woman? Where did you get all that money you’ve got there?’
Roland stared down at the fistful of money he had taken from the bookmaker’s agent, then at the woman who was still standing on the sidewalk screaming in his direction. A crowd had gathered around her but so far no one had offered to help. Suddenly he realized what Old Spotty must be thinking . . . what he could only be thinking about a boy who confessed that he thought going to church was a waste of time . . . that he had stolen the money, robbed an old blind woman!
‘It’s mine!’
‘Then why is that poor woman screaming at you?’ Spott-Mandray swung Roland around and marched him back to the woman.
‘Madam, what did this boy do to you?’
‘He thinks I stole your money!’ Roland blurted out.
‘He took me to the wrong corner!’ the woman screamed, unconcerned about any money. ‘He could have gotten me killed! I don’t know where
I am now.’ Someone from the crowd finally stepped forward to offer assistance. Spott-Mandray refused to let go of Roland’s arm and demanded again to know where the money had come from. He snatched it away and counted it.
‘Twelve pounds ten – that’s a working man’s wages for a fortnight!’
‘Give it back to me, it’s mine!’
‘We’ll get to the bottom of this.’ Pushing Roland ahead, Spott-Mandray returned to the school, up to his study where he closed the door. ‘Now, do you tell me where you got that money or do I bring in the police?’
Police? The idea appalled Roland. What would his parents say if they knew he had been in trouble with the police? But he had done nothing wrong, he had nothing to hide. Of course he did, he realized dejectedly. Bookmaking was illegal – just as a boy not yet sixteen making bets must surely be. Damn that blind woman, why did she have to be standing there? A minute earlier, a minute later, and he would have been well on his way home by now, happily cycling away the three-mile journey.
‘Well?’ Spott-Mandray prompted. ‘You are not leaving here until I get to the bottom of this.’
‘That twelve pounds ten is mine, sir. You have no right to hold on to it or to question me about it.’
‘First you’ll tell me where you got it,’ the headmaster said, ignoring the remark. ‘If I am satisfied, I will return it to you.’ The headmaster set the money on the desk.
‘I won it,’ Roland stated flatly, eager to finish the confrontation and pushed by a perversity to see how Old Spotty would react to that.
‘Won it? Gambling? Gambling in this school is expressly forbidden. And how could you win such a fortune pitching pennies?’
‘I did not gamble in school, sir, I won it on the horses.’
Roland’s admission was rewarded by an almost imperceptible arching of the headmaster’s thin eyebrows. ‘You . . . bet . . . on . . . the . . . horses?’
‘Yes, sir, I did.’ Seeing his chance Roland snatched up the money from the desk and jammed it into his blazer pocket. His fingers came in contact with the Jewish good luck charm he had taken from the cigar box the previous night; maybe it really was lucky.
‘Where did you make this bet?’
‘I can’t tell you that, sir.’ He refused to implicate Lenny.
‘Can’t you? We’ll see about that.’ Spott-Mandray opened the wide center drawer of his desk and Roland flinched. He knew that inside were four curved bamboo canes. The headmaster selected the heaviest, drew it out and cut the air experimentally. ‘Bend over the desk.’
Roland backed away. He had bent over that desk once before, in his second year at the school. The memory of his humiliation still burned, even if his buttocks had recovered. He wasn’t about to repeat the scene willingly.
‘Bend over that desk.’
‘No. You have no right. I did nothing wrong either in school or during school hours.’
‘I have every right. I will not tolerate any of my students gambling. Now, for the last time, bend over that desk or it will be the worse for you.’
‘No, sir.’ Roland retreated to the door and opened it.
‘If you disobey me, you will never return to this school, Eagles. I will begin expulsion proceedings against you tomorrow.’
Roland took a final look at Spott-Mandray holding the cane and then ran through the door, slamming it behind him. He raced all the way down the stairs and out into the playground to the bicycle racks. He’d be damned if he’d accept a beating from Old Spotty. He would rather face his own parents and tell them why he was being expelled.
It was four-thirty when he finally wheeled his bicycle out of the school playground, thirty minutes behind his normal schedule. His parents would be wondering what had happened to him. His father would be home already since his office had begun to close early each day, now that the bombing raids were so regular. Pedaling furiously, Roland set off through the center of Margate toward his home on the southern edge of town.
He was so wrapped up in thoughts of school and Old Spotty that he didn’t even notice the air raid siren until he stopped the bicycle for a red light. He looked around and saw that the few cars on the road had stopped. Their passengers joined the steady rush of pedestrians toward the shelters. Gripping the handlebars of the bicycle, Roland debated whether to run for cover or try to make it home, still two miles away.
‘You on the bike!’ a man shouted. ‘What the hell do you think you’re up to?’ Roland glanced left and saw an air raid warden wearing a flat tin hat and gas mask. ‘That’s right . . . you! Are you deaf?’
Despite the warden, Roland was reluctant to join the others moving toward the shelters. His parents would be sick with worry – it was more important to get home and let them know he was safe. Excitement churned in his stomach as he looked skyward. Over the English Channel he could see a Spitfire squadron as it climbed to meet the oncoming threat. This was the first time an air raid had caught him out in the open and he didn’t want to miss this one chance to witness history. Damn!
Ignoring another shout from the warden Roland pushed off toward home, looking alternately from the road to the sky above. As he cycled, the noises of the engines grew steadily louder – a combination of the menacing snarl of the Rolls Royce engines in the Spitfires, the heavy throbbing of the massed German bombers and the high rasping note of the Messerschmitt 109-Es which flew escort duty for the pack.
The sky became black with planes as both sides maneuvered for advantage in a deadly aerial ballet. Roland stopped again and let the bicycle rest in the roadway while he craned his neck and shielded his eyes from the sun. Not once did he consider that he was standing exposed in the street as the aircraft passed overhead . . . all he had eyes for were the elegant Spitfires as they darted in and out of the bomber pack, evading the attempts of the Messerschmitts to protect their charges. Roland knew how unfair the battle was to the Germans and reveled in it. The Spitfires could freewheel all over the sky but the Messerschmitts had to preserve their scanty fuel ration. Half of them would probably run dry on the way home anyway and be forced to ditch. With this kind of patchy protection the bombers had to move on to London as best they could. Even as Roland watched, smoke poured from stricken bombers as the raiding party crossed the coastline and pressed inland.
Roland fixed his gaze on a lone Spitfire as it bore down on a trailing bomber, a Heinkel 111-H. The Heinkels were antiques, first flown in the Spanish Civil War. Now they were hopelessly outdated, no matter what modifications had been made. Like a lioness separating its prey from the herd, the Spitfire forced the Heinkel away from the main body of bombers. At less than a thousand feet the two planes roared past Roland, who stood with his arms above his head, fists clenched in victory as bullets from the Spitfire’s eight machine guns fired into the bombers’s port wing. The Heinkel’s port engine gushed thick black smoke, then flames poured out as the battle continued southward toward the area of town where Roland’s family lived. How his family would envy him, he thought. They were stuck safely in the cellar while he was enjoying a grandstand view of the Heinkel’s last moments.
Still pursued relentlessly by the fighter, the Heinkel dropped lower and lower until at last Roland lost sight of it altogether. All he could see was the Spitfire. Moments later there was a thunderous explosion. Even from where Roland stood, a mile and half away, he could feel the ground shudder. The Heinkel was down!
He picked up his bicycle, prepared to continue the journey home. Then suddenly he saw the Heinkel reappear, climbing by some miracle, its port engine ablaze, heading groggily out to sea with the Spitfire still on its tail.
Panic froze Roland where he stood. What had exploded?
And where?
In that fraction of a second Roland’s excitement turned into fear and a numbing certainty that filled him with dread. He started pedaling as fast as he could toward home. Ahead of him a pall of gray smoke rose into the air. It spoiled what was otherwise a clear blue sky, pinpointing – Roland was certain of it – th
e exact location of his family’s home. Tears filled his eyes. His heart pounded and his lungs felt ready to burst. He tore blindly across street intersections, ignoring red lights and traffic. When he arrived he vaulted off the bicycle before it had even come to a stop. The street was already blocked by fire engines and ambulances. A dozen houses were in flames, and huge craters pitted the street where the Heinkel’s bombs had fallen. Clouds of steam rose to mix with smoke as water from hoses evaporated in the heat. Roland ran toward the inferno that had once been his family’s home, but his desperate attempt to reach his family was stopped by the strong grip of a fireman.
It didn’t matter to Roland that the crew of the crippled Heinkel had held no personal animosity toward his family, that the bomber’s original target had been the East End of London, that the Heinkel had only emptied its bomb racks in its need to quickly shed weight. With one engine on fire, jettisoning the bombs was its only slim hope of escape. It had also proven to be a futile one . . . The next burst from the Spitfire had ripped through the bomber’s cockpit, sending the Heinkel swaying drunkenly over the beach to crash into the sea. Roland cared for none of this . . . all he knew was that his family was gone . . . that as he had stood staring at the blaze, caught in the realization that the warmth and affection they had always shared – the love – was gone. For the first time in his life he was totally alone, not even considering that had he not been detained at school, had he not stood gaping at the aerial battle, he, too, might be dead.
Roland spent the entire night at the bombsite, watching as the firemen and rescue workers cleared enough of the rubble to bring out the bodies. His face streaked with tears, he forced himself to look at the broken bodies of his parents, his brother and sister. Before they could be loaded into an ambulance, Roland removed the identical gold wedding bands from the remarkably unscathed hands of his parents. He slipped his father’s ring onto the middle finger of his right hand and pressed his mother’s, much smaller, onto his little finger.