My Friend the Enemy (13 page)

I thought about it, my feelings all muddled. I didn't want to take anything from Mam, but I couldn't say no to Kim. She'd already managed to get a few things and it wasn't fair if I didn't get anything.

‘I s'pose so,' I said. ‘Maybe some of the sugar, like.' I took out some of the broken pieces and put them into Kim's satchel along with the other provisions. ‘I can tell Mam I dropped them.' And Kim looked so pleased to be getting more things for Erik that I added, ‘Maybe I can get
something else tomorrow. I'll try not to break it this time.'

Kim waited outside while I took the rations home and explained to Mam what had happened. There was no point in lying about it, because Mr Shaw had seen everything, so I told her what Trevor Ridley and his friends had done.

‘I'll speak to their fathers,' she said. ‘Nasty little—'

‘No.'

‘Then I'll take a belt to 'em meself.'

‘Mam, leave it alone.'

‘Well, we have to do something, pet. I'll not have them lads treatin' you like that. And making a mess of our rations . . . your da' would give 'em a right hidin' if he was here.'

‘It's all right,' I told her. ‘I'll sort it out.'

‘Then make sure you do. We can't lose our rations. You know what your da' would say? He'd say give the lad a bloody neb and he'll leave you alone.'

‘That's what everyone says.'

‘Because it's true.'

‘I don't want to talk about it. I'll sort it out meself.'

Mam looked at me for a long while, squeezing the small parcel of meat in her calloused fingers. They didn't used to be like that, but now all she ever did was scrub and dig. ‘Tell you what,' she said. ‘Next time it happens, I'll go to his father and get this sorted out once and for all. Better yet, I'll grab him when he comes for the pig slops. In the meantime, it's up to you. How about that?'

I shrugged.

‘Good. Well. That's that, then.'

*

Erik actually looked pleased to see us when we arrived. He was awake and sitting up, not so confused and afraid any more. The smell in there was even worse this time, and I noticed there was a dark, damp patch on the soil, close to the base of the tree. It looked like he'd tried to put soil over it, but the ground was hard and dry.

Kim opened her satchel and took out the food, laying it on a napkin. She put the pan next to Erik and said, ‘Toilet.' She pointed at the stain on the soil, then at the pan. ‘Toilet.' Then she put a cloth over the top of it.

For a second, Erik looked away as if embarrassed, then he held up the water bottle Kim had left for him and tipped it upside down to show us it was empty. ‘Wa-ter.'

‘I'll go.' Kim took it from him.

‘No, don't leave me . . .' I started to say, but Kim was already outside, going back to the burn, leaving me alone with Erik.

For a moment we just looked at each other. I couldn't help feeling a little afraid. I was alone. In the woods. With a German. I was thinking about scuttling out behind Kim when Erik pointed at me.

‘Peter,' he said.

I stared.

‘Peter,' he said again.

‘Aye.' I nodded and put a hand on my chest. ‘Peter.'

‘Peter.
Freund
,' he said.

‘Froind? What's that?'

Erik put his hands together and wove his fingers as if he were about to pray. ‘
Freund
.' He unclasped his fingers, pointed at me, at himself, and said it again. ‘
Freund
.'

‘Oh,' I said as it dawned on me. ‘You mean
friend
? We're friends? I don't know about that . . .' I let the idea roll around my head, thinking about how we'd helped him, fed him. ‘Maybe, though. Aye. I s'pose so. In a way. Friends.'

‘Friends,' Erik tested the word. ‘Peter, Erik,
friends
,' he said. ‘Friends.
Danke
.'

‘You're welcome.'

Then he leant forward and pulled up the left leg of his overalls and, for the first time, I noticed that he had taken off his boot. He rolled down the sock and I saw that the skin was black-and-blue and swollen.

Erik pointed at it and made a motion with his hands that I didn't understand, so I shook my head at him. He prodded a finger at his ankle and winced, tightening his eyes. ‘Ah.' He looked at me and made the motion with his hands once more.

He could see I still didn't understand, so he looked around him, feeling the ground behind until he lifted it up and showed me a dry twig. He pointed at his ankle, then took the stick in both hands and snapped it.

‘It's broken?' I said. ‘You broke your ankle?' It would explain why he hadn't left the den. He wasn't just afraid; he couldn't walk.

‘
Ja
. Bro-ken.'

Just then, Kim came back in with the water bottle.

‘You can bandage a cut,' I said to her. ‘But can you fix broken bones?'

*

The way it turned out, Kim did know something about broken bones. She knew more than I did, anyway.

‘We'll have to make a splint,' she said.

‘How do we do that, like?'

‘All we need is some good straight wood to put against his ankle and something to tie it with. It might even be just a sprain.'

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘Cleanin' a cut and putting on a bandage is one thing, but this is . . . Do you not think he needs a doctor?'

‘No.' Erik said. ‘Doctor, no.' He was shaking his head and waving his hand, one finger pointing up. ‘No. Doctor, no.
Bitte
.'

‘There he goes again,' I said.

‘He's frightened,' Kim argued, ‘and so would I be. You think they're going to let a doctor treat him? You think Lieutenant Whatshisname is going to let him just walk into the surgery? Or that sergeant?'

‘Maybe they would,' I said. ‘Maybe they'll make him better and take him somewhere safe. A prison for soldiers. I mean, if it was me da' what found him, I'm sure he wouldn't just shoot 'im.'

‘Is that what you think?'

‘Aye.'

‘Your dad's in the army, though, isn't he?'

‘Mm.'

‘Then he's probably out shooting Germans right now. It's what they do. But look at him,' she gestured. ‘He's so frightened.'

‘Me da' would never shoot someone like that,' I said. ‘I
just know it. He never would.'

‘So he would help him, then? I know my brother would.'

‘Aye, but . . .'

‘Or d'you think he'd turn him over to someone like that sergeant – so he could shoot him?'

‘I don't think Doctor Jacobs would—'

‘Doctor, no,' Erik said. He was shaking his head at us, his eyes wide. ‘Doctor, no.
Bitte
.'

‘See,' she said. ‘He's terrified. And I keep thinking about Josh; if it was him sitting in here all scared and dirty and . . . I just feel like we have to help him. Like we have to do whatever we can.'

And then Erik started saying something in German, putting his hands either side of his ankle and pretending to wrap something around.

‘He wants us to make a splint,' Kim said. ‘Isn't that what your dad would do?'

‘I dunno. Maybe.'

‘And what you'd want someone to do if it was
him
who was hurt? Your dad, that is.'

‘I s'pose.'

‘Come on, then,' she said. ‘All we need is a good piece of wood.'

DAD'S SHED

I
t was a long time since anyone had been into Dad's shed, and now I stood at the door, staring at the padlock. It was thick and heavy. A dirty silver colour, with a single bead of something brown that had once been a sticky liquid but was now as hard as a stone.

‘Me da' was the last person to come in here,' I said. ‘Prob'ly the last person to touch this lock.'

I had been with him that day, the last time he came into the woods, so he could give the shed a fresh coat of creosote to protect it from the weather while he was away.

‘Where's the key?' Kim asked.

‘Right here.'

The shed stood on a base of slats that kept it a few inches off the ground to stop the damp from getting in, and when I slipped my fingers into the space just below the door – as I had seen Dad do many times – I cringed at the thought of what creepy-crawlies might be lurking under there. Spiders and woodlice and earwigs. But I didn't feel any of those things. What I felt was cold and hard and metal.

I stood up and held out the key.

‘Go on, then,' Kim said. ‘Open it.'

There were a few spots of rust, and I had to force the key into the lock. Once it was in, though, it turned easily and the clasp popped up. I slipped it from the latch and put it into my pocket. Then I took a deep breath and opened the door.

The right side of the hut was shelved from ceiling to floor. The other side had a short bench built from unplaned wood, and there was a chair and a stool. Dad used to sit on that chair, with the door open, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of tea. I would sit on the stool and eat a biscuit. We didn't always say much, but I liked being with him.

There was a strong odour of damp wood and dust and creosote and paraffin. It was a smell that made my chest tighten with memories of Dad. I swallowed hard and tried not to think of him sitting on that chair, opening a packet of cigarettes and holding out the card for me to add to my collection.

‘You all right?' Kim asked.

I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

‘What's that?' Kim said, pointing to the heater on the bench.

I went to it and put a hand on it. ‘To keep the shed warm,' I said. ‘Burns paraffin. One of me da's jobs was to stop people stealin' the birds, so he used to come out at night if there was poachers about.'

‘Did he stay out all night?'

‘Sometimes, like. I used to try to get 'im to take me with 'im, but he always said it wasn't much of an adventure sittin' in the woods all night.'

‘I bet it would be
great
fun.'

‘He said he'd let me when I was older. I'm prob'ly old enough now, but he's not here, is he?'

There were a few shotgun cartridges on the bench, too. Waxed paper tubes with brass bases; some used, some not. Kim came in to the shed and picked one up, lifting it to her nose to sniff it.

‘Shotgun cartridges,' I told her. ‘Whenever I found 'em in the woods, I picked 'em up, 'cause if they were different from me da's, they might help tell 'im who'd been shootin' where they weren't s'posed to.'

‘Then what?'

I shrugged. ‘Call the police, I s'pose.'

Under the bench, there were rolls of wire mesh and roofing felt for building pheasant pens, and there was a short-handled axe leaning against the wall. Cobwebs that had once stretched from the axe to the corner of the shed now hung limp and abandoned, a dry spider husk dangling from a single thread, spinning in the breeze.

The shelves were a treasure trove of the bits and pieces
Dad needed for his job. There was a folding knife next to a tall metal torch, and beside that an old satchel that Dad had put away because the strap had come off and needed to be fixed. There were boxes of nails and tacks, bundles of string and thick cord, a rope, a pile of rags, a container filled with paraffin, a tin of oil, bags of feed, and a rattle that he used to scare away the crows. There was a toolbox, too. A large blue metal box.

‘There should be a saw in there,' I said, slipping my satchel over my neck and leaning it against the wall.

The toolbox was heavy, so I slid it to the edge of the shelf and half lifted, half dropped it to the floor. I opened it up and, as if it knew we wanted to use it, Dad's tenon saw was right there on the top. I took it out and ran a finger along the flat edge of the blade. It was still shining, as if Dad had used and cleaned it just yesterday, and I could see my smudged reflection in the shining metal.

‘You miss him a lot,' Kim said. It wasn't a question.

‘Aye.'

‘I miss my dad too. And my mum.'

‘At least you know where they are.'

‘Not my brother, though. Not Josh. I don't know where
he
is.'

‘No. I s'pose not.'

Kim sat on the stool and leant forward, putting her forearms on her thighs. She clasped her hands together so she looked like she was praying. ‘How come you don't play with anyone else?' she asked.

I touched a finger to the teeth on the saw. They were still sharp, still bright. There was a trace of oil on the blade
because dad had oiled everything, saying he wanted to make sure it was all still in working order when he came back from winning the war.

‘I do,' I said.

‘Not since I met you.'

‘You're different,' I said. ‘You don't say things like other people do. Anyway, I can't tell anyone else about Erik, can I?'

‘No.' She looked up at me. ‘All that stuff Trevor Ridley says; it's just because he's jealous, you know.'

‘I know.'

‘You shouldn't take any notice of it. You shouldn't worry what people say about—'

‘I don't.' I touched a fingertip to one of the saw's teeth.

‘That man who was at your house; Mr. . . what was it?'

‘Bennett.'

‘Yeah. Well, he's just looking after you and your mum. For your dad. He's not trying to take his place.'

‘He never could,' I snapped.

‘I'm just saying, that's all. It's good to have someone watching out for you.'

‘Aye, well, I don't want to talk about it.'

‘Not even to me?'

I shrugged. ‘I just wish me da' would come back. Or at least that we could get a letter from 'im.'

‘Me too,' Kim said.

I looked up at her and saw the sad expression on her face. I didn't like it. I didn't want Kim to be sad. I wanted her to be bright and smiling and full of adventure and
mischief like she normally was. It was as if Erik was there to keep us busy, and as soon as we stopped thinking about him, we thought about all the other things happening around us.

‘Come on,' I said, standing up. ‘Let's get this wood.'

I left the shed and went over to one of the bird pens. Kim stayed where she was for a while, and I could feel her watching me, but I didn't turn around.

There were four pens in a line, like small houses among the trees and the overgrown nettles.

‘What are they for?' Kim asked, coming to stand beside me.

‘For when they lay eggs,' I said. ‘They lay them in there, and when the chicks are a bit older, they go into those.' I pointed to a row of larger pens where Dad used to keep the young birds. They looked a lot like cages, about waist height and twelve feet long. They were made from posts and crosspieces of square-cut wood, covered with wire mesh that was supposed to keep the birds in and the foxes out. Dad had covered part of each pen with roofing felt that was bent right over one side, giving the birds some shelter from the wind and rain. Dad had built them all, carrying the wood out here and putting them together. I'd helped, standing by, holding nails, passing him tools until I'd grown bored and gone down to play at the burn or sit in the tyre swing. I remembered how he'd sweated when he built them, and I didn't like the idea of damaging one of them now. I promised myself that when it was all over, I'd find some wood and I'd repair it; make it just like it was, so that when Dad came back from winning the war,
everything would be just as it should be.

‘Maybe we can get some wood somewhere else,' Kim said, probably seeing the look on my face.

‘It's all right. This is more important.'

I took a deep breath and stamped hard on the corner of one of the pens, snapping the place where the wood had been nailed together. Then I slipped it out from the wire mesh that kept the birds inside the run, so I had a long pole of square-cut wood, about six feet long. I took it to a pile of rotting logs and put one end against them so the pole was far enough from the ground for me to cut it with the saw. The teeth of the saw bit into it easily, and within a few minutes I had my first short length of wood for a splint.

‘You think this'll do?' I turned around, holding it up to show Kim.

‘That looks good,' she said. And then she did something that took me by surprise. Instead of punching me on the arm like she normally did, she leant over and kissed me on the cheek.

‘What was that for?' I asked, wiping it away.

She shrugged. ‘I don't know. For being my friend, I suppose.'

*

I cut a second length of wood, about a foot long, and we took a piece of cord from the shed before putting everything away just as we'd found it. I even used an old rag to clean the saw and wipe over a thin layer of oil to protect it.

I took a last look around, trying not to see Dad sitting at the bench, and then I picked up my satchel and was
about to pull the door shut when I stopped.

‘What?' Kim asked. ‘What's the matter?'

I put my hand into my satchel and took out the gun I'd found at the wreck. ‘I don't like this,' I said.

Kim didn't say anything, so I turned to look at her.

‘When I saw Trevor Ridley earlier on, I thought if I'd had it with us I coulda pointed it at him. He woulda left me alone.'

Kim listened.

‘Erik looked scared when I pointed it at
him
,' I said.

She nodded.

‘It didn't feel right. I didn't like it. And anyway, we don't need it, do we? I mean, Erik doesn't want to hurt us. He's our friend, right?'

‘Our friend?'

‘That's what he said. And we
are
lookin' after him, so I s'pose he is, sort of.'

‘Mm.' She nodded slowly. ‘I suppose. Why don't you lock it in the shed?'

‘That's what I thought. Me da' will know what to do with it when he gets back home.'

I went back into the shed and put the gun on the shelf beside the toolbox, then I came back outside and closed the door.

I snapped the padlock into place and replaced the key under the shed before we went back to Erik. It felt good not to have the gun any more. It felt less like he was the enemy. Less like he was our prisoner and more like he was our friend.

In the den, Kim used the pieces of wood, putting them
on either side of Erik's ankle and wrapping the cord around them.

‘This should keep everything from moving about,' she said, tying it off.

Erik touched the makeshift splint and nodded his approval. ‘
Gut
.' He gave her a thumbs-up. ‘
Gut
.' He even slapped the splint as if to show us how strong she had made it.

‘So will that make it better?' I asked.

‘I think so. At least it'll stop it from getting worse.'

‘Someone at school broke their wrist one time,' I said. ‘Fell down the stairs or something and had to go to the hospital. He had a pot on his wrist after that. Does he not need one of those?'

‘A plaster cast? No. The splint does the same thing.'

‘You sure?'

‘I think so. Anyway, it might not even be broken.' Kim looked at me, and for the very first time since we'd hidden Erik away, I saw something new in her eyes. I wasn't sure what it was, but I think it was doubt. Kim had been sure about cleaning and disinfecting Erik's wound, and she had been sure about hiding him from the soldiers to save him from being shot, but she wasn't sure about the splint. She wasn't
positive
that it was the right thing to do, but Erik looked pleased with it, so it was enough.

We gave Erik some water and tried to talk to him, but we couldn't do much more than smile at each other, make signs and say a few words. Some of the words he said sounded a bit like English ones, but not many. And every time we ran out of signs and words, Erik would touch the
splint on his ankle and give us a thumbs-up. He'd point at Kim and say, ‘
Gut
doctor.' If I'd ever been worried about what we were doing, Erik's smiling, relieved expression made me feel as if it was the right thing.

‘I reckon we need to get him some clothes,' Kim said after a while. ‘His
stink
.'

‘And they're all ripped up.'

‘Yeah. I don't think I can get any, though, what about you?'

‘I might be able to.' I wanted to be as useful as Kim had been. But the idea that had come to me, the way I could get some clothes, I didn't like it one bit.