Shrapnel (10 page)

ANOTHER MONDAY, ANOTHER
double maths session with old Whitfield. I didn't care. There were two good reasons
why
I didn't care. One, I'd been contacted.
Activated
, if you like. I might
look
like the average English schoolboy, bored stiff and longing to get into the war, but I wasn't. I was
in
the war: a secret agent, part of a team of undercover operatives doing hush-hush work vital to the survival of our country. I hadn't a clue what Whitfield's bally
x
equalled, and I wouldn't be losing any sleep over it.

And two, Dicky Deadman had fallen for a
brilliant bit of spivvery dreamed up by myself, and was about to get his comeuppance.

I closed the trap at morning break. There was a knot of kids round Dicky, who was selling off the last few bits of enemy bomber at the knock-down price of fourpence. Me and Walter Linfoot watched at a distance till they'd all gone, then sidled over. I nodded at the jagged two-inch square he'd kept for his own collection.

‘Nice bit of bodywork, that,' I remarked.

He sneered. ‘You don't say
bodywork
, Price – not when it's an aeroplane. It's a nice bit of
airframe
, or maybe
fuselage
. Cars have bodywork, you twerp.'

I nodded. ‘I know, Dicky, and what you've got there is a nice bit of car bodywork.'

‘Don't talk rot, Price. This is off a Heinkel 111. Ask that duffer next to you –
his
brother liberated it.'

Walter shook his head. ‘Not
that
, Deadman. The Heinkel's at home.
That
's a bit off a 1922 Robinson Roadster, and so are all the bits you've flogged at a tanner a time. You're nothing but a cheap fraudster. I wouldn't be you when your customers find out – you'll be a deadman
then
all right.'

Old Dicky. I wish you could've seen his face.

‘
HE'S IN THE
conservatory, Gordon, come on through.' I followed Sarah, passing about a million quids worth of antiques and pictures along the way. It'd be a major tragedy if a bomb ever hit this place.

‘Gordon!' Norman was sitting in a wicker chair, a stamp album open across his knees. He closed it, set it on a small table and got up. ‘I wasn't expecting you.'

I glanced at the powerful lamp on the table, then at the expanse of unshaded glass around and above us. ‘You're not expecting
Jerry
either
by the look of it – do your parents not
know
about the blackout?'

‘Oh, pooh!' He grinned. ‘Wardens can't see this side of the house because of the high wall, and it only takes a sec to plunge the place into darkness if the siren goes.' He looked at me. ‘Did it
work
, your ruse with the piece we cut from Tin Lizzie?'

I nodded. ‘Like a dream. Deadman gave Walter half a crown for it, and made twenty-five bob selling it off in bits. We waited till he sold the last bit, then told him.' I laughed. ‘With fifty chaps after his blood, I'm not expecting any more trouble from him in the near future.' I pulled a face. ‘I only hope you don't get into hot water with your dad for mutilating the Roadster.'

Norman shook his head. ‘I shan't. I told you, he never goes near it and if he did, I'd tell him I donated the piece to the
Saucepans to Spitfires
campaign. He could hardly shout about
that
, could he?'

He was showing me his latest stamp – a cerise Guadeloupe triangular with a beautiful frigate bird on it – when Sarah reappeared. This time there were beakers of rich sweet cocoa and a plate of peppermint-cracknel chocs.

‘Y'know, Sarah,' grinned Norman, ‘I suspect there isn't a war on at all down your end of the house.'

The girl nodded. ‘You're right, Norman – in my quarters it'll always be nineteen thirty-two, and I'll always be seventeen.'

I COULD HARDLY
wait for Saturday, when my real work would begin. Something amazing happened on Thursday, but not to me.

Gran knew the people it happened to, they'd been neighbours of hers years ago. Varney was their name. They lived miles away now, out in the country. Mrs Varney had called to see Gran that day and told her the story.

Wednesday night there'd been a raid on the city. An enemy bomber was hit. It turned for home, but one of its engines was on fire and the pilot was forced to make a crash-landing on
farmland. Some Home Guard chaps ran to the smoking kite and captured the three-man crew, who were practically unhurt. The nearest house belonged to the Varneys, and the Home Guard knocked them up at two in the morning and asked to use the phone. They had the German airmen at rifle-point. Mrs Varney invited everybody inside, and the prisoners drank tea till the police arrived. They were just boys, Mrs Varney said. Just boys.

‘Could they speak English, Gran?' I asked. ‘Did they say anything?'

‘I don't know,' she told me. ‘I didn't ask.'

‘Well what about the
plane
– what sort was it? Did it burn up or is it still in the field?'

Gran shrugged. ‘I dunno, love, Violet didn't mention it.'

‘Were they
armed
, Gran – Lugers or anything?'

‘I don't know.'

It was dead frustrating. Why does all the interesting stuff happen during school time? If I'd been there, I'd have asked Violet Varney all sorts. Why couldn't the thing have landed on Trickett Boulevard, and why aren't grown-ups interested in anything except funny wireless programmes
such as
ITMA
and when they'll see bananas again?

It was in the local paper a few days later. The story, and a blurry snapshot, just clear enough to make out that the plane was a Dornier, nicknamed the flying pencil. It didn't answer any of my other questions.

I wonder if there's a chap in Germany just like me, building aero models, full of questions only he cares about?

SATURDAY BEGAN DRY,
but that was all right – Dad works Saturday mornings, so he couldn't have come with me to Myra Shay if he'd wanted to. Whoever was giving me my instructions probably knew this.

It was hairy, biking with the Skymaster. I'd detached the wings, of course, and fastened them with rubber bands to the fuselage, but it still made an awkward cargo. The bike had no carrier over the rear wheel, so I had to balance the plane across the handlebars. Every gust of wind threatened to topple it and me into the gutter.

I didn't have Myra Shay to myself. There were two dog walkers, and a kite flyer with his mum or older sister. As I assembled the plane, I could see the kite flyer watching. I knew he wanted to come over and look at it, but luckily the girl wouldn't let him. I wound the engine tightly and performed my maiden launch.

It was a wizard first solo. Propeller whirring, the Skymaster soared skyward and went off across the Shay like a golden eagle, while I ran after it laughing like a jackass. For the first time I understood why some chaps prefer flying models to solids. It was as if a part of me was up there, soaring with the plane.

It made a near-perfect landing, bouncing across the turf till it lost speed and a wing tip touched the grass, swinging it round. I picked it up and examined it anxiously. There was no damage.

I looked all around. The dog walkers had disappeared. The young woman was holding the kite-flyer's hand, leading him away. He was resisting, but I could've told him it was no use. A chap about my age had arrived, also by bike, also with a flying model, but he no more wanted to
acknowledge me than I did him. There was nobody else. Nobody watching to see how I'd get on, unless they were miles away with binoculars.

I gazed towards the chain-link fence round Manley's. It was nine feet high, with barbed wire coiled along its top. Beyond it ran a cement pathway, and beyond that were some low, red-brick buildings. I wasn't sure what sort of place Manley's was – some sort of storage facility, I thought. Lorries came and went, stuff was loaded and unloaded, but it certainly wasn't a factory. There was no sign of anybody inside the fence. I didn't fancy sending the Skymaster over there.
It will be returned in minutes
, the note had said. By
whom
, for Pete's sake?

Words from a poem came to me:

Hoping it wouldn't come to that I rewound the engine, walking towards the fence as I did so. I had to assume the loss of my plane should seem accidental, so I didn't aim at the fence and launch. Instead I waited for a gust of wind, then hurled
the machine parallel to the wire. It rose into the wind, banked sharply to port and was carried over, clearing the barbs with a foot to spare. I faked a cry of despair in case someone was within earshot, hooked my fingers through the mesh and watched my pride and joy land heavily on the strip of turf between the pathway and the buildings.

Nobody came so I risked a shout. Well, it's what
anybody
would do who'd lost his plane, isn't it? 'Course it is.

‘Hello?' Pause. ‘I say, is anybody there?' I rattled the fence. ‘Hello?'

There was a wooden lean-to shed. After about five minutes, a fellow emerged from it, muttering to himself. He didn't look at me, but went straight towards the plane.

‘Th . . . thanks,' I called. ‘Sorry. It won't happen again, I promise.' He ignored me, perhaps he was deaf. He picked up the Skymaster, turned, and went back towards the shed.

‘I say,
hello
? It's
my
plane, it was an accident, I'm sorry. D'you think you could . . .?' He disappeared inside the shed, closing the door.

‘It'll be all right,' said a voice behind me. I spun
round. It was the chap I'd seen arrive. He grinned. ‘He's scaring you, that's all. Done it to me a couple of times. Makes you think your kite's gone for good, then comes out, swears a bit, chucks it over. You'll see.' He sauntered off, his plane tucked under his arm.

He was right. A minute later the fellow came out with the Skymaster. He glared at me from the path. ‘Bleat'n kids,' he growled, ‘forever chucking their bleat'n toys over my bleat'n fence. Do it on purpose, I'm bleat'n sick of it.' He lifted the plane high over his head. ‘Next time I'll bleat'n stamp on it, see if I don't.' He launched it and it soared over my head.

‘Th . . . thanks. I'll fly it over there –
right
over there, you won't be troubled again,' I burbled, but he'd already turned away. I retrieved the Skymaster and trudged towards my bike.