Shrapnel (2 page)

‘Head in the clouds, laddie. Dreaming. What if our brave soldiers spent
their
time dreaming, eh? Our sailors, our airmen? What d'you think would happen
then
, Price?'

‘I . . . dunno, sir.'

‘
Don't
you indeed?' He was working himself up into one of his paddies. The kids were smirking behind their hands, enjoying it. Famous for his patriotic rants, was old Whitfield. I reckon he had a conscience about not being in the firing line himself. ‘Well,
I
do,' he roared. ‘Overrun by Nazi
hordes,
that
's what we'd be.
What
would we be, Price?'

‘Sir, overrun by Nazi hordes.'

‘Exactly! And what would
you
do about it, laddie?'

‘I don't know, sir.'

‘Well,
I
do. You'd sit gazing out of the window while storm troopers rampaged through our school shouting
Sieg Heil
, chucking stuff about, ruining our parquet with their jackboots.
What
would you do, laddie?'

I started giggling. Couldn't help it. Well, think about it: husky storm troopers with blue eyes and short blond hair, parachuting into England just so they could make a mess in Foundry Street School. It was ridiculous. But of course he didn't see it.

‘Oh, so you think it's
funny
, do you, Price – enemy troops doing exactly as they please in our school? You've a strange sense of humour, so who knows – perhaps you'll find
this
funny as well.' He scrabbled his cane from behind the cupboard, bounded up the aisle between the desks and laid into me with it. I ducked, clasping my hands round my head as he whacked my
shoulders and back. It didn't hurt much, padded as I was with blazer, pullover and vest. In fact, as the stick rose and fell I went on giggling, my nose flattened on the desktop. I felt like telling the silly old goat to save his thrashing for the storm troopers, but I didn't.

When he'd worked off his paddy, he said, ‘
There
', like somebody who's knocked the last nail into a really good job, and stalked back to his lectern. I lifted my head. It'd been a hectic minute or so, but it relieved the boredom, and I'd be a sort of hero in the eyes of the class for a while, which would make a nice change.

MOST OF THOSE
who die in air raids are killed by flying glass. Not a lot of people know that. The bomb blast blows windows out, and bits of broken glass whizz through the air. If a little piece hits you it's like shrapnel – it'll go through clothes and skin and lodge in your flesh. A big one'll take your arm off. Or your head. There was a story in the paper about some poor chap in London. A bomb went off inside the department store he was passing and its windows blew out. A sheet of glass the size of a tea tray hit him, cut him clean in two. That's why there's an air-raid
shelter in our school yard, and why we have shelter drill once a week.

It's good, shelter drill. Breaks up the day. We had it that Monday morning, right after playtime. It was science, which I quite like, but I enjoy drill even more. We were halfway through watching Miss Robertson make a battery out of copper, zinc and an orange – don't ask me where she found an orange – when we heard the rattle. It's a football rattle. The Head, old Hinkley, stands in the main hall and whirls it, and that's the signal for shelter drill.

What you do is, you drop whatever you're doing and get your gas mask. You put it on, line up and follow your teacher out of the building. The teacher brings the register. You cross the yard and file into the shelter. You do all this calmly, without shouting or shoving. The shelter's a long brick building. It wouldn't stand a direct hit, but it has no windows and no part of it will burn. It's dark inside. Around the walls are narrow benches. You sit with your classmates while your teacher calls the register. That's to make sure everybody's there. Meanwhile old Hinkley and the caretaker check that nobody's
in the school before joining us in the shelter.

Sometimes the Head will drone on about something while he's got all of us together. One of his favourites is how you're helping Hitler if you waste food. I quite like this one.

Picture the scene.
Der Fuehrer
in his war room. Huge table covered with maps. He frowns as he studies them. Things aren't going too well. Somebody knocks on the door. ‘
Komm
,' says old Adolf. It's a fat chap in a fancy uniform. ‘Splendid news,
mein Fuehrer
– the young Englander Gordon Price has left two and a half Brussels sprouts on the rim of his plate.' Hitler straightens up, smiling. ‘
Das ist gut!
Launch the invasion barges – England is ours.'

I'd love to hand that in as an essay, just to see what would happen.

Anyway, this time old Hinkley says, ‘Four and a half minutes – well done, everybody,' and we file back to Miss Robertson's battery, which generates enough electricity to make a tiny bulb flicker. I don't see the point. I suppose if we could get hold of about six thousand million oranges we could rig up a fruit-powered searchlight but we can't – there's a war on.

IT DRAGGED, THAT
Monday. School days always do of course, even if they're broken up by shelter drill. We finish at four fifteen but it's October, which means it's dusk already. As I made my way along Foundry Street, Dicky Deadman fell in beside me.

‘Saw your brother last night,' he said.

‘Oh did you?' I couldn't see his three chums, but they'd be nearby. Always were. I kept walking, looking straight ahead. Satchel on one shoulder, gas mask on the other.

‘Yes. What does he
do
, Price?'

‘Do?'

‘Yes. Doing his bit I hope?'

‘I . . . dunno actually, Deadman. He's left home, and he's not at Beresford's any more.'

Dicky nodded. ‘He wasn't in uniform though. Know what I reckon?'

I sighed. ‘What
do
you reckon, Deadman?'

‘I reckon he's dodging the call-up. That's why he's left home.'

‘Why'd he pack it in at Beresford's then? It's a reserved occupation.'

‘Don't ask me, he's not
my
brother. In the family though, isn't it? Dodging, I mean. Your dad dodged the trenches, didn't he? Wasn't wounded like mine, or gassed like Mr Shawcross.'

‘Dad's an engineer,' I told him, knowing it was no use. ‘The country needs its engineers to keep working in wartime, making stuff the Forces need.'

‘That's rubbish, Price, and you know it. Women can do that. And kids. You're a family of shirkers, my dad says. I expect
you'll
go scuttling into Beresford's yourself next year.'

I stopped, faced him. ‘If I do, Deadman, it'll be because my dad makes me. I want to fly Spitfires,
but you can't at fourteen.' As I spoke I spotted Shawcross, Platt and Williams fifty yards behind, hands in pockets, kicking shoals of fallen leaves at one another. Deadman looked incredulous.

‘Fly Spitfires?
You?
' He laughed. ‘You couldn't fly a
flag
, you blithering fathead.' He called to the others. ‘Hey, you lot, here's the six o'clock news, and this is Dicky Deadman reading it. Price says he wants to fly Spitfires.'

I set off again, but Deadman grabbed my sleeve. ‘Not so fast, Squadron Leader. We've got a DSO for you.' He sniggered. ‘Not the Distinguished Service Order: the Dodgers and Shirkers Oak leaves. Come on, lads!'

They got me down and shoved handful after handful of dead leaves down my neck. They stuffed 'em in my socks and shoes as well, and filled my satchel. I kicked and struggled, but one man can't fight four. Just before they let me up, Deadman crammed a fistful into my mouth, the dirty pig. They sauntered off chuckling, leaving me curled forward over my knees, choking and retching.

A prince among men, old Dicky.

‘
WHAT ON EARTH
have you done to yourself, Gordon?' asked Mum when I got in. My trousers and blazer were crumpled, my shoes were scuffed and there were bits of leaves all over my jumper, but I had my story ready.

‘We were playing in the leaves, Mum. Me and some of the chaps. Kicking them around. I'm afraid it got rather out of hand. Sorry.'

Mum tutted, shook her head. ‘You're thirteen, Gordon, not three. Go and tidy yourself up, then come and help me with the blackouts. And don't
leave a mess in the scullery – you know what your dad's like.'

There was a nasty taste in my mouth and bits of leaf stuck between my teeth. Dust made me itch all over. I could have done with a bath, but that was out of the question. Bath night at our house is Saturday, and today was Monday. A strip-wash at the sink would have to do, once I'd brushed my teeth.

My parents knew nothing about my trouble with Dicky Deadman and his crew. Dad had been roughed up more than once in the Great War for not being in uniform – I didn't feel like telling him the same thing was happening to me twenty-odd years later. And I certainly didn't want him to know that Deadman's dad was calling him a shirker in front of his boy.

I washed, knocked the bits out of my clothes as best I could and put them on again. I raked my scalp with a comb. My mouth tasted minty and I felt better.

Raymond had made our blackouts. Most people use thick curtains for the job, but ours are sheets of plywood. My brother cut them to exactly fit over each window, and screwed little
catches to the frames to clamp them in position. It takes two people to put 'em up – one to hold the blackout against the pane, one to turn the catches. Sounds fussy, I know, but if you look from outside you can't see the slightest glimmer of light. No warden'll ever shout at us to
put that light out
, and no enemy pilot will find a target because of us. I should show Deadman our blackouts – tell him Raymond's done his bit.

When Dad got in we had our tea. Mum had made a cheese, tomato and potato loaf. ‘Delicious, dear,' said Dad when he'd finished. He's proud of Mum's skill at conjuring tasty dishes out of practically nothing. He looked at her. ‘I was thinking we might go to the pictures, Eth. They're showing
The Foreman Went to France
at the Essoldo. Do you good to get away from the kitchen for an hour or two. What d'you say?'

I volunteered to do the washing up, and they went. I like having the place to myself now and then. I found half an hour of dance-band music on the Light Programme. It was Joe Loss and his orchestra – Raymond's favourite. I've missed my brother since he moved out. He's the only person
who doesn't treat me like a little kid. When the concert was over I went upstairs to look in his room.

Mum hasn't changed anything. I suppose she hopes he'll move back in one of these days. Bette Davis, Joan Crawford and Dorothy Lamour pouted from the glamour photos he'd cut out of magazines and pinned to the wall. His ukulele stood propped in a corner, and I could see his cricket bat and pads on top of the wardrobe. Even his smell – a mixture of Woodbines and hair-cream – lingered faintly, as though his ghost had just passed through.
There are rooms like this all over England
, I thought.
Young men's bedrooms, empty and waiting. Stuff sitting where it was left – Meccano sets, cigarette cards, tennis racquets, football boots. And each room has its own special smell: that special smell which says Johnnie or Bill or Jack or Albert. And they'll fade and fade, till one day they won't be there any more
.