Shrapnel (5 page)

I huffed indignantly. ‘I'm
not
a looter. I
told
you, this is our house. Everything in it belongs to me and my parents.'

‘And what if it falls on you? What then, eh? D'you think it won't squash you flat because it belongs to your dad?'

I glanced at the house. ‘Looks all right to me. The walls, I mean.'

He nodded. ‘Mebbe it does to you, son, but what do you know? It hasn't been assessed yet, by experts. Blast damage doesn't always show. I'd be on my way if I was you, before I call the rozzers. Or the Home Guard. They shoot looters, y'know, the Home Guard.'

I was bursting to tell him I was doing work for
the Government. Secret work. But if I did it wouldn't be secret, would it? I recalled my brother's words:
chaps who think they know what's what, when actually they know nothing
. He was one, this fellow with his fists on his hips, glaring at me. Calling me a looter. I desperately wanted to tell him I was doing vital work, but I knew where my duty lay.
Walls have ears
, the posters say.
His
wall maybe – the one he and his mates were busy shoring up.

I walked away.

RAYMOND WASN'T AT
Farmer Giles. Nobody was, except the woman behind the counter. It was a quarter past eleven – that dead time between elevenses and lunch. She looked up from spreading margarine on a slice of bread and scraping it off again. ‘Looking for someone, dear?'

‘Uh . . . no. Not really. I'll try later.' You can't go in a café and tell the waitress you're looking for Raymond Price the government agent, can you? I left, crossed the road, walked up and down.

It was cold. I wished I had the cigarette my brother offered me yesterday, so I could lurk in a
doorway like a spy in a film, smoking to look casual.
He might not come
, whispered a voice inside my head.
He doesn't use the place every day.

To drown out the voice I thought about my classmates. Wednesday morning, last period. Geography with old Contour. His name was Mr Lines but everybody called him Contour. Well, not
everybody
. His wife probably didn't, or the Head. Anyway, he'd be droning on about the North American Grain Belt – picking on someone to point it out on the map, getting ready to bounce the blackboard rubber off the victim's head when he indicated Greenland or Outer Mongolia.
Better the cold street
, I told myself,
than Contour's musty room
.

It was twenty to twelve by the clock over the jeweller's shop when I spotted Raymond. He was walking briskly towards the milk bar with a package under his arm. I made to cross the road, but two lorries came along. By the time they'd lumbered past, my brother was inside Farmer Giles. Through the window I saw him hand the package to the woman. She slipped it under the counter and was drawing a cup of tea from the urn when I walked in.

‘Here
again
, kiddo?' queried Raymond. ‘What's up – Jerry hit the school last night or something?'

I shook my head. ‘No, but he got our house.'

‘What?' He stared at me. ‘Is everybody all right – Mum and Dad?'

‘Yes, we were in the shelter and we've moved in with Gran. I thought I should let you know.'

‘You bet!' Hollywood talk again. ‘Look here, we'd better sit down for a bit. Tea?'

We sat over steaming cups. I remembered the package. I nodded towards the waitress. ‘The lady,' I murmured, ‘one of us?'

‘Eh?' Raymond frowned, then his brow cleared. ‘Oh, yes, one of us, but sssh!'

‘Sorry. It was the package. That's how I knew.'

He nodded. ‘Good observation, Gordon, well done.' He lifted his cup, looked at me through the steam. ‘What's the house like?'

‘Oh, it's just the windows. And some tiles. Blast.'

‘Could be worse then. Council'll fix that in no time.'

I nodded. ‘I've just come from there. Tried to get in, but some workman chased me off. Called me a looter.'

Raymond laughed. ‘Some looter. What
did
you want, kiddo?'

I glanced around. The place was filling up. ‘You know,' I hissed, ‘the whatsit, up the chimney.'

He shook his head. ‘You let
me
worry about that Gordon, all right? Don't go back to the house, it might collapse on you.'

‘All right. Have you got any work for me yet, Raymond?'

‘Not yet. Patience is part of the job, we'll be in touch.'

‘At Gran's, remember.'

He smiled, nodded. ‘Gran's it is.'

‘I've got to go,' I said, ‘Gran serves lunch at twelve.'

He looked at his watch and chuckled. ‘Never make it, kiddo, unless you've got the Spitfire parked outside.'

I was ten minutes late. I offered to make up the time by not washing my hands, but Mum was having none of it. In fact she made me wash my neck as well.

How many agents does
that
happen to?

‘
HOW WOULD YOU
like a bicycle, sweetheart?'
Sweetheart
, for goodness' sake: Gran hasn't noticed I'm not four any more.

I looked at her across the table. ‘Wh-what d'you mean, Gran?' I'd been nattering for a bike for at least five years.

Mum broke in. ‘I've investigated buses, Gordon, and it's hopeless. Two changes between here and Foundry Street. You'd have to set off at about half-past six every morning. Your gran thinks she can get a bicycle for you. Not a new one, but it'll get you to and from school.'

‘Wizard!' I cried. ‘Quite a few chaps bike to school. Girls too, of course.' I looked at Gran. ‘Where's the bike now, Gran? Whose is it?'

She smiled faintly. ‘Well, Gordon, that's the unfortunate part. My neighbours up the road, Mr and Mrs Myers, had a son called Michael. Lovely boy. He joined the Navy, and was drowned last year when his ship was torpedoed. They've put a card in the Post Office window, offering his bicycle for sale. Breaks their hearts to see it in the shed, I suppose, gathering cobwebs.'

After lunch, Gran popped along to see Mrs Myers. She came back wheeling a Raleigh so smart you wouldn't know it was second-hand. I was knocked out. ‘It looks brand new, Gran,' I gasped.

She nodded, handing the machine to me. ‘Kept all his things nice, Michael Myers.' She looked me in the eye. ‘His mum and dad'll see you riding by. They're bound to wish it was Michael in the saddle, but it might be a bit less sad for them if they notice you're caring for his bicycle as he would have done. Will you try to remember that, sweetheart?'

I couldn't speak for the aching lump in my throat. I nodded, blinked watery eyes and wheeled the hero's bike to the shed.

I FOUND MYSELF
the centre of attention in the schoolyard Thursday morning. Two reasons, both beginning with b: bombed out, and bike.

‘Whee!' shrilled Dicky Deadman as I swept through the gateway. ‘What's this, Price – Spitfire practice?' His chums laughed, and the four of them followed me to the bike sheds. I slotted the machine into a stall and fished my gas mask out of the saddlebag. When I turned, the Deadman gang was standing in a semicircle, watching me.

I think there'd have been trouble if old Hinkley hadn't picked that moment to appear.

‘C'mon,' muttered Dicky to his chums. ‘Time to vanish.' By the time the Head reached me, I was alone.

‘Morning, Price.'

‘Morning, sir.'

‘I understand your family was bombed out on Tuesday night, is that right?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Everybody well though, eh? No casualties?'

‘No, sir. We're staying with my gran over Hastley way.' I indicated the bike. ‘That's why I've got this.'

‘Hmmm, well,' he smiled, ‘it's an ill wind, eh? House badly damaged, is it?'

‘Not really, sir: glass and tiles mostly. My dad reckons it'll be fixed in a jiffy.'

‘That's the spirit. Well – good to see you back amongst us, Price. Let me know if there's anything I can do, won't you?'

There is one thing, sir
, I thought but didn't say.
You could give me a year off and buy me flying lessons. Oh, and make Deadman clean the blackboard every afternoon with his tongue
.

As Hinkley walked off, a small crowd gathered. Some sharp-eared tyke had overheard
our conversation, and now everybody had questions. How close was the bomb? Did I hear it coming down? Was there a big crater? Had I found its tail, or any good shrapnel? Did I think Jerry was aiming at my dad because he made shell cases?

I'd love to have said no to that last one – told 'em Jerry was after
me
because I was working undercover for the government. I didn't though, of course. If walls have ears, why not bike sheds?

IT WASN'T THAT
hard up to now, working with Raymond. In fact I felt a bit of a fraud, thinking of myself as a government agent, or at least
assistant
to a government agent, when all I was doing was keeping quiet about the revolver, and not telling Mum and Dad a state secret. I have to say I liked the feeling of knowing something they didn't though, especially since I was doing it for my country.

But then something happened which took some of the shine off my pleasure.

Breakfast time Saturday, the postman pushed
an envelope through Gran's letter slot. Dad brought it to the table. It was long and brown, with a window. Along the top were the letters OHMS. It was addressed to Mr Raymond Price. Our home address had been scribbled out, and somebody had written
Bombed out – try 6 Trickett Boulevard, Hastley
, which was Gran's address.

‘It's for Raymond,' said Mum. ‘Looks official. I wonder what it's about?'