Blitz Next Door (6 page)

Pete managed to stop writhing. He was squatting at the very back of the cupboard. His breath rose so ragged in the empty space, whoever was on the other side must have heard it too.

“Jamie?”

The girl sounded anxious. “Did you crawl? Does your mummy know you’re in there? Are you stuck?
Jamie
?”

“I’m not…” Pete stayed in a squat and tried to walk himself closer to the girl’s voice, but with his legs wobbly from the thought of invisible cobwebs, his upper body pitched forward before he could prevent it.

Going to thump my head on that wall
, Pete thought as he lurched towards it in the dark, his hand coming out just in time to try and break his fall…

Except there was no wall.

Pete’s hand struck a door that yielded with a stiff groan. He tumbled forward, not onto stone, but into a short brick tunnel.

He could see to the end of it; there was a door the same size as the one he’d just fallen through at the far end. Some light leaked round its edges. And then more light. Because the door was opening, a head appearing through it.

“Jamie, how in the name of the wee man did you get
in there all by yourself? Don’t greet now. I’m coming,” said the girl who had stung Pete’s cheek with her plait. And before Pete could scramble up from where he was lying flat out on the tunnel floor, she was blinking into his face with her blue eyes.

“What you doing in Aunty Mary’s house? You’re not Jamie.”

The girl took one look at Pete and crawled back the way she had come. At speed. Scared, Pete decided, even if she was trying not to show it. He was a bit frightened himself. But now he’d gone to all this trouble, he couldn’t let her disappear.

“Hiya.” Pete hoped he sounded friendly. “Are you Beth?”

“What if I am?” The girl’s eyes narrowed.

“Saw your drawings down the shelter. They’re ace.”

Pete noticed Beth trying to control the wobble of a smile. She flicked her plait. “Going to be an artist when I grow up,” she said, “or a doctor, same as Mummy.”

“I’m going to be in a rock band. Or an architect doing renewable energy projects like my dad…” Pete hoped this chat was distracting Beth while he wiggled towards her along the tunnel. But she blocked his advance, the flat of her hand up to his face.

“Hold it. Don’t know who you are or what you’re even
talking
about. What the sherbet Dip Dab’s a
rock
band
?” She scrunched her nose. “What you doing in Aunty Mary’s house anyway? And where’s wee Jamie?”

Since the chat wasn’t working, Pete propped himself on his elbows, and gave Beth the smile his Scottish granny said would melt a frozen Highland toffee.

“I’m Pete Smeaton and I’ve just moved up here. My
dad’s got a new job.”

“Ahhhh. That explains your funny wee accent.” Beth was nodding as if everything suddenly made sense. “You’re an evacuee then.”

“No,” Pete said, “but I’m from London. And I don’t have a funny wee accent.”

“No, you do, and you
are
an evacuee, silly. They just haven’t told you.” Beth was looking puzzled. “Anyway, why would they send you up here? They’re sending me
away
. And your daddy’s with you?”

“And my mum.”

“And your mummy?” Beth pulled her plait round to her mouth and stroked her lips with the end of it. She stared at Pete, her eyes troubled. Then – to his total embarrassment – she put her hands over her face and broke down.

Well, now I know for sure she’s the one crying through the wall
, Pete thought, though he didn’t have one clue what to do to comfort her. It wasn’t like he could scoop Beth up and sing, “
You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, cryin’ all the time
,” into her face, pecking her forehead with kisses, which always turned Jenny’s tears into gurgles. Or hug her, like he’d done once or twice to Mum when she was at the end of her tether. No chance. They’d only just met. And anyway, these tears Beth was sobbing were different from anything he’d seen before. Beth was trying to speak too.

“I don’t want to leave my mummy and daddy. What if Hitler blows them up?”

When Beth swiped at her tears, her cheeks were left streaked with dirt from the floor of the tunnel.

Pete edged a little closer.

“Please don’t cry,” he said, reaching out to pat her shoulder.

“Easy for you to say.” Beth winced away before Pete could touch.

“You’re going to make me cry too,” Pete said, only half joking. After all,
he
knew what if felt like to leave a place when you didn’t want to, and he had his family
with
him to take the edge off the sadness of it. He decided to change the subject. “If you stop crying I’ll tell you something amazing.”

“Like what? You’ve killed Adolf? We’re all going to get free chocolate? And there’s going to be bananas in the greengrocer’s again?”

Pete ignored the sarcasm. “You know I’ve moved into the Milligan’s house?”

“Is that your something amazing?” Beth’s face crumpled. “With your mummy and daddy. You-you-you told me that.” Beth was rocking back and forward on her knees, hands to her face. Pete took a deep breath.

“Well, I’m not an evacuee at all. I’ve moved in years and years after the war.” Beth stopped rocking, held her breath. “I’m from the 21
^st
century.”

Pete knew Beth heard that last bit alright because she was spreading the fingers covering her face to peek through at him. It did sound impressive, Pete was thinking himself:
I’m from the 21
^st
century
. Like he was Captain Pete, teleported from the Starship Enterprise. Or the Tardis. Or the Millenium Falcon. No wonder Beth was studying him with new eyes. Taking in his jeans. Sweatshirt. Trainers.

“Hang on, if that’s true, then that means I come
from the past.”

Beth’s voice was still shuddery, but at least she’d stopped crying. She was looking down at herself now: big woolly jumper, tartan kilt, thick knitted socks.

“So, does that mean I’m…” She blinked at Pete, then at her own hands, turning them over. Pete knew what she was thinking.

“…a ghost?” they both whispered together.

“Wonder if I died in an air raid?” Beth’s voice was tiny. She shrugged. “Suppose that means I didn’t go away after all. Hurray!” Beth managed a watery smile. “So I’m a ghost. BOO!” She flung her arms up at Pete, but he didn’t flinch.

“You’re too real,” he said, “and look –” Pete poked Beth’s arm, “– my hand doesn’t pass through you. And I bet you can feel this.” Pete poked again, harder.

“Ouch, you!”

“See? A real ghost wouldn’t feel that. And you’re not even scary.”

“Know a lot of scarier ghosts down in London, do you?” Beth flicked her plait.

“Seen hundreds on TV actually,” said Pete.

“On what?” Beth’s mouth was down-turned.

“Television? Telly? It’s this big flat electronic—”

Beth flapped her hand at Pete to interrupt. “Wait; I’ve heard of that! I have. You switch it on and it heats up so you can watch the pictures in your house instead of going to the Pictures. It’s coming to Scotland one day.”

“It has. Was invented here. John Logie Baird.”

“Who?” Beth scoffed. “I think you just like making things up, silly.”

Pete shook his head. “You can watch all the films
you want, play games…” Pete stopped talking. Where to start with the technology he could tell Beth about? She’d
definitely
accuse him of making things up if he went down that road!

“You listening? Yoo-hoo!” Beth was snapping her fingers. “I said even if I
could
watch a film at home I’d rather go to the Pictures.”

“I do that too,” Pete said. He added, “with Dad,” instead of adding, “to the IMAX.” Explaining that would be waaay too complicated right now: 3D, surround sound, special specs…

“We go every Saturday. D’you go? To the funnies?”

“I wish. Just special occasions.”

Beth was looking sorry for Pete. “I’m there twice a week,” she said. “Me and my friends.” Pete noticed her lip tremble. “I mean the ones who haven’t—”

Pete interrupted, “You’re lucky. I’ve to swim every Saturday.” For a minute he could feel his own lip go. “Well, I used to…”

“Funny,” Beth said, although neither of them looked like laughing. “You’ve just come and I’m leaving. Tomorrow.” She shook her head. “Up north till the air raids stop or someone kills Hitler.”

“Is that why you keep crying?” asked Pete. He wanted to add that the war finishes in 1945 and Hitler kills himself, but he wasn’t a hundred per cent sure of either fact.

“I hear you through the wall,” he said instead, and was about to add,
but I don’t understand why cos Dad said your house was bombed
, but Beth’s face was bright.

“D’you hear my ‘Skye Boat Song’? Been learning it for the school concert next month.” She sat back on
her heels, sighed all the way down to her toes. “Except I won’t be in it now. Mummy sent me down to find a trunk.”

As Pete watched Beth howling into her hands yet again, he was glad he hadn’t told her what happened to her house. This time, when he went to pat her shoulder, she didn’t pull away, so he kept patting till she gave a deep, snottery and very ungirly snuffle.

“You want to see my special things Mummy packed?” Beth wiped her nose on her sleeve and scrabbled backwards through the tunnel. Seconds later she returned pushing a shoebox across the floor towards Pete.

“Open it, silly. Don’t worry; it’s not shoes,” Beth tutted, lifting the lid herself before Pete could do it.

At the top of the box lay a red cotton napkin, edged with gold thread. Beth unfolded it to reveal a tiny elephant.

“That better not be ivory.” Pete ran his finger over a delicate carved tusk.

“Course it is, silly. It’s from Africa,” Beth snorted.

“But you’re not allowed to kill elephants for their tusks. And it’s cruel. That’s from an endangered species.”

“No, silly. It’s from an African elephant. I just told you that! I didn’t kill it either!”

“Well, you could go to prison for having it.” Pete wrapped the little elephant away.

“Report me then,” Beth sniped back. “Get me locked up. Keep me here, that would. Mummy could visit.” She rolled her eyes at Pete. “So since you don’t like my elephant, look at my postcards instead.”

Beth shoved a bundle into Pete’s hands and untied the bow around it. “They’re from all over the world. From my Uncle Robert. He’s in intelligence,” she whispered as Pete flicked through the bundle. Most of the pictures on the front were black and white, though one or two – Central Park, New York, the Eiffel Tower – had been hand-touched with flashes of colour.

Fair missing your honest sauncy face xxx
… was written on all of them. Nothing else.

“Sho ish shish Uncle Robert a shpy, Mish Moneypenny, like Bond, Jame-sh Bond? And ish shish meshage a code, perhapsh?” Pete closed one eye and squinted at Beth.

“Huh?” Beth was cutting Pete one of those looks he used to get from girls at school whenever he asked them if they liked Elvis Presley. He felt himself blush, bent over the box and picked up an old sepia-coloured photo.

“That’s Mummy and Daddy on their wedding day. She was a flapper.” Beth pointed at the woman who looked about his mum’s age – though a lot more glam, Pete had to admit – smiling out of the photo. In one hand she held the end of a long string of pearls and in the other a long cigarette holder.
More ivory
, Pete suspected, although he didn’t think it would be wise to challenge Beth about it a second time. The woman’s arm crooked round the sleeve of a tall thin man.

“Why’s your dad got a stick?”

“Left his foot in the Great War,” Beth said. “Got an iron one now.”

“Your dad was in the
First
World War?” Pete knew the dates this time. “He must be
ancient
.”

Beth nodded. “Forty-three. Ten years older than
Mummy, but he was only nineteen when he was shot.”

“Wow. I mean that’s terrible.” Pete didn’t know what else to say.

“No; means he can’t be called up and sent off to fight.” Beth shrugged and smiled at Pete, as though she could tell he was uncomfortable and didn’t want him to be. “I hardly see him, though. Works in the Western Infirmary in Glasgow. Won’t drive home after the blackout.”

Pete was puzzled now. “But if your mum and dad are still here, why are they sending
you
away?”

“Because Mummy’s helping wounded people all hours,” Beth shrugged, “and she’s not happy leaving me on my own any more. Too many air strikes.” Beth was tucking the wedding photo back in the shoebox, laying the other items on top, replacing the lid.

Any more
, Pete was thinking. His mum had
never
left him alone in the house.

“She’s right,” Pete said. “She can’t leave you alone. It’s a crime.”

“I’m eleven, not a tumshy!” Beth scrunched up her face in disgust. “I can run into Aunty Mary next door if there’s a problem. Been doing that since I was…” Beth put out her hand to the height of the shoebox and looked at Pete, her eyes filling again. “But Mummy says the war makes things different and Aunty Mary’s got enough to worry her with wee Jamie. Right enough.” Beth scrubbed at her eyes. “He’s aye greeting.”

You’re one to talk
, Pete could have said. “D’you mean Jamie Milligan?” he asked instead. “If it is, he’s tall, big-shot Jamie, my dad’s boss. And old. I mean
really
old. Like seventy-something. Crazy hair.”

Pete tried to straighten the top half of his torso up as best he could in the low tunnel, so he could thrust Beth a Mr Milligan-style handshake. “Don’t get up. I’m Jamie, and who might you be, young lady?” Pete boomed.

Beth was giggling before he finished. “That’s not the mummy’s boy I know. Big, dirty nappy every time I saw him. And d’you know what?”

Beth became so serious for a moment, she stopped Pete enjoying the picture in his head of Mr Milligan wearing one of Jenny’s Pampers.

“He never helped me. Not once. And I asked him and asked him. Feartie.” Beth’s blue eyes were solemn and pleading. “Will you help me? Please?” Her eyes fixed on Pete as she crawled back through the door into her own cupboard, the shoebox clutched to her chest.