Shrapnel (7 page)

AFTER SCHOOL MONDAY
I cycled into town to see Raymond. Mum didn't know yet how long it ought to take me to get to Gran's, so I needn't watch the time too closely. I'd scrounged two Woodbines and a match from Linton Barker, who claims he's smoked since he was six. I chained the Raleigh to a lamppost across from Farmer Giles and stood in the doorway of a vacant shop, smoking like Humphrey Bogart.

My brother approached the milk bar at twenty to five. I blew out a cloud of smoke, dropped the tab-end, ground it under my shoe and
crossed the street with my hands in the pockets of my mac and the collar turned up. It was dusk.

Raymond was at his usual table. Two clippies sat in the window, which was crisscrossed with sticky tape. The same woman was behind the counter. There was nobody else.

‘Gordon.' He didn't smile or say sit down.

I sat anyway, leaned across the table. ‘A letter came for you.'

‘To Gran's?'

‘Redirected.'

‘Have you got it?'

‘No, Dad re-posted it.'

‘Not addressed to me
here
, I hope.'

‘'Course not, he doesn't know you come here. He put,
not at this address
. He reckons it was your call-up papers.'

Raymond nodded. ‘Probably was.'

‘But . . .?' I looked at him. ‘You're called up already, aren't you?'

‘Oh yes, but you see . . .' He glanced across at the clippies, dropped his voice. ‘The Secret Service is completely separate from the ordinary Forces, Gordon. The conscription types won't
know I've been recruited. The fewer people who know that, the better.'

‘So if you don't turn up – for your medical and that – they won't send the police?'

He shook his head. ‘Good grief, I hope not, but if they do you mustn't say anything. Don't let on you see me here – or anywhere. In fact, you'd better stop coming here.'

‘But I thought . . . how will I know when there's work for me to do?'

He gripped my wrist. ‘There
is
work for you to do. Listen carefully.'

My heart kicked me in the ribs and I gulped. ‘I'm listening.'

‘Good. You still building model planes?'

‘Yes – me and Norman.'

‘Never mind Norman. He mustn't know anything about the orders I'm going to give you. Understand?'

‘Y . . . yes, Raymond.'

‘Right. In a minute I'll pass you some money. You're to wait till Saturday, then go to Carter's model shop and buy a Frog Skymaster kit.'

‘But . . .?' I shook my head. ‘Frog make
flying
models, we build solids.'

He tightened his grip on my wrist. ‘I don't care what
we
do, Gordon. This isn't about
we
– it's about
you
, working solo, undercover and under orders.' He looked me in the eye. ‘They don't come from
me
, these orders. I only pass them on. The people they come from expect them to be carried out, and they don't mess around. Let them down and the consequences will be severe.
I
won't be able to protect you. Do you understand?'

I nodded. ‘Yes I do, Raymond. Sorry.'

‘That's all right then. You will buy a Frog Skymaster. You will take it home and say you bumped into your brother on the street, and he gave you some cash in case he doesn't see you before your birthday. That's how you got the money for the kit. OK so far?'

I nodded.

‘Good. You will assemble the model at home, or at Gran's if you're still living there. You will do this very carefully, because your Skymaster must be built exactly according to the instructions provided with the kit.'

‘I understand.'
A model plane – what's that got to do with forming a secret army?

‘Righto, here's the cash.' He slid two half-crowns across the table. ‘Off you toddle, and don't flash that money around – it isn't ours.'

I looked at him. ‘But what do I do with the plane when it's built, Raymond? I don't get it.'

He lit a cigarette, inhaled, talked smoke. ‘Follow orders. You'll be contacted. Don't come here again. Goodbye.'

IT WAS PITCH
dark as I swerved through Gran's gateway.

‘Sorry, Gran,' I said as I walked through the kitchen. ‘Long haul from Foundry Street.'

‘I know, Gordon, don't worry.' She and Mum were peeling potatoes. You aren't supposed to – it's wasteful, but Gran says potato skins give her the green-apple quickstep. I looked at Mum. ‘Is it all right if I go over to Norman's after tea, Mum?'

‘Have you no homework, love?'

‘Yes, Mum, but it's only science. I'll do it now. We're painting a Stuka.'

‘What, in
science
?'

‘
No
.' I laughed. ‘I mean, me and
Norman
are painting a Stuka.'

‘Ah.' Mum nodded. ‘So what's your homework?'

‘Oh, just a labelled diagram – an orange with zinc and copper rods stuck in it – wires attached to the rods, and a flashlight bulb on the other end.' I grinned. ‘The bulb flickers, we did the experiment.'

Gran shook her head. ‘Different when
I
was at school. Frogspawn, we did in science.'

‘Not in October though, Mum,' said Mum.

The old lady frowned. ‘No, it'd be autumn leaves in October, I expect.'

Dad came in at half past five and we had our meal. It was cabbage casserole, which is exactly as exciting as it sounds. Dad made me wipe the dishes for Gran before he'd let me go. ‘And think on,' he growled as I fitted my cycle clips, ‘eight o'clock and not a minute later. Home Guard shot a lad the other night, mistook him for a saboteur.'

Mum looked at him. ‘Where was
that
, Frank? I never heard about that.'

‘Not far away, Ethel. It wasn't in the paper – bad for morale.'

‘You be careful then, love,' said Mum. ‘No good being in a reserved occupation and getting shot by your own side.'

I'm not
in
a reserved occupation like Dad, but I didn't say anything – I'd have been there all night. I turned the Raleigh round and set off, pedalling slowly so I wouldn't look like a saboteur, wondering how a Frog Skymaster was going to help England win the war.

‘I've got to leave at a quarter to eight,' I told Norman as we climbed the stairs.

‘It's after six
now
,' he protested. ‘We can't finish the Stuka in an hour and a half.'

‘I know. You could let me start, and finish it when I've gone.'

So that's what we did. I doped the 87's underside duck-egg blue while Norman mooched about, adjusting the blackout curtain and choosing where the Stuka would hang among his other planes. Sarah had found no more chocolate biscuits, so all we got was a glass of milk apiece at seven o'clock. The excitement nearly killed us.

I could have livened up the evening no end if I
were free to discuss my other life.
They don't mess around. Let them down and the consequences will be severe. I won't be able to protect you. You will buy a Frog Skymaster. Don't come here again. Goodbye.

Wouldn't my chum be surprised?

AS I LAY
in bed that night, I realized my new status was more worrying than exciting. There's not much point in having a glamorous job if you can't bask in the glory. And since the whole point of being a secret agent is that nobody must know, there's really no glamour at all. I mean, I don't suppose it's much fun being a fighter pilot really, but at least fighter pilots have wings on their tunics so everybody knows how dashing they are. Being undercover's like being a fighter pilot but wearing a pinstripe suit and carrying a rolled umbrella.

Who were they, these chaps who
don't mess around
? And what exactly did that
mean
? What if I let them down by accident, what would they do – shoot me? I'm only thirteen, for goodness' sake.

I never meant to get involved with people who
don't mess around
. Old Whitfield's tough enough for me, and Dicky Deadman. I'm not a hero. Perhaps I ought to tell Raymond I've changed my mind.

Can't
though, can I?
Don't come here again. Goodbye
. I'm under orders, and
don't come here again
's an order, not from Raymond, but from the chaps who don't mess around. I can't go see my brother, so I can't pull out. I'm trapped. A glamorous job that has no glamour's like a wartime meat and potato pie: all spuds and no meat.

I don't know how long it took me to get to sleep that Monday night. I suspect it was Tuesday by the time I drifted off, and then they were in my dream and my brother was right.

They didn't mess around.

NOTHING HAPPENED ON
Tuesday. Wednesday we had geography with old Contour. We were doing about wheat. He drew a picture on the board – grain silos in Canada. ‘This is where the wheat comes from that goes to make our bread,' he told us. ‘Canada grows millions of tons of the stuff every year.' He paused, scanning the five rows of our faces. ‘So why is it important that we don't waste bread?' His eyes locked with mine. ‘Price?'

‘Sir, 'cause there's kids starving in India,' I blurted. It was what Mum always said when I didn't eat up.

Contour snorted. ‘Nothing to do with India,' he growled. ‘
Think
, laddie.'

‘Waste not want not, sir?'

‘
No
, you blithering nincompoop.
Tell
him, Deadman.'

‘Sir, it's the sailors.'

Contour beamed at Dicky. ‘What
about
the sailors, Deadman?'

‘They're risking their lives, sir, bringing shiploads of wheat through swarms of Nazi U-boats so our mums can put bread on the table.'

‘Excellent answer, Deadman.' He looked at me. ‘D'you understand
now
, Price?'

‘Yes, sir.'

Of
course
I understood, it's exactly what I'd have said myself if he hadn't taken me by surprise. Deadman only knew because his dad was in the Navy in the last war – he probably talks about U-boats all the time.

‘Right.' Contour rubbed his hands together. ‘You will all copy my picture into your exercise books, label it, and write underneath in your own words what Deadman has just said.' He looked at me. ‘Think you can manage that, laddie, or would you like somebody to give you a hand?'

‘I can manage, sir, thank you.'
You're a government agent
, I told myself,
surely you can come up with a way to get back at Dicky
.