by Lesley Parr
All those graves. All those bodies and bones. All those skulls.
I’ve never been afraid of graveyards. Back home, Duff and me used to play in the one near my house and try to guess what the bodies must have looked like from the dates on the headstones. I think about what’s down below, in the graves in front of me – skulls and spines and ribcages. So many bones.
Bones like the one I just held.
But this wasn’t the first time; there was that skull at school. Mr Lean passed it round in a science lesson last year. I touched my own face, feeling the bones under my skin and wondering what my skull looked like. Then Mr Lean got cross because Duff rolled up a piece of paper and made it look like the skull was having a ciggie. I laughed then, but I’m not laughing now.
The other skulls – the one at school, the ones in these graves – they’re meant to be there. So how the heck does a skull end up inside a tree in the middle of a field? Who put it there? Is there a murderer in Llanbryn?
We were sent here to be safer. But I don’t feel safe at all. I look around, half expecting to see a cloaked figure lurking behind one of the gravestones like in a spooky Saturday morning matinee. Cut it out, Jimmy. You’re sending yourself mad.
‘Who’s there?’
The voice comes from nowhere and makes me jump. A man dressed in a grey suit steps out from behind a huge black cross. His shoes make a clip-clopping sound on the path. There’s a white collar around his neck; he must be the vicar.
‘You’re not one of ours,’ he says, coming over to the wall. ‘Bit lost, is it?’
‘No, I’m fine,’ I say.
He smooths down his hair. ‘From London, are you?’
‘Yeah … I mean, yes. Islington.’
‘Don’t children take their hands out of their pockets when they speak to adults in Islington?’
I take mine out, feeling my cheeks burn hot.
‘We’ve got a couple of you.’ He says it like we’re from another planet. ‘Evacuees, isn’t it? A boy and a girl. Duffy, they’re called.’
‘Duff’s with you?’ I say. Duff, who burps the alphabet and never says his prayers, is with a vicar! I try not to laugh.
The man’s voice goes cold. ‘Something funny, is there?’
‘No, it’s just … never mind.’
The vicar smiles but I don’t like the look of it. ‘I didn’t see you here at St Michael’s yesterday, young man.’
The way he says it makes me feel like I’m being tested. ‘We went to the chapel Sunday school, me and my little brother.’
‘Better than nothing, I suppose. With whom are you billeted?’
I want to say it’s none of his flipping business, but I don’t. ‘We’re with Mr and Mrs Thomas. Gwen and Alun.’
He doesn’t even pretend to smile. ‘Oh yes, I know them. It’s a wonder you went to one of God’s houses at all, then.’
‘Mrs Thomas goes to chapel.’
The vicar pastes the false smile back on his face. ‘Of course.’ He leans closer; his teeth are long, grey and crooked, like the oldest gravestones behind him. ‘But chapel is low down, see. Up here at St Michael’s we’re closer to God.’ He looks up at the sky and smiles as if God is shining a light right down on him.
‘I need to get back for my lunch,’ I say, edging away.
It’s like I haven’t said anything at all because he carries on. ‘Alun and Gwen Thomas …’ He dips his head once and turns around. ‘Now there’s a pity.’
Why? Why is it a pity? What’s wrong with the Thomases?
He walks off between the headstones and disappears into his church, his footsteps echoing like his words.
Not one of ours.
CHAPTER TEN
COW SOUP
Back in the kitchen of number twenty-one, Ronnie’s getting spoons out of a drawer and laying them on the table. Mr Thomas washes his hands; he’s scrubbing hard but his nails don’t really get clean. Dad’s hands are like that. Engine oil and coal dust must be sort of the same.
The whole house smells warm and peppery and sweet. Whatever Dad and Nan are having for lunch, it won’t smell as nice as this; Nan’s an awful cook. The vicar might think it’s ‘a pity’ that we’re here but at least it’s somewhere with good nosh.
Mrs Thomas is stirring a big pan on the stove. I think she might tell me off for being out on my own so long but she just smiles and gives me that look again, getting the measure of me, taking me in. I wish she wouldn’t.
Ronnie grins. ‘We’re having cow!’
‘What?’ I say.
‘It’s Welsh.’ He points to the pan.
‘Isn’t everything?’ I say, under my breath.
Except it wasn’t under my breath enough. Mrs Thomas stares at me, her eyebrows raised. I look away. Flipping heck, why doesn’t she just get cross, like a normal grown-up? Nan would.
Mr Thomas dries his hands on the tea towel and ruffles Ronnie’s hair. ‘Cawl. Welsh stew. Lamb and vegetables.’
‘So there’s no cow in it, then?’ Ronnie asks, sitting down.
‘There’s not even much sheep, I’m afraid,’ Mrs Thomas says, bringing the pan to the table and dishing out the stew. She frowns down at it. ‘I knew I should’ve used corned beef instead.’
‘You wanted the boys to have proper Welsh cawl, Gwen,’ Mr Thomas says, ‘and you can’t have cawl without lamb.’
She sighs as we sit down. ‘I know … I’ve left the bones in for more flavour, anyway.’
‘Bones?’ I don’t mean to say it, it just comes out. I must sound panicky because Mrs Thomas’s voice is gentle when she says she’ll make sure there are none in my bowl.
‘I’ll have them!’ Ronnie says. ‘I like sucking them, don’t I, Jimmy?’
Normally, I’d fight him for them but today the idea makes me feel sick. Then another thought hits me – what if there are more bones in the tree? What if there’s a whole skeleton or lots of skeletons or –
What if it’s just a skull on its own? That might actually be worse. Because who puts a head in a tree?
I squash the meat with my spoon, just to be sure it’s absolutely bone-free.
Mr Thomas doesn’t say grace today, either.
‘Where have you been, Jimmy?’ Ronnie says, tearing a chunk off his bread and dipping it in the bowl.
‘Out.’ I blow on my spoon.
‘Where?’
‘Just out.’
‘You didn’t tell me you were going,’ Mrs Thomas says. ‘I like to know where you are. Keep you safe for your dad and nan.’
‘I can keep myself safe.’
Ronnie starts talking to Mrs Thomas about Ieuan. Mr Thomas and me eat in silence. We’re all sitting here, having our lunch as if this is normal. We’re in another country that feels like another world, there’s a big scary war on that no one seems to be talking about, and an hour ago I was standing under a tree holding a dead person’s head.
Nothing about being here is normal.
When we’ve finished, Mr Thomas leans back in his chair. ‘There might not have been much lamb but it was a tidy meal, Gwen.’
‘Mine isn’t tidy, I made crumbs,’ Ronnie says, trying to sweep them into his hand but dropping them on the floor instead.
Mr and Mrs Thomas look at each other and laugh. I don’t like it; it’s like a joke about my little brother that only they know. Until Mr Thomas explains.
‘Round here, “tidy” means everything is just right.’
Blimey, even when Welsh people speak English it doesn’t make sense.
Mrs Thomas leaves the table, gets a dustpan and brush from the cupboard under the sink and hands them to Ronnie. He looks at her.
‘You made the mess, you clean the mess,’ she says.
‘All right, Aunty Gwen.’ He crawls around under the table, banging the dustpan and brush against the chair legs.
‘I saw Margaret Bevan this morning,’ Mrs Thomas says from the pantry.
‘Oh yes?’ Mr Thomas lifts his legs for Ronnie.
&n
bsp; ‘The collection money’s gone missing from St Michael’s.’ She reappears with a big pudding bowl in her hands. ‘They’re calling it theft.’
‘And who are they?’
‘The usual. Hilda Ringrose for one.’ She puts the bowl in the middle of the table.
‘The gossips, then,’ Mr Thomas says. ‘The verger at St Michael’s is as old as the hills, she could have forgotten where she put it.’
‘That’s what I said, but Margaret says they’re looking at the … err … new arrivals.’
New arrivals?
I stare at her. ‘Us?’
‘How very Christian-minded of them,’ Mr Thomas mumbles. ‘Blame the children.’
‘But we only got here on Saturday!’ I say. ‘Not even a Campbell could work that fast!’
‘What do you mean?’ He fixes me with his dark eyes and I don’t want to say what I mean so I just shrug and mumble that it doesn’t matter.
‘He means Florence,’ Ronnie says.
Shut up, Ronnie.
‘Florence?’ Mrs Thomas asks. ‘Isn’t she Phyllis’s girl?’
‘Yes,’ Ronnie says. ‘She’s Yi … Yi … oh, I can’t say his name, but she’s his sister now and she’s really nice.’
‘What did you mean then, Jimmy?’ Mr Thomas presses, and I wish he’d just stop. I wish I’d never said that stupid thing.
‘Her biggest brother went to jail.’ Ronnie turns to Mr Thomas. ‘He probably means that.’
Mrs Thomas looks cross. ‘Well, your brother shouldn’t have said that, Ronnie. It’s wrong to tar everyone in a family with the same brush.’
But Mr Thomas smiles. ‘What Gwen’s trying to say is that some families have black sheep, that’s all. Doesn’t mean everyone in them will turn out the same.’
I want to say I know he’s right. That even though Florence is from a whole flock of black sheep, I’ve never heard of her pilfering. Not once. But no words will come out.
Pudding is stewed apple and custard. Ronnie gets a bit down his chin and his tongue comes out to lick it off. I watch his mouth; how the jawbone moves so he can open and close it. It’s like his skin isn’t there and there’s a skull eating stewed apple in the Thomases’ kitchen. I have to shake my head to make it go away.
‘You all right, boy?’ Mr Thomas says.
I nod and fix my eyes on the sweet yellow mush in my bowl. Nothing in here looks like a skull.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WELSH BOYS AND OLD FELLAS
Like yesterday, I slip out straight after breakfast. If I can find the vicarage where Duff is staying then everything will start to feel all right again. Duff always makes me laugh. If I tell him about the skull, maybe we can catch the murderer together. He isn’t the best at working things out but there’s no one else. And keeping it to myself is driving me mad. I left Mrs Thomas and Ronnie feeding the chickens. Ronnie loves them. Last night, before tea, he sat and watched them for ages.
Mrs Thomas said she’s getting two more tomorrow and we can name them. Ronnie was silly with excitement but I told her we wouldn’t be staying long enough for pets. And anyway, I don’t think a stupid chicken can even be a pet.
Outside one house, a woman is scrubbing her front step. Some of the suds go on my shoes and I shake them off, splashing her arm.
‘Careful!’ she says, looking up. It’s like she was going to smile but it fell off her face when she saw it was me. It’s her – the woman in the purple hat from the institute, the one who frowned when Mrs Thomas chose us. Except she has a scarf tied on her head now and she doesn’t look quite so uppity on her knees.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It was an accident.’
‘Out of the way, you’ll spread the dirt round!’ She shoos me off.
I’m just crossing the Bryn when I see a group of boys coming down. One’s waving and shouting to me. It’s Duff. I stop and wait for them.
‘This is Jimmy Travers,’ Duff says to the others, ‘the mate I told you about.’
The boys don’t say anything; they just grunt and lift their chins. There are three of them, a scrawny, ratty-looking one with hair like straw – the boy from outside chapel – and two great big ones. Twins by the look of them but it’s easy to tell the difference because one’s got glasses. Duff points to them. ‘Aled and Gareth.’
‘All right?’ I say.
‘I’m Jack Evans,’ says the scrawny one. ‘My father’s the Reverend Evans.’
I think he expects me to be impressed.
‘What are you up to?’ Duff asks.
‘Nothing much.’ I grind my shoe into the pavement.
‘They’re mitching.’ Duff grins at the others.
‘They’re what?’
‘Mitching. It’s what they call bunking off round here.’
Jack sneers. ‘Yeah, if you don’t have to go to school, why should we?’
He takes a paper bag out of his pocket and offers it round but not to me. They all take a butterscotch. The twins drop their wrappers on the pavement and crunch with their mouths open. Duff puts his sweet in his pocket and looks past me down the Bryn. I don’t know what’s going on. Back in London, he would have made sure I had one too.
There’s no way I can tell him about the skull now, not with the others here. I search my brain for something to say. ‘You learned any Welsh swear words yet, Duff?’ As soon as we’d found out the train was set for Wales, he said that was his new ambition.
‘Err, no, not yet.’ Duff nods at a pointy-ended ball in Jack’s hands. ‘We’re going down to the bottom field to kick this about.’
‘Funny-looking football.’
‘It’s a rugby ball,’ the one called Aled says. He looks like he wants to punch me in the face.
‘I know what it is,’ I say. ‘I was kidding.’
Gareth taps the lid of his gas mask box and says nothing.
Duff points a thumb at Jack. ‘I’m staying with Evs.’
‘Yeah, you in a vicarage!’ I laugh. I expect him to join in, make some joke about Holy Ghosts in the attic, but he doesn’t.
‘Got a problem with that?’ scrawny Jack says. I bet he wouldn’t be so mouthy without his big mates.
‘Should I have?’
‘Let’s go.’ Duff looks nervous. ‘You coming, Jimmy?’
Before I get a chance to answer, Jack snarls, ‘No. He’s not.’
Duff and the Welsh boys walk down the hill. Jack turns. ‘Oi, Jimmy, want to hear swear words in Welsh?’ he shouts. ‘Here, have this on me.’ He yells something. Two words I can’t understand but don’t need to. It’s obvious what they are. He laughs and the twins laugh with him.
So does Duff, and I know something between us has broken.
I kick a stone down the Bryn. Evacuation is a lie. They tell us we’ll be safer in the country, but if it’s a choice between getting my head kicked in by massive Welsh idiots or being bombed by Hitler, I’ll risk the bombs. At least I’d be at home.
A dark-haired dog bolts around the corner, ears flapping, tongue lolling. It’s Noble. I look around but I can’t see Ieuan. Noble runs straight to me, tail wagging madly.
I stroke his head. ‘Hello, boy. What are you doing out on your own, eh?’
He takes a few steps along the pavement, then turns as if he’s waiting for me. I follow him to the fence, glad there’s no Florence sitting on it today. He nudges a stick at my feet and woofs loudly.
‘That’s what you want, is it?’ I can’t help smiling as I pick up the stick and he leaps over the fence; it’s good to have someone to play with, even if it’s just a scruffy old dog.
A million throws later I think I’d rather be on my own but Noble could play fetch forever. And if I try to move away, he follows me, leaping and barking like mad.
I really don’t want to take him back to Ieuan. Florence is bound to have told him what I said, and I don’t know why, but that bothers me. I’ll have to take Noble home and shove him through the door. I passed the shop before; it can’t be too difficult to find it again.
*
These streets are the world’s most boring maze. I walk up and down and backwards and forwards for ages. I’m sure I’ve seen these net curtains three times now. I need to ask someone.
On the next street down there’re two old fellas sitting on stools on the pavement outside an open front door. As I get closer I can smell the tobacco from their pipes. Grandad had a pipe and he let me puff on it once. I coughed till I thought my eyeballs would fall out. We never told Nan.
The old fellas stop talking when they see me. Noble sniffs around their legs. One of them looks at him and says something in Welsh. It sounds like a question. Noble sits and gives the man his paw. I never knew animals could speak Welsh.
‘All right, boy?’ the other fella says to me. ‘You look a bit lost.’
‘I need to get the dog home,’ I say. ‘He’s from the shop.’
‘One of those evacuees, are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘London, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bit different to round here. Must be quiet for you. You staying in the shop, are you? I heard Phyllis got herself an evacuee.’
‘No,’ I say, stepping away, hoping he’ll get the hint. ‘She’s got a girl. Please can you tell me where the shop is?’
‘Who are you billeted with then?’
I rock on my heels, trying to keep my patience.
‘Gwen and Alun Thomas.’
‘You hear that, Mal?’ he says to the fella who’s now scratching Noble behind the ears. ‘Thomases have got themselves an evacuee.’
The one called Mal gets a funny look on his face, then says more things in Welsh. He talks fast and waves his hands about. The first fella seems to be trying to calm him down but I don’t know what either of them is saying because it’s all in Welsh now.
I don’t care either; I just want to get this dog home.
‘Look – never mind – I’ll find it myself,’ I say, tugging Noble by the scruff.
