Ruined Stones

by Eric Reed

  The sole adult who attempted the feat soon retired from the attempt.

  “The solution is simple, as is so often the case when we are overwhelmed with seemingly insurmountable difficulties,” the vicar observed, picking up a coin from each end of the row and placing them carefully on the middle coin. “There it is. A perfect cross with each arm three coins long.”

  Another round of applause and laughter. A man in the front row of onlookers proposed a game of poker to Charlie. “And let’s see if I can win a cross o’ cash from you,” he said with a grin and a wink.

  “Only if you let the vicar play,” Charlie riposted.

  The vicar shook his head. “I fear I must ask you to refrain. Gambling on church property is something I only need one eye to see and I really cannot permit it.”

  ***

  As soon as he arrived at the shelter Stu McPherson tried to chat up Mabel Greene. “Where’s yer mam, Mabel?”

  “At home, in the backyard.” She was a little thing, alone, without so much as a blanket to keep her warm.

  “Yer family got its own shelter in the backyard, then?”

  “Nay. Mam’s just afraid of getting buried alive, pinned under bricks and rubble, so she says, shouting for help, bleeding to death or getting gassed by broken mains or dying of thirst before they can dig her out. Or maybe no one will hear her at all. She has nightmares about it and wakes me up screaming in her sleep.”

  “Me mam’s hiding under the stairs. Says there’s too many dirty refugees in the shelters. We’d get lops off them.”

  Mabel hugged herself. “I hope mam doesn’t get killed by a bomb.”

  “Hitler isna looking for yer mam. Howay, why divn’t we get out of here? I know a place we can be alone. Yer mam won’t expect you back ’til the all clear.”

  “Harraway with you, Stu! How can you think about such things when bombs might start falling round our ears any second?”

  “Makes me think about such things more.” He ran his hand down her arm and she slapped it away.

  After a while he gave up and wandered off. He was slender. Narrow face, narrow nose, black hair in disarray. He lacked the awkwardness common to teenagers. His movements were as smooth as a snake’s.

  He hunkered down, leaning back against a stone pillar, snickering to himself at the reaction when the bulb went out. Before he had a chance to steal anything under cover of darkness the light came back on, but the crypt was dimmer than before.

  Stu let his gaze run past the huddled shapes. Sheep. As soon as the sirens go, they run where they’re told or cower under the stairs. It made him sick. If it were up to him he’d follow his brother, Rob, and go fight the Germans. How could they say he was too young? He had more guts than the lot of them. Give him a gun and put a German in front of him and he’d show them he wasn’t too young to pull a trigger.

  He stretched his legs across a gravestone set in the floor. He didn’t bother trying to read the inscription. Who cared? Dead was dead. No matter who you were it was all the same. You could cower your life away, follow all the rules, kowtow to every toffee-nosed bastard, but you’d still end up underground.

  Stu’s head didn’t move, but his dark eyes flicked this way and that.

  An old crow of a woman was perched partway up the stairs. Was she afraid there were ghosts in the crypt or loppy foreign refugees? All the fools were singing but she dozed, handbag at her side.

  Stu got up and glided in her direction. No one paid any attention to him. He started up the stairs, gauging the distance to the door at the top. As he passed the woman his hand swooped down.

  “Hoy!”

  Bloody hell! She was awake!

  He leapt up the stairs.

  A hand smacked down on his shoulder, unbalancing him. He fell, hitting his knee on a stone step.

  A figure loomed over him. A uniformed woman.

  It was the policewoman who lived with the tart with the fancy man.

  Now old one-eye from the church intervened as the crow reached up and grabbed her bag back. “Little bugger—beg your pardon, vicar,” she cawed. “Tried to pinch it, so he did.”

  “Did not, you old bag!” Stu muttered. He tried to get up, but the policewoman’s hand clamped on his shoulder held him down. “I tripped over it on me way out. Coulda broke me neck, her leaving it lying about on the stairs like that.”

  “You can’t intend to go out yet, lad? The all-clear hasn’t sounded.” The vicar’s voice was mild.

  “Needs a good braying,” screeched the old woman.

  Stu ignored her. “Got to go, see? I’m a messenger. I go about on me bike during raids when the phones get cut off. I only waited a while to make sure me mam got here safely.”

  “We’re not having a raid right now and his mam isn’t here,” his accuser said. “Stealing stuff in the dark’s more like what he’s up to!”

  “But there might be a raid, see, so I left me bike outside, handy in case. If there was a raid, messages wouldn’t get through if I didn’t show up.”

  He could see the policewoman looking him up and down, then shone her torch on the boy’s worn boots.

  “Where did you get that?” she asked. Her voice sounded colder than he’d expected.

  “Me boots? Me mam bought them.”

  “Not your boots, the splash of red paint on them.”

  Stu’s reply was sullen. “Painted me bike red the other day and the bloody brush went and dripped, miss.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The all-clear didn’t sound until dawn.

  “Thank God that’s over,” Grace muttered as she strode down Carter Street to the police station. Having spent hours closed up in a crypt, she found the murky air of Newcastle almost refreshing.

  Constable Robinson who had hitherto manned the counter in the daytime was on the night shift. When Grace came in, he was leaning wearily against the former shop counter gazing in an abstracted fashion at a sandwich. “You’re scheduled for today?”

  “No, I got dressed in a rush last night when the sirens went off. Took the first thing to hand.”

  Robinson gave her an unhappy look. “Until now it’s been quiet.”

  As if on cue hollow thuds sounded above them.

  “Relatively quiet,” Robinson added as Grace glanced upwards. “Don’t fash yourself, Miss Baxter. It’s nothing to worry about. We’ve got a drunk locked in a bedroom who’s been trying to demolish the door for a while. We also have a stray dog. He’s in the kitchen waiting for his owner to claim him. Quite a quiet night, as I said. But here I am reporting to you. What is it you wanted to say?”

  Grace related the thwarted attempt at the theft of a handbag. “There isn’t a formal complaint, but when I spoke to Stu he was cocky and belligerent. Not only that, Mavis Arkwright claims someone broke into her flat last night, but didn’t take anything.”

  “What’s that to do with Stu?”

  “Between you, me, and the lamppost, I’m certain he’s responsible for painting the swastika on Mrs. Arkwright’s back door. So why couldn’t he have broken into her house to scare her further? Of course he has a story to account for the red paint on his boots. Says it’s from when he painted his bike.”

  “Oh, aye? A red bike and a thieving pair of hands? Stu McPherson, without a doubt.” He smiled at her surprised look. “He has as they say helped us with our inquiries into incidents of vandalism and petty theft on more than one occasion.”

  “Is it true he carries messages during air raids?”

  “Aye, it is. Not that we’ve had many raids yet. He’s an odd mixture, that lad. His brother was killed overseas not many months ago. Hates Germans, needless to say. The sooner he can join up and starting shooting at them, the better. The way he’s going he’s liable to kill somebody here first.”

  “Yes. He struck me as a dangerously angry boy. Best to keep an
eye on him.”

  “Funny how grief takes people different ways. Some want to lash out, others lose heart.”

  Grace thought of her meeting with Sergeant Baines in the cemetery and nodded silent agreement.

  “And then here comes Mavis Arkwright’s friend, speaks with an accent.” Robinson took a bite of his sandwich and chewed contemplatively. “Stu leapt to the wrong conclusion. I suppose a Dutch accent sounds like German to a kid, and this Hans certainly looks the part.”

  Grace hoped her cheeks weren’t reddening noticeably. She recalled Hans’ face as they danced. How handsome he was. It hadn’t occurred to her he resembled one of Hitler’s Aryan supermen.

  “Stu keeps coming in here telling us to arrest the man as a spy,” Robinson went on. “Nothing anyone can say will convince him otherwise.”

  “Why didn’t Sergeant Baines send a constable round to grill the boy about the back door business?”

  “Stu’s hardly the only one around here who’s suspicious of foreigners and, more importantly, there was no real evidence he did it, though I admit the red paint is suspicious.”

  Grace changed the subject. “What about the dead woman? Are we any closer to identifying her?”

  “We’ve put out a request for information on missing persons. But with millions called up, relocated for war work, bombed out, evacuated, killed in raids…well, it can be a long time before it’s noticed a person’s missing.”

  The dog in the kitchen gave a sudden loud bark, making Grace jump.

  To Grace’s chagrin Robinson grinned. “Nerves bad, Miss Baxter? Don’t blame you. These raids…” He patted her shoulder.

  Now she did flush, but with irritation.

  Robinson gave no sign noticing her reaction.”Either somebody is trying to break into the station or our furry friend wants to go out for a pee. Well-trained animal, that. If nobody claims him, I think I’ll adopt him. Keep an eye on the station for a bit, would you? I’ll take him into the back lane. Shouldn’t be too long.”

  The thumping upstairs was renewed as Robinson went into the kitchen. Grace giggled. Did the intoxicated man locked in the bedroom also need to go to the netty? He would have to wait until Robinson returned.

  Her hands started shaking. Don’t act like a great cauf, she told herself. The old Shropshire terms came naturally to her lips in times of stress. You’re getting hysterical. Wouldn’t Robinson love to see that? Everybody would know by teatime.

  ***

  Veronica Gibson watched Grace leave the police station where the nice shop lady used to give her extra sweeties for her pennies. It was funny seeing a girl dressed like a policeman. Veronica thought she would like a uniform like that, then she could go and arrest Mr. Hitler.

  Her mam had sent her out to get a breath of fresh air after being huddled in the crypt during the night. She wandered down the street on the lookout for a playmate but nobody else was outside. Before long she came in sight of the place where the lady was killed, according to Stu McPherson.

  She had been afraid to go past it after what Stu said and he had called her a scaredy-cat. But she wasn’t a baby, she told herself. Besides, she wouldn’t be alone at the ruins today. A man stood there, looking down at the two big stones.

  She crossed the street.

  The man looked old and very tall and thin. When he turned to look at her, his head moved like the canary her mother used to have and his eyes glittered in the same way as the bird’s. He held a paper bag in one hand.

  “Hello, mister,” Veronica said.

  “Hello, young lady. Interested in archaeology?”

  Since she didn’t know what he was talking about she frowned.

  “This is a temple made by the Romans when they lived in England,” he told her. “A kind of church.”

  This wasn’t a school day and she didn’t want to be taking lessons but she had nothing better to do. “Don’t look like a church. Where are the walls?”

  “They fell down a long, long time ago. Do you go to church?”

  “Mam and me don’t go to church since the Germans killed her friend’s son.”

  The old man shook his head. “Poor child. What kind of a god lets young people be killed by Germans?”

  “Mr. Elliott says God’s invisible.”

  “Well, he’s hiding himself, all right. The Romans had different gods, you know. Theirs are a lot older than Mr. Elliott’s.”

  “No one’s older than God.”

  “Other gods are. Would you like me to tell you about them? I have pictures at my house, on gold coins.”

  Veronica was suddenly wary. The man’s face was all bristly and his teeth looked like ruined stones. Was he a bad man? “Mam says I’m not to go with anyone I don’t know.”

  “Very wise, especially in these times. Did you know we’re standing near where Hadrian’s Wall used to be? He was a Roman ruler. Like the king, you know. He built a wall straight across England. Imagine that.”

  “No one could build a wall that far,” Veronica argued.

  “He did, though, almost two thousand years ago.”

  “Why didn’t the Luftwobble fly over it?”

  “They didn’t have planes in those days.”

  “Well, then we should’ve flown over to Germany and bombed them.”

  The man smiled at her. “Would you like to help get rid of Hitler?”

  “Don’t be a silly!”

  “Not so silly. You and the old gods, working together. You’d be surprised at what you could do.”

  Veronica didn’t like the way he said old gods. The tone of his voice made her shiver. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to cross the street after all.

  Then she recalled Stu’s mockery and stood her ground. She looked up at the man solemnly. The paper bag in his hand caught her attention. “What you got in your bag, mister?”

  “A present, for my friends at home. Do you want to meet my friends? I live at number sixty.”

  “What kind of present? A Christmas present?”

  “A treat. Something my friends like. Do you want to see?” He extended the bag toward Veronica, holding it by one side so the top fell open.

  She took a hesitant step forward and peered in.

  And saw a dead rat with a frozen snarl.

  Veronica ran home as if the devil was at her heels.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mavis sat by the fire and looked glumly toward the gramophone. She wished she could replace the sound of Grace’s soft snoring with music, but it would be rude to wake her lodger. Would it be rude to tell her she snored?

  Having a lodger was inconvenient, especially one who was an auxiliary policewoman. But what choice did Mavis have if she wanted to save up enough to get out of this place? She drummed her fingers on the chair arm. Veronica’s Christmas teddy bear was finished and the paper chains all assembled. She needed to do darning but the task didn’t appeal to her. She leafed through a copy of Housewife Hans had brought over. Home-decorating, wise budgeting, the plight of British women married to enemy aliens. Nothing to do with her own life.

  She was too tired to concentrate anyway. She’d fallen into bed and must have been fast asleep by the time Grace arrived back. She hadn’t slept well or long, however, thanks to the conversation she’d had in the air raid shelter.

  Stan, from work, had sat down beside her. “Mavis. All alone? Where’s your man?”

  “What are you on about, Stan? Pulling me leg? Ronny’s still at sea, far’s I know.”

  “That so? I was sure I saw him coming out of the flicks earlier this week.”

  “No. It’s not possible.”

  “It was the Crown on Scotswood Road.”

  “Lots of servicemen on leave take their girlfriends there. You likely saw one of them, not Ronny.”

  “Don’t get het up, Mavis. You’re probably ri
ght. I must have been mistaken.”

  The exchange unsettled her. Of course Ronny was still safely out at sea. He would have let her know if he was returning on leave and would have been straight home once he arrived in the city.

  More than once during the past year she’d momentarily seen him on the street herself. Even after she realized the man was a stranger, she’d been nervous for the rest of the day. She wanted not to think about her husband. She had put all his photos in the back of the kitchen cupboard and relegated his clothes to a cardboard box behind the table at the rear of the scullery.

  She couldn’t avoid feeling the gap in the teeth at the back of her mouth when she tried to enjoy a biscuit. Her tongue sought out the gap when she lay in bed in the middle of the night. Sometimes in the day, too. Once she was away from Newcastle, if she had any savings left she’d get her teeth fixed. Another reason she welcomed a lodger bringing in extra money.

  In the shelter she started trembling and asked Stan to hold her. Nothing wrong with that.

  “You can’t let his memory disturb you, Mavis. If he’s got that much of a hold on you, he might as well still be here.”

  “His memory can’t knock my teeth out.” Might Stan come home with her, for company? But how could he when she had a lodger?

  She heard Grace moving around and soon she came into the kitchen.

  “Didn’t mean to sleep that long. I suppose I was done in.”

  “Bloody Germans, interfering with everyone’s sleep. How’re we supposed to stay alert and on the job? Bloody brilliant in its way, got to give the swine that. Tired workers fumble their tasks or have accidents.”

  “You’re right. What we need are posters. ‘Lack of sleep sends ships to the deep.’”

  “I’m sure the prime minister never gets tired. Did you and Hans get on?”

  “He’s very nice.”

  “He’s a dear, but.”

  “But? But what?”

  “For a moment Mavis looked as puzzled as Grace. Then she chuckled. “But nothing. It’s just how we talk. You must learn some Geordie. You have to admit, though, Hans is a dear.”