The sun was almost overhead when Jarvis glanced down at the battered pocket watch hanging from a fob on his grubby waistcoat. He swirled his fingers through the mound of coins in the collecting bag and gave a brown-toothed grin.
‘Time fer a bit of refreshment.’
He signalled to George to climb up beside him, then with a tug of the reins steered the pony up the hill in the direction of the market square. With the shops shut for lunch, the place was a lot quieter than it’d been earlier. George wiped the sweat from his forehead. The sooner they got out of this heat the better.
As they trundled into the square, he spotted a small group of boys hunched over a game of marbles at the back of the old Shire Hall. One of the boys lifted his head as they passed and gave his neighbour a quick poke in the ribs. The second boy rose slowly to his feet and fixed George with a cold-eyed stare.
George’s heart sank at the sight of his mean ratty face and close-cropped black hair: Raymond Scroggins, the local police inspector’s son – another reason why he hated this place. Scroggins had cornered George the day he’d first arrived, while he was waiting for Bill Jarvis to come and pick him up from the railway station. Asked him a whole bunch of questions. What was his name? Where was he from? What was he doing here? As soon as George mentioned Charlie and told Scroggins he was in the RAF, the other boy had seemed to bristle, and without understanding why, George knew that from here on in, he would be his enemy through and through.
Fortunately he’d only been back into town once since then, so he’d managed to keep out of his way. But it was clear from the look on Scroggins’s face now that he hadn’t forgotten him.
As the cart jolted by, Scroggins pointed at George, then turned and whispered something to the other boys. They fell about laughing, holding their bellies like he’d just told them the funniest joke ever. George curled his fingers into fists. What was his problem?
Keep your cool, Georgie, keep your cool. They’re not worth your trouble. A bunch of cowards, the lot of ’em. It was Charlie’s voice, clear and calm.
He sucked in a breath. Charlie was right. Best just ignore them. Gripping the cart seat with both hands, he set his eyes on the road ahead.
A few seconds later a stone whistled past him, clipping the side of his face. He clutched a hand to his cheek and cried out in pain.
‘Whoa!’ Bill Jarvis yanked on the reins and the pony clattered to a halt. ‘What’s wrong with yer?’ He swivelled in his seat.
‘Nothin’. I . . . er . . .’ George shot a look over his shoulder, but Scroggins and the other boys were nowhere to be seen.
Jarvis gave a low growl. ‘Stop wasten’ my val’able drinken’ time.’ He flicked the reins and the pony jerked forwards. When they reached the top of the square, he yanked the wooden brake on and jumped down from the cart.
‘Wait here and guard what’s left.’ He jabbed a thumb at the remaining sacks of potatoes. ‘Yer can flog the rest of ’em when I’m finished.’
‘Wh-where are you going?’
‘To the pub.’ Jarvis jerked his head at a crooked old building behind him.
‘But what about me?’
‘There’s a pump over there. Yer can fetch yerself and the nag a drink from that.’ He looked at his pocket watch again. ‘It’s half past twelve now. I’ll be out at two. And don’t go getten’ any ideas about runnen’ off again – or else.’ Hitching up his woollen farm breeches, he turned, pushed open the pub door and disappeared inside.
As the door banged shut, George glanced down the street. He could make a dash for it now; head back to the farm and work out a way of getting Spud free. But what if Jarvis came out to check on him? He’d soon catch him up. Unless he took the cart . . . He grabbed hold of the brake with both hands and pulled on it, but try as he might, he couldn’t make it budge.
He slumped his shoulders. It was no use. He’d just have to sit it out and wait. He glanced over at the pump and gave a dry swallow; might as well do as Jarvis said and get himself and the pony some water. He climbed down from the cart and trudged over to it.
There was a wooden bucket next to the pump. He filled it and was setting it in front of the pony when the sound of shouting echoed across the square. He spun round, frowning. The noise was coming from further down. Back behind the Shire Hall. Scroggins and his gang from the sound of it. And now a girl’s voice too. High-pitched and quavering. Like she was trying her best not to burst into tears.
George licked his lips. He didn’t want any trouble. Best ignore it. Someone else would come along soon and sort them out. But as he turned back to the pump to fetch himself a drink, the shouting grew louder. Suddenly an ear-piercing scream ricocheted round the square. He clenched his jaw. It was no use. He couldn’t just stand here and pretend it wasn’t happening.
Throwing a quick look back at the pub, he sucked in a breath and set off down the hill.
Scroggins and his gang were standing in a semi-circle at the foot of the Shire Hall steps around the figure of a pale-faced girl with bobbed brown hair and a blue and white checked dress. From the look of her, George guessed she was probably about his age. As he approached, the boys moved in closer and the girl backed up on to the first step, drawing the small wicker basket she was carrying to her chest.
Raymond Scroggins took another step forwards and jabbed a finger at her. ‘Go back home and tell Mister Hitler we’re going to give him what for, Nazi-girl!’
‘I-I am not a Nazi. Please!’ She stumbled up the remaining steps, her brown eyes wide with fear.
‘Yes you are. Same as that dirt-grubbing granddad of yours. Come on. Give us a Heil Hitler.’ Scroggins flipped his hand into a mock Nazi salute. His friends copied him.
‘Hey! What if she’s smuggling a secret message in her basket?’ A scrawny, carrot-haired boy leapt up the steps after her. As he made a grab for the basket, the girl cried out and swung it away from him. A bunch of eggs flew out, smashing against the pavement in small yellow explosions.
Scroggins and the others burst into gales of raucous laughter.
George balled his fingers into fists. He’d seen enough. ‘Oi! Leave her alone!’ He flew at the boys, knocking them aside like skittles, then dashed up the steps and wheeled round in front of the girl, knuckles raised.
‘If it isn’t old Georgie-Porgie.’ Raymond Scroggins’s eyes shrank to two pale green slits. ‘Think you’re some kind of a hero, do you? Well, we know different, don’t we, lads? How does that rhyme go?’ He scratched his head and gave a mock frown, then opened his thin-lipped mouth and half sang, half yelled:
‘Georgie-Porgie pudden ’n’ pie . . .’ He raised up his arms and glanced around him.
The other boys smirked at George, then joined in at the top of their voices.
‘Kissed the girls and made ’em cry!’
Raymond Scroggins paused. He shot the girl a sly look and signalled to the others to start up again.
‘When the boys came out to play,
Georgie-Porgie ran away.’
He bared a set of ratty yellow teeth and took a step up. ‘Go on then, Georgie. Give her a kiss!’
George’s cheeks flushed. Heart thumping, he jerked his fists higher. ‘Get back or . . . or I’ll—’
‘You’ll what? Get that big brother of yours to try and dive-bomb me?’ Scroggins stuck out his arms and mimed being a pilot spinning out of control. The other boys exploded into more fits of laughter.
A ball of hot fury ripped through George’s chest. ‘Don’t you talk about Charlie like that!’
Scroggins gave a loud snort. ‘Oh dear, Georgie-Porgie. Can’t you take a joke?’ He took another step up.
CRUNCH! George’s right fist made contact with his nose.
‘Arrghh!’ Scroggins’s hands flew up to his face. He lurched backwards down the steps and toppled to the ground.
The rest of the boys drew back, exchanging fearful looks. One by one, they melted away until only Scroggins was left, cowering among the mess of broken egg yolks a
nd shells.
George glared at him. If he thought he was done with him, he had another think coming. He jumped down the steps, drew back his fist and took aim again.
‘No! Don’t!’ Cool fingers clutched his arm and forced it down to his side.
He spun round.
The girl shook her head and fixed him with a wide-eyed look. ‘If you do, you will be as bad as them.’ She spoke with an accent: not country like the people round there; not London either.
He frowned. ‘But they were going to hurt you.’
‘It does not matter. Look. A policeman. We had better go before he sees us.’ She pointed to a figure in a dark blue uniform and helmet, cycling up the hill towards them.
George snatched one last look at the hunched, shivering figure of Scroggins, then hurried after her.
‘This way.’ She darted across the road to a large redbrick house. Running up the steps, she pushed open the door and slid inside.
George faltered. He looked over his shoulder. The copper was getting closer. Any minute now Scroggins would be up on his feet, pointing the finger. But if Jarvis came out of the pub and found him missing, he’d have his guts for garters. He ought to go back . . .
‘Come on!’ The girl had reappeared at the door. She motioned for him to follow. Reluctantly he climbed up the steps and crossed the threshold into the shadowy space beyond.
A long hallway stretched ahead of him, with doors leading off on both sides and a staircase at the far end. George wrinkled his nose. The air smelt of dust and mothballs. It reminded him of the old wardrobe in Mum and Dad’s bedroom back at home. The one he used to hole up in when him and Charlie played hide ’n’ seek. He pinched his nostrils to stop from sneezing.
The girl’s breath came in short sharp pants behind him. ‘That was close.’
He turned. She stood in the shadows, with her back against the door, chest heaving, a hand raised to her throat.
He scowled. ‘Bully boys. They didn’t hurt you, did they?’
The girl’s eyelids flickered. She gave a small shudder and shook her head. ‘Thank you for helping me.’ She slid her hand down and held it out to him, doing her best to keep it from shaking. ‘I am Katharina. Katharina Regenbogen. But you can call me Kitty, if you like.’
George stuck out his own hand, then snatched it back, frowning. ‘Raygonbogon? What kind of a name is that?’
The girl flushed. She drew her hand quickly up to her cheek and hooked a bit of hair over her right ear instead. ‘It means rainbow in my language.’
His frown deepened. ‘Your language? What’s that then?’
The girl hesitated then pulled back her shoulders and looked him full in the face. ‘German.’
George’s eyes widened. So Scroggins was right. She was one of them! He shot her a bitter look and made to push past her.
But the girl blocked his way. ‘You cannot go out there yet. If that . . . that boy has told the policeman what you did and he catches you, you will get into trouble. His father is a policeman too.’
George’s jaw tightened. She was right. He took a step back and looked her up and down. ‘What are you then? Some kind of girl spy?’
She made a sharp clicking noise with her tongue. ‘I thought you were different from those other boys.’
George felt a hot rush of shame. ‘I’m sorry. I—’
She shook her head and sighed. ‘It does not matter.’ She reached for the door handle and pulled the door open. A waft of hot, syrupy air slid inside. ‘Perhaps it is better if you go after all.’
‘No, really.’ He pushed the door shut again. ‘I shouldn’t have said it. It’s just . . . well, the Germans, they’re our enemies, ain’t they?’
She gazed down at the red floor tiles and gave a juddering sigh then looked up again, eyes glistening. ‘I am German, but I am Jewish too. Which means Hitler is my enemy also. Do you understand?’
George blinked. ‘I . . . I think so, yes. There was a Jewish boy in my class back at home. His name was Daniel Goldberg. He was born here, but his uncle and aunt lived in Germany. He told me once about how hard things got for them and all the other Jews after Hitler took control.’
Kitty heaved another sigh. ‘It is more than that.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Hitler hates us. He wants to . . . to kill us.’
George’s frown deepened. ‘Kill you? Why?’
She bit her lip and glanced down at the floor again. ‘He blames the Jews for the state Germany was in before the start of the war. He accuses us of being traitors. Of stealing and cheating and telling lies. But all the things he says about us’ – she shot her head up again, eyes gleaming – ‘they are not true. He is the one who is evil. Him and his . . . his Nazis.’ She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘So . . . so what are you doing here?’
Kitty paused then took a deep breath. ‘I was lucky. Opa – my grandfather – he lives here. He came for his work years ago and stayed. My parents . . .’ Her fingers fluttered to a thin gold chain round her neck and tugged on a small six-pointed star that hung from it. She pressed her lips together, swallowed and went on. ‘They managed to get me on one of the special transports that came to England before the war began.’
‘Didn’t they come too?’
‘No. The transports were only for children.’ Her voice trailed away. She clutched at the star pendant again.
‘What happened to them?’
‘They . . . they are still there.’ She kept her head down, her voice no more than a whisper now. ‘In Germany.’
George’s chest cramped. He knew what it was like, being separated from the people you loved. Not knowing about them. Wondering when you’d see them again . . .
Footsteps sounded above them. ‘Kitty. Bist Du das?’
George shot a look up at the ceiling and back at Kitty.
‘My grandfather. We live in the apartment upstairs.’ She slid past him and darted to the foot of the staircase. ‘Ja, Opa. Eine Minute.’ She turned back to face George. ‘I was going to invite you up for something to eat and drink. But perhaps you would not like to, how do you say it, take tea with the enemy?’
He felt his cheeks redden. ‘Er . . . well . . . thanks, but I’d better not.’
She tilted her head and fixed him with a steady-eyed gaze. ‘What is the matter? Do you think we might try and poison you or something?’
‘No. It . . . it ain’t that.’ He threw a glance over his shoulder. ‘Oh, all right then. But I can’t stay long. I’m meant to be guarding the potatoes.’
She raised a dark eyebrow. ‘I did not realize they could be so dangerous.’
‘They’re not, they’re . . . Oh. Ha ha! Very funny!’ He rolled his eyes.
Her lips twitched. ‘You will come then?’
He nodded.
‘Good.’ She turned and called up the stairs again. ‘Opa? We have a visitor.’ Flashing George a quick smile, she gripped hold of the banister and started to climb.
He held back for a moment. He had a bad feeling about this. If someone pinched them potatoes while he was gone, Bill Jarvis would kill him. And Spud too. But it was too late now. Kitty’s granddad was expecting him.
Giving his hair a quick smooth, George took a deep breath and plodded up the stairs after her.
As George reached the top of the stairs, an old man with a shock of white hair stepped out on to the landing from a door on the left. He was dressed in a pair of worn brown corduroy trousers, a baggy-sleeved shirt and a dark-green waistcoat. In spite of his hunched shoulders and stooped back, he was tall. Easily a whole head taller than Bill Jarvis.
He peered at George, blue eyes glinting above the pair of half-moon glasses perched on his nose. ‘And who is this, Liebling?’ He turned and cocked a tufty white eyebrow at the girl.
‘Oh! Sorry, Opa.’ She threw George an embarrassed glance. ‘I never asked.’
George pulled back his shoulders and stepped forwards. ‘I’m George. George Penny
.’
‘Penny?’ The furrows on the old man’s forehead deepened for a moment, then cleared. His eyes danced with a sudden twinkle. Digging his hand in his trouser pocket, he pulled out a large copper-coloured coin, flipped it in the air and caught it in his lined palm. ‘Like this?’
George lifted his shoulders into a shrug. ‘I s’pose.’
‘Good! Sehr gut!’ The old man’s face lit up with a warm smile. ‘And I am Ernst Regenbogen, Kitty’s grandfather. Welcome to our home, George Penny. Go in, please.’ He clapped a hand on his back and gestured to the door behind him.
George threw a quick look down the stairs and swallowed. ‘Er, I was thinking. Maybe it’d be better if I came back another time.’
‘It is all right. Kitty has finished her lessons for the day.’
‘Lessons?’ George frowned.
‘I do not go to the school. Opa teaches me at home. It is . . .’ Kitty’s face clouded for a moment. ‘Easier.’
‘What my granddaughter means is that we have all the books we need here. Though if she spent a little less time reading fairy tales, we would get a lot more done.’ Ernst Regenbogen winked at Kitty and steered George towards the open door. ‘Now, from the look of those red cheeks of yours, you could do with a glass of water.’
George ran his tongue over his lips. He’d forgotten in all the kerfuffle with Scroggins and his gang how thirsty he was. Hungry too. He nodded.
‘Good. Kitty, Liebling, come and help me, will you? My arthritis is paining me a little more than usual today.’ Rubbing his right hip, the old man turned and limped towards a door on the right, halfway down the hall.
‘Yes, Opa. Go in and sit down, George Penny. We will not be long.’ Kitty shot him another smile and followed after her grandfather.
The fluttering started up in George’s stomach again. Jarvis had said he’d be out at two. But what if he left the pub sooner? What time was it now? He stepped inside and scanned around, looking for a clock.
The room was three times the size of their front parlour back at home, with a ceiling twice as high. The afternoon sunshine streamed in through a row of tall windows, spilling across the paper-covered surface of a large wooden desk and on to a faded green sofa and a pair of sagging armchairs arranged on a large rug in the centre of the room.
Buried Crown Page 4
