Kitty shot him a hurt look. Thrusting the photograph back in the box, she closed the lid and marched back over to the desk.
A bubble of guilt rose up inside George. ‘Sorry. I—’ He clamped his mouth shut and looked down at the floor.
‘It is all right. She likes you really, I can tell.’ The old man gave him another wink.
George felt his cheeks go red again. ‘So . . . so is there really a crown, mister?’
Ernst Regenbogen hesitated then gave a slow nod. ‘My young digging partner’ – he tipped his head at the photograph lying on the cushion beside him – ‘he thought so. He found a reference to a crown in an old Anglo–Saxon document he unearthed in a German monastery before coming over here. And it seemed very convincing. It claimed that Redwald’s people buried it close to where he, his ship and his other treasures lay – for safekeeping, after his son, the new king, was murdered. Of course it does not mean it is the crown of the legend – the Kingdom-Keeper . . .’
George opened his mouth to say something but Kitty cut across him.
‘It might be, Opa!’
‘Hush, Liebling. Let George speak.’
George cleared his throat. ‘So you didn’t find it? The crown I mean.’
The old man shook his head. ‘No. We started to look for it, but when it was clear we would soon be at war with Germany, my colleague decided to return home. Not long after, the dig was closed down.’
‘Yes.’ Kitty sidled back over and sat down on the arm of the sofa. ‘And then the war started and Opa had to help the others get the finds up to London, didn’t you, Opa?’
The old man gave a grim smile. ‘That is right. We could not risk them being left to the mercy of Herr Hitler and his friends. The treasures were taken first to the British Museum and from there to a secret storage place deep underground.’
‘What happened to him? Your partner?’
‘He is no doubt busy fighting for the Fatherland, like so many other young men of his age. Such a waste . . .’ Ernst Regenbogen looked down at the photograph again and sighed.
The distant sound of clock chimes echoed in through the door. A knot of panic gripped George’s stomach. ‘What time is it?’
Ernst Regenbogen pulled up his sleeve and looked at the wristwatch on his arm. ‘A quarter past two.’
The knot grew tighter still. Bill Jarvis was going to kill him! George leapt to his feet. ‘Sorry. I’ve got to go. Thanks for the tea, mister.’ He dashed out on to the landing and down the stairs.
As he reached for the front door handle, a set of light footsteps pattered across the tiles behind him.
‘Wait! I can take you there if you like?’
He twisted round to face the girl. ‘Take me where?’
‘To the burial site. Tomorrow afternoon, maybe?’
He frowned. ‘I dunno. Look, I’m not sure if . . .’
Her face fell.
He puffed out a breath and gave a quick nod. It was easier to agree than try and explain.
As he stepped back out into the street, he threw a hurried glance in the direction of the pub. The pony and cart were still there, but there was no sign of Bill Jarvis. He heaved a sigh and sped off towards them. But as he reached the cart, a stocky figure stepped out from behind it, a pocket watch in his hand.
‘Where you been, City Boy? And what yer done with my taters?’
George’s stomach gave a sickening leap. The back of the cart was empty. Someone – Raymond Scroggins and his gang? – must have pinched the rest of the potatoes while he’d been at the Regenbogens’.
‘Well?’ Bill Jarvis stood over him, hands on hips, black eyes drilling into him.
George looked at his boots, brain whirring for an excuse. ‘I-I-I dunno. I—’
‘Too busy sleepen’ on the job, yer good fer nothen’ little—’ Jarvis raised a hand as if to clout him, then jerked it down quickly again as a woman carrying a baby turned into the square. The woman walked past them and shot Jarvis a disapproving stare.
Jarvis scowled and shoved George towards the front of the cart. ‘I’ll see to yer when we’re home. Go on, get up there. I haven’t got all day.’ Climbing up beside him, he grabbed the whip and cracked it down hard against the pony’s bony grey rump.
When they finally arrived back at the farm, Jarvis reined in the pony and pulled up the brake. ‘Get down!’ He shoved George out of the seat, jumped down beside him and grabbed hold of his shirt. ‘You city brats are all the same. Never done a day’s honest work in yer lives.’ As he yanked George closer, a reek of sour ale flooded his nostrils. George gagged and made to turn away, but Jarvis gripped his chin and forced his head back round.
‘Look at me when I’m talken’ to yer! How the Government thinks I can keep this place goen’ with a bunch of milky-faced weaklings in place of real men, I don’t know. That first ’vacuee I had last year was bad enough. But you’ve been trouble since the day yer arrived. And now . . .’ Keeping a tight grip on George, he reached for his belt and fumbled with the buckle. ‘Now yer goen’ to pay.’
A hard knot of fear formed in the pit of George’s stomach. That last beating had been bad enough, but this time Jarvis was angrier. Much angrier. And there was drink in him too. He struggled against him, trying desperately to break free.
A series of frantic barks sounded from the other side of the barn wall, followed by the scrabbling of claws against wood.
Jarvis threw a look over at it, then glanced back at George, eyes flooding with fresh spite. Digging his fingers inside his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out a small rusty key.
A stab of fear shot through George. ‘No, please!’ He made a swipe for the key, but Jarvis shouldered him aside. Marching over to the barn, he unlocked the padlock, wrenched the door open and stepped inside.
George scrambled after him into the gloom.
Jarvis plucked a broken broom handle from a pile of junk. He sized it up with a satisfied smile. ‘I’ll warm up on yer mangy friend first and teach you a lesson after. Come here, mutt.’
There was a clink of chains and a low growl from the corner. Jarvis advanced towards the sound, thumping the broom handle against his thigh.
George curled his fists. He had to stop him. Casting about for a weapon, his eye caught on a rusty shovel hanging from a hook on the wall. He leapt over to it and yanked it free.
Jarvis jerked to a halt in front of the dark shape hunched against the wall. ‘Shut yer racket, fleaball.’ He raised the stick above his head. ‘Now, are yer ready fer yer beaten’? Good! After three. One . . . two . . .’
THWACK! George slammed the flat side of the shovel against Jarvis’s back. The great bully let out a groan and staggered forwards, then pulled up and spun round, eyes goggling like a madman. He lurched towards George, face red with fury, waving the broom handle from side to side.
Stumbling backwards, George threw down the shovel and turned to run. But his way was blocked by a wall of mouldy hay bales. He twisted round, Spud’s warning barks ringing in his ears. Jarvis had him cornered.
‘Got yer!’ He swung the stick back over his shoulder and took aim . . .
George dropped into a crouch, hands raised to fend off the blow. There was a loud grunt followed by a heavy thud, then silence. He stayed where he was for a moment, then straightened up slowly, heart pounding, and looked round. Jarvis lay stretched out on the ground a few feet away, eyes closed, face a nasty shade of grey.
George froze. What if he was dead? There was only one way to find out. He took a deep breath and crept towards him; drawing as close as he dared, he reached out and gave his shoulder a quick prod. Jarvis moaned and rolled over, but his eyes stayed shut.
Still alive then. George let out a sigh. He hated Jarvis, but he didn’t want him dead. What had happened to him anyway? He looked about him, searching for a clue. And then he spotted the rake lying half-hidden in the straw. He must have tripped over it and clocked himself one on the handle. But he’d be sure to blame it on George if he got half the chance.
&
nbsp; Willing Jarvis not to wake up, George dashed over to Spud and yanked the chain free from the hook. As he worked it loose from around his neck, the dog licked his hand, then pulled back his lips and snarled at his tormentor.
‘It’s all right. He can’t hurt you now.’ George ruffled a hand through Spud’s fur and led him quickly outside.
A sudden loud squeal made him jump. He spun round. A pair of slimy pink noses were poking through a gap in the fence behind him. The pigs. They wanted feeding. He clenched his jaw. That wasn’t his job. Not any more. Still, it wouldn’t be fair to make them go hungry. He grabbed the slops bucket and chucked them a few handfuls of potato skins.
‘Wait here, boy. I’ll be back soon.’ He tossed the bucket aside and headed towards the cottage. Five minutes later he was back again, knapsack hoisted over his right shoulder. He threw a look over at the barn, but there was no sign of Jarvis.
‘Come on, boy. Let’s go.’ He gave Spud a quick pat and headed across the yard. As he passed the cart, he caught sight of the leather satchel lying on the seat. Charlie’s hard-earned money was in there: he wasn’t leaving without that. He climbed up and rummaged inside. The note wasn’t there. He’d have to take coins instead. Fishing a spare sock out of his knapsack, he shovelled a pile of shillings and sixpences into it and folded the end over.
As he shoved it inside his pocket, his fingers made contact with the ring. His heart did a quick somersault. In an hour or two’s time, he’d be seeing Charlie again. And that was all that mattered for now, wasn’t it? Pulling the ring free, he slid it on to his right thumb. Then, with another quick glance at the barn, he slipped out of the yard, Spud at his heels, and hurried away down the track in the direction of town.
The sun pitched down like a furnace, but in spite of the heat, George kept up the pace. If Bill Jarvis woke up, he’d be on them quicker than a spider on a fly. And if he caught Spud . . . His stomach clenched as he glanced down at him. He wasn’t going to let that rotten bully hurt either of them ever again. He gritted his teeth and pushed on.
As he reached the crossroads, he saw a figure heading towards them along the track to their left. It was hard to be sure, but it looked like the man he’d seen Jarvis trading with yesterday. He hadn’t spotted them yet. Best keep it that way.
‘Come on, boy.’ He made to set off again, but Spud stayed put, flattening his ears and giving a low growl.
The man jerked to a halt and squinted up the track.
Grabbing Spud by the scruff of his neck, George clamped a hand over his snout and dragged him into the bushes. He squatted down and held his breath.
Silence. Then the sound of the man’s boots crunching forwards at the same steady pace as before.
George heaved a sigh. They hadn’t been rumbled. Leastways, not yet . . . He kept a tight grip on Spud and waited.
The footsteps drew closer, then stopped again.
George sneaked a quick look. The man was near now – no more than a handful of yards away. It was Jarvis’s friend all right. He had the same narrow face and fair hair and he was wearing that heavy old coat too. He must be melting.
The man took a quick look about him, then scrambled up the bank next to the track and into the trees. What was he up to? George waited a moment, then, motioning to Spud to stay put, he slid out from their hiding place and crept over to it. Clambering up the side, he poked his head over the top, and peered into the leafy shadows beyond.
He spotted the man a short distance away, crouched next to a fallen tree trunk. He’d unbuttoned his coat and was busy pulling what looked like an old sack from beneath it.
George frowned. What if he wasn’t a member of the Home Guard, but some kind of poacher instead? They skulked about in the woods setting traps and the like, didn’t they? It looked as if that was what this one was up to now. He chewed on his lip. He should probably report him to the police, but he couldn’t risk it – not after that fight with Jarvis. He shuddered at the memory, scalp prickling with fresh sweat.
The man had untied the sack and was examining its contents. A glint of gold caught the light. George’s eyes widened – he hadn’t been expecting that! He craned forwards, trying to get a better look. But the man was tying the sack back up again now, hiding whatever was inside from view.
Suddenly the light began to dim. A cold, clammy feeling crept across the back of George’s neck. He shivered and took a deep breath, wondering if he was about to have another of his turns. But it couldn’t be that because the man had noticed something too. He was on his feet now and looking about him, the sack pressed to his chest, his eyes flashing with sudden fear.
CRAAK!
George stifled a gasp as the shadowy form of a huge bird shot out of nowhere and swooped down on the man, snatching at his hair with its talons and beating the air with its pitch-black wings.
The man fought back, swiping at the bird with his right hand, clutching the sack tight against him with his left. As his fingers made contact with the bird’s wing feathers, it lifted off and sheered away. For a moment George thought it had gone. But a few seconds later it was back, powering through the trees again. As it swooped in for a second attack, the man snatched up a fallen branch and swung at it with a cry. The bird spun clear and shot out into the open.
Seizing his chance, the man threw the sack over his back and tore off into the woods. The bird circled round and dropped down on to the bank a few feet from where George was crouched. It peered into the trees, then, ruffling its feathers, it put its head on one side and fixed George with a black beady eye. He backed away from it nervously. The bird gave another harsh croak, before lifting up suddenly and disappearing away over the tops of the trees.
A wet nose nudged the back of George’s leg. He bent down and pulled Spud to him. ‘What was all that about, boy?’ He lifted his head and blinked. It was brighter again now, but there was still a chill in the air. And something else too. Like someone – or something – was watching them. He shivered and jumped to his feet. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ He patted the side of his leg, signalling to Spud to stay close, and set off at a run.
When they reached the edge of town, George kept his eyes peeled for someone to stop so he could ask the way to the airbase. But there was no one in sight. He was about to take the road that led into the centre when a canvas-roofed army truck rattled into view. He stuck out an arm to flag it down.
As it ground to a stop, the driver poked his head out of the cab window. ‘What d’you want, sonny?’
George shaded his eyes. ‘Which way is it to the airbase?’
The soldier wrinkled his forehead. ‘Why’re you asking?’
He flushed. ‘I need to get an urgent message to my brother. He’s one of the pilots there.’
The soldier looked him up and down, then gave a quick nod. ‘You can have a lift if you like. We’re going that way ourselves. Hop up back, but look lively. We’ve got another load of wire to pick up and take down to the coast before the day’s out.’
‘Thanks, mister! Come on, Spud.’ George hurried round to the rear of the truck. As he got there, another soldier appeared above the tailgate and held out his hand. ‘Here you are, sunshine.’
George heaved Spud up and bundled him inside. Then, gripping the soldier’s hand, he let himself be hauled aboard.
It was stifling inside and thick with the smell of engine grease and men’s sweat. Two rows of soldiers sat slumped in the shadows on either side of him, their backs resting against the canvas walls of the truck. As he stepped in between them, one or two glanced up, but the rest kept their eyes closed and their chins tucked firmly against their chests.
The soldier who’d helped him on board sat down and patted the empty space on the bench next to him. As George dropped down alongside him, the truck roared back into life and lurched off down the road.
‘Here.’ The soldier offered George a dented metal canister. ‘Have some water. You look like you could use it.’
‘Thanks.’ Unscrewing th
e lid, George took a quick swig; then doing his best to keep his balance, he poured some water into his cupped hand and offered it to Spud.
‘So’ – the soldier raised his voice above the engine noise – ‘you’re off to the airbase to see your brother then?’
George handed the canteen back to him and nodded.
‘Ground crew, is he?’
‘A pilot.’
The soldier frowned and jabbed a finger at his ear. ‘You’ll have to speak up a bit.’
‘A pilot!’
The soldier cocked an eyebrow in surprise. ‘What does he fly?’
‘I dunno, but I’m hoping it’s a Spitfire. He’s been in training since he joined up, but he’s going on his first mission any day now.’
The soldier took a sharp breath. George glanced up at him. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, lad. It’s just that it’s a tough job fighting the Luftwaffe and the new boys, well, they don’t always . . .’ The soldier’s voice trailed away.
A fresh jolt of fear spiked George’s chest. He pulled back into the shadows and stared at his boots. It was bad enough having to listen to Bill Jarvis spouting his opinions about Charlie’s chances. He didn’t need to hear it from this man too.
As if sensing it was a sore point, the soldier stopped talking and left George to himself. He was glad when the truck finally shuddered to a halt and the man nudged him and told him it was his stop.
George manoeuvred Spud up and over the top of the tailgate and jumped down after him. As his boots hit the ground, the soldier leant out and pointed at a high wire fence away to their right.
‘We’re turning off here, but if you follow that fence a bit further, you’ll reach the main entrance soon enough. And look’ – he frowned and ran a hand over the back of his neck – ‘take no notice of what I said earlier. Your brother’ll be fine, I’m sure he will.’ He shot George a quick mock-salute and drew back inside.
The truck rumbled into life again. As it disappeared round the bend, George darted over to the fence and peered through it. On the far side of a large, grassy field stood a bunch of low huts. Beyond them were what looked like a pair of giant Anderson shelters, their hump-shaped roofs painted dark green. Scattered before them stood small groups of fighter planes, their fuselages shimmering silver in the heat. His breath caught in his throat. They were beautiful. More beautiful than anything he’d ever seen. Like a flock of great silver birds, wings outstretched and ready to fly. As he stood there squinting, trying to identify them, the sound of men’s voices carried towards him and then suddenly, high above everything, a real bird started warbling fit to bust.
Buried Crown Page 6
