‘It is wonderful, no?’
He spun round. Kitty stood at the door, a blanket and pillow clutched to her chest, eyes shining.
‘No . . . I mean, yes . . . I mean . . . So what is it? Some sort of museum?’
‘Yes. Opa opens it to the public during the week. Though he does not get many visitors. Not now, anyway.’ She turned to him, eyes full of envy. ‘You are lucky, coming from London. Opa says they have the best museums in the world there. You must have been to lots of them.’
A memory bubbled up inside George of the time Charlie had taken him to the Natural History Museum for his eleventh birthday, the summer before last. He’d loved it: seeing all the cases of stuffed animals and birds, the cabinets of rocks and fossils and, best of all, the giant skeleton of ‘Dippy’ the diplodocus.
He went to tell her, then changed his mind. It was a special memory: his and Charlie’s – not for sharing, not even with a friend.
He dropped his gaze and shook his head. ‘We didn’t have time for that sort of thing.’
Kitty shot him a disappointed look. ‘That is a shame. Here.’ She thrust the pillow and blanket at him. ‘You can make a bed for yourself over there on that rug. Sir Lancelot will watch over you.’ She tipped her head to the far corner of the room. George’s eyes widened at the sight of a large suit of armour standing in the shadows, its gauntleted hands gripped round the hilt of a huge sword, the tip of which rested between a pair of great steel feet.
‘Where did your granddad get that from?’
A look of pride flashed across her face. ‘A junk shop. It was covered in rust when Opa brought it here, but he cleaned it up and now it is as good as new.’
George’s stomach made a loud gurgling noise.
Kitty glanced at it and giggled. ‘You sound even hungrier than your dog was.’
George nodded sheepishly. He was famished. Parched too. Apart from the quick guzzle of water from the soldier’s flask, the last thing he’d had was the tea and biscuits here, and that had been hours ago.
‘Wait a moment.’ Kitty darted out through the door, her footsteps echoing away down the hall.
She returned a few minutes later carrying a tray stacked with supplies: a plate of cheese and crackers, a glass of milk, a candle in a holder and a small box of matches. As he took it from her, she spotted the ring.
‘What is that?’
He put the tray down on top of a nearby cabinet and tucked his thumb beneath his fingers, cheeks flushing. ‘It was my mum’s.’
Kitty nodded and gave a small, sad smile. ‘I should go now. If Opa wakes up he will wonder where I am.’
A squirm of doubt rose up inside George. ‘You . . . you won’t tell him, will you? About Bill Jarvis, I mean.’
She frowned. ‘I do not like lying to him, but . . . all right then.’
‘Thanks.’ He flashed her a grateful look.
She gave another quick nod and motioned to the window. ‘Remember to pull the curtains if you are going to use the candle. Oh, and schlaf gut.’
Before George could ask her what she meant, she slipped out through the door and was gone.
After making light work of the cheese and crackers, he drew the curtains, fastening them together in the middle with the small hooks sewn into them, then lit the candle. As he settled down under the blanket, he thought he heard church bells ringing. He stifled a yawn. That couldn’t be right, could it? Not on a Saturday. But there was something else about the bells too. Something to do with the war. It was important, he knew, but try as he might, he couldn’t think why. He yawned again. Before he could give it any more thought, tiredness got the better of him, his eyelids drooped shut and he drifted off into sleep.
When he woke, the candle had burnt down to little more than a stump.
He sat up with a jolt and looked around him, confused for a moment about where he was. And then, as his eyes fell on the glass cabinets, he remembered. He let out a sigh, gave a cheese-tasting burp and pulled the blanket back over him. He was about to blow out the candle and go back to sleep when a sudden draught caught it. The flame flickered and swayed, casting strange curling shapes up the walls and across the ceiling. He blinked, but when he looked back again the shapes had drawn themselves together into one thick shadowy body. He clutched the blanket to him and watched open-mouthed as it writhed around the room, swallowing up everything it touched in its thick twisting coils. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be . . . His lungs squeezed tight against his ribs.
Breathe, Georgie. Breathe.
He scrunched his eyes shut, sucked in a deep breath and began to count.
He’d made it as far as three when there was a sudden tearing sound. A shock of ice-cold air slammed into his face. He gasped and flicked his eyes open. The candle had blown out and now, in its place, a patch of silver moonlight slid back and forth across the floor. He scrambled up on his knees and peered at the window. The blackout curtains had broken free of their fastenings and were billowing out into the room.
He frowned. The window hadn’t been open before – he was sure of it. Neck hairs spiking, he lifted himself up and crept over to it. Apart from a pale wash of moonlight, the square outside was in darkness. As he made to push the window shut, his eyes snagged on a dark shape tucked in by the steps of the old Shire Hall. It looked like someone was standing there, though the more he peered at it, the harder it became to focus.
He gave a quick shiver and heaved down on the window again. As it inched shut, a loud croak sliced through the air. He looked up with a start. A large bird was hopping along the Shire Hall roof, silhouetted against the night sky. George’s stomach fluttered. The window was still open a fraction, but try as he might, he couldn’t get it to close. Giving up on it, he yanked the curtains across, blocking the bird and the Shire Hall from view.
He’d imagined it. He must’ve. The sooner he fastened the curtains, the sooner he could get back to sleep. But as he struggled with the hooks, they ballooned out again and this time he was certain. There was someone out there. They might not be showing themselves, but something – a cold prickling of his skin – told him they were there.
What if it was a thief come to steal something from the museum? He spun round. The suit of armour stood a few feet away. He dashed over to it and grabbed the hilt of the sword. It wouldn’t budge. He shot a look back at the window. The blackouts were wide apart, and now a tall black shadow loomed in the frame. Heart pounding, he yanked at the sword again.
It juddered and slid free, the weight of it dragging him forwards. He gripped it tight with both hands and heaved it up. As he swung it round, the window frame rattled and a pinched angry face pressed itself against the glass.
‘Put that light out! Don’t you know there’s a war on?’
The ARP warden! A flood of relief surged through George. He lowered the sword, then frowned. Light? What light? He twisted round. But the warden was right. The candle was burning again, its flame straight as a die.
His breath caught in his throat.
‘Did you hear me in there?’
‘Er . . . yes. Sorry, mister.’
The face hung there for a moment then disappeared and a few seconds later, a pair of footsteps echoed away down the street.
Wiping his forehead against his sleeve, George propped the sword against the suit of armour and stumbled back to his makeshift bed. He stared down at the candle again and shook his head. It didn’t make sense. Maybe it was the cheese giving him bad dreams? Blowing the flame out, he sank to the floor, pulled the blanket up over him again and closed his eyes. A few moments later he was fast asleep.
Sunday 8 September
The sound of a cat yowling in the street outside jolted George awake. He blinked. A shaft of pale daylight was leaking through the gap between the blackout curtains.
As he threw back the blanket, his eyes snagged on the candle stub again and a wave of goosebumps rippled across his skin. It had all felt so real, what he’d seen – or thought he’d seen –
last night. He shrugged the feeling off. What did it matter now? There were more important things to worry about – like whether Charlie had got back from his mission in one piece.
He jumped to his feet, walked over to the window and looked out. There was no one about yet. Most of the other houses still had their blackouts in place. As he peered above the rooftops at the early morning sun, a sudden image sprang into his head of a Spitfire caught in a blaze of bullets from an enemy plane and spinning out of control. He gulped in a breath and squashed the thought back down. Charlie would be all right. He’d promised him he would. As long as George still had the ring. He twisted it off and read the inscription again, then slid it back on his thumb. As he turned back into the room, the sight of the suit of armour lurking against the wall sent a fresh shiver through him. He shook his head. He needed some air.
It was as he was reaching for his boots that he caught sight of the feather. It was lying against the skirting board, wedged into a gap in the floorboards. He slid it free and held it up, tracing the tip of his finger along its silky black surface. He glanced behind him, half expecting to see the outline of a bird perched on top of the Shire Hall roof, but there was nothing.
Tucking the feather in his knapsack and slinging the bag over his shoulder, he pulled on his boots and tiptoed out into the hall. He paused for a moment, straining his ears for any sign of movement up above, then crept along it and out through the door that led into the back yard. As he approached the shed, there was an excited doggy yip and the sound of claws scrabbling against wood. He yanked the door open. A pair of dusty black paws thudded against his chest, nearly knocking him off his feet.
He ruffled Spud’s ears. ‘Good to see you too, boy. Come on, let’s go for a walk.’
He was about to steer him back across the yard when he spotted an old leather dog collar and lead hanging from a nail on the back of the shed door. As he wiped the cobwebs off and fastened the collar round Spud’s neck, the dog wrinkled his forehead and gave a small whimper.
‘Sorry, boy, but it’s for the best. If you went running off and Bill Jarvis got hold of you . . .’ George shook his head. ‘Come on.’ Giving a gentle tug on the lead, he led him back towards the house.
The town was showing the first signs of waking as they slipped out on to the street. A few of the houses had their blackouts raised. The sound of a man’s voice on the wireless drifted out through the open window of the house next door.
‘In spite of church bells being rung in many towns and villages last night, there was no invasion attempt and the Government would like to reassure the public there is no need to panic.’
George’s eyes widened. The church bells. Of course, that was it! Since the start of the war, Mister Churchill had said they could only be rung as a warning. Was that why Charlie and the others had been scrambled? Because they’d thought the Jerry invasion was coming. Except it sounded as if it had been a false alarm. Which meant, with any luck Charlie was probably back at the airbase right now, tucking into his breakfast with the rest of them. He puffed out a breath and set off down the hill.
As he walked along the street that led to the river, his head was awhirl with thoughts of what to do next. Spending a night at the Regenbogens’ was all well and good, but he couldn’t expect them to put him up for any longer; not when he hardly knew them. Mrs Jenkins would take him in again for a bit though, he was sure of it. All he needed was enough money for the train fare back to London. His hand drifted to the sockful of coins in his trouser pocket.
‘What are you up to, Georgie-Porgie?’
‘Wh-what?’ He blinked and spun round.
Raymond Scroggins stood in front of him, arms folded, legs splayed. He was doing his best to appear mean, though with his slitty red and black eye and swollen nose, he looked more like he’d gone a round with Desperate Dan and lost.
A smile tickled George’s lips.
‘What’s so funny?’ Scroggins’s good eye shrank to the size of the injured one.
‘Nothing. I-er . . .’
A sly look crept across Scroggins’s face. ‘You’re in big trouble, Georgie-boy.’
George’s heart skipped a beat. For a moment he thought Bill Jarvis must have gone and reported him to the coppers. But it wasn’t that.
Scroggins’s mouth curled into a smug grin. ‘I told my father what you did to me yesterday. He says if he catches you trying to bully me again, he’s going to arrest you.’
George felt a quick surge of relief followed by a stab of anger. ‘Bully? You’re the bully round here! Picking on people who can’t fight back.’
Spud flattened his ears and bared his teeth in a snarl. Scroggins eyed him nervously and took a step backwards.
‘If you mean your little Nazi girlfriend, she had it coming. She and that spying grandfather of hers should be locked up and tried for treason.’
‘That’s rubbish. They ain’t doing nobody any harm. Why don’t you just leave ’em alone?’ George turned to go, but Scroggins grabbed his knapsack and swung him back round.
Spud leapt up, barking.
‘Get away, you mangy thing!’ Scroggins bent down, picked up a stone and threw it at him.
Spud yelped and jerked back ripping the lead from George’s grasp. Before he could stop him, he put his head down and hared off down a nearby alleyway, disappearing from view.
‘Now look what you’ve gone and done. If you’ve hurt him . . .’ George shoved Scroggins aside and set off after Spud. As he reached the end of the alleyway, he glanced about him. He was standing on the edge of a small gravel yard, bounded on three sides by a high brick wall. ‘Spud? Where are you, boy?’
A low whimpering sounded from behind a pile of logs stacked against the back wall.
‘It’s all right, boy. It’s only me.’ George crept over to the logs and bent down. As he peered through a gap into the dark space beyond, a crunch of gravel rang out behind him. He made to stand, but before he got the chance, Scroggins barged against him, sending him sprawling face down in the dirt. A few seconds later a heavy weight thudded on top of him, pinning him to the ground.
‘Get off me!’ George made to roll over, but Scroggins grabbed his left arm and wrenched it up behind his back making him cry out in pain.
‘What would that brother of yours think if he could see you now?’
George struggled against him. ‘You leave Charlie out of it.’
Scroggins yanked George’s arm higher. ‘Not that he’d care much, I s’pose.’
George gritted his teeth. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, if he did, why did he go off and desert you like that? What with you being an orphan and all?’
‘He didn’t desert me! He joined up to do his bit. He’d make mincemeat of you if he was here now.’ George bucked and twisted. But it was no use; Scroggins had him trussed up good and proper.
‘But he isn’t, is he? He’s busy flying around in a nice shiny aeroplane with his posh new friends. They like to think they’re so brave, those pilots, but they’re cowards, the lot of them! I bet you they flew in the opposite direction last night when they got wind the Jerries were coming. Just like at Dunkirk.’
‘What’re you talking about?’ George made to push him off again, but Scroggins shoved him back down.
‘Didn’t you hear? When the Jerries bombed our soldiers on the beach, the RAF were nowhere to be seen.’
‘That ain’t true. They were busy doing all sorts of things to help; keeping the Luftwaffe from attacking the rescue ships for one. Charlie told me.’
‘He would, wouldn’t he. But my big brother knows different.’
‘Your brother?’
‘He got hit in the back by a bullet from a Jerry plane when he was waiting to be rescued. He’s still in the hospital now. They say . . . they say he might not walk again.’ Scroggins’s voice shrank into what sounded like a stifled sob.
George felt a stab of sympathy. ‘Look, I’m sorry about your brother, but—’
‘
No you’re not! But just you wait until it happens to you.’ Scroggins gave a loud sniff and pushed him down again. ‘Hello? What’s this?’ A hand wormed its way into George’s trouser pocket and yanked the sock of money free. There was a chinking sound as Scroggins shook it up and down next to George’s ear. ‘Finders keepers!’ He sprang up suddenly and tore back across the yard.
‘Oi! Give it back!’ George scrambled to his feet and pelted after him. As he shot out on to the main street, he collided with a woman pushing a big, black pram. By the time he’d picked himself up off the ground and apologized, Scroggins was well and truly gone. For a second George thought about running to the police station and reporting him. But what was the point? They’d never believe him over an inspector’s son.
He heaved a sigh and trudged back down the alley. As he reached the yard, Spud slid out of his hiding place and came bounding towards him, tail raised.
George crouched and hugged the dog to him, burying his face in his fur. What was he going to do now? At least with the money he’d stood a chance of getting back to London. Now all he had left was the ring – and he’d never part with that. He went to run his finger over it and froze. It was gone! He stared in horror at the empty space on his thumb. It must’ve worked loose in the struggle with Scroggins.
He twisted round, scanning the ground, but the ring was nowhere to be seen. Heart thudding, he retraced his steps, Spud at his heels, probing every patch of weeds and gap in the paving stones as he went. Still nothing.
He hurried over to where he’d tangled with the pram and dropped to his knees. As he raked through the dirt with his fingers, Charlie’s face flashed up before him. He’d sworn to his brother he’d keep the ring safe. He had to find it. Because if he didn’t . . . George’s eyes filled with water. He blinked hard and scrabbled at the dirt again, his breath coming in ragged sobs.
‘George?’
Buried Crown Page 8
