Grandpa's Great Escape

by David Walliams

“Yes,” replied Grandpa quizzically, as he rose to his feet, ripping off his own nurse’s uniform.

  “Can you get them?” asked the boy urgently.

  “Yes of course. They are in my dormitory. I hid them in my mattress.”

  “Then grab them right away, sir! And the string! And you know where the matron… I mean the Kommandant’s office is?”

  “Of course, Squadron Leader.”

  “There’s some top secret, er… Nazi documents piled up on the desk! Take everything in sight. Then meet us in the room at the end of this landing,” Jack said, pointing to it.

  “Roger that!”

  As Grandpa dashed off down the landing, Mrs Trifle looked at the boy in astonishment. “Child, this isn’t the time to go skate—” It was as if she was about to say “skate-boarding” and only realised she had gone wrong mid-word. “—rollering.”

  “Roller-skating?” corrected the boy.

  “That’s what I said!” harrumphed the lady.

  “No! I have a better idea! Follow me!”

  Jack ushered Mrs Trifle along the landing to the last door at the end. Just as the boy had remembered, this was the spookiest room of all in Twilight Towers.

  The room of coffins.

  “Oh my goodness!” the old lady gasped in shock at the sight of the rows and rows of wooden boxes. “I always suspected that all the awful matron and her ghastly nurses were doing was waiting for us to die. I know I am old, but there’s life in this old girl yet!”

  The boy shut the door behind them to keep the smoke out, and then approached Mrs Trifle. Her eyes were glazed with tears, and Jack rested a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  “We are going to get out of here, Mrs Trifle. I promise you,” whispered the boy.

  The door swung open. It was Grandpa proudly holding the roller-skates, a ball of string and a pile of the wills from Matron’s office. The old man saluted and the boy saluted back. Over his grandson’s shoulder, Grandpa spied the coffins for the first time.

  “For goodness’ sake, man, what on earth are we doing in here?” he thundered.

  Jack gathered his thoughts for a moment. “Raj told me the only way out of Twilight Towers was in a coffin…”

  “I don’t follow,” replied the old lady.

  “Spit it out, man!” said Grandpa.

  “Well, I think he was right. That’s how we are going to get out of here. In one of those…”

  50

  Coffboggan

  “That is preposterous!” announced Mrs Trifle grandly.

  “With respect, madam, I think the Squadron Leader is on to something!” replied Grandpa.

  “Thank you, sir!” said the boy. “If we’re lucky, a high-speed coffin should protect us from the flames for just long enough. We just need to find the largest one, and fasten the roller-skates to the bottom of it with the string.”

  Mrs Trifle harrumphed again – she was quite a harrumpher – but joined in the search. Working as a team, the three had soon found the largest coffin. Then as fast as they could they tied the roller-skates to the underside with the string. Next the three lifted the coffin off its stand, and placed it on the floor.

  Jack rolled it to and fro, and Grandpa smiled. He had taught the young boy well – this was a quite brilliant plan.

  As soon as Jack opened the door, he could feel the intense heat from the fire. Thick black smoke was now billowing everywhere. In haste, the three wheeled the coffin out on to the landing. When they reached the stairs, they saw a huge wall of flames at the bottom, waiting to swallow them up. They were running out of time. Fast.

  “Mrs Trifle?” began Jack.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “You lie down in here first, please.”

  “Oh, this is most undignified!” she complained, but did what she was told and clambered into the contraption. Jack kept the heavy lid under his arm, then gave the order.

  “Right, Wing Commander, full throttle, please!”

  “Roger!” replied Grandpa.

  The two unlikely heroes ran alongside this coffin on wheels, gathering as much speed as they could.

  It was as if the coffin was a toboggan.

  A coffin toboggan.

  A coffboggan.

  As they were about to reach the top of the stairs, the pair leaped in behind Mrs Trifle. Jack first. Then Grandpa. The old lady shrieked as the coffboggan thumped down the stairs at speed…

  …heading straight into the mouth of the inferno. Jack pulled the lid in place over them and held it tight.

  Inside the coffboggan, it was now pitch black. As it bumped and banged, first down the staircase, then along the downstairs corridors, the three felt a sudden surge of intense heat.

  It was HOT HOT HOT.

  For a moment, it was as if they were three joints of meat roasting in an oven.

  Then…

  …the coffboggan smashed straight through the front door.

  BOOM!

  Jack’s plan had worked like a dream.

  YES!

  All of a sudden the sound of the wheels rolling on the ground changed. The crunching noise meant that they were now trundling along the gravel path outside. They had made it!

  The coffboggan ground to an abrupt halt. The boy pushed the lid off. Immediately he noticed the once-brown coffin was now completely black with soot.

  Jack leaped out, before helping his grandfather and finally Mrs Trifle up.

  The front gates of Twilight Towers were still shut, so the boy ushered the elderly pair across the lawn in the direction of the overhanging willow tree. He helped the two old folk first, and then climbed up himself. Standing on the tree’s branch, Jack and his grandfather looked back at Twilight Towers for one last time. They had escaped not a moment too soon.

  The entire building was being devoured by the fire. Flames shot out of the exploding windows, licking the outside walls. Even the roof was now ablaze.

  Just before they turned to go Jack said, “Congratulations, sir. You did it!”

  Grandpa looked down at his grandson. “No. WE did it!”

  In the distance, Jack could see all the ‘nurses’ fleeing across the fields. As for Miss Swine, she was absolutely nowhere to be seen. Had she remained trapped in the burning building? Or had she somehow escaped too?

  Something told Jack that he had not seen the last of her.

  51

  Swoon

  The trio looked like a circus act on the boy’s trike. It was designed for one very small child, not one rather large child and two elderly people. After trying out a number of positions, they finally managed to arrange themselves. Jack was on the seat of the trike pedalling, Mrs Trifle balanced her bottom on the handlebars and Grandpa stood at the back on the rear frame.

  Because of Mrs Trifle’s enormous bulk, Jack couldn’t see a thing. Her ample bottom was pushed right up against the poor boy’s face. Instead, Grandpa had to shout out directions as they trundled off down the country lane towards the town.

  “Right turn, forty degrees! Oncoming milk float at three o’clock.”

  The plan was to head straight to the police station. Armed with the bundle of forged wills (or the Top Secret ‘Nazi Documents’) Grandpa had stolen, the country would finally learn the ugly truth about Twilight Towers and the wicked lady who had run the place – whether she was ever found or not. If the ‘nurses’ could be caught, they too would all be looking at a lifetime behind bars for their evil deeds.

  It was hard going on the trike, especially uphill, and by the time the three finally arrived at the local police station it was the early hours of the morning. The town was completely deserted. After Jack and his grandfather’s previous misadventure with the police, the boy decided that Mrs Trifle should be the one to go in and present the bundle of evidence, or as Grandpa believed, the secret enemy plans being turned over to British Intelligence.

  “Well, goodbye, Mrs Trifle!” said Jack. As much as she had got on his nerves, he was going to miss her.

  “Good
bye, young man,” said the old lady. “It was quite a night. I am not sure I will ever dance Giselle again, but thank you.”

  “Well, goodbye, Trifle,” said Grandpa.

  “Farewell, Wing Commander,” she replied coquettishly.

  As she closed her eyes and puckered up for a long lingering kiss, Grandpa looked a little shy.

  He gave the lady a peck on the cheek, and even that made her swoon. It was clear she was holding a candle for this war hero.

  As they watched her go inside the police station, Jack turned to his grandfather. “Well, sir, it’s very late. I should get you home.”

  “Oh no no no, Squadron Leader.” Grandpa chuckled at the very thought.

  “What do you mean ‘no’?” asked the boy.

  “By ‘no’ I mean ‘no’! In case you had forgotten, Squadron Leader, there is a war on!”

  “But—”

  “Any moment now the Luftwaffe could launch another offensive. I must return to active duty at once.”

  “Shouldn’t you at least have a lie-down, sir? A quick forty winks?” suggested Jack in desperation.

  “Where is your sense of adventure, man? We must go back to base and take my Spitfire out of the hangar!”

  “What?”

  Grandpa looked up to the early morning clouds.

  The boy followed his gaze.

  “We must take to the skies at once!” exclaimed the old man.

  52

  Lost Marbles

  No.

  It was impossible.

  The Spitfire was miles away in London, suspended from the ceiling of the Imperial War Museum. She was an antique and hadn’t flown for years. Who knew if she still could?

  The boy had to think fast if he was to head this off at the pass. “Wing Commander?”

  “Yes, Squadron Leader?”

  “Let me just get Air Chief Marshal on the blower.”

  As Grandpa looked on, the boy opened the door of the red telephone box that stood outside the police station. Of course Jack had no idea of the number of the Air Chief Marshal. Instead he tricked his grandfather by calling the Speaking Clock. It was an easy number to remember. 123.

  With the door ajar for Grandpa’s benefit, he proceeded to have an imaginary conversation with the head of the RAF. In 1940.

  “Ah! Good morning, Air Chief Marshal. It’s Squadron Leader Bunting. Yes, it is very late, or very early, depending on how you look at it! Ha ha!” The boy had never been in a school play, but now was having to act as convincingly as he could.

  On the other end of the line the recorded voice spoke in Jack’s ear.

  “At the third stroke it will be two o’clock precisely,” followed by, “Beep. Beep. Beep.”

  Standing outside, Grandpa was mightily impressed that this young pilot knew their superior so well that they could share a joke together.

  “I am with Wing Commander Bunting. Yes, sir. That’s right, your bravest pilot…”

  The old man was overcome with pride.

  “Some wonderful news, Air Chief Marshal!” continued Jack. “The Wing Commander has escaped from Colditz Castle! Yes, of course, it was an incredibly daring escape. He helped every last soldier, sailor, airwoman and airman out of that darned place. What’s that, sir? You say the Wing Commander needs to rest and recuperate? Take some well-earned leave?”

  Suddenly Grandpa’s expression changed. This he did not like one bit.

  “And that’s an order, sir? Don’t you worry, Air Chief Marshal, I can tell him myself,” said Jack down the phone to the Speaking Clock. “So you are saying the Wing Commander should do a spot of gardening? Read a good book? Bake the odd cake?”

  Grandpa was not a man who could live out his days baking cakes.

  “Good grief! There’s a war on! I need to get back in my Spitfire at once! It’s my duty! Let me speak to the Air Chief Marshal!”

  With that Grandpa snatched the handset from his grandson.

  “Sir? It’s Wing Commander Bunting here.”

  “On the third stroke the time will be two-oh-one and forty seconds,” came the voice on the other end of the line.

  “What’s that, Air Chief Marshal? Yes, I know the time! You don’t have to keep telling me the time. Sir? Sir?”

  The old man was mightily confused, and replaced the receiver before turning to Jack. “Sorry to say the Air Chief Marshal has completely lost his marbles! The man just kept on telling me the blasted time!”

  “Let me call him again!” pleaded Jack, a note of desperation in his voice.

  “No no no! There is no time. We must go Up, up and away!”

  53

  Glory Days

  Jack managed to convince his grandfather that before they went “Up, up and away” they needed to stop off for some rations. It was the early hours of the morning and Jack knew there would only be one shop open. Raj’s Newsagent. In truth, the boy hoped the newsagent might be able to talk some sense into the old man.

  DING!

  It was still early, but Raj was stood behind his counter. He was sorting through the pile of newspapers for delivery, as he did every morning.

  “Mr Bumting! You’re back!” remarked the newsagent. He couldn’t quite believe his eyes. After witnessing the old man being carted off to Twilight Towers by Miss Swine herself, he wasn’t expecting to see Grandpa again anytime soon.

  “Yes, Char Wallah! Escaped from Jerry!” announced the old man.

  “Jerry who?” asked Raj.

  The boy butted in, “He means the Nazis!” before whispering, “He thinks the war’s still on, remember?”

  “Oh yes, of course,” the newsagent whispered back.

  “We need some rations, Char Wallah! Quick smart. Need to be back in my Spitfire before dawn.”

  Raj’s eyes darted to the boy for a reaction. Jack shook his head a little, and the newsagent understood that this meant he and the boy needed to have a secret talk.

  “Just help yourself, sir!” Raj said to the old man, who proceeded to patter around the shop looking for something to eat. “If you can find any food left, that is. Aunt Dhriti managed to break the door down during the night and scoffed everything in sight. She even took a bite out of the colouring books.”

  The boy double-checked that his grandfather was out of earshot before speaking.

  “I just helped him escape from Twilight Towers.”

  “Was it as bad as people say?”

  “Worse. Much worse. Grandpa thought he was in Colditz Castle, and he wasn’t far wrong. But now he wants to take the Spitfire into the skies!”

  “You mean the one from the museum?”

  “Yes! It’s nuts! I just don’t know what to say to him any more, Raj. Please can you try and talk some sense into him?”

  Raj looked lost in thought for a moment.

  “Your grandfather was a great war hero. Those were his glory days.”

  “Yes yes yes, I know,” agreed the boy. “But—”

  As Grandpa was munching on a half-eaten chocolate bar he’d found on the floor at the far side of the shop, Raj held his finger up. “But but but! Why does there always have to be a but?”

  “But—”

  “And another one! Jack, your grandfather is a very old man. You know he’s getting more and more confused all the time. This thing he has is eating away at his mind.”

  A tear welled in the boy’s eye as the newsagent said this. Raj put his arm around Jack’s shoulders.

  “It’s not fair,” declared the boy, as he sniffed back a tear. “Why did it have to happen to my grandpa?”

  Raj could be wise if he wanted to. “Jack – the only thing that keeps him going is having you by his side.”

  “Me?” asked the boy. He didn’t understand.

  “Yes – you! Whenever he is with you, your grandfather is back in his glory days.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I know so. Listen, I know it’s nuts, but it’s good to be a little nuts sometimes. Why not let this old hero have his flight?
”

  Jack wiped away his tears with his sleeve. He looked up at Raj and nodded. In truth, now the boy had a taste for adventure he longed for more too. Jack had played at being a fighter pilot with his grandfather so many times. Every night he had gone to sleep dreaming of being one.

  Now the boy had a chance of making that dream come true.

  “Wing Commander!” said the boy.

  “Yes, Squadron Leader?” replied Grandpa, completely oblivious to the boy’s little chat with Raj.

  “Let’s take to the skies!”

  54

  Racing the Sun

  Moments later, the three were sat on Raj’s beaten-up old motorbike, speeding towards the Imperial War Museum. The faster they went, the more the motorbike rattled. Jack, who was squashed between Raj and his grandfather, was worried the little old thing would shake itself to bits.

  They were racing the sun coming up. The hope was that if they could arrive at the museum before dawn then they had a much better chance of stealing the Spitfire. That way they would still be under the cover of darkness, and with any luck the gorilla-esque security guard would not have started his shift yet.

  It was so early all the roads were clear of traffic. In the hour it took to get to the museum, they only passed a few cars, a couple of lorries and an empty bus. The world had not yet woken up.

  Raj dropped the pair off right outside the Imperial War Museum. The place was deserted, save for a flock of pigeons on the roof.

  “Good luck up there, Wing Commander, sir,” said the newsagent with a salute.

  “Thank you, Char Wallah,” replied Grandpa with a nod of his head.

  “And good luck to you, Squadron Leader.” Raj saluted the boy.

  “Thank you, Raj… Char Wallah.”

  “Be safe now, you two! And by the way, there is no charge for that half-eaten chocolate bar you found on the floor of my shop!”

  “Most kind,” replied Grandpa.