by Ali Sparkes
‘Not really,’ sighed Ben.
‘Well, do come back again and tell me more about it,’ she said. ‘I might be able to help.’
‘Thanks, we might do that,’ said Ben, but she was already talking again to the person on the phone. Ben realized now that she was the lady who had come to their house late last year on a mission to sign up more children to library events and stayed chatting to their mum for quite a while over a cup of tea. They never had gone along to any events, even though Mum had said they should. Ben wandered back outside where Rachel was promising Freddy something unbelievable.
‘A whopper?’ he said. ‘Why would I want you to get me a whopper? A whopping what?’
‘You shouldn’t tell fibs,’ admonished Polly. ‘You tell whoppers and the truth will always find you out.’
‘Oh, do stop talking like a Sunday school teacher!’ snapped Rachel, clearly also the worse for the microfiche session. ‘It’s a kind of burger, you dummies! We’ll go back past Burger King and get you some food. And look—do you think you could try to stop all the gasping and goshing for just five minutes? It’s making my head ache.’
‘Come on.’ Ben put his arm around Rachel’s and Polly’s shoulders and gave Freddy a friendly nudge with his foot. ‘We’re all hacked off and hungry. Rachel’s got the right idea. Let’s stuff ourselves on glorious twenty-first century junk food.’
Polly and Freddy both began to query: ‘Junk f—?’
‘No goshing!’ cried Rachel, yanking Polly along, around the corner to the Burger King. Minutes later they were walking back to the park, eating Whoppers from their cartons and holding cups of Coke in the crooks of their arms.
‘Junk food?’ said Freddy, uncertainly.
‘Oh, just eat it!’ wailed Ben.
‘Eating while you walk isn’t ladylike,’ said Polly.
‘You’re not a lady,’ said Rachel. ‘Get it down you before I tip my Coke over your head!’
At the park they sat down near their bikes and finished the remains of the burgers. Polly and Freddy were quiet, intent on finishing every last scrap in their cardboard cartons. Then they stuffed down all the French fries in the battered paper bag Ben opened up, dipping them eagerly in the little punnets of ketchup. They sucked up the last of their Coke with a slight fluttering of their eyelids. Then they lay back on the grass, smiling and slightly glassy eyed.
‘Do you eat this all the time?’ asked Freddy.
‘No—just once a month or so,’ said Rachel. ‘It’s rubbish really.’
‘It’s heavenly,’ said Polly.
Ben laughed. ‘That’s just the monosodium glutamate talking.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Polly, with a yawn. ‘But I’m not going to gosh.’
She closed her eyes and Rachel grinned at Ben, guiltily. They had introduced two pure 1950s children to junk food. It was bad. But very funny. She leaned back against the fence and decided they could have a bit more of a rest before hurrying back to Bessie. Then Freddy wiped his face with his napkin and dropped it into the empty burger carton and Rachel felt sick all over again. On the napkin was something she wished was ketchup. But she knew it wasn’t.
The Russian president’s perspex face shield steamed up as he let out an excited gasp inside his protective suit. He had only visited Chernobyl twice before, and then far from the fall-out zone of the old, pulverized power plant. Both times he’d been surrounded by press, photographers flashing, as he shook the hands of the victims of the nuclear disaster who were still alive twenty years on.
Today he was deep in the wasteland zone, accompanied by just three other men—hand picked—including the young intern, Ivan, who had been present earlier that year when his leader had impatiently ripped open the letter addressed to The Leader of the Soviet Union, 2007. He had received it late, but its contents still stopped him in his tracks. It had taken some months’ careful manoeuvring to get to this desolate place without being tracked by either their own or the rest of the world’s press. Anything to do with Chernobyl rarely passed unnoticed.
‘This is it,’ said Gregor, as they arrived on the concrete bunker’s lowest level. He hit a green button beside the thirty centimetre-thick iron door and to everyone’s surprise, it worked.
‘He’s been here for fifty-two years?’ muttered the president. ‘Just waiting for me?’
‘In the depths of his best research,’ smiled Gregor.
At Darkwood House, Bessie was in transports of delight to see them back. She’d drunk most of her water, gnawed through Ritzy’s other leg and made thorough use of the newspaper they’d laid down for her.
‘Ooh, Bessie, what a frightful pong!’ Freddy held his nose and looked disgusted as Bessie leaped up at him and licked his knees.
‘Come on,’ said Ben. ‘Let’s get this cleared up before Uncle J sees it. He’ll have a fit!’
‘What JJ? No! He’s a darling!’ said Polly and Rachel and Ben nearly went into a ‘goshing’ session themselves. They’d never heard Uncle Jerome called that before.
As it happened, Uncle Jerome wasn’t around to complain. He’d left them a note to say he’d gone up to London to sort a few things out. ‘I’ve left some money in the breadbin in case I don’t get back for a day or two,’ Ben read, from the note on the kitchen table. ‘Spend it on school clothes for Frederick and Pauline, and do be sure to brief them as thoroughly as you can about what they should expect. I’ve already delivered a letter to your head teacher, to expect them next week. I used your hippy commune cover story, so you’d all better work on that too. I’ve called them Robertson, not Emerson—just in case there’s anyone old enough on the school staff to remember. Hopefully I shall have some convincing papers and documents with me when I come back, so there won’t be any questions asked. Tell them not to worry—I won’t be giving anything away to anyone—but I might be able to sniff out a bit more detail about Professor Emerson. Will try out the thirty year rule. Thought I might try to look up Freddy and Pauline’s “Uncle Dick” character too.
See you all soon,
Uncle Jerome (JJ)’
Freddy read the note and nodded. ‘I just hope he’s careful,’ he muttered.
‘But, Freddy, whoever came from the government and “cleaned up”—if what old Percy says is true—well, they’re probably long gone by now, aren’t they?’ said Ben. ‘Nobody’s going to be remembering you and Polly and your father now. It’s long, long ago. I mean, even me and Rachel had half forgotten it—and we’ve lived in your old house for five years!’
Rachel was putting her bike back into the shed when Freddy came out to put his in too. She didn’t know what to say to him. She was desperately worried about what she’d seen in the park. Freddy glanced over at her as he wheeled his old black machine up against Ben’s. Then he looked again, harder. ‘What’s up, Rachel?’
She gulped and smiled and said, ‘Nothing.’ But as she went to walk away he stood in front of her, folded his arms, and put his head on one side, regarding her with his dark blue eyes narrowed.
‘What is it? I’m not an idiot, you know. I’ve seen you staring at me since we left the park.’
She fumbled with her bike lock, feeling her face get hot. She didn’t want to say what she’d seen. She didn’t have to.
‘You saw the blood, didn’t you?’
She looked up, startled. ‘Yes. Yes, I did.’
‘Game of you not to say anything.’
‘Game? What’s that supposed to mean? I am going to say something! You could be ill—you could be …’
‘Dying. Yes. I know. But you’re not going to say anything.’ His eyes were steely now and he was pressing his lips together.
‘But—but what if it is … you know, like the rats and things?’
‘Look—I’m fine. A little nosebleed after fifty-three years in suspension, well, it’s not a bit surprising really, is it? You’d have to expect a few que—peculiar—things to happen! I’m not going to spend days on end in some sanatorium, havi
ng tests done. I’m not, I tell you. If you’re my friend, you won’t tell anyone!’
‘But what if it gets worse?’
He looked down at his hands and then back up at her. ‘If it gets worse … well, then everyone will know about it anyway, won’t they? But Polly hasn’t noticed yet—and I don’t want her getting scared. Nor has Ben. Will you keep this secret? Will you?’
Rachel sighed. She did not like this at all. ‘All right,’ she muttered.
‘Swear!’
‘I swear!’
‘Hands where I can see them—and swear again!’
That afternoon Ben and Rachel began to teach Polly and Freddy about 2009. They laid out newspapers and magazines they’d bought earlier in town and put the radio on again. It was fascinating and exhausting—there was so much to get through and Freddy and Polly were excited and amazed one minute, shocked and appalled the next.
As they flipped over the pages of the Daily Mail and Now and Top Gear magazines (publications they would never have dreamed of bringing home before) Rachel covertly watched Freddy and Bessie for any more signs of bleeding. There were no signs.
‘So—an i-Pod … what’s that?’ Ben was testing them now.
‘A robot?’ said Polly (she was clearly a bit fixated on robots, thought Rachel).
‘Noooo—it’s the little box that holds recordings of tunes. Really small. About the size of a matchbox sometimes,’ said Ben. He smiled patiently. ‘It’s like a tiny, tiny jukebox!’
‘How many tunes can you fit in?’ asked Polly.
‘Oh, I dunno—hundreds—thousands sometimes.’
‘In one little box? That’s ridiculous!’
‘But true.’
‘But I thought you said all music was on discs now?’ said Freddy.
‘Well—yes—CDs too. But you can download tunes, too, from the internet.’
‘Right-oh!’ said Freddy, his eyes beginning to glaze over.
Rachel sighed. ‘Look, I think we should work on their cover story. If we make that really good then everyone will understand why they don’t know anything.’
‘Yes, good idea,’ said Ben. ‘The hippy commune …’
‘What is a hippy?’ asked Polly, and Ben and Rachel both groaned. Of course, nobody was called a hippy until the 1960s.
‘Oh, this is going to take for ever!’ wailed Rachel. ‘Can’t we just make them both mutes or something? Then they wouldn’t have to talk to anyone about anything.’
‘Well, thanks a lot! I’d like to see how you’d like it, being shoved into another century,’ huffed Freddy.
‘Let’s have a break now,’ said Ben. ‘I’m done in. Can we get some Pot Noodle on or something, Rachel? Oh, I wish the telly wasn’t broken …’
They ate Pot Noodle, listening to Radio 2 again. Polly and Freddy seemed at first disgusted with the food and then madly into it. Rachel felt guilty all over again. First Burger King, now Pot Noodle. It really didn’t say much for 2009 cuisine. She got apples from the fridge for afters, hoping to make up for it a bit. ‘Um …’ she began, unsure how to say it in front of Ben, ‘if you like, we can order in some ingredients and stuff and … um … maybe … you can teach me how to make a crock pot?’
‘Hot pot,’ laughed Polly. ‘Yes—I’d be happy to.’
‘But you’d have to teach Ben too.’
‘Would I? Really?’
‘Yesss,’ hissed Rachel, glaring at Ben who was shaking his head wildly. ‘If I’m going to learn to cook I should jolly well think you can too. Oh, what? Listen to me! I sound just like Polly! Help!’
‘Get over it,’ said Polly and they all exploded into laughter, spraying Pot Noodle across the table.
Chambers looked up from his papers, irritably clicking his ballpoint pen in and out, as a junior civil servant burst into his office without knocking.
‘Yes, Travis?’
The clerk looked slightly pink—he’d obviously run up from two floors below. The Whitehall lifts were being serviced this week. ‘Sir … I … um … remember you said to check on any movement in the old Emerson files?’
Chambers narrowed his eyes. ‘Yes—yes, I remember. Something happening?’
‘The Emerson records have been accessed, sir. Three times this week.’
Chambers put down his pen and sat up. ‘Three times?’
‘Yes, sir—somebody’s poking around. Not old Granville’s department this time. Someone else. What if they find something out, sir?’
Chambers smiled. ‘If they find something out I shall be delighted. As long as we’re the first to know. Better call Chapman. She’s been bored out of her mind in that little backwater for the last nine months. We were just about to grant her a transfer. Maybe our esteemed scientist lives! Maybe he’s bored with Russia too, and following his old friend Tarrant back home at last.’
Chambers would be glad to see the old man come home, even if he turned out to have been a traitor all along, and Dick Tarrant’s confession had been a set up. He hated unsolved cases and nobody ever had found the children. And the children were the only reason he was inter-ested. There was very wild talk of what could have happened to them. Few believed it, but Chambers was a man who could believe a lot.
‘Sir, one more thing you should know. One of the access points for the Emerson files … well, it was inside this building. About half an hour ago.’
‘What?’ Chambers shot up out of his chair. ‘Have you found out who it is?’
‘Not yet, sir—but we know where they are. They’re still on line. Three floors down.’
Chambers shook his head in amazement and grabbed his jacket. ‘Shall we go?’
‘What is this stuff? Where are the laces?’ Freddy was holding up a black school shoe and yanking the Velcro strap off it in fascination. ‘Oh, bother! I’ve ripped it!’ Freddy looked guiltily around The Foot Factory, which was busy with last-minute school shoe buyers on the last Saturday before the new term. The shop didn’t have much in the way of lace ups. Ben showed Freddy how Velcro worked and he raised his eyebrows and seemed quite impressed. The school clothes had been easier—grey trousers and white polo shirts for the boys, with grey V-neck jumpers. Grey skirts or trousers for the girls with white blouses and grey jumpers; all available in the small clothing store next to Woolworths. Ben and Rachel needed new stuff as well, so they were all now lugging carrier bags full of school clothes.
There had been next to no goshing from Freddy and Polly that morning—only a mild surprise that Polly could wear trousers, and that none of them had to wear ties.
‘Jolly good thing too,’ remarked Freddy. ‘I hate ties.’
Ben paid for the shoes—his own as well as Freddy’s—with the last of the money. He hoped Uncle Jerome had thought to place another food shopping order before he went off to London. There wasn’t much left at home now and they’d heard nothing at all from him since he’d gone away the day before. He didn’t carry a mobile phone and they had no idea where in London he’d gone.
Freddy and Polly continued to get better at not staring and gasping as they walked along the high street. Their eyes widened at times and they would blink and look at each other occasionally—like when three boys about their own age went by on roller blades. Freddy stared over his shoulder at them and gave a low whistle. ‘Now those I would like to try!’
‘Well, don’t ask to borrow off them,’ muttered Ben. The three boys had been Roly O’Neal and the Pincer twins. Roly O’Neal looked as if he’d grown a foot during the summer holidays—in height and width.
The weekend passed quickly with school preparations and more study of the twenty-first century, and on Sunday night Rachel got out the ironing board and got started on pressing their new uniforms. She did her own and Polly’s things, while Polly busied herself with an evening meal. They had stopped at the butcher’s the day before (for the first time, possibly, in Rachel’s life) and got pork chops and beef mince and some stock cubes and then onions, tomatoes, carrots, and potatoes from the greengrocer�
��s, along with strawberries and plums. Last night they’d had pork chops in gravy with carrots and mash and Polly was now making minced beef hot pot. It smelt wonderful. After a few minutes of ironing and feeling strangely relaxed and happy as her odd new friend made dinner, Rachel suddenly slammed the iron down on the board.
‘OK—this has to stop now! It’s gone far enough!’
‘What?’ Polly wiped her hands on a mystery blue and white striped apron that she had found somewhere.
‘I was just about to start ironing Ben’s shirt. Ben! Ben! Get in here and iron your polo shirt! Quickly! I’ve got a scary case of the Pollies going on here.’
Ben arrived at the kitchen door, hooting with laughter, but he took over at the ironing board, much to Freddy’s amusement. ‘Don’t laugh—you’re next,’ warned Rachel.
Freddy did have a go at ironing, but was so useless at it that Ben took over and did it properly. Rachel felt proud of her big brother. She knew a lot of boys his age would never even think about ironing, even in 2009. But they had both had to learn because their mum and dad were away so much, and Uncle Jerome wouldn’t notice a creased jumper unless it bit him. Freddy had got a few more supplies out of the vault. Most of the clothes were only good for wearing at home—they’d get him laughed at, at school. But he had a good backpack-type bag which he could use. Ben and Rachel shared out their many notebooks and pens and pencils. The rest, they guessed, the school would give to Freddy and Polly.
The hot pot was wonderful. It beat frozen convenience food any day of the week, thought Ben. ‘I could get to like this!’ he mumbled, through a mouthful of gravy, mince, and potato. Polly looked delighted.
‘Good,’ said Rachel, ‘because Polly’s going to teach us all how to make it.’ Freddy spluttered and laughed and Rachel gave him a very old-fashioned look for a modern girl and he coughed and looked down at his plate.
‘You must have missed the bit about Women’s Lib,’ said Rachel. ‘We’ll have to go over that again soon! But for now just remember this—girls are not here to serve boys!’
