Vinnie's War

by David McRobbie

  But that’s not a problem, Isaac. There’s plenty to say, because guess what? I’m having more piano lessons – been at it nearly three months. Can you imagine it? Me, a grubby street kid out of the East End, learning on Lila Armstrong’s amazing Steinway grand piano? These are proper lessons, Isaac, and that’s not to say what you taught me wasn’t good, great even, but I’m doing scales and exercises now.

  When it comes to practice, I do what we did on the old pub piano, before Hitler blew it away. Miss Armstrong even gave me an alarm clock so I can get up at five and put in a couple of hours before school. The house is quiet then, apart from me and that amazing piano. It makes you want to be good; not to let it down.

  There’s theory, too, and reading music, learning the time-value of notes – crotchets and quavers, breves and semibreves. It was funny this afternoon when I called one note a minimum instead of a minim. First time I saw her laugh. She said, ‘Get it right, or I shall call you Vinnimum.’

  Right now things are nice for me. But remember how we’d talk about life being full of ups and downs – good things turning bad? You think you’re in clover, then you’re not. Like some unkind trick. You learned music, Isaac; then the Nazis brought you down. When we found Mr and Mrs Rosen, we were up again, until that Saturday.

  When it’s good for me, Isaac, I get afraid of what might come.

  Then he slept.

  ***

  Vinnie was discovering that music had a language of its own. In the kitchen, he tried out some Italian musical terms on Mrs Greenwood as they washed the breakfast dishes. ‘Fortissimo, rallentando!’ He loved making grand gestures and rolling the words around his tongue. ‘Prestissimo, affettuoso, spiritoso.’

  Mrs Greenwood gave him a playful flick with her tea towel. ‘Your head’s just bulging with knowledge.’

  ‘Yeah, great, isn’t it?’

  At this cheerful moment, Joan entered the kitchen. Mrs Greenwood glanced at the wall clock and said, ‘So, there you are, then? What kept you this morning?’

  ‘Me and George Preston went to the pictures over in Duffton, last night. Saw Gone with the Wind. Missed the bus home, had to walk miles.’

  Mrs Greenwood accepted this and gave Joan the tea towel. ‘Well, finish here, then tidy the music room.’ With that, she left the kitchen.

  Joan reached for a plate and asked Vinnie, ‘So what was that language you were jabbering?’

  ‘Only some Italian words.’ He put the last of the knives and forks into the draining basket and let the water out of the sink.

  ‘Eyeties are our enemy. Why talk their lingo? You on their side or something?’

  ‘Musicians have used Italian words for hundreds of years. So we’re not changing because there’s a war going on. That’s what Miss Armstrong says.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Armstrong, everything’s Miss Armstrong these days!’ Joan put a plate on the rack and grabbed another one. ‘You get to play her piano, while I’m not even allowed to polish it. I’d like free music lessons, but you come here and worm your way right in.’

  ‘Yeah. Now I gotta worm off to school.’

  As he walked to the bus, he thought, Isaac, it’s a funny old place, this. Full of cold hurts and hot insults. Some of the locals are friendlier now, but Freddie and one or two others still keep their distance. Mr Murdoch rules the classroom like some kind of dictator, and Joan makes the kitchen frosty, even when Mrs Greenwood’s there to keep her in check. Constable Breedon is forever asking custard powder questions and nobody has an answer, but do you think that stops him?

  And Dobbs reckons our bus driver plays for Misery United.

  Yet whenever I turn to music, all the slights are soothed away. It’s amazing, Isaac, that we can always find an Italian word to match our mood. Or their mood.

  Furioso. Feroce.

  ***

  Joey and Kathleen took their seats on the bus. ‘Kathleen, what was that shouting the other night? It woke me up.’

  ‘Somebody showed a light. Mrs Watney or Dennis didn’t put up the blackout screens. Serves them right.’

  ‘What difference does it make? The Germans aren’t going to bomb Netterfold.’

  Kathleen was patient. ‘They might. We can’t take the risk.’

  ‘So that’s what the shouting was about?’

  ‘The ARP warden saw the light shining from a window and ordered Mrs Watney to put it out.’

  Mr Preston started his engine and prepared to move off, but Tom Bradley called from the back seat, ‘Hey, wait. Two more boys are coming.’

  Dobbs and Vinnie climbed aboard, panting after running for the bus. Dobbs said, ‘Nearly went without us, driver. That wouldn’t do.’

  The driver just grunted and started off with a lurch. Kathleen turned around to Vinnie and whispered, ‘Tom got him to stop for you.’

  Dobbs and Vinnie turned around, caught Tom’s eye and both gave him a thumbs-up.

  ***

  In class, the first lesson was arithmetic, the examples coming from a textbook. With his pupils quiet and busy, Mr Murdoch spent the time reading the news-paper.

  Freddie Preston kept his hands under the desk, working on a secret weapon. He folded a slip of paper, then doubled it twice to make a tight wad. Using his ruler as a catapult, he fired the paper across the room towards Dobbs. It missed, but hit the wall and bounced.

  Mr Murdoch chose that moment to turn a page of his newspaper and saw Freddie’s attack. ‘Caught in the act, boy! So come out here. And bring your exercise book.’

  ‘It was an accident, sir.’

  Mr Murdoch looked at Freddie’s blank page. ‘You’ve not done very much, have you, boy?’

  ‘I was just starting, sir.’

  ‘Starting a war. So hold your hand up, lad.’

  Freddie rolled his eyes helplessly and lifted his hand. Mr Murdoch opened his desk, and frowned. He tossed things aside and searched more urgently. His mystification grew; then he closed the desk lid and made for the door. ‘Keep working,’ he warned. ‘And no noise.’ He left the room.

  ‘What’s he lost?’ Kathleen whispered.

  Vinnie said, ‘Not his sense of humour. Never had one.’

  Dobbs guessed, ‘Bet it was his belt.’

  Freddie Preston stood with his hand up, still waiting for the punishment that was not going to come. ‘One of you vaccies nicked it.’

  Tom Bradley called, ‘Belt up, Freddie.’ Some girls laughed.

  Freddie went on, ‘You vaccies are up to your thieving tricks. Like last night.’

  Vinnie asked Dobbs, ‘What about last night?’

  ‘There was another break-in at the railway goods yard. More food went missing.’

  Freddie muttered, ‘Constable Breedon will fix you lot.’

  Dobbs pretended to quiver with fear. ‘Oo-er, he’d have us all in custard-y.’

  Mr Murdoch returned. He took a hopeful look inside his desk, as if expecting to find whatever he’d lost. Then he realised Freddie still had his hand out, palm upwards, and asked, ‘Are you expecting rain, boy?’

  The class laughed as Freddie slouched back to his seat. Mr Murdoch saw something funny in his own joke, so he turned away to hide a smile.

  ***

  At teatime, Mrs Watney said casually to Kathleen, ‘I have to go to court. About the blackout thing.’

  Then Dennis dropped a bombshell. ‘And young Joey’s got to come, too,’ he said. ‘To tell the magis-trate what happened.’

  ‘Joey?’ Kathleen asked. ‘What have you got to do with it?’

  Joey looked embarrassed and kept his eyes down on his plate.

  Dennis encouraged Joey. ‘Go on, Joey, tell Kathleen what you did.’

  Joey mumbled, ‘I went into Dennis’s room to get my comic—’

  ‘I’d borrow
ed it from him, see.’ Dennis took up the story. ‘So Joey pops in to fetch it, turns the light on, only he forgets about the blackout. Gets dark and the light’s still shining from my window.’

  ‘That’s what happened.’ Joey nodded, then looked down again.

  Kathleen said, ‘You didn’t tell me this, Joey.’

  Joey was silent.

  ‘Anyway,’ Mrs Watney went on, ‘since it was Joey’s fault, really, and him not knowing any better, the magistrate will go easy on us because he’s such a little chap.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s not Joey that’s in trouble,’ Dennis assured Kathleen, ‘it’s Mum who cops it because she’s responsible for the whole house, and the blackout.’

  ‘Does Joey have to go to court?’ Kathleen asked.

  ‘Only as a witness,’ Mrs Watney said. ‘Only as a witness.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘On Friday morning. Court’s at ten o’clock, so when it’s over, I’ll take him to school.’

  ‘You won’t,’ Kathleen said. ‘I’ll do that.’ She was angry, with Joey for not speaking up and with the Watneys for not telling her what had happened. She tried to catch Joey’s eye, but he kept his head down.

  The music lesson was over by five o’clock. It was the fortieth one they’d had together in the music room. Vinnie kept the tally in a small diary: three times a week they had met, except once when Miss Armstrong had the flu; then it was only one lesson, but she’d insisted he spend the rest of the time on scales and arpeggios. Vinnie closed the Steinway’s keyboard cover, then lowered the prop and gently let down the main piano lid. He gathered his sheet music from the stool and waited for Miss Armstrong’s remarks. At the end of a lesson she always had some advice to give.

  This time she said, ‘You are doing extremely well, Vinnie.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You know if you were showing no aptitude, or application, I’d have ended these lessons weeks ago.’

  ‘I guessed that’s why I’m still coming here.’

  ‘Did you now?’ She was amused. ‘I’m going to listen to Dame Myra Hess tonight, Vinnie.’

  ‘On one of your records?’

  ‘No, on the wireless, from the BBC. She’s playing Beethoven. Would you like to listen with me after tea?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

  ‘The concert will go on quite late, so you needn’t stay for all of it.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Then in the morning you’ll want to sleep in and won’t do your two hours before school.’

  ‘I’d never miss that,’ he said. And later in the evening Vinnie returned to Miss Armstrong’s music room and they listened to Beethoven until the end of the broadcast. They had cocoa, then heard the news.

  ‘Here is the BBC news and this is Alvar Lidell reading it. Tonight, enemy bombers carried out another heavy raid on London, causing wide-spread damage.’

  ‘Vinnie, you can turn it off,’ Miss Armstrong said. ‘Such contrasts from Germany. In one night, Beethoven and bombs.’

  He went to bed. The good, then the bad, Isaac. Please let the right one last.

  ***

  The classroom mystery continued: what had Mr Murdoch lost? Most students guessed it was his punishing leather strap, which Vinnie and Dobbs called his Weapon of War. The main clue was that no one had been belted for over a week. Their teacher would fly into a rage, then shout, ‘Out here, boy!’ At the front of the class, the offender would hold up his hand, but no punishment came. Instead, Mr Murdoch would insult the boy, say he was hopeless, a dolt, a fool, then order: ‘Get out of my sight!’

  Dobbs came to school on Thursday morning bubbling with the latest news – he had the answer, straight from the horse’s mouth. He corrected himself: ‘Well, Mrs Hall’s mouth.’

  ‘So what is it?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘Let’s find Kathleen, so she can hear it as well.’

  In doing this, they discovered another mystery, for Kathleen and Joey were arguing in a quiet corner of the playground. ‘Come on, out with it, Joey!’ Kathleen demanded. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

  ‘Oh, leave me alone.’ Joey marched off to his classroom.

  Vinnie and Dobbs were puzzled. They’d never once seen Kathleen and Joey have as much as a cross word between them.

  Vinnie asked, ‘Kathleen, what’s wrong?’

  She seemed embarrassed. ‘Um…Joey and I won’t be at school tomorrow. I have to tell the headmaster.’ She shrugged in a helpless sort of way and left them.

  ‘Well, what about that?’ Vinnie said.

  ‘Looks like I’ll have to tell you Mrs Hall’s news.’ So Dobbs launched into the story. ‘We were right, Vinnie! Somebody’s nicked old Murdoch’s belt.’

  ‘So he’ll just get another one.’

  ‘That’s the good part. There isn’t another belt in the whole school. Mrs Hall heard that Murdoch tried to borrow Miss Fargie’s, but she never had one. Told him the evacuees have got away from Hitler’s violence, so she’s not helping him do more of it.’

  ‘So we were right about what he lost. The question is, who nicked it?’

  ‘I thought it was you.’

  ‘Same here, Dobbs, but I didn’t like to say.’ Vinnie thought for long seconds, then added, ‘It should happen to Adolf Hitler.’

  ***

  ‘I’ve got an idea, Joey,’ Vinnie said as they got off George Preston’s bus after school. ‘How about we go and watch trains for a while?’

  ‘No thanks. I’m going to my billet.’ Joey never called Mrs Watney’s house home. Only the happier evacuees did that.

  ‘Well, I’d like to look at the trains,’ Dobbs persisted. ‘Might cheer me up. You as well.’

  ‘They’re along that way.’

  ‘But we need you to come with us, Joey,’ Vinnie urged. ‘Tell us what to look for.’

  ‘They’re big black things with wheels on them. They go chuff-chuff. You can’t miss them. Anyway, I never want to see a train for the rest of my life.’ Joey walked away.

  Vinnie and Dobbs exchanged looks. Kathleen shrugged unhappily, then trailed after Joey.

  Vinnie said, ‘What’s got into him?’

  Dobbs shook his head. ‘Every small boy loves trains. It’s natural. Trains and fire-engines. Some-thing’s amiss.’

  ***

  On Friday morning at breakfast, Kathleen and Joey were surprised to find they each had a boiled egg and butter to spread on their toast. ‘I’ve got a nice bit of bacon here as well,’ Mrs Watney added. ‘Would you like me to put some on for you?’

  Kathleen felt so weak and helpless she could hardly speak. ‘No thank you, we’d rather not have bacon.’ It was the only way she could take charge of their lives. This sudden generosity from Mrs Watney was like a bribe. Up until now, for breakfast they’d only had dried-egg omelette, mixed up with water, not milk.

  The court appearance was to take place at ten o’clock and Kathleen had insisted that she should go, too. Mrs Watney had tried to assure her that she’d look after Joey, but Kathleen had already arranged to have the morning off school.

  The night before in their bedroom, she’d attempted to talk with Joey about what had happened, but he’d turned his face to the wall and refused to speak.

  ‘I wish Mum was here,’ Kathleen had said. ‘She’d get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘Well, she’s not here, is she? She’s in London being bombed.’ And that’s all he would say.

  After breakfast, the three of them set off for the local courthouse. Kathleen’s heart was heavy, but Mrs Watney looked at the sky and said, ‘We’ve got a lovely morning for it.’

  ***

  The local court was in a part of Netterfold that Kathleen hadn’t visited before. It stood between a council building and
the police station and seemed a very forbidding sort of place. Joey was apprehensive, so Kathleen put her arm around his shoulders. This time he didn’t shrug it off. Mrs Watney was familiar with the place and led the way inside. She sat on a long bench and folded her arms. ‘We wait here till our name’s called.’

  ‘Why will they call our name?’ Kathleen asked.

  ‘Well, it’ll really be my name. But Joey will have to come in, too.’

  So they sat and waited until an elderly official came out of a room and called, ‘Watney.’ Then he recognised Mrs Watney and said, ‘In you come, then.’

  Mrs Watney led the way into the courtroom, and once more she knew where to sit. The magistrate was already seated, at a long table with a woman clerk beside him. Neither of them looked up, but rather continued to talk among themselves. To one side, a man sat with his arms folded. Kathleen had seen him before, at the school: an ARP man who’d come to tell the students how to recognise a butterfly bomb.

  He was the warden who had spotted the light from Dennis’s window that night, then pounded on the front door.

  The clerk stood and read out the charge – on such-and-such a date the defendant, Mrs Iris Watney, had caused a light to be shown from her house, contrary to defence regulations. When the clerk asked, Mrs Watney said she was not guilty.

  Then it was the turn of the ARP man, who described how he’d observed a light showing from a front upstairs bedroom window of the house. He had ordered that the light be put out forthwith; after that he had served notice upon the householder, Mrs Iris Watney.

  The magistrate listened, then growled unhappily and demanded of Mrs Watney: ‘What have you got to say?’

  Mrs Watney launched into her story. ‘Well, your worship, these days I am so weary, what with looking after two evacuee children as well as my son, Dennis, who works on the railway.’

  The magistrate said, ‘Many people put up with much worse.’

  ‘But the point is, your worship, one of the evacuee children,’ she pointed to Joey, ‘went into my son’s room and turned on the gaslight. He didn’t put the blackout up.’