‘Yeah, Rusty, cos he had red hair just like me,’ Simon explained. ‘But after all these lucky misses, it was Lucky Dobbs. His crew started to think he was their good luck mascot. He could fall in a dung heap and come up smelling of roses, they said.’
Got it! Into Henry’s mind floated the grinning face from his dream, the bright eyes. Rusty Dobbs! But how — As soon as he’d grasped it, tried to make sense of it, he began to doubt his memory. Perhaps he hadn’t dreamed the name Rusty Dobbs at all — had only heard it a few moments ago from Simon. Then another thought struck him. ‘You know what? The first time, when he had flu — if it wasn’t for those flu germs, you wouldn’t be here now.’
‘I know.’
‘You owe that flu bug.’
‘Thank you, O generous germs,’ Simon said solemnly, with a little bow. ‘Or if he hadn’t needed to pee.’
They walked on, along the cracked runway. The air rose from the baked concrete in a faint shimmer of heat. Something about the place made Henry feel edgy. The words of Grace’s stupid song ran through his head again: They scraped him off the runway like a dollop of strawberry jam . . . He hated that song, without having the faintest idea why it should bother him so much. But, in the war, it must have been real. People must have had to parachute out of flaming planes, had to decide: jump, or die in your burning aircraft.
He almost reeled with dizziness, facing himself with that choice. Blackness took over his mind, unfathomable, streaked with flares and tracer fire and explosions. It took an effort to bring himself back to now, his feet solidly on the ground, walking over the concrete and the thrusting weeds. Another runway swept across the middle of the airfield between big triangles of grass that had been cut for hay. Any minute now, he thought, remembering what Mum had said about only walking on proper footpaths, a farmer would drive up on a tractor and tell them off for trespassing. It felt wrong to be here. All the same, he’d rather face the angry farmer than the fear that was making his stomach churn and his legs tremble.
An old hangar loomed at them behind a dense belt of shrubs. Henry had a wild vision of it being full of brand new Spitfires, straight from the factories. He imagined young pilots in overalls running towards them and leaping into the cockpits, the way he’d seen in the old films Dad liked to watch. He hesitated, but Simon walked straight up and looked in at the open front.
‘Hay bales,’ he said. He sounded disappointed, as if he’d had the same idea as Henry. ‘The farmer’s using it as a barn.’
Henry felt as if they’d walked right out of the real world. He wondered if they’d be able to find their way back to the village, but when he turned and looked, he could see the church tower of Crickford St. Thomas rising above the trees of the Old Rectory, less than a mile away.
‘Come on!’ Simon shouted. ‘I’ll be a Spitfire, you be a Stuka dive-bomber!’ And he ran along the runway, arms out, making an ‘Eeeee-ow!’ noise as he swerved and ducked. Henry tried to make Stuka noises and actions, but it didn’t feel right in this strange place. He fended off the Spitfire attacks half-heartedly, and was glad when Simon tired, wilting in the heat.
‘Let’s go down to your stream,’ Henry said. ‘Or I’ll burst into flames.’
At home, tea was all cold things — ham and salad, strawberries with ice-cream, orange juice with chunks of ice. Henry told his parents about the deserted airfield, and after the meal Dad fetched the local map. Henry had the odd feeling that if he tried to return, he wouldn’t find it.
‘Yes, here it is.’ Dad’s finger pointed at the triangles of runway, not far from the orange lines of roads and grey rectangles of houses that marked the village. ‘Airfield, disused. Risingheath.’
Simon leaned over to point. ‘This green dotted line means public footpath — look, it leads there from behind the church, the way we went. So we weren’t trespassing after all.’
‘Risingheath. I remember the name now,’ Dad said, peering closer. ‘I read it in some war book or other. But you know who you could ask, if you want to know more?’
‘My grandad,’ Simon said promptly. ‘Great-grandad, really. He was there.’
‘Was he really?’ Dad said. ‘I was going to say, ask Dottie. She was here in the war. She’d know about it. What did your great-grandad do?’
Simon was telling the story of Rusty Dobbs’s flu when his mother arrived to take him home.
Although it was nearly half-past nine, it still wasn’t dark. Henry felt too wide-awake for sleep; the back door was open and he wandered out along the flagged path with a glass of milk in his hand, putting off bedtime. Mum and Dad had been working hard at the garden and it was gradually getting tidier. Where there had been tangles of bramble and teasel and nettles, there was now dug earth. A huge heap of dried plants waited near the back gate to be turned into compost, in the compost-bin Dad was going to make as his next project.
By the gate at the end of the garden, Henry stopped and looked out at the orchard, through the bent, twisted shapes of the apple trees. On such a warm night he expected to see the fireflies, their points of flame flickering and weaving. He’d almost told Simon about them, as Simon knew things about frogs and newts and sticklebacks and probably glow-worms as well; but had stopped on the verge of asking, suddenly sure that these glow-worms weren’t for everyone to see.
There they were, flittering and dancing, just as he’d been sure they would be. But there was no shadowy figure standing at the gate this time, no twist of cigarette smoke. Just the fireflies, dancing for themselves.
Henry turned and looked towards Pat’s house. One of the upstairs windows was lit — the window of the room that matched Henry’s, jutting out at the back. He saw a thin, white-clad figure standing there, half hidden by the curtains, looking out. For a moment he thought it was Grace, but then he saw the gleam of light on grey hair and realised that it was Dottie. Henry waved, but she showed no sign of having seen him. She was gazing towards the firefly gate.
Dottie hadn’t seen fireflies — glow-worms — for years, she’d told him. Well, she must be seeing them now. But there was something strange about the way she stood there without moving — just like Pudding when he fixed his eyes on some tiny movement that Henry couldn’t even see.
‘Henry! What you doing out there? It’s past your bed-time!’ Dad called from the back door. Henry drank the last of the milk and went in.
In the middle of the night, Henry woke up with a lurch, his heart thumping. Something was different.
Engines. He could hear engines and just for a second imagined he was back at home, hearing the roar of traffic that never stopped. But the engine noise was overhead; it thrummed and drummed at his ears, making him dizzy. Dozens of aircraft must be flying right overhead. Weird! A flight from Lakenfield, he thought; then realised that what he was hearing was propeller-driven aircraft, not the tearing sound jet engines would make. He got out of bed and went to the window.
A round disc of moon lit up slivers of cloud. Flying towards the moon, in silhouette, were aircraft in formation. Henry recognised the blunt noses, the cigar-shaped bodies and the flat tail-spars of Lancaster bombers. He wouldn’t have known what they were until last Saturday, but now he was sure.
Lancaster bombers.
He must count them all out and he must count them back in.
Pudding was perched on the gate, a dark shape in the moonlight. He crouched, ears flat, then abruptly leaped down and streaked towards the back door. Henry heard the slap and swing of the cat-flap as he rocketed in.
I must keep counting, Henry thought. Ten, eleven, twelve, like a flock of wild geese, high and purposeful, flying out in the direction of Lowestoft and the sea. They shone silver in the moonlight. Twelve Lancaster bombers.
But that was impossible! Henry stood at the window and watched as the leaders were swallowed up in the bank of cloud. When they were all out of sight, he stared and stared at the grey fuzziness of cloud until his eyes went blurry.
Silence. He strained his ears into the nig
ht, but heard only the hoot of an owl. He had no idea what time it was, but the house felt still. When he stepped back from the window, the floorboards creaked with night-time eeriness. The back of his neck had gone all tingly and the skin on his arms was goose-bumped. He lurched for his bed, and clicked on the bed-side light. At once the room was lit up, warm and bright and normal, everything jumping out at him in sharp colours, apart from the slab of blackness at the window where he’d pushed back the curtain. He tugged the curtains closed, so that not an inch of darkness showed between them.
Then he lay down and listened to the words in his head.
It’ll be thirteen next time.
Count them out and count them back in.
He wanted Pudding, wanted to cuddle him. No matter what Mum said about cats on beds, he wanted Pudding’s warm purring company. He crept downstairs and opened the kitchen door. At once Pudding surged through and straight upstairs, his tail bristling like a toilet-brush.
‘Come on, Pud. You can stay with me.’ Henry picked up the struggling cat. ‘P’raps I’m dreaming. P’raps we both are.’
At last the cat settled beside him. Hours later, from the depths of sleep, Henry found himself counting again: felt the windows shake to the roar of engines, felt their shadows low overhead. One. Two, three. Four. Five, six, seven. Eight.
Nine.
Nine.
Nine.
Nine.
Nine.
Twelve out and only nine back.
Your turn next.
Thirteen.
He counted them back in. Three planes went missing that night and one of them was Henry.
ELEVEN
HENRY’S HAUNT
Monday, and Henry was almost wishing he could go to school with Simon and the others. It didn’t feel like the summer holidays, not yet; not with everyone else still at school. When he’d been with Simon and the others, or with Mum and Dad, all the strangeness of dreams and coincidences seemed less important — just stray thoughts. When he was on his own, he couldn’t stop thinking about them.
Where was it all going? Where was it taking him? What was it all for? Sometimes he wondered if he was seriously losing his marbles — he must be, if he couldn’t even tell what was real and what wasn’t.
There was a papery clatter of post through the letterbox. Going to pick it up, expecting the usual dull stuff for Mum and Dad, Henry’s eyes went straight to a letter with his own name on it, and four Arsenal stickers. Nabil! Inside was a postcard of a brontosaurus and one of Nabil’s cartoons. He’d drawn Henry up a haystack with a snorting bull at the bottom and himself perched on the very top of the London Eye, each looking at the other through a telescope. Nabil was good at cartoons. ‘The dinosaur’s from the Natural History Museum,’ he had written on the back of the postcard. ‘Dad’s taking us there when you come — we thought it’d be nice for you to meet some relations. Hurry up and get your email sorted out!’
Henry felt cheered up by that, less anxious about being in the house by himself, even if Nabil was miles and miles away. Officially, Pat was in charge of him till Mum and Dad came home, but Mum had asked him to sort out his old toys and games and given him a list of things to get from the shop. He spent an hour or two rummaging through the things he’d stuffed into a cupboard until it was time to go out.
His crossing of the green was carefully timed to coincide with playtime at school. Just as he’d hoped, Simon and some other Year Six boys were in the playground, leaning against the wall, as it was still too hot for football.
‘Hey, Simon!’ Henry yelled, and Simon came over, followed by Neil, Jonathan and Elissa.
‘Aren’t you bored, hanging round at home?’ Neil asked.
Henry shrugged, not liking to be the centre of attention. ‘S’all right. But I’d rather be here with you lot.’
‘Can’t you come in with us after play?’ Elissa suggested. She had her long hair in two plaits today. Jonathan waggled the end of one and said, ‘Don’t be daft, Liss.’
‘You could, though, on Wednesday!’ Simon gave his big Rusty Dobbs grin. ‘Miss Murphy always goes on a course, Wednesdays.’
‘Mrs Mobbs takes us, she’s a supply teacher. She can never remember all our names,’ Elissa joined in.
‘And Tim’s away this week, so there’s an empty place next to me,’ Simon finished.
Henry thought about it, liking the idea. ‘But how can I? I won’t have any books or anything, will I?’
‘No prob,’ Simon said, with the air of someone who had everything sorted. ‘We don’t work in books any more. We’re doing stuff on paper, for a special folder that goes to our new school.’
‘And we’re not really doing proper work now, anyway,’ Elissa added. ‘Only quizzes and team games and things, cos it’s nearly end of term.’
‘Well, I think you’re all off your trolley.’ Jonathan put a finger to the side of his head in a screwy gesture. ‘Trying to smuggle someone into school! If I had an extra week’s holiday, I wouldn’t be moaning about it.’
‘I wasn’t,’ Henry began, but all the others were so pleased with the plan that they began saying, ‘Henry the Stowaway!’ and looking round for other people to let in on the secret.
‘And, Henry,’ Elissa pleaded, her small face earnest, ‘will you be in our relay team on Saturday? Simon, Neil and me?’
‘What’s Saturday?’
‘It’s the village fête and sports,’ Simon told him. ‘Everyone’ll be there. There’s all sorts of stalls and games and competitions — it’s great!’
By the time the bell went for the end of break, Henry had agreed not only to smuggle himself into school but also to join the relay team on Saturday and have a go at Wellie Whanging. He felt much more cheerful as he walked home.
Later, when he’d finished sorting and went round to Pat’s, Dottie was out in the garden. Although she looked pale and tired, she was sitting in her chair as usual, knitting. Her twiggy fingers moved without stopping, pushing the wool forward, dipping a needle to catch the new stitch, passing it on. On the garden table, the Scrabble board was set out, in the middle of a game. Pat had gone in to answer a phone call.
‘Well, Henry love, and how you keeping?’ Dottie asked.
‘OK, thanks.’ He knew he ought to ask how she was, but couldn’t. Her illness and oldness frightened him, as if she hovered on the edge of something he couldn’t understand. ‘It’s the village fête on Saturday,’ he told her, for something to say. There were questions he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t come straight out with them. ‘Will you go?’
‘Ooh yes! Wouldn’t miss it for anything.’ Dottie yanked at her wool, which had got hooked round the chair leg. ‘I do like a nice fête!’
‘I’m going to run in the relay,’ Henry told her.
‘Good! I’ll be there to cheer you on,’ Dottie said. ‘Long as you don’t expect me to run in the grown-ups’ race!’
Henry laughed. She gave him one of her straight looks and said, ‘You won’t believe it, but I used to be a fast runner, in my day. I could run faster than any of the boys in my class.’
‘Like Grace,’ Henry said. Simon had told him that she’d been the fastest runner in the school when she was in Year Six.
‘Well, I was quite like Grace when I was her age,’ Dottie agreed. ‘She reminds me of me.’
Henry was shocked into silence. How could that be true? Grace was horrible, and Dottie was Dottie — he couldn’t see any likeness.
‘You’ve got to admire her spirit, haven’t you?’ Dottie went on. ‘If she wants to do something, you can bet she’ll do it.’
Henry sat down on the grass and picked at a daisy stem. An unpleasant feeling fizzed in his chest. You’ve got to admire her spirit. Grace’s spirit? All Henry could think of was Grace’s mouth and the mean things that came out of it. It wasn’t fair that Dottie should say such nice things about her! He’d never heard Grace say a kind word about Dottie. Not once.
Dottie looked at him, and said softly, �
�You want to stand up to her a bit more. Give her as good as she hands out.’
‘She calls me names,’ Henry grumped. ‘Strawberry Pip and Squidge.’
‘I used to be called Pipsqueak at school,’ Dottie said, ‘because I was so small. That’s not to say people didn’t like me. I think most of them did like me. What d’you reckon?’
Henry didn’t answer. He couldn’t imagine anyone not liking Dottie; but she’d got it completely wrong if she was trying to say that Grace liked him. She’d called him a little kid, hadn’t she? Hadn’t wanted him to tag along at the Air Display. How could she make it any more obvious?
‘Grace is all right,’ Dottie said; ‘just going through a spiky stage. Now look at this.’ She waved her knitting towards the Scrabble board. ‘I’m on a winning streak here. All my letters out in one go — that’s fifty extra points!’
Henry looked at the tiles that spelled out THIRTEEN along the bottom of the board.
‘I had “THIRTEE” sitting on my rack and then Pat went and put down that “N” in just the right place where I could use it. And it’s a triple word score,’ Dottie said proudly. ‘Thirty-six for the word and then the extra fifty — that’s eighty-six. Best score I’ve ever got!’
‘That’s brilliant!’ Henry said, kneeling up to look at the score-sheet.
‘Don’t you go jogging the board now, spoiling it,’ Dottie warned. ‘I’ve never managed that before.’
Henry sat down again. He wanted to ask Dottie whether she’d heard the aircraft noise in the night. Stupid question, because how could she have heard twelve flying Lancasters? Instead, he said, ‘You know the other day? You started telling us about meeting someone called Henry when you came to live here?’
Dottie’s fingers carried on knitting and she looked at the Scrabble board without showing any sign of having heard. Then she said, ‘Didn’t I finish telling you? Thought I had. Yes, Henry the Navigator. That’s what I called him.’
‘Why?’ Henry remembered maps of the world he’d seen on the wall of his old classroom, with arrows across the seas showing voyage routes. ‘Was he an explorer?’
At the Firefly Gate Page 6
