*
The following morning I was weary and my legs ached from all the walking I had done around Monkton Rudloe. I felt as though I’d done ten rounds with Itchy and Scratchy, and apart from the ride on Mark Tyson’s pillion the trip had been a complete wash out.
Now I was up early again. I hadn’t been able to sleep much and I wanted to use my computer before granddad monopolised it. I was too late. He was up and awake before me. My laptop was running, but he was missing. I found the back door wide open, and heard clanking metal and hammering coming from his shed. What is it about old folks? Do they all get up at dawn?
I hadn’t been in granddad’s shed since I was about six years old. It’s an amazing place, full of tools and old machines. Around the walls are tool boards, shelves and drawers, all neatly labelled. If you take a tool from a wall board its shadow is painted underneath it so you can put it back in the right place. He keeps it all spotless, and even has an armchair and a reading lamp in there.
He was working on a mountain bike, fitting old-fashioned mudguards and pannier bags.
‘Cool, whose is it?’
‘Oh ‘ello. You’m finally woke up then. Oy thought you’d sleep to noon.’
‘Ha ha,’ I sneered. ‘Whose is the bike?’
‘Mine, but oy don’t get out on ee much these days.’
‘How old are you granddad?’
‘I was born in 1926, eighth o’ May. Same day as V.E. day, but that were later, o’ course - 1945.’
‘Gosh that makes you – err – old. The bike looks nearly new. Are you planning to go mountain biking?’
‘Nah, o' course not. Oy ’ave had it a few years. Oy were only about seventy when I bought it. Oy still use it now and again, but not often. You can’t get much shopping in these here bags. There’s a bloke in town who sells a little trailer you can put on the back. I’m thinking of getting one o’ they.’
‘I bet you wouldn’t lend it to somebody?’
‘I haven’t bought it yet.’
‘No, not the trailer thing, your bike.’
‘Who to?’
‘Me, of course.’
‘Whoever said oy won’t is a liar. Of course you can have a lend of it, girl. Besides you’re lending me your pooter. It’s only fair exchange.’
I thanked him and gazed around at his collection of tools and equipment. It was easy to see what a deeply personal space his shed was. I could imagine him contentedly pottering for hours among the spanners, chisels and saws. One tool I spotted on the wall looked like an oversized pair of pliers. I’d seen something like it used in adventure films for cutting padlocks and bars. ‘What’s this one granddad?’.
‘You leave that alone. That’s a Record bolt-cropper; the finest in the world. If they drops on your foot, you’ll know about it.’
‘Isn’t it what burglars use for cutting padlocks and things?’
‘I’m not a burglar am I?’
‘No but…’
‘You could certainly cut a padlock with it if you’d lost your key or sommat.’ He waved an oily rag in my face. ‘Now get out of here and put the kettle on. Do you want to use the bike then, or not?’
He followed me into the house and watched as I filled his kettle. ‘You look tired girl. What’ve you been doing to get so weary?’
‘Walking. Too much walking.’
‘Where?’
‘I went all up the hills round Box looking at that old airfield. I was trying to see what there was up there.’
‘You mean Monkton Rudloe. You should have asked me. You don’t need to go climbing up there. Oy know all there is to know about Monkton Rudloe.’
‘You do?’
Of course I do. I know everything about the place.’
‘What’s it used for?’ I asked him eagerly.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You said you knew all about it.’
‘I do, but not that,’ he said, as though he had made perfect sense. ‘I mean I know what it used to be when it was secret, during the war.
‘That’s no good. I want to know about what’s happening there now. Like, how can massive great trucks drive in behind that big old house and disappear into thin air? I want to know where they go.’
‘That’s easy.’
‘What are talking about?’
‘I’m not telling you. You’re not interested in what oy has to say.’
‘OK, I’m sorry, I am interested. Tell me.’
‘They go into the mine.’
‘The mine?’
‘There’s a stone mine underneath that big old house. In fact it’s probably the biggest one of the lot.’ His old eyes twinkled and he sipped his tea. ‘The War Ministry took over the house for a secret office during the war. All these places were top secret. But there was rumours of a huge ammunition store underneath Monkton Rudloe. It was supposed to be for navel shells and TNT. It was even rumoured to have its own railway siding, deep underground. That was to connect it to the main railway line somewhere out of sight inside the Box tunnel. That’s how they were supposed to get the shells and bombs onto the trains so they could deliver ‘em to the naval ports around the coast. I think they grow mushrooms in there now.
‘Can you get inside it?’
‘You stay away from them mines. They’re dangerous places. They get roof falls and rats and things. You stay away, girl.’
‘I’m not saying that I want to go in there,’ I said, bending the truth. ‘I just wonder if people ever do go inside.’
‘They only go in the safe ones, like the ones that are used by banks and solicitors for document storage.’
‘So how do the trucks get in there then?’ My mind was already racing over the possibilities.
‘Well, like I say, they were originally stone mines, so of course they had to have ways of getting the stone out, either on trucks or railcars. So there is bound to be some place where a truck or railway can get down there.’
As granddad rambled on about the war and the rumours that had circulated about the various old stone mines in the area, a plan was forming in my head. First I would borrow his bike and reconnoitre the area around Monkton Rudloe by cycling the lanes. I dismissed all ideas of getting inside through the little building I had seen the trucks driving into; security was much too tight, and the old airfield was definitely out. But as granddad had pointed out, there must an entrance somewhere for heavy vehicles, otherwise they would never have been able to get the stone out. His comments about a secret railway siding seemed worth investigation too.
My plan was to start my search near the Box tunnel. I would need to find an isolated spot where I could move about unseen. If that was not possible in daylight, I would wait for darkness. I decided that the best time to set off from granddad’s would be late afternoon. That would allow me several hours to refine my plan.
Granddad happily agreed to lend me his bike. In truth, he hardly noticed. He had found a website about Somerset cricket heroes, and was deeply engrossed. I told him I might cycle over to my friend’s house and stay with her. ‘Just one night though. Is that OK?’
‘S’free country, in it? As long as you tells your mother first mind, and don’t go getting my bike dirty.’
I felt bad about the lying, and it was getting worse. I had also raided his shed and taken his bolt croppers. I had to. With what I had in mind, I expected to find steel bars, chain link fencing, and padlocks. The bolt-croppers would be essential. I hid them in one of the bicycle’s two canvass pannier bags, along with a torch, a spare battery, and a large screwdriver. I made sure granddad saw me fill the other pannier bag with a few clothes and my pyjamas, so he would believe my lie about staying with a friend.
It was gone five-o-clock when I set off. I just had time to buy an Ordnance Survey map from the book shop in the Shambles before they closed. I stood in the little shop, my mind whirling with doubts. The lady at the till had to shake my arm to get my attention and my payment for the map.
Was I doing the right thi
ng? I wondered. Shouldn’t I just go to the police and tell them my suspicions? The trouble was, I was not sure I could trust the police. I felt they were being manipulated, controlled by powerful political forces. They might not even realise it, but somebody was making them dance to their tune. They had already shown as much in their pathetic response to Jack’s disappearance. Even the professor had been afraid to go to the police. He had felt so threatened that he had abandoned his camper van. He was even scared of using the telephone. He didn’t trust the police at all. That was why he had come to me.
I was now convinced that MCF had found out that the professor had evidence of Time Travel. For some reason they wanted it squashed, and were willing to do anything, even kill a respected academic in broad daylight. Would the police believe a story like that from me? Of course not. Also I feared that anything I told them would soon be reported to MCF. For me and my family, going to the police was probably more dangerous than doing what I planned.
Time Rocks Page 40
