Orson said there was nothing Hal couldn’t do. Philip wished he had an older brother. He wished it all the time. Orson had Hal. Tubby had Frank and Alf. He had no one.
The underworld of the bridge spewed him into the light, and he aimed one hand at the sky. ‘Eh-eh-eh-eh-eh!’ he shouted, and enemy aircraft fell from the sky.
At the Grammar, he leaped from his bike. Orson was waiting. ‘You won’t believe it,’ he said in his own lugubrious way.
Philip turned, but the school was still there.
‘ Behind us,’ Orson sighed.
Philip walked around to the other side of the sheds.
It didn’t seem possible.
Overnight, a city of tents had risen from the playing fields.
Never before had those fields been so crammed with life and yet so hushed. The two boys kept to the sidelines. The tent-dwellers stared at the sky like old men in a dole queue. They gnawed at buns and gulped water. They rubbed their hands across their whiskers. But they weren’t old.
The first few faces did not look outwardly hostile, but something in their expressions, in the glaze of their eyes, made Philip’s stomach tighten. One man had no arms, only bandaged stumps, like the pollarded trees that poked up stiffly over the playing fields from the road beyond. A swarthy, shirtless man with a red-and-white towel wrapped around his head was striding towards them. Orson stumbled into a run but the man caught Philip by the shoulder. ‘Cannae you read?’ He pointed at a white placard nailed to the boundary fence.
Philip swallowed and looked past him to the two men at the near-esttent. One gargled at the other: ‘Oi, Jimbo, gimme back me ruddy crutch!’ They seemed to speak English but not as he knew it. Were they English? Hal had a smart uniform. That’s what Orson said. Many of these men were only half dressed. In the distance, three were washing from the same bowl. The broadest had a pirate’s patch over one eye.
‘Whass your name, lad?’
He tried to stop his leg from trembling. ‘Philip.’
The man bent down and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. ‘Philip, this is noo place. It’s noo place at all. Now go find your mate an’ get yourselves to your lessons.’
Philip’s voice wobbled in his throat. ‘Are you prisoners of war or war heroes?’
‘I’ll be honest with you.’ With slow, careful fingers, the man shifted the towel on his head. ‘I’m not so sure myself this morning.’ And now Philip could see. The towel wasn’t a towel. It was a loose white dressing.
The man swatted at a fly but it landed again and again. Between the bandages, blood oozed, thick and dark as blackcurrant jam.
The wireless buzzed as the juice went through it. ‘Germany calling. Germany calling. Germany calling. Station Bremen 1, Station Bremen 2 and Station DJB on the ninety-metre band. You are about to hear a talk in English.’
‘Not tonight, Geoffrey …’
Philip looked up from his sketchpad on the floor. His mother was peering over her Mrs Woolf. She didn’t like Lord Haw-Haw. She didn’t like him hearing Lord Haw-Haw. Children weren’t supposed to. That’s what she’d said before. But his father only raised two fin-gers, which meant quiet, please , and the tip of his cigarette burned red.
‘The last week has been supremely eventful in the history of the world. It has witnessed the first great climax of the German campaign, and, as to the result, there is now no doubt whatsoever. In disorder and despair, the British Expeditionary Force has sought to save itself by withdrawing from the Continent, but the very attempt has produced British casualties of a shocking magnitude.’
Philip leaped up from the floor, his eyes bright. ‘I saw them! I did! They’re up at the Grammar!’
His mother raised a finger to her lips.
He settled on the carpet once more. He considered his Spitfire and sighed. Why couldn’t he draw better? To trace was to fail.
Evelyn closed her book and leaned her head back. Geoffrey stared at the ceiling, blowing
The underworld of the bridge spewed him into the light, and he aimed one hand at the sky. ‘Eh-eh-eh-eh-eh!’ he shouted, and enemy aircraft fell from the sky.
At the Grammar, he leaped from his bike. Orson was waiting. ‘You won’t believe it,’ he said in his own lugubrious way.
Philip turned, but the school was still there.
‘ Behind us,’ Orson sighed.
Philip walked around to the other side of the sheds.
It didn’t seem possible.
Overnight, a city of tents had risen from the playing fields.
Never before had those fields been so crammed with life and yet so hushed. The two boys kept to the sidelines. The tent-dwellers stared at the sky like old men in a dole queue. They gnawed at buns and gulped water. They rubbed their hands across their whiskers. But they weren’t old.
The first few faces did not look outwardly hostile, but something in their expressions, in the glaze of their eyes, made Philip’s stomach tighten. One man had no arms, only bandaged stumps, like the pollarded trees that poked up stiffly over the playing fields from the road beyond. A swarthy, shirtless man with a red-and-white towel wrapped around his head was striding towards them. Orson stumbled into a run but the man caught Philip by the shoulder. ‘Cannae you read?’ He pointed at a white placard nailed to the boundary fence.
Philip swallowed and looked past him to the two men at the near-esttent. One gargled at the other: ‘Oi, Jimbo, gimme back me ruddy crutch!’ They seemed to speak English but not as he knew it. Were they English? Hal had a smart uniform. That’s what Orson said. Many of these men were only half dressed. In the distance, three were washing from the same bowl. The broadest had a pirate’s patch over one eye.
‘Whass your name, lad?’
He tried to stop his leg from trembling. ‘Philip.’
The man bent down and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. ‘Philip, this is noo place. It’s noo place at all. Now go find your mate an’ get yourselves to your lessons.’
Philip’s voice wobbled in his throat. ‘Are you prisoners of war or war heroes?’
‘I’ll be honest with you.’ With slow, careful fingers, the man shifted the towel on his head. ‘I’m not so sure myself this morning.’ And now Philip could see. The towel wasn’t a towel. It was a loose white dressing.
The man swatted at a fly but it landed again and again. Between the bandages, blood oozed, thick and dark as blackcurrant jam.
The wireless buzzed as the juice went through it. ‘Germany calling. Germany calling. Germany calling. Station Bremen 1, Station Bremen 2 and Station DJB on the ninety-metre band. You are about to hear a talk in English.’
‘Not tonight, Geoffrey …’
Philip looked up from his sketchpad on the floor. His mother was peering over her Mrs Woolf. She didn’t like Lord Haw-Haw. She didn’t like him hearing Lord Haw-Haw. Children weren’t supposed to. That’s what she’d said before. But his father only raised two fin-gers, which meant quiet, please , and the tip of his cigarette burned red.
‘The last week has been supremely eventful in the history of the world. It has witnessed the first great climax of the German campaign, and, as to the result, there is now no doubt whatsoever. In disorder and despair, the British Expeditionary Force has sought to save itself by withdrawing from the Continent, but the very attempt has produced British casualties of a shocking magnitude.’
Philip leaped up from the floor, his eyes bright. ‘I saw them! I did! They’re up at the Grammar!’
His mother raised a finger to her lips.
He settled on the carpet once more. He considered his Spitfire and sighed. Why couldn’t he draw better? To trace was to fail.
Evelyn closed her book and leaned her head back. Geoffrey stared at the ceiling, blowing
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