Buried Crown Page 2

  And then the two Messerschmitts were upon him, all guns blazing.

  There was a flash of silver as the pilot rolled the Spitfire and veered into a steep dive before pulling up hard and climbing steeply away.

  George tensed. Come on! Come on! You can do it!

  But suddenly the engine sputtered and the plane began to spiral down. As it struggled to regain height, the two Messerschmitts closed in and fired again. And this time the bullets found their target. A trail of thick grey smoke poured from the Spitfire’s rear end.

  ‘No!’ George’s stomach clenched as the plane zigzagged crazily across the sky. He willed it to lift up again but it kept on falling, plummeting towards the coast like a spent rocket. He couldn’t bear to watch . . . He scrunched his eyes tight shut. A few seconds later there was a thudding bang. He groaned and hugged his arms to his chest.

  ‘Oi, you! City Boy!’ A rough hand gripped his shoulder and swung him round. ‘I’m not given’ yer board and lodgen’ so’s yer can stand there dreamen’.’

  George blinked. The stocky figure of Bill Jarvis stood before him, legs straddling the potato trench, hands fisted on his hips.

  ‘There was a Spitfire . . . It—’ George pointed up at the sky. But all that was left was a criss-cross of white vapour trails and a plume of black smoke on the distant horizon.

  ‘The sooner yer stop gawpen’ at some young fool tryen’ to prove himself a hero, and get back to yer work, the better.’ Jarvis stepped forwards, right hand slipping to his belt buckle, a ferrety glint in his eyes.

  A spurt of anger shot through George. For a heart-thumping moment he pictured himself picking up the bucket, swinging it at Bill Jarvis’s head and making a run for it. But as Jarvis took another step towards him, his courage leaked away. Cheeks burning, he lowered into a squat and grubbed up another stone from the gritty brown soil.

  ‘That’s more like it.’ Bill Jarvis’s face cocked into its familiar sneer. ‘Now, I’m off into town to meet a contact of mine and do a bit of traden’. When I come back I want this whole trench picked clean. If not, yer’ll be goen’ to bed hungry again.’ Flexing his knuckles, he shot George a warning look, then turned and stomped back across the field and through the rusty farmyard gate.

  George kept his head down. When he was sure Jarvis had gone, he got to his feet again and peered back up at the sky. There was no sign of the two Messerschmitts, but the plume of smoke was still there, fading now into the blue. Had the pilot managed to bail out before the plane hit the ground? He hoped so. But what if the same thing happened to Charlie? He shivered and did his best to squash the thought back down.

  A series of frantic barks rang out from across the yard.

  ‘Shut yer noise, fleaball!’ There was a sudden yelp followed by the rattle of metal and the bang of a door. ‘That’ll teach yer, yer mangy cur.’

  The knot in George’s stomach grew tighter. It was bad enough when Jarvis took the belt to him; but it hurt even more when he gave poor Spud a hiding. The dog was the only good thing about being here. That, and being close to Charlie. Spud had been near to starving when George had first arrived; hadn’t even had a name until he gave him one, though he’d kept it a secret from Jarvis.

  He slid over to the gate, staying low to keep out of sight. A cart laden with a bunch of potato sacks stood in the sun-scorched yard. Bill Jarvis was up front, shunting his moth-eaten pony between the wooden shafts. There was no sign of Spud. What’d he done with him? George pulled back to avoid being spotted. He was desperate to check on him, but he couldn’t risk it. Not while that great bully was still around. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. He wiped it away with his shirtsleeve and waited.

  At last, after what seemed like an age, Jarvis finished hitching up the pony and climbed on board. At a flick of his whip, the animal jerked into motion. The cart jolted forwards, scattering a bunch of scrawny chickens before turning out through the gate and on to the stony track that led towards town.

  George waited until it had disappeared from view. Then, yanking open the gate, he dashed into the yard. He snatched a look at the cottage, sagging under the weight of its mouldy thatched roof. Spud wouldn’t be in there – Jarvis never let him indoors; even at night. He cocked his head and listened again. The cart was a distant rumble now, mixed in with the faint cry of gulls echoing up from the river. Above it a new sound pricked his ears. A stomach-twisting whine of pain. It was coming from the ramshackle barn opposite.

  Tearing across to it, he heaved the door open and stepped inside. He blinked against the dark, nose wrinkling at the sour-sharp stink of soiled straw.

  ‘Spud? Where are you, boy?’ There was a rasp of metal from the darkest corner and the whimpering started up again. George crept towards it, heart thumping, afraid of what he might find. A black furry shape shifted against the wall and the whimper became a low growl.

  ‘It’s only me, boy. Don’t be frightened. I ain’t going to hurt you.’ George knelt down and held out his hand. As a biscuit-brown snout poked out from the shadows, there was another cold clink of metal.

  George’s stomach lurched at the sight of the chain.

  ‘Oh, Spud! How could he do that to you?’ Tugging the end of it free from the hook Jarvis had fixed it to, he gently worked it loose from the dog’s matted fur and slipped it over his head. ‘Wait there, boy. I’ll get you something to drink.’ He picked up an old milk-churn lid and ran out into the yard. Filling it with water from the pump, he hurried back into the barn.

  ‘Here you go.’ George knelt in the straw and watched as the dog dipped his head and drank long and hard.

  He was fetching more water when he heard the crunch of bicycle tyres on the gravel outside. He let the pump-handle fall and watched as the portly figure of the postman came wobbling down the trackway towards the farm.

  As the bike ground to a halt, a flash of excitement tore through him. What if it was a letter from Charlie?

  ‘Mornen’.’ The postman clambered off the bike and propped it against the wall. He had the same weird way of talking they all had round here. Puffing out his cheeks, he took off his hat and walked through the gate towards him. ‘See that dogfight, did you?’

  George shivered as the last moments of the Spitfire’s flight played again like a newsreel inside his head.

  ‘Looks like old Jerry got the better of us in that one. Still, at least our lad’ll live to fight another day.’ The postman came to a stop in front of him. He pulled a damp-looking handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped at the sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.

  George’s stomach fluttered. ‘You mean he bailed out?’

  The postman nodded. ‘I saw the parachute comen’ down when I was on my way up here. Let’s just hope he didn’t have a rocky landen’. The sooner he’s back up there keepen’ those Jerries at bay, the better.’ He gave a small cough. ‘Mister Jarvis about, is he?’

  George tensed. ‘No. He’s gone into town.’

  The postman shot him a sympathetic look. ‘I feel sorry for you, lad. Crooked Bill’s a hard taskmaster and no mistaken’ it.’ He frowned. ‘How come you’ve ended up with him anyway?’

  George felt his cheeks flush. He didn’t want him knowing the whole story. It was embarrassing. And besides, it was none of his business anyway. He licked his lips and toed at a weed growing from beneath the wall next to him. ‘My brother’s training to be a pilot at the airbase. He thought I’d be safer out here than back in London.’

  ‘Not here you won’t.’ The postman’s frown deepened. ‘Haven’t you been listenen’ to the news? Old Herr Hitler’s plannen’ to invade any day now. All this’ – he waved his handkerchief at the sky – ‘is part of his cunnen’ plan. Getten’ the Luftwaffe’s planes to try and soften us up first before he makes his big push by sea. Which means if he and his Nasties come this way, we’ll be right in his path.’

  George’s eyes widened.

  The postman looked over his shoulder. As he bent in closer, George g
ot a whiff of salty-smelling sweat. ‘Rumour has it, some of them Home Guard volunteers have been holed up in the woods hereabouts on special trainen’ just in case. Not that them and a bit of barbed wire on the beach’ll stop the Jerries if they do decide to come.’ He stuffed his handkerchief into his trouser pocket and cleared his throat again. ‘Anyway, don’t mind me.’ Opening the leather satchel which hung from his shoulder, he rummaged inside and fished out a grey envelope. ‘’Ere y’are.’

  George put the milk-churn lid down on the ground and dried his hands hurriedly on his trousers. As he took the letter from the postman, his heart lifted then sank again. It was Charlie’s handwriting all right, but it was addressed to Bill Jarvis.

  ‘I’ll be off then.’ The postman climbed back up on his bike. ‘And if I were you, sonny, I’d try and stay on Crooked Bill’s good side. He’s got a nasty temper on him, that one.’ With a wave of his hand, he swayed off down the track in the direction of town.

  George pulled a face. Good side? Bill Jarvis didn’t have a good side. Leastways there’d been no sign of it in the five weeks since he’d got here. And why was Charlie writing to Jarvis and not him? He ran his fingers over the familiar inky scrawl and frowned. There was only one way to find out.

  Stuffing the envelope into his pocket, he scooped up the milk-churn lid and headed back inside the barn.

  As George approached, Spud shot up from the pile of dirty straw he was lying on and backed trembling into the corner.

  ‘It’s all right, boy. It’s only me. Here you go.’ George set the lid on the ground and sank down beside him. Giving his hands another quick wipe, he pulled the envelope out of his pocket and turned it over. The flap hadn’t been sealed properly on one side. He wavered for a moment, then, poking a finger into the gap, slowly, surely he worked it free. Hands shaking, he slid out the piece of flimsy white paper inside. As he unfolded it, a ten-bob note fluttered out and landed in his lap. He gasped. What was Charlie doing sending Bill Jarvis a whole wodge of money like this? He picked it up and stared at it, then turned his gaze back to the letter. It was dated Monday 2 September. Four days ago.

  He took a breath and began to read:

  Dear Mr Jarvis,

  I’ll be finished with my training at the end of this week. I was hoping to get a pass to come and see George, but it looks like they’ll be sending me off up to fight the Jerries just as soon as I’m done.

  This may be the last time I can write for a while – I’m expecting to be kept pretty busy up there – so I thought I should send you some more money for his keep. Hopefully it’ll be enough to tide him over for the time being. And I’ve got a bit more put by for him too, if the worst happens...

  Well, it’s lights out now so I’ll sign off, but if you could pass a message on to George for me I’d be grateful. Tell him I love him. And tell him to be sure and keep the promise he made. He’ll know what I mean.

  And thank you again for agreeing to take him in. It means a lot, being so close to each other, even if I haven’t managed to get across and pay him a visit yet.

  Yours sincerely

  Charlie Penny

  George dropped the letter and slumped back against a bale of prickly straw. It felt like someone had punched a hole in his stomach and filled it full of stones. ‘If the worst happens.’ He knew what that meant. It meant Charlie being shot down over the sea and drowning; or crash-landing and his plane exploding in a ball of flames. Or else his parachute not opening properly and . . . The old familiar tightness gripped his chest. He did what Charlie had showed him, taking deep breaths, holding them for a count of five and blowing them out again slowly until it began to fade.

  He couldn’t let himself think like that. Charlie was relying on him. That’s what the promise was about, wasn’t it? Why Charlie had asked Bill Jarvis to remind him.

  He slipped his hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out the ring. As he held it up, a sliver of light from a knothole caught the letters engraved on it, making them pulse with a sudden gold fire:

  Together Always

  It was what Mum and Dad had promised each other on their wedding day: Charlie had told him that when he’d given the ring to him, the day he’d left for his basic training – nearly a year ago now. George closed his eyes and let the scene come flooding back.

  They were on the platform at Liverpool Street station, waiting for Charlie’s train to leave. It was crowded out with all sorts: city gents in suits and bowler hats striding off to work; soldiers kissing their wives and sweethearts goodbye; crocodiles of evacuee kids following their teachers, each with a gas-mask box strapped across their chest, a luggage label tied to their coat and a small suitcase or pillow-case with their belongings in it, clutched in their hand – all of them being sent off to live with strangers in the country.

  By rights George should have been one of them, but he’d refused to go, saying he’d only leave London if he could be close to Charlie. And in the end Charlie had caved in and arranged for him to stay with their neighbour, old Mrs Jenkins, until he could find a place for him near the airbase – though it’d taken a lot longer than either of them had thought.

  As the crowds milled around them, Charlie looked down at George and frowned.

  ‘It don’t feel right leaving you, Georgie, but you understand, don’t you? I’ve got to do my bit to try and stop old Adolf, or life won’t be worth living.’

  George bit down on his lip and nodded. He was trying his best to be brave but it was hard . . .

  ‘Good lad. I’ll write once a week, and come back and see you every leave too. And don’t go giving Mrs Jenkins any grief, will you? It’s good of her to take you in.’ He glanced back to where their elderly neighbour stood at the entrance to the platform and raised a hand.

  A whistle shrilled. Doors slammed. People began to shout their farewells.

  Charlie ruffled George’s hair. ‘Nearly time, Georgie. Here, look. I’ve got something for you.’ He fished a small leather-covered box out of his coat pocket and lifted the lid to reveal a pair of gold rings nestled against each other on the black velvet cloth inside.

  George frowned.

  ‘Mum and Dad’s wedding rings. The coppers gave them to me after the accident. I didn’t tell you before cos, well, I thought it would upset you.’ Charlie blinked and puffed out a breath. ‘But I reckon you’re old enough now.’ He picked up the smaller of the two rings and showed George the inscription. Then, pressing it into his hand, he fixed him with a steady gaze. ‘Keep it safe, George, and I’ll come back to you, whatever happens.’ He took the second ring out of the box, slid it on to the middle finger of his right hand and tipped it towards George. ‘D’you swear?’

  George curled his fingers round his ring and touched it to Charlie’s. ‘I swear!’

  Charlie nodded. He drew in a breath and pulled George to him, holding him tight; so tight one of his buttons spiked George’s cheek. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except Charlie staying safe.

  The whistle sounded again. Charlie pushed him gently away. ‘I’d best get going. Don’t forget now, Georgie.’ He held up his finger so the ring caught the light. Flashing George a quick smile, he picked up his bag and jumped on board the train. As he turned round to wave, there was a sharp hiss of steam and a juddering clank. The train lurched forwards and the crowd surged towards it, blocking him from view. By the time George had managed to elbow his way up to the front, it was too late. The train had already left the platform and was snaking away out of sight down the track . . .

  Something wet and whiskery nuzzled the back of George’s hand. He blinked and lifted his head. A pair of brown eyes shone back at him from the gloom.

  ‘Sorry, boy.’ He ran his fingers through Spud’s fur and gazed at the ring again. He’d make sure and keep it safe, just like he’d promised; then Charlie would be safe too. He swallowed hard. If only he could see him. Wish him luck before his first mission.

  A sudden thought flashed into his head. He could go now. What was
stopping him? The airbase was only about three miles from here – Charlie had told him that. He’d follow the road into town and ask for directions from there. And he’d take his things too. Because Charlie wouldn’t want him to come back here. Not when he told him how awful Bill Jarvis was.

  His stomach fizzed with excitement. He tucked the letter and money back in the envelope and stuffed it in his pocket with the ring.

  ‘Stay there, boy. I’ll be back in a minute.’ Patting Spud on the head, George jumped up and ran out into the yard. He was heading round to the cottage when a winged shadow fell across the ground in front of him. He stopped in his tracks and glanced up, squinting against the sun. It looked like one of them crows Bill Jarvis was always taking potshots at, except bigger. Much bigger. Lucky for the bird Jarvis wasn’t around or he’d probably blast it out of the sky and hang it from a fence post like all the others. He shivered at the memory of the lines of black feathered carcasses rotting in the sun.

  When he reached the cottage, he pushed open the door and stepped into the dark, grimy kitchen. His stomach rumbled at the smell of fried onions from last night’s dinner. He’d had nothing to eat since then, apart from a bit of stale bread and dripping at breakfast. But there was no time to worry about food now.

  He hurried into the passage and up the stairs to the tiny cupboard of a room he’d been sleeping in since he’d first got here, what seemed like a lifetime ago. Yanking his knapsack out from under the bed, he stuffed his spare underwear, pyjamas and identity card inside it.

  He was about to go when he spotted the dog-eared cover of the cigarette card album poking out from beneath his pillow. He couldn’t leave that behind: Charlie had sent it to him last month for his thirteenth birthday, together with a whole bunch of cards – ‘Planes of the Royal Air Force’ – to stick inside it. It was the only present he’d got; that and a clip round the ear from Bill Jarvis for being late collecting the eggs.

  George scooped up the album and leafed through the pages of brightly coloured cards. There were pictures of a Hawker Hurricane, a Blackburn ‘Skua’ dive-bomber and a Wellington. Not forgetting his favourite. He stared down at the card showing the Mark I Supermarine Spitfire, then lifted up the album and buried his nose in the pages. The cards gave off the same sweet smell as the tobacco Charlie used to roll his own. A lump rose in George’s throat. He missed his brother so much. But at least he’d see him now. If they let him on to the airbase . . .