The House of Flowers Page 7

  Just as he was about to take his final leave, to his surprise he heard the man in the corner stir. Turning, Eugene dropped to his haunches and levelled the gun at the man’s temple. The young Sicilian’s eyes opened slowly. As they did, Eugene pressed the gun harder into his forehead.

  The man frowned up at him and shrugged. His eyes swivelled sideways until he could take in the outline of his friend slumped on the stone floor.

  ‘What you do?’ he whispered. ‘What is this? We are friends.’

  Eugene eyed him, then with his free hand dangled his friend’s safe pass in front of him.

  ‘Friends of the SS. I should cut both your throats.’

  ‘No! Please! No – no me! I am your friend – I swear! I do not know ’im – I not do this with ’im afore.’

  ‘And I don’t think he’s going to be doing it again, either.’

  The man frowned and shook his head in bewilderment. As soon as he did so he put his hands to his head to hold it against the sudden pain that shot through it.

  Eugene stared at him, trying to assemble some sort of plan. Without help and guidance he knew he was as good as dead, since he had no knowledge of the country into which he had been dropped other than the fact that he was to be taken to a safe house and from there to a safe place of work. He was helpless without contacts. Lacking an escort it was an odds on certainty that he would walk straight into the arms of the enemy.

  His only chance of survival was to trust the Sicilian, lie low for a while and during that time change his appearance. The problem was the disappearance of the traitor lying dead against the wall of the farmhouse. When he failed to show up with his expected goods, the Germans or Italian soldiers would come out looking, and when they found his dead body they would know Eugene was at large.

  They’re going to know that anyway, Eugene reasoned to himself as he stared down at his prisoner. Putting his gun back in the belt of his trousers, he nodded to the Sicilian and, after making known his intentions, enlisted his help to drag the dead man up the rickety stairs of the deserted building and deposit his corpse under the floorboards. As they placed the wooden board back over him, his compatriot spat in disgust.

  ‘Now where?’ Eugene wondered as they stood outside surveying a bleak wintry landscape unfolding under an ominous sky. ‘What’s our destination?’

  ‘We go about ten mile,’ the Sicilian replied. ‘But we take the river. We go by boat. Come. Quick now.’

  He hurried Eugene off in a direction away from the road, keeping low as they traversed the field between the house and the trees in the near distance. They had just made the cover of the woodland when Eugene heard the sound of motor vehicles. Glancing back over his shoulder through the undergrowth he saw a small patrol of motorbikes and an armoured car driving along the road, one soldier standing in the car behind a long-barrelled machine gun. For a second he held his breath, but the unit paid no attention to the outwardly derelict farmhouse, driving straight past it and continuing without slowing down along the winding road that finally disappeared into the hillside.

  There was a boat waiting for them, moored on the near bank, a quite ordinary rowing boat with a pair of strong oars, well concealed in an inlet that ran under some large heavily bowed trees.

  ‘If anyone spots us in this, we’re sitting ducks.’

  ‘No one will see us, my friend,’ he was assured. ‘This river is very small, and runs away from the roads. Where we go, believe me, this is very much the safest way.’

  So it proved. After a bitterly cold but entirely uneventful voyage down a small meandering river, Eugene found himself decanted on the banks of a tiny little hamlet where it would seem from his first impression time had completely forgotten to move on.

  Back at Eden Park, Billy was staring at his plate of fish pie. Billy hated fish and even more so when it had been made into some sort of pie, particularly when covered with a thin coating of white dried potato. He fidgeted at his place at Mrs Alderman’s kitchen table, pushing a piece of the offending offering around his plate so regularly that Mrs Alderman, busy studying the weekly ration allocations which were known as ‘Changes in the Points Value’ in her newspaper, finally looked up at him and clicked her tongue loudly.

  ‘Billy,’ she warned him. ‘I can’t concentrate. Not with you doing that.’

  Billy, all innocence, looked back at the cook. When she had returned to her reading he transferred his gaze to the cat who was sitting as ever like Patience on her monument under the kitchen table, conveniently near to his feet. The kitchen cat and Billy were now firm friends, so much so that it seemed to know at once when there was a game on, climbing down from some cosy place near the kitchen range and slinking its way across the floor to find its new ally.

  So far the score that morning stood at Billy and Cat two, Mrs Alderman nought, a long way from their best score of the previous week, which was Billy and Cat eighteen, Mrs Alderman one. That had been a golden lunchtime when the cook had been so engrossed in her reading and accompanying tongue-clicking that she had only noticed one morsel of her precious stew being fed to Cat.

  Today, however, she seemed more on her guard, as if news of Billy’s favourite pastime had somehow come to her notice. She would keep looking up at odd moments, particularly when Billy fidgeted. The more she looked up, the more he fidgeted, and the more he fidgeted, the more she looked up, which was why after twenty minutes Billy and Cat’s fish pie score stood at only two.

  In order to get her back to her reading for long enough for Billy to score another goal, he had to feign eating some fish, a task that made him want to retch, so disgusting was the taste of the cold and congealing forkful. Unfortunately, as he did so Mrs Alderman looked up and awarded him another stare, forcing Billy to swallow a larger mouthful than he had intended. With eyes bulging he grabbed his water glass and swallowed half the tumbler.

  ‘It can hardly be hot, Billy,’ Mrs Alderman remarked. ‘Seeing you’ve been sitting in front of it since before the last war.’

  ‘Must be the pepper, Mrs A.’

  ‘There ain’t no pepper on it, young man,’ the cook replied, shaking out her newspaper. ‘Can’t get any pepper these days, not a bit. That’s why they’re a-calling it white gold. Didn’t know that, did you, Mr Smarty Pants? If you wanted to make a fortune you’d be out growing pepper, that’s what you’d be doing, or whatever it is you do to make pepper, instead of sitting for half a century in front of your dinner.’

  ‘Wonder what they’re calling fish,’ Billy muttered, eyeing the cat, who was now busy swishing his tail in patent discontent. ‘White muck I should imagine.’

  ‘Fish is good for you,’ Mrs Alderman replied crisply. ‘And we’re a lot luckier than some, here at Eden Park, I can tell you, seeing how we have the lakes and the old stew ponds. Most folks in towns they don’t get no fish at all, even after queuing for it for hours and hours. So you just eat it up and be thankful.’

  Mrs Alderman gave Billy one more friendly glare, then returned to her study of the food points values, pushing her glasses up her nose as she did so, unable to believe how much had changed, and how quickly, now that rationing was really beginning to be felt.

  ‘So what other treats are we in for this week then, Mrs A?’ Billy asked over-politely, as he surreptitiously dropped an extra large lump of what he deeply suspected might be carp down to the ever grateful cat. ‘Anything exciting on the menu?’

  ‘You might get some American sausage meat if you’re lucky. That’s come down some points, as has Spam. Almost as much as that awful Tor stuff you get in tins.’

  ‘Oh, Gawd. I hate Tor worse than I hate Spam.’

  ‘And you’re not to swear, young man. I told you that a dozen times.’

  ‘Gawd in’t no swear word. It’s a name.’

  ‘A name you’re taking in vain. The Lord’s name. There’s nothing wrong with gosh or golly – and you’re to mind your grammar too, and all, while I’m on the subject. “In’t no swear word” indeed! No such w
ord as in’t, Billy, and you knows it. It’s ain’t. It ain’t no swear word. And finish up your fish.’

  ‘What else are we not going to get then, Mrs A?’ Billy continued, all innocence, as he saw Mrs Alderman returning to her reading. ‘Nothing half decent, I’ll bet.’

  ‘You won’t be getting no sugar at this rate, not according to this chart ’ere. Nor any tea. Tea’s gawn through the roof so it has.’

  ‘Gone, Mrs Alderman. No such word as gawn, don’t you know.’

  ‘I’ll give those ears of yours a good clip if you don’t look out, Billy Hendry.’

  Mrs Alderman sighed and began to fold her paper up. Seeing her doing so, Billy’s heart grew heavy as he realised that gone was his chance to get anywhere near his record score. Not only that, but if she maintained her present level of vigilance Mrs Alderman would make sure he had to eat the rest of her disgusting fish pie himself.

  ‘I’d kill for a cup of decent tea,’ she grumbled, getting slowly to her feet and pottering over to the sink to fill the kettle, giving Billy the chance of a quick hat-trick down under the table to Cat.

  ‘When fisher-folk are brave enough / To face mines and the foe for you / You surely can be bold enough / To try a fish that’s new,’ Mrs Alderman recited with a sigh, banging the lid back on the kettle while nodding at Billy to encourage him. ‘You’d do well to learn that, young man, and be thankful you got something on your plate.’

  ‘What do you think I’m doing, Mrs A?’ Billy enquired, through a pretend mouthful of food. ‘Look – I nearly cleared up every scrap.’

  Mrs Alderman looked round at that, and saw to her surprise that the boy’s plate was almost clean. She eyed him suspiciously. She knew that Billy was always up to something, and no doubt making fish pie disappear was another of his illusions. Her suspicion was always greater the more innocent his smile.

  ‘It’s not me I’m feeling sorry for,’ the cook continued. ‘As far as tea goes that is. It’s all them poor people upstairs—’

  ‘Isn’t it those poor people upstairs, Mrs A?’ Billy wondered, widening his eyes more than ever.

  ‘It’s them poor people upstairs I feel sorry for,’ Mrs Alderman continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘Them poor hardworking bods, doing their best to help win the war, and all I can give ’em as refreshment is a cup of near dishwater. Disgraceful, that’s what I say it is. Don’t know what the government can be thinking, expecting this famous war effort they’re always on about when a body can’t even get a half-decent cup of tea.’

  During this speech, to his quiet delight, Billy was able to score another fish hat-trick, bringing the score up to Cat and Billy nine, Mrs Alderman nil. Unhappily there was neither enough left on the plate to break the existing record nor indeed enough time, as Mrs Alderman suddenly leaned over and whisked away his plate.

  ‘And another thing I cannot abide is people sittin’ in front of cold food,’ she grumbled. ‘Particularly ungrateful people.’

  ‘’Ow can you say such a thing, Mrs A?’ Billy replied, all hurt innocence. ‘Look ’ow much I’ve eaten. Look ’ow well I done.’

  ‘’Ow well I have done, Billy. And what’s that funny noise— Oh, no. It’s not the bloomin’ cat being sick, surely?’

  At the realisation that the last scrap he had dropped for the cat must have been both too large and too bony and if he wasn’t careful the game would be up entirely, Billy was out of his chair in a moment.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs A!’ he called as he scrambled to the door. ‘Thanks for the pie – but I suddenly remembered I got to see Major F! He said he had some news about my invention!’

  ‘You and your inventions,’ Mrs Alderman grumbled, doubling over her considerable bulk in an effort to find the still vomiting cat. ‘And if I find you been feeding Maudie—’

  But Billy was gone, and with him any chance Mrs Alderman had of finding out whether it was the cat, or her charge, who had been responsible for the mealtime felony.

  ‘Blimey,’ Billy said to himself as he scampered upstairs. ‘If this war’s worth winnin’, it’s worth winnin’ for an end to Mrs A’s fish pie for good an’ all!’

  ‘You’re late,’ Marjorie chided him as Billy skidded through the outer door of Major Folkestone’s office.

  ‘I’m right on time,’ Billy retorted. ‘Right on the blooming chiming of the church clock. Listen, Marge.’ He started to feign the tolling of the old clock.

  ‘You’re still late. Too late to save me from having to say yes to a drink.’

  Marjorie glared back over her shoulder at Major Folkestone’s inner door, which had just closed fast behind her.

  ‘That’s not my fault, Marge. Any ’ow—’

  ‘How. Anyhow.’

  ‘That’s your beeswax. You can look after yourself.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Marjorie sighed. ‘You will when you’re older.’

  ‘All you had to do was make an excuse,’ Billy grimaced. ‘If you don’t want to go out with him, tell him something stupid.’

  ‘I’ve run out of excuses, Billy! Anyway, even if I do make an excuse he always gives me the Monday then.’ In response to Billy’s puzzled stare, Marjorie went on to explain. ‘If I say sorry I can’t tonight, Major – or tomorrow – or Friday – he just says fine. How about Monday then?’

  ‘So this time . . . ?’

  ‘This time I found myself – because I couldn’t think of anything – saying all right, tonight then. If you’d only been on time, Billy, I wouldn’t have been caught, would I?’

  ‘I was bang on time! Look! Look – it’s slap bang on two o’bloomin’ clock.’

  ‘You look a complete mess, Billy. Come here.’

  Marjorie frowned and pulled her self-adopted teenage brother towards her, trying to make him look a bit more respectable before he kept his appointment with her boss. His long wool socks had fallen round his ankles, his striped scarf was knotted like a hangman’s noose round his throat, his tie was halfway round to the back of his neck, one side of his shirt collar stuck up towards his chin while the other was entirely invisible under his tie, and, to top it all, he had his jumper on not only inside out, but back to front.

  ‘You’re going to end up in a back room here with all the other loonies,’ she grumbled. ‘Inventing things totally as daft as you, and the rest of them.’

  ‘Has he said anything about my pilotless bomb yet, Marge?’ Billy asked, his voice dropping to a whisper as the door to the inner office opened and the figure of Miss Budge appeared, a stack of files under one arm.

  ‘No. But then he wouldn’t. Not to me anyway,’ Marjorie told him, easing him towards the open door.

  ‘So what’s he want to see me for then?’

  ‘You’ll soon find out, won’t you? Go on.’

  With one final push Billy was inside Major Folkestone’s office.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ Billy said, giving a more than creditable salute.

  ‘At ease, young man,’ the major replied. ‘I’ve got something for you.’

  Billy cast a quick look round the desk to see if he could spot any trace of the file on his soon-to-be-famous pilotless bomb, but to his amazement nothing was visible.

  ‘Can I ask you something, sir?’

  ‘Not now, Billy.’ Major Folkestone cut him short. ‘I have a busy afternoon and you’re the very smallest part of it, I’m afraid. Here.’

  ‘I was only going to ask—’

  ‘Not now, Billy. That’s an order.’

  Anthony Folkestone indicated for Billy to sit down at a table and handed him a pencil and paper.

  ‘Take a dekko at that, young man, and tell me what you make of it. Should be child’s play to you, with your knack with codes.’

  Billy frowned down at the sheets of paper on the table in front of him.

  ‘Even Marge could crack this one, sir,’ he told the major loftily, after a few minutes. ‘It’s easy-peasy. Boring, actually.’

  ‘I’m quite sure Marjorie could not crack it, Billy – just
as I’m sure it isn’t what you call easy-peasy. Or boring.’

  Billy gazed up at him and as always Anthony Folkestone got the strangest feeling. It was as if the boy was possessed not just of a knack but of something else, a capacity about which he had no real understanding, but which seemed to be visible in his eyes, as if there was quite another person than young Billy Hendry looking back out at you.

  He had already proved that he had a highly precocious ability to add columns of figures at a glance, and to translate basic codes as accurately as, and sometimes more quickly than, most of the professional code-breakers at Eden Park.

  At first Anthony Folkestone had not given much thought to Billy’s precocious ability, which was hardly surprising since Billy’s vague urchin look and unmilitary manners certainly did not suggest a hidden genius, and his eternally cheerful manner would have been more suited to a delivery boy. So Anthony was inclined to put his odd talents down to general quirkiness, deciding not to look beyond what was on offer – namely the boy’s innate ability to decipher codes, in exchange for which Anthony willingly put up patiently with what he considered to be Billy’s wilder flights of fancy, so many of which Marjorie, with sisterly love, faithfully placed on his desk, and which still sat unexamined under a pile of Top Secret documents.

  ‘This is just another of them triple letter do-dahs, sir,’ Billy said with what he considered to be a sniff of some sophistication. ‘You know – we’ve ’ad ’em before.’

  ‘Yes, I know we’ve had them before, Billy, but I am not as able as you to work through them as quickly. If I was I wouldn’t bother you with them, but the boys have their hands full enough trying to decipher stuff concerning attacks on our supply convoys. This has just come through, and since you’re around . . .’

  Anthony petered out, realising his reasoning was beginning to sound feeble. He knew he used Billy for this sort of decoding because he was not just on hand, but very fast, although Anthony was at pains not to tell him so.