Cook counted. ‘One,’ he tensed his arms, Gracie did the same.
‘Two . . .’
‘Mother ...’ the voice from above was weaker.
‘Three.’
Cook pulled. He felt a muscle in his back give. The beam moved, then more. A crunching noise as a chunk of masonry slid way, then it was free.
‘Thank God!’ Annie whimpered. ‘Don’t move, Father!’
Shouts from the alley heralded the arrival of more men. Two of them, tin hats with ARP stencilled on the front.
‘What have we got?’ the one in front asked, as he stepped into the yard, crunching on glass.
‘Father’s upstairs,’ Annie said. ‘Gracie’s just got me out from under half the back wall.’
‘You should be in the shelter,’ the ARP warden said, as Cook stood up. ‘Can’t have civilians running around, getting in the way.’
‘Who’s in charge?’ Cook asked.
‘Beaumont,’ the ARP warden said.
‘Where is he?’ Cook asked.
The warden looked at his mate, who shook his head.
‘On patrol,’ he said.
Cook knew the look. It was the look of a man who’s learnt the truth about his superior officer, after all the training, and the marching, and the blowing of whistles, when the shots start firing and the bombs start falling.
22
Frankie found the first mushroom next to the shelter. It was still warm. A heavy lump of shining metal, with a stalk and a flattened cap. A tiny version of the real mushrooms Cook had shown him in the fields around the farm.
He found more at the edge of the park. As he stooped to pick them up, putting them in his pockets, he heard the clink of metal on concrete, and then a soft thud as something landed in the grass nearby.
The thing in the grass was a bullet. Just as shiny, and just as warm. The shape was unmistakable. The ones that bounced off the roof of the shelter were mushrooms – the impact shaping the soft metal.
Bullets – mushrooms – either way they felt valuable, so Frankie put them in his pocket.
A light was showing from the hermitage warehouse. After a year of the blackout, Frankie wasn’t used to seeing such a bright light outdoors. He took the alley past the pub, towards the warehouse. As he got closer, he could see what had happened.
The front wall had taken a direct hit. There was an electric light inside, hanging at the end of a wire.
Frankie looked up into the clouds, imagining a German pilot seeing the light. He’d turn his plane, zero in on the target. One of those Stukas, the type that screamed as it dived.
Frankie clambered over a pile of rubble – big chunks of masonry, covered with so much dust it was like fallen snow.
He couldn’t find a light switch. It must have been on the front wall. The wall that was now just so much dust.
A bomb came down in the river on the other side of the warehouse. It made a satisfying plonk, like when Frankie threw a large pebble into deep water. Then the ground shifted, and before he knew it he was up to his ankles in the dust, as if quicksand wanted to swallow him up.
Frankie hurriedly pulled his feet out of the dust, and stumbled back down onto the street.
But the light was still burning. It wouldn’t do.
He picked up a stone. A good size for throwing. Not too big, but with enough weight to fly true.
