‘I thought it was gas,’ Annie said. ‘They said there was going to be gas.’
42
Frankie had his sister’s coat wrapped around his hand, wielding it like a whip on nettles that had the temerity to lean over the footpath.
The train back from London had been slow, shunting back and forth, a long detour through the suburbs – the main line out of action due to a UXB.
‘That’s not a very respectful thing to do with your sister’s coat,’ Cook said.
Frankie ignored him, swiped the coat at a particularly thick patch. Cook held his tongue. Shouldn’t have said anything in the first place.
‘You should ask your mum to come and visit sometime,’ Cook said.
Frankie shrugged.
‘She wouldn’t like it,’ he said.
Cook briefed his mum and Uncle Nob while Frankie was washing his hands before tea. The service. The police station. The journey back.
When Frankie came down for tea, nobody quite knew what to say.
‘That’s a nice coat,’ Mum said.
Frankie shrugged.
‘That’ll see you through the winter,’ Mum said. She’d started it, she was going to see it through. She was good like that. Besides, the boy was less likely to be openly hostile to her.
‘Let’s see it on you,’ she said.
‘Let the boy eat his tea,’ Cook said.
She fanned out the coat, holding it for Frankie to step into.
‘Go on,’ she said.
Frankie stood up. Shrugged the coat on.
‘Must have cost a few bob,’ Mum said. ‘You look like Humphrey Bogart.’
Frankie put his hands in the pockets, drew the coat round him like some kind of spy in a flick. He sat down, keeping the coat on.
‘Shall we put the news on?’ she asked. ‘See if there’s any more bombing?’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she froze, aware of what she’d said. But Frankie didn’t seem to notice. He was fidgeting, his hands deep in the pockets.
‘What’ve you got?’ Mum asked.
‘There’s a hole in the pocket,’ Frankie said, looking up while his fingers explored the lining of the coat. Hunting for treasure.
He pulled something out with a flourish and put it on the table. It was a white piece of card.
‘What’s that?’ Mum asked.
Frankie turned it over.
‘Nothing,’ he said, then dug into the coat again, hopeful for more treasure.
Cook picked up the card. It had a safety pin stuck on the back. On the front it had the logo for the Lyons tea room. And a handwritten name. Cook frowned. He’d been expecting it to be Ruby’s name, but it wasn’t.
