Bomber Overhead, Page 3

  ****

  A slanted, drizzly rain fell that Thursday collecting on Jeffery's face and running down his nose to drip off his chin as walked to school. He wore a ragged old raincoat that came from he didn't know where, but he was glad of it. His short trousers left his legs bare from the knees to the top of his wool stockings with the holes in the heels and nobody willing to mend them. The running shoes on his feet were worn out and the old cap on his head had once belonged to Gordon. Mrs. Burnett had decided he needed a cap because she didn't want him carrying a cold back to her house, "If you don't mind."

  He'd lived at the Burnett's for six months now and he'd never once started one of the frequent colds in the house. All the colds since he'd lived there had arrived when Mr. Burnett brought them back from London.

  He felt hungry, and that was normal. His breakfast of two slices of white toast thinly spread with margarine, all he ever got on a weekday, never satisfied his hunger. Sometimes, rarely, on a Sunday he might get an egg, or a scrape of marmalade or jam. Not that he hadn't been used to eating bread for breakfast before he'd been evacuated and often at other mealtimes too. But back home in London the bread slices had been thick and whole-wheat and often spread thickly with fat drippings from the family's Sunday roast -- when they'd been lucky enough to have one. At times meat juice jelly could be found at the bottom of the bowl holding the dripping. The lucky ones who reached the bottom first got to spread jelly on their bread and dripping. Otherwise salt and pepper got sprinkled on the dripping and that was good too. When there was no roast and no fat there'd be a thick layer of margarine also dusted with salt and pepper. Now with food rationing, eggs and jam were both rationed and scarce so all he was given was the bread and margarine without the salt and pepper as Mrs. Burnett didn't believe in that.

  Of course, Mr. Burnett, as a working man, needed his food and couldn't be allowed to go without.

  Over Jeffery's shoulder as he walked to school was slung the cord sling of the cardboard box holding his gas mask. In his right hand he carried a sack full of paper salvage he'd collected by going house to house and knocking on doors asking for any old paper. People were patriotic and passed over anything they had.

  The last house he'd gone to the night before had been hidden behind a high fence. As he went through the gate, a large dog rushed up, barked once, and grabbed the arm that carried the sack in its mouth. A worried looking woman followed by a man had rushed out of the house and hustled the dog away. This disappointed Jeffery because the dog hadn't hurt him and didn't seem angry. He would have liked to have made friends with it. But all turned out well. The woman took him into the house and gave him lemonade plus some homemade biscuits. They'd had a lot of paper and cardboard too, so everything worked out fine.

  He was just past the railway station; about half way to school he heard a shout from behind. "Jeffery! Wait!"

  The voice belonged to Arthur, his second best friend. He stopped and waited. Huffing and puffing Arthur ran down the side street from The Green, the open piece of grassland that belonged to the village. Arthur was medium height and stocky. He often seemed rushed as he tried to keep up with everybody, which he always managed. When he reached Jeffery they walked side by side.

  "Well 'allo Arthur. What's doin', then?"

  "Nuthin' much."

  "Hear the bombs last night?"

  "No. I was asleep, as usual." He grinned weakly. It was a standing joke that Arthur could sleep almost anywhere, anytime. "Most of the others heard them, though. They talked about it all over breakfast. One bomb dropped behind the manor. About half a mile away, in a field."

  Arthur was billeted at Marwell Manor, a large, walled-in house that had been turned into a hostel for difficult to billet evacuees These were those who, for one reason or another, had not fitted in at any of the other billets where they'd been placed. Arthur's first billet had been at a farm with Peter, but the billeting officer had moved him over some trouble. Then at his next billet he started wetting the bed, something he swore he'd never done at home. But in each house where he'd been placed it happened again and he got turned out. Funny thing was he'd never wet the bed since being billeted at Marwell Manor.

  What the two boys really wanted to do that morning was to go where the bombs had fallen to search for shrapnel. They never even considered it, though, because Headmaster Perkins could be quite nasty to boys who skipped school; he never stinted the cane or ordering that pupils be 'kept in'.

  All at once, Jeffery noticed something. "Arthur! Where's your gas mask?"

  Arthur gave a little toss of his head. "I forgot it."

  "No you didn't. You left it behind on purpose."

  "So what if I did? Nobody says anything about them these days. I hide it at school. Teachers don't carry theirs, why should I carry mine? I hate carrying the damn thing. "

  "Don't swear. Old Mrs. Burnett makes me carry mine She makes her Old Man and Gordon take theirs, too. She'd really give it to me if I went out and left it at home."

  He felt a twinge inside as he said home. The Burnett place wasn't home. Home was in London with Mum, Dad and the others. It seemed such a long while since he'd left there and he wondered if he'd ever get back. Now with the Germans in France, Holland, Belgium, Denmark and Norway bombers came over most every night. Bombs were dropped on London and other cities and people were getting killed or wounded and homes were being destroyed.

  "I wish I could be up at The Manor with you lot, Arthur. I hate living at the Burnett's and I hate Gordon. He's always hitting me and he tells his mother all sorts of lies."

  "Lies! What sort of lies?"

  "He says I steal food from the kitchen when he's the one who takes it. And he plays silly tricks and blames me."

  "What sort of tricks?"

  "All sorts of stupid things. Last week he put bacon grease on the kitchen door knob and Mr. Burnett got it all over his hand."

  "Was he angry?"

  "No. He wasn't but Missus was. When Gordon said I'd done it, she sent me to the cupboard and told me to go to bed. I missed ITMA on the wireless."

  "Maybe they'll throw you out and you can come up to The Manor."

  "Not likely. She gives her old man most of my meat ration and they don't want to give that up, or the rest of the stuff they pinch out of my rations."

  The food problem was hard to take. Mrs. Burnett served him tiny portions of fatty meat and a few potatoes and sometimes a plop of watery cabbage. That's why he always looked forward to Sunday. For some reason she always gave him a large helping of Yorkshire Pudding.

  Arthur slipped a small package of greasy newspaper from his pants pocket and passed it to Jeffery. "Here. I grabbed this for you."

  Jeffery took it eagerly and tore the paper away. Inside was a folded piece of fried bread covering a slice of crisp streaky bacon. His eyes lit up and he took a large bite. "Thanks," he garbled as he chewed. I can make it to milk-time, now."

  Milk-time was the mid-morning, small bottle of milk all the children were served courtesy of the government. A second milk break came in the afternoon.

  As they got closer, more children hurried along on their way to school, girls as well as boys and most of them Marwell children. They saw nobody they knew particularly well. At the corner where they turned to get to the school, they stopped for a moment to watch for Peter. Near the same age as both Jeffery and Arthur, Peter was in a class one year ahead. But the three were good friends from London. Peter was billeted on a farm.