Shoes for Anthony (13 page)

I hadn't slept well. Images of the dead airman had returned to me through the night until I'd woken, sweating and frightened. Five bodies had been found in all. Two were in the cockpit. Three had come from the fuselage. They were still up the mountain. The decision had been made to let the cockpit burn itself out. It was too dark to do anything, so a few members of the Home Guard had been left to mind the site, and everyone else had gone home.

It was a sombre breakfast. Emrys, in particular, seemed shaken, almost embarrassed. ‘First sign of a German,' said Alwyn, reaching for the butter, ‘and you throw your guts up. Good job you're not in the proper army, eh?'

‘Shut up, Alwyn,' said Emrys, scowling.

‘What'll happen with it all?' said Mam. ‘The plane? The bodies? Sends me cold thinking of Germans lying up there. Even if they are dead.'

‘They'll send someone up from the base this morning, I expect,' said Bethan, pouring herself a cup of tea, ‘check over the wreckage. They might have been carrying documents. Might be useful?'

‘Yes,' said Father, shooting me a look. ‘I don't want to hear of you boys being up there scrumping stuff, Anthony. What's mountain treasure to you might be vital information for the war effort.'

I said nothing. Mam put a boiled egg in front of me. ‘There you go. Treat. Bopa's hens laid a bumper crop this morning. She gave me one.'

‘How come he gets it?' said Alwyn. ‘It's bigger than he is!'

‘It's his turn,' said Mam, handing me a teaspoon. ‘Make it last. You might not have another one in a while.'

She ran her fingers through my hair before turning to the sink to get the tap running.

Everyone was staring at me in silence, their eyes darting between my mouth and the egg.

‘Give me the top bit?' said Alwyn, as I shoved the edge of my teaspoon into the tip.

‘No. It's mine.'

I flipped the end off and sucked out the white. Emrys leant over. ‘Look at the colour on that yolk. Liquid gold. C'mon, Ant, give us dipsies.'

‘Get away,' I said. ‘Mam, tell 'em.'

‘Let him eat his egg in peace,' said Mam, washing a pan. ‘He didn't bother you when it was your turn.'

‘He bloody did,' said Alwyn, protesting. ‘Moaned with every mouthful. Hey, remember when it was Emrys' turn and he went to the outtie? I ate it, turned the shell over. He comes back in, smashes it all cocky, like. Empty.
Diawl
, I thought he was going to cry.'

‘That was proper rotten,' said Bethan, standing and taking her quickly drained cup to Mam. ‘Right. I best be off. I'll let you know if I hear anything about that plane. Ta-ra.'

A thick globule of yolk dripped off the end of my bread onto my knee. ‘Look at him wasting it!' said Alwyn. ‘Eggs are for men, Mam. Not boys!'

I scraped the bread across my knee to catch every scrap. ‘Waste not, want not,' I said, stuffing it into my mouth.

‘Right, then,' said Mam, drying her hands on a tea towel before planting a goodbye kiss on Father's cheek. ‘Your tommy box is in the larder, Davey. Don't forget it. Boys, I've wrapped your lunches in wax paper. I've run out of paper bags. Ant, you come with me. You can say thank you to Bopa for the egg.'

I took the eggshell and peered into it, making sure I'd had every last scrap, then turned it over in the egg cup and pushed it towards Alwyn. ‘You can have it now,' I said. ‘All yours, like.'

‘Can you hear a noise, Emrys?' said Alwyn, fixing me with a glare. ‘Some sort of annoying buzzing sound. Must be a fly. Roll up the paper, let's kill it.'

Emrys reached for Father's discarded newspaper and scrunched it into a baton. He made a swipe for me, but I was too quick for him, and with the sound of my brothers swearing, I scarpered after Mam.

‘Say thank you for the egg, Anthony,' said Mam, shoving me in the back as we stood at Bopa's open door.

‘Thank you for the egg, Bopa,' I said.

‘Big one, wasn't it? Almost as big as a duck's! Must have been the shock. Frightened the hens. All that noise, what with the plane. Terrible business last night, Em. Terrible.'

‘I can't stop thinking about Germans being up our mountain,' said Mam, folding her arms.

‘Germans up our mountain,' said Bopa, shaking her head. ‘Imagine if they'd survived. Mind you,' she added, giving Mam a tap on her forearm, ‘my sister, who's in Cardiff, told me a German plane landed down b'there. The German crew walked out, went to the nearest house, knocked and asked for tea.'

‘Never,' said Mam, with a tut.

‘My sister said the woman invited them in.'

‘No.'

‘She did. And she gave them tea.'

‘I don't believe it.'

‘Not in her best china, mind. That would have been wrong.'

Mam nodded.

‘What did she do with them then?' I asked, all ears.

‘Her husband came down, put his Home Guard uniform on over his pyjamas, got his garden fork and marched them to the cop shop.'

Mam mumbled her approval.

‘I expect the copper had a fit. Can you imagine what Arthur Pryce would do if Germans were marched into our cop shop?'

They both laughed.

Arthur Pryce was the police officer in charge of Treherbert. He was well regarded but considered lazy, given there was never any trouble for him to deal with. Fights between lads were sorted out on the spot, and bar one occasion when a cricket ball had smashed a window, I couldn't recall a single instance when he'd been required to do anything.

‘I saw him the other day,' said Mam. ‘He was buying a paper. I asked him if he was busy. He told me he was up to his eyes because they've made him Regional Officer in charge of Exotic Animals.'

‘Exotic animals?' said Bopa, frowning.

‘That's what
I
said. I said, “Exotic animals, Arthur? Are there any exotic animals in Treherbert?” And he said, “No, no there aren't.” Still. If it keeps him busy.'

‘He'll be busy with that lot, up the mountain,' said Bopa, folding her arms. ‘Oh. And there's been a theft.'

‘A theft? What of?'

‘Mrs Reece's banana. Someone stole it, in broad daylight. Bold as brass.'

A hot surge of discomfort rose through me.

‘Never. Where from?'

‘Right out of her parlour. Window was open. Someone must have reached in and taken it, she reckons. She was proper upset. She was saving it for a fritter.'

Mam shook her head. ‘It's this war, Bopa. It's bringing out the worst in people. Well. Let's hope Arthur catches whoever did it. That'll teach them wrong from right.'

Their chatter was as constant as birdsong and, seeing Ade, Fez and Bozo running towards the tinder track, I edged away to join them, leaving Mam and Bopa still gossiping. Ade was slinging a blue hessian satchel across his chest. ‘Ant!' he said, seeing me approach. ‘We're heading up the plane. Fez saw the Home Guard coming down for their breakfast. There's nobody up there till the RAF get here. If we get up b'there now, we can get treasure.'

‘Father says we shouldn't. In case there's stuff they need for the war.'

‘Get away, man! It's finders, keepers! Come on!'

Tendrils of smoke were still creeping upwards from the cockpit, whispers of the night before. In daylight, the crash was ever more real: a burnt black metal skeleton strutting out from the hillside, as out of place as a thing could be. Below it, the splintered remains of the fuselage lying on its side, one wing still on. From where we were standing, it looked as if the wreckage was surrounded by butterflies, but as we got nearer, the butterflies turned out to be scraps of paper fluttering up from the broken innards.

Ade touched my arm and pointed towards a large tarpaulin spread on the grass. Underneath it, five lumpen shapes ending in splayed boots. ‘Germans,' mumbled Bozo, picking up a stone and throwing it. ‘Bloody Germans.'

‘Hey!' called Fez, bending down. ‘Look at this!' He picked up something shiny. ‘Compass. Still works, too.'

‘What do you reckon it is, Bozo?' said Ade, bending down near the dead bodies and nodding up towards the burnt-out plane.

‘It's not a bomber,' he said. ‘Can't see any gun ports. Must be reconnaissance. Or transport? Maybe a Heinkel? Hard to tell with the front end all gone.'

‘Reconnaissance?' said Fez, holding the compass up and swivelling around. ‘Why would a reconnaissance plane be over Wales, like?'

‘Dunno. Maybe they are planning on invading,' said Ade, pulling at something. ‘Or looking for things to bomb. There you go, Ant,' he added, chucking two dirty brown boots in my direction. ‘Pair of shoes for you at last.'

I picked one up. It was weathered, with a split heel and no laces. ‘Too big for me,' I said, dropping it back to the floor.

‘Wanna look at the Germans, like?' said Ade, standing. ‘Proper, like? Come on.'

He took one end of the top edge of the tarpaulin and flipped it over. Instinctively, I looked away. ‘That's disgusting!' said Ade, sounding thrilled. ‘That one's got no eyeballs. Must have burnt out.'

I turned round and looked down. Five faces, contorted. Two burnt beyond recognition. One was the man I had already seen, his face a bruised red mass. The others, mouths hanging open. They looked as if they were screaming. Details, my eyes were drawn to details: two had long boots, better boots, the others visibly more down at heel, a tear on a tunic, a blackened hand, half of a face clean as a whistle, hands held up, like when a baby sleeps, photos on the floor, leather braces holding up trousers that had no legs in them, and a hat, peaked, its rim decorated with braid, an eagle, a swastika.

I picked up the cap and tried it on, its smell – perfumed, almost sticky – the memory of a man's daily habits. A lone bird cried out above me. I raised an arm to shield my eyes from the sun. It was the red kite again. Circling.

‘Look at all this stuff, man!' said Fez, filling his pockets. ‘Let's get inside that bit. See if we can find a gun.'

‘They're wearing different uniforms,' said Bozo, still staring down at the dead bodies. ‘Look. Those two in grey. This lot in blue.'

‘Never mind that,' said Ade, running after Fez. ‘Let's find some weapons!'

We grabbed everything we could get our hands on inside the plane. Anything that wasn't bolted down was ours: lengths of rope, a pair of leather flying goggles, a tin of what looked like peaches, a few books, a magazine with women in very few clothes, a poster of Betty Grable, maps, rulers, dials we chipped off with rocks, half a loaf of bread, a round of cheese, and then Ade let out a yell.

‘Pistol!' he said, holding it aloft. ‘We've got a bloody pistol!'

‘Got bullets?' said Fez, as we circled round. Bozo crawled into the mass of debris behind us.

Ade held the pistol in the palm of his hand and examined it. ‘Dunno,' he said, ‘stand back.'

He held the pistol out and squeezed the trigger. A loud shot exploded and a rogue bullet zinged about the plane's interior. We all ducked.

‘Christ, man,' said Fez, standing back up again. ‘Be careful. Shoot it outside.'

Ade jumped down from the fuselage and aimed towards a boulder. He squeezed again. Nothing. ‘Think that's it,' he said, turning back to us. ‘Quick. Find some more bullets.'

‘Hey!' came a shout behind us. We turned to see an older member of the Home Guard puffing up the hill. ‘What d'you think you're doing? Get out of it, bloody scamps!'

‘Scarper,' said Ade, tucking the pistol into his hessian bag. ‘Let's get to the den.'

We tumbled down the hillside, confident that we wouldn't be caught. A few sharp admonishments floated away behind us, but we weren't bothered. Old men would never catch young boys, and besides, we were scrumping mountain treasure. The stuff was ours.

We bounded down a tussock-covered incline, avoiding a ewe and two lambs, then ran along a narrow path that meandered its way around the mountain. There were no trees here – although plenty of heather and the odd windswept gorse bush – so our line of vision across the valley was unimpeded. The cold wind of the previous night had been replaced by a warm south-westerly breeze, and the air was slightly heady with the smell of flowers coming into bloom. The mountain seemed so beautiful, so welcoming, it was hard to imagine the scene we'd left behind.

I was bringing up the rear, as usual, weighed down by my wellingtons, dodging rabbit holes and small, treacherous rocks. I could see the Big Stone, rearing up in the sunshine, and below it, the speckled roof of our den. Ade was in the lead, pointing the pistol at imaginary foes every now and again, and popping them with invisible bullets. He'd almost reached the drop down to the den's entrance when he slowed and came to a halt. He was staring at something.

Bozo was panting. ‘What's matter?'

Ade bent down and picked up what looked like a harness. ‘Wass'is?' he said, holding it up and showing us.

‘Dunno,' said Fez, taking it from him. ‘Must have blown down the mountain from the plane.'

‘All this way, man?' said Ade, his face crunching. ‘Must be half a mile.'

He let his toes tip over the small ridge, and jumped down with a thud. Bozo, Fez and I followed. ‘Funny, innit?' said Ade, still trying to work out what it was. ‘That must buckle into that, I reckon. But what is …'

He stopped dead in his tracks. We all did.

There was someone in our den.

There he was, inside our den, lying face down, legs splayed apart, his head hidden in the crook of an elbow.

Ade held out the pistol and edged closer. ‘Kick his foot,' he whispered in my direction.

I inched towards the den entrance, swiped at the end of one shoe with my wellington, and ran back to Ade. Nothing.

‘P'rhaps he's dead, like?' said Bozo. ‘Crawled here and died?'