Hanover Crescent was, as always, as silent as it was grand. Philip stood on the wide curving drive and, hand to mouth, called high. ‘Orson, I know you’re there!’
The sash on the overhead window fell with a clunk.
‘I have something to tell you!’
The pane was dark against the light of day but he knew Orson was up there.
‘News from Army HQ … My father was there this afternoon.’
The sash lifted by inches – ‘Bugger off, Beaumont’ – and the curtains fell.
It was a full hour before Philip conceded defeat and retreated from the home of the Stewart-Forbeses. He’d reached the end of the arc of the drive when, at last, a voice called out begrudgingly. ‘Has Hitler landed?’
He made himself walk, not run, to the front door where Orson’s face was a single eye and a slice of cheek through the narrow gap.
‘No,’ Philip said. ‘Not him but –’
‘I’m bored of your tricks, Beaumont.’
‘Rudolf Hess has landed in Scotland. He’s Hitler’s next-in- command. He flew in by himself last Saturday. He’s on his way south. To meet Churchill. Even the papers don’t know.’
‘Hess loves England,’ Orson declared.
Orson’s single eye narrowed. ‘You betrayed Hal.’
‘But Tubby might have drowned.’
‘Jew-lover,’ hissed the crack in the door.
And now it was closing. ‘Wait.’ He felt hot, sick, alone. ‘There’s more.’ A fuse of words was burning through his gut, up his throat and into his mouth.
At last it exploded: ‘I know where there’s a real Jew.’
The door blew off its hinges.
‘Come in,’ said Orson.
Upstairs in Hal’s room, Orson prepared. He stuffed the glassy stocking deep in his pocket. He gave Philip the belt, and Philip threaded it down his coat sleeve. They were ready, Orson said.
The sky was grey, dirty. Billet’s General Store was on the way. ‘Sweets first. We need energy.’
The bell tinkled as they entered. The smell of tea and floor wax was reassuring. On every shelf, jars gleamed.
Gobstoppers, sherbet lemons and coconut pips.
Strawberry bonbons, aniseed balls and barley sugar.
Imperial mints, bonfire toffees, bull’s-eyes, humbugs, cherry drops, fizz balls and chocolate limes.
The array made Philip feel sweaty but Orson was decisive. The large cornet in Mr Billet’s hand was already two-thirds full when Orson spotted a jar full to the brim with red, green and white capsules.
‘What are those?’ he said, his lips parting.
‘New in,’ said Mr Billet. His scoop hovered. ‘Liquorice torpedoes. Crunchy on the outside, chewy on the inside.’ He passed Orson a green one to taste.