DAD’S SHED

It was a long time since anyone had been into Dad’s shed, and now I stood at the door, staring at the padlock. It was thick and heavy. A dirty silver colour, with a single bead of something brown that had once been a sticky liquid but was now as hard as a stone.

‘Me da’ was the last person to come in here,’ I said. ‘Prob’ly the last person to touch this lock.’

I had been with him that day, the last time he came into the woods, so he could give the shed a fresh coat of creosote to protect it from the weather while he was away.

‘Where’s the key?’ Kim asked.

‘Right here.’

The shed stood on a base of slats that kept it a few inches off the ground to stop the damp from getting in, and when I slipped my fingers into the space just below the door – as I had seen Dad do many times – I cringed at the thought of what creepy-crawlies might be lurking under there. Spiders and woodlice and earwigs. But I didn’t feel any of those things. What I felt was cold and hard and metal.

I stood up and held out the key.

‘Go on, then,’ Kim said. ‘Open it.’

There were a few spots of rust, and I had to force the key into the lock. Once it was in, though, it turned easily and the clasp popped up. I slipped it from the latch and put it into my pocket. Then I took a deep breath and opened the door.

The right side of the hut was shelved from ceiling to floor. The other side had a short bench built from unplaned wood, and there was a chair and a stool. Dad used to sit on that chair, with the door open, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of tea. I would sit on the stool and eat a biscuit. We didn’t always say much, but I liked being with him.

There was a strong odour of damp wood and dust and creosote and paraffin. It was a smell that made my chest tighten with memories of Dad. I swallowed hard and tried not to think of him sitting on that chair, opening a packet of cigarettes and holding out the card for me to add to my collection.

‘You all right?’ Kim asked.

I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

‘What’s that?’ Kim said, pointing to the heater on the bench.

I went to it and put a hand on it. ‘To keep the shed warm,’ I said. ‘Burns paraffin. One of me da’s jobs was to stop people stealin’ the birds, so he used to come out at night if there was poachers about.’

‘Did he stay out all night?’

‘Sometimes, like. I used to try to get ’im to take me with ’im, but he always said it wasn’t much of an adventure sittin’ in the woods all night.’

‘I bet it would be great fun.’

‘He said he’d let me when I was older. I’m prob’ly old enough now, but he’s not here, is he?’

There were a few shotgun cartridges on the bench, too. Waxed paper tubes with brass bases; some used, some not. Kim came in to the shed and picked one up, lifting it to her nose to sniff it.

‘Shotgun cartridges,’ I told her. ‘Whenever I found ’em in the woods, I picked ’em up, ’cause if they were different from me da’s, they might help tell ’im who’d been shootin’ where they weren’t s’posed to.’

‘Then what?’

I shrugged. ‘Call the police, I s’pose.’

Under the bench, there were rolls of wire mesh and roofing felt for building pheasant pens, and there was a short-handled axe leaning against the wall. Cobwebs that had once stretched from the axe to the corner of the shed now hung limp and abandoned, a dry spider husk dangling from a single thread, spinning in the breeze.

The shelves were a treasure trove of the bits and pieces Dad needed for his job. There was a folding knife next to a tall metal torch, and beside that an old satchel that Dad had put away because the strap had come off and needed to be fixed. There were boxes of nails and tacks, bundles of string and thick cord, a rope, a pile of rags, a container filled with paraffin, a tin of oil, bags of feed, and a rattle that he used to scare away the crows. There was a toolbox, too. A large blue metal box.

‘There should be a saw in there,’ I said, slipping my satchel over my neck and leaning it against the wall.

The toolbox was heavy, so I slid it to the edge of the shelf and half lifted, half dropped it to the floor. I opened it up and, as if it knew we wanted to use it, Dad’s tenon saw was right there on the top. I took it out and ran a finger along the flat edge of the blade. It was still shining, as if Dad had used and cleaned it just yesterday, and I could see my smudged reflection in the shining metal.

‘You miss him a lot,’ Kim said. It wasn’t a question.

‘Aye.’

‘I miss my dad too. And my mum.’

‘At least you know where they are.’

‘Not my brother, though. Not Josh. I don’t know where he is.’

‘No. I s’pose not.’

Kim sat on the stool and leant forward, putting her forearms on her thighs. She clasped her hands together so she looked like she was praying. ‘How come you don’t play with anyone else?’ she asked.

I touched a finger to the teeth on the saw. They were still sharp, still bright. There was a trace of oil on the blade because dad had oiled everything, saying he wanted to make sure it was all still in working order when he came back from winning the war.

‘I do,’ I said.

‘Not since I met you.’

‘You’re different,’ I said. ‘You don’t say things like other people do. Anyway, I can’t tell anyone else about Erik, can I?’

‘No.’ She looked up at me. ‘All that stuff Trevor Ridley says; it’s just because he’s jealous, you know.’

‘I know.’

‘You shouldn’t take any notice of it. You shouldn’t worry what people say about—’

‘I don’t.’ I touched a fingertip to one of the saw’s teeth.

‘That man who was at your house; Mr. . . what was it?’

‘Bennett.’

‘Yeah. Well, he’s just looking after you and your mum. For your dad. He’s not trying to take his place.’

‘He never could,’ I snapped.

‘I’m just saying, that’s all. It’s good to have someone watching out for you.’

‘Aye, well, I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Not even to me?’

I shrugged. ‘I just wish me da’ would come back. Or at least that we could get a letter from ’im.’

‘Me too,’ Kim said.

I looked up at her and saw the sad expression on her face. I didn’t like it. I didn’t want Kim to be sad. I wanted her to be bright and smiling and full of adventure and mischief like she normally was. It was as if Erik was there to keep us busy, and as soon as we stopped thinking about him, we thought about all the other things happening around us.

‘Come on,’ I said, standing up. ‘Let’s get this wood.’

I left the shed and went over to one of the bird pens. Kim stayed where she was for a while, and I could feel her watching me, but I didn’t turn around.

There were four pens in a line, like small houses among the trees and the overgrown nettles.

‘What are they for?’ Kim asked, coming to stand beside me.

‘For when they lay eggs,’ I said. ‘They lay them in there, and when the chicks are a bit older, they go into those.’ I pointed to a row of larger pens where Dad used to keep the young birds. They looked a lot like cages, about waist height and twelve feet long. They were made from posts and crosspieces of square-cut wood, covered with wire mesh that was supposed to keep the birds in and the foxes out. Dad had covered part of each pen with roofing felt that was bent right over one side, giving the birds some shelter from the wind and rain. Dad had built them all, carrying the wood out here and putting them together. I’d helped, standing by, holding nails, passing him tools until I’d grown bored and gone down to play at the burn or sit in the tyre swing. I remembered how he’d sweated when he built them, and I didn’t like the idea of damaging one of them now. I promised myself that when it was all over, I’d find some wood and I’d repair it; make it just like it was, so that when Dad came back from winning the war, everything would be just as it should be.

‘Maybe we can get some wood somewhere else,’ Kim said, probably seeing the look on my face.

‘It’s all right. This is more important.’

I took a deep breath and stamped hard on the corner of one of the pens, snapping the place where the wood had been nailed together. Then I slipped it out from the wire mesh that kept the birds inside the run, so I had a long pole of square-cut wood, about six feet long. I took it to a pile of rotting logs and put one end against them so the pole was far enough from the ground for me to cut it with the saw. The teeth of the saw bit into it easily, and within a few minutes I had my first short length of wood for a splint.

‘You think this’ll do?’ I turned around, holding it up to show Kim.

‘That looks good,’ she said. And then she did something that took me by surprise. Instead of punching me on the arm like she normally did, she leant over and kissed me on the cheek.

‘What was that for?’ I asked, wiping it away.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. For being my friend, I suppose.’

*

I cut a second length of wood, about a foot long, and we took a piece of cord from the shed before putting everything away just as we’d found it. I even used an old rag to clean the saw and wipe over a thin layer of oil to protect it.

I took a last look around, trying not to see Dad sitting at the bench, and then I picked up my satchel and was about to pull the door shut when I stopped.

‘What?’ Kim asked. ‘What’s the matter?’

I put my hand into my satchel and took out the gun I’d found at the wreck. ‘I don’t like this,’ I said.

Kim didn’t say anything, so I turned to look at her.

‘When I saw Trevor Ridley earlier on, I thought if I’d had it with us I coulda pointed it at him. He woulda left me alone.’

Kim listened.

‘Erik looked scared when I pointed it at him,’ I said.

She nodded.

‘It didn’t feel right. I didn’t like it. And anyway, we don’t need it, do we? I mean, Erik doesn’t want to hurt us. He’s our friend, right?’

‘Our friend?’

‘That’s what he said. And we are lookin’ after him, so I s’pose he is, sort of.’

‘Mm.’ She nodded slowly. ‘I suppose. Why don’t you lock it in the shed?’

‘That’s what I thought. Me da’ will know what to do with it when he gets back home.’

I went back into the shed and put the gun on the shelf beside the toolbox, then I came back outside and closed the door.

I snapped the padlock into place and replaced the key under the shed before we went back to Erik. It felt good not to have the gun any more. It felt less like he was the enemy. Less like he was our prisoner and more like he was our friend.

In the den, Kim used the pieces of wood, putting them on either side of Erik’s ankle and wrapping the cord around them.

‘This should keep everything from moving about,’ she said, tying it off.

Erik touched the makeshift splint and nodded his approval. ‘Gut.’ He gave her a thumbs-up. ‘Gut.’ He even slapped the splint as if to show us how strong she had made it.

‘So will that make it better?’ I asked.

‘I think so. At least it’ll stop it from getting worse.’

‘Someone at school broke their wrist one time,’ I said. ‘Fell down the stairs or something and had to go to the hospital. He had a pot on his wrist after that. Does he not need one of those?’

‘A plaster cast? No. The splint does the same thing.’

‘You sure?’

‘I think so. Anyway, it might not even be broken.’ Kim looked at me, and for the very first time since we’d hidden Erik away, I saw something new in her eyes. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I think it was doubt. Kim had been sure about cleaning and disinfecting Erik’s wound, and she had been sure about hiding him from the soldiers to save him from being shot, but she wasn’t sure about the splint. She wasn’t positive that it was the right thing to do, but Erik looked pleased with it, so it was enough.

We gave Erik some water and tried to talk to him, but we couldn’t do much more than smile at each other, make signs and say a few words. Some of the words he said sounded a bit like English ones, but not many. And every time we ran out of signs and words, Erik would touch the splint on his ankle and give us a thumbs-up. He’d point at Kim and say, ‘Gut doctor.’ If I’d ever been worried about what we were doing, Erik’s smiling, relieved expression made me feel as if it was the right thing.

‘I reckon we need to get him some clothes,’ Kim said after a while. ‘His stink.’

‘And they’re all ripped up.’

‘Yeah. I don’t think I can get any, though, what about you?’

‘I might be able to.’ I wanted to be as useful as Kim had been. But the idea that had come to me, the way I could get some clothes, I didn’t like it one bit.

*

When it started to get dark, we refilled the water bottle and left Erik to spend another night alone. I told Kim to go straight home, I needed to check my snares, but she wanted to come with me, so we went deeper into the woods, past the pheasant pens.

‘I should’ve checked ’em already,’ I said. ‘But I haven’t had time. I was puttin’ them out when I heard the sirens. Just before the plane crashed. And after that . . .’ I shrugged.

Kim nodded.

‘S’posed to check ’em mornin’, afternoon and evenin’ in the summer.’

‘Why?’

‘Leave a rabbit too long in a snare and a fox’ll get ’im. Or maybe crows or magpies. And it’s cruel to leave ’im strugglin’.’

Kim looked at me, raising her eyebrows. ‘Isn’t it cruel anyway?’

‘Naah,’ I said. ‘Least, it doesn’t have to be. It’s no worse than shootin’ ’em, and we can’t do that.’

‘Wouldn’t it be easier?’

‘We might need the cartridges, like. If the Germans come. Anyway, there’s more skill in this. You have to set the snare just right.’

We came to the far edge of the woods, where the land rose by about a foot and the fence ran along the top.

‘See all the burrows?’ I said. ‘And fresh droppings?’

Kim nodded.

‘They used to be all out in that field when it was grass,’ I said. ‘This time of day there’d be loads of ’em. Rabbits all over. Not so many now there’s no grass, though.’

Coming to my first snare, I crouched down and put my fingers in it, showing Kim how it worked. ‘Trick is to put it in just the right place, right over the middle of the beat.’

‘The beat?’

I looked at Kim. ‘That’s the place where the rabbit puts his feet, see. It’s called “the beat”.’ I touched the ground, showing her the patches worn thin like footprints. ‘That’s where he hops.’

Kim nodded with fascination and looked as if she was waiting for me to go on. It felt good to be telling her this, and it reminded me how I felt when Dad taught me.

‘The loop’s got to be just the right height, too,’ I said. ‘And wide enough. See, a rabbit runs with his ears up, so there’s no point in makin’ the loop small; and you need to get him when he’s runnin’, not walkin’.’

‘What’s that?’ Kim pointed to a place a few feet away where I’d set another snare. There was a tuft of grey fur caught in the wire and the noose was pulled tight.

We went over and I pulled the fur away, feeling how soft it was between my fingers. I gave it to Kim and let her feel. ‘Looks like we got one,’ I said. ‘Think a fox took ’im, though.’

I’d set five snares, and all were empty, so we re-set them and made our way back through the woods and headed home.

‘D’you think Erik ever goes out?’ I said to Kim as we crossed the burn. ‘Comes out of the den, I mean.’

‘Not from the smell of him. Anyway he probably couldn’t walk on that ankle.’

‘What about now he’s got a splint? He might try and go out now. Or d’you think he’s too scared?’

‘I should imagine he’s scared most of the time,’ Kim said.

‘How about you? Are you scared?’

She stopped and looked at me. ‘Of what?’

‘What d’you think they’ll do if they find out what we’ve done?’

‘They won’t find out.’

‘And what are we going to do when he’s better? Erik can’t stay in there for ever.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Kim said. ‘The war will be over soon and then he can go home. It’ll all be forgotten.’

*

That night the Prime Minister’s voice was on the wireless. He was talking to the people of London, I think, but it felt like he was talking to all of us. I sat on the floor with my legs crossed, looking up at the sideboard and listening. He had a strange voice, not like anybody I knew. He said the words differently from people in my village, different even than people like Kim and Mr Bennett, but I liked listening to him. He always made me feel proud that Dad was out there fighting to make us all safe.

Mr Churchill was talking about how terrible the Nazis were and he said that our hearts went out to the Russians in their struggle because they’d just been invaded now. He said that if the people of London were asked, they would say to Hitler, ‘You do your worst, and we will do our best.’

When he said those last words, there was a lot of clapping and I almost put my own hands together, even though I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant.

When the clapping died down again, Mr Churchill told us that it was our turn soon; that it was time the enemy should be made to suffer in their own homelands the way they had made us suffer. But it wasn’t going to be easy.

‘We do not expect to hit without being hit back,’ he said, ‘and we intend with every week that passes to hit harder. Prepare yourselves, then, my friends and comrades, in the battle of London, for this renewal of your exertions. We shall never turn from our purpose, however sombre the road, however grievous the cost, because we know that out of this time of trial and tribulation will be born a new freedom and glory for all mankind.’

There was more clapping and cheering – a lot of it – but when I looked at Mam sitting on the settee and saw her expression, she didn’t look proud or excited. She didn’t look as if she wanted to clap or agree. She looked afraid.

I stood up and went to sit beside her. I leant close so she’d put her arm around me. ‘What does it mean?’ I asked.

‘It means we’re goin’ to attack them and they’re goin’ to attack us back. It means it’s goin’ to get worse before it gets better,’ she said. ‘Much worse.’

‘But it’ll all be over soon, won’t it?’

Mam squeezed me right against her, but she didn’t smile. ‘Sometimes, Peter, I think it’s going to last for ever.’