Shrapnel by Robert Swindells

post and stood in the doorway of the vacant shop, just like before. Two things were different – I’d scrounged no fags from Linton Barker, and I was waiting for a dead man.
    And he didn’t come. Of course he didn’t. I waited till the jeweller’s clock said five, then crossed to Farmer Giles. Inside I went straight to the counter where the same woman stood.
    â€˜Hello,’ I said. She looked at me as if she’d never seen me before. ‘I wonder if you can help me?’
    â€˜
Help
you, dearie?’ she said. ‘Why, is something the matter?’
    â€˜I . . . I’m looking for my brother, he comes in here a lot. You know – Raymond?’
    The woman looked baffled, shook her head. ‘I don’t know any gentleman of that name,’ she told me. ‘Sorry.’
    â€˜Yes you do, I’ve sat with him, over there.’
    She shrugged. ‘I serve a lot of people, dearie. Hundreds, I shouldn’t wonder. Don’t learn most of their faces, and as for
names
 . . .’
    â€˜Yes, but Raymond’s one of
you
.’ I whisperedthis, glancing around. There were five men at two tables, busy chatting. ‘You
know
?’
    â€˜One of
me
? I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, young man.’
    â€˜Oh, look.’ I leaned in. ‘I
know
it’s all hush-hush, but that’s all right –
I
’m one of you as well.’
    She was becoming angry. ‘You’re one of them
crackpots
if you ask me – one of them
loonies
. It’s blast, I expect. I want you to leave now, or I’ll call on one of these gentlemen here to show you the door.’
    I walked out. The cold air must have brought me to my senses, because as I unchained the bike I thought:
What have I done? Why did I come here, mentioning Raymond’s name? What about the chaps who don’t mess around? She’ll tell ’em. Bound to. Young Price is cracking up.
    I rode home in a blue funk. They’d shoot me for blabbing. I’m probably pedalling into the telescopic sight of someone’s high-powered rifle at this moment.
    BANG!
    Home Guard
, they’ll say,
mistook the poor kid for a saboteur
.
    Easy as that.

FORTY-SEVEN
Ruminating
    I HARDLY SLEPT, got up Wednesday morning with red eyes and raw nerves. It was porridge again. I growled ‘not porridge again,’ and pushed my bowl away. ‘There’s a war on, son,’ said Dad in a dangerously mild tone, and Mum said, ‘What on earth’s the matter with you, Gordon – anybody’d think you’d spent the night in the shelter.’
    I couldn’t
tell
them, could I? Couldn’t say,
I’m scared. I’ve got myself into something dangerous and now I could die, just because I wanted a bit of glamour, bit of excitement
. I wanted to –
longed
to – but I was trapped, like the lad who volunteers asa fighter pilot so he’ll have wings on his tunic and girls all over him, then finds the likely prospect of being fried to a crisp in a burning plane completely swamps any glamour there might be in it.
    Truth is, I was getting cheesed off not being able to talk to anybody about the important things in my life. I mean, what’s the use of parents, chums and teachers if you can’t confide in them?
    The life of the secret agent is a lonely one
. And if you think that’s got a romantic ring to it, try it.
    Last period Wednesday morning is geography. We’ve finished wheat, the class is doing corned beef. The
class
is, I’m not. I’m ruminating. Ruminating’s when you gaze out of the window and see nothing, because you’re deep in thought.
    I was ruminating about being unflappable. I wish I was unflappable – agents ought to be, but I’m not. Dad found a piece in a magazine about an unflappable butler the other day, and read it out to Mum and me.
    It’s a true story; it happened at a great