Too Many Heroes Read online

  It took the best part of a week to get the new engine installed and their kite all patched up and ready to fly off. For the duration of his stay, Todd Walters had bunked in the empty one above Frank. Todd was built like a jockey – ideal for a ball gunner. He hadn’t yet seen enemy action.

  One night they’d both been lying there awake chatting as they listened to the tawny owls calling in the oak tree opposite and Todd told him how the Apaches reckoned that if you dream of an owl it’s a sure sign that death is on its way. Didn’t seem to know if that meant your own death or someone else’s. Must have been sometime in May ’42 – months before his own crash-landing. Shame he couldn’t have been more specific.

  After that, Frank willed himself never to dwell on those damn hooting owls when he was drifting off. Back then superstition ruled the roost. You kept to the exact same routine before and after every op; repeated all the little rituals to ensure your luck held. They all did it – all of them believing or pretending to, that such things could make a difference.

  It’s gone eight o’clock when the two of them set off for the pub. Frank can feel the ache of the day’s labour in every muscle especially his shoulders and arms. The sun’s now dropped behind red streaks of clouds just above the horizon; its warmth continues to radiate from every surface.

  Sam nods towards the sky. ‘Shepherd’s delight, eh?’

  ‘Aye, with a bit of luck, it’ll be another fine one tomorrow and we can get it all done.’

  It’s a good twenty minutes’ walk. The most direct route takes them through the Hathaway Estate where they detour off the main track; scrambling over the ridge and flushing up a pair of squawking cock pheasants before they rejoin the footpath.

  A short distance on, they enter a clearing overlooking open pasture. The barbed wire fence running between the two is hung down with a row of small corpses all impaled by the neck. The stench of decomposition catches in Frank’s throat.

  It’s easy to identify the flyblown remains of assorted buzzards, magpies, jays and even a few stoats.

  Sam shakes his head, ‘For the life of me, I don’t understand why they go in for all this malarkey.’

  ‘Some reckon seeing these dead’uns hanging up deters the others from raiding nests.’ Frank averts his gaze, keeps on walking, not wanting to acknowledge the degrading fate of these animals.

  ‘D’you think it really does put the other birds off?’

  ‘Why would a small creature learn from such a thing when we humans never seem to?’

  Not content with shooting, he’s seen how Kirkwood, the keeper, likes to lay gin traps on the top of perching posts to crush the legs of any hapless bird of prey that lands on them. Franks shakes his head. ‘Reckon it’s more a case of that idle gamekeeper wanting to show off how busy he’s been protecting his lordship’s precious birds.’ The practice is meant to be illegal these days but he doubts the local coppers would be willing to pursue the matter with the high and mighty Lord Hathaway. Each time he come across one of the wretched things – usually with the feathers of its previous victims still stuck to its metal teeth – Frank yanks the chain from its tether and buries it under a rock to be sure nothing will dig it up.

  The sun is beginning to set as they reach the Saracen’s Head. What with the fine weather and the place being so packed, customers have spilled out into the road and the dwindling daylight. Just as they arrive, the streetlight above the crowd winks twice then floods the drinkers in its amber glow.

  Sam decides to stay outside in the cooler air while Frank steps into a concentration of heat and smoke. Someone is plonking out a sentimental tune on the piano. He makes his way towards the bar, taking care not to acknowledge the piqued interest of three young women standing just inside the door.

  Halfway to the counter, a dart player’s elbow comes back to jab him sharp in the chest. The chap barely glances round; his apology is more perfunctory than it ought to be. In the past Frank might have pointed this out but these days he prefers to keep his head down and avoid a scrap if he can. Rubbing at the sore spot, he ploughs on, his mouth already tasting the relief of that sweet bitter.

  Frank emerges from the pub balancing two brimming pints. He’s looking around for Sam when one of the young girls – a bottle-blonde in a blouse that’s fighting to contain her ample breasts – deliberately knocks his arm.

  His curse is not quite under his breath. He looks past the distraction of the girl’s flushed cleavage to the lines of precious liquid now staining his trouser leg. The level in both glasses has dropped by more than an inch.

  ‘Oh dear, I’m ever so sorry about that.’ Her pouting mouth is unnaturally red. She steps closer to him, smelling of rose-sweetened sweat. ‘Hope I haven’t gone and ruined them trousers of yours.’

  Was there a note of sarcasm in that? He’d washed up a bit before they’d left and put on a cleaner shirt, but his trousers are in dire need of a good scrubbing.

  ‘Forget it,’ he tells her. Up this close, all that makeup and sprayed hair can’t disguise the fact that this little trio are younger than they appear to be.

  The blonde leans in. (He gives the girl full marks for perseverance.) ‘My parents are out tonight so, if you want, you could come back to our house for a nightcap.’

  Her friends are giggling behind their hands. Undeterred, the blonde girl runs her tongue around the inside of her top lip in a way he imagines her practicing in front of a mirror. ‘You could take ’em off and I could give ’em a quick seeing to.’ To the guffaws of her mates she adds, ‘A good wash, that is. They’d dry in two ticks in all this heat. It’d be no trouble, would it Marcy?’

  Unable to contain her sniggering, her fatter, prettier friend can only nod.

  Frank wonders if this is a dare. ‘No thanks.’ His smile is brisk. ‘Ta all the same.’ He moves away toward the edge of the crowd as their laughter explodes, concentrating only on steadying the beer glasses.

  Sam walks out of the shadows, drops his glowing fag butt and grinds it under his boot. He hands over the boy’s beer, their wager settled. ‘Ta very much. Cheers!’ Sam clinks his glass against his. Under the lamplight, Frank can see how the sunshine’s caused the freckles on the boy’s face to merge into larger rafts that might soon join up.

  ‘I’d hardly call that a full pint, but I’ll let you off.’ Sam takes a long swig. ‘Ah – the sweet taste of victory.’

  He allows him that one, concentrates instead on those first long mouthfuls.

  ‘Looked like you were in there with one of those three.’ The lad wipes his wet chin with the back of his hand. ‘Don’t look now, but they’re still eyeing us up. What say we saunter over in a minute or two for a bit of a chat and that?’

  ‘You’ve got to be ruddy joking. Best you leave those young lasses well alone; that’s if you want to stay out of trouble. I doubt any one of them is older than fifteen.’

  ‘I’ll grant they’re way too young for you, Frankie.’ Sam adjusts his stance, pulls his skinny frame upright to look past him towards the girls. ‘I wouldn’t mind having a shot at that little redhead. She’s smiling this way – seems pretty friendly to me.’

  ‘Then you go right ahead, son.’ Raising his beer, he gestures the lad away. ‘You’d best get on over there. But mind you don’t come running to me afterwards – that’s all I’m saying on the matter.’

  Feeling more annoyed than he should, Frank walks away. The three girls turn their heads as he strolls on past them. On his way to the bar, he checks the change from his pocket and finds only a couple of sixpenny bits and three pennies.

  He’s thankful the piano player’s moved on to a more upbeat number about baking a cake. With drunken gusto, various voices join in with the chorus. They sing out all around him, eyes shining with affability as they repeat the same stupid words to one another.

  Norman Kirkwood is sitting on one of the barstools, his elbow resting on the copper counter. He’s encountered the gamekeeper on Hathaway land several times when he’s been on the l
egal footpath and dodged round him many more times when he’s been trespassing off it. Kirkwood looks older without that cap; his short, greying hair oiled into its proper place. Despite the heat, the man’s wearing a tweed jacket; his face more flushed than usual. Looking down at the keeper’s arm, he half expects to see that broken shotgun lying across it. He catches his appraising stare and this forces Frank to mutter: ‘Evening, Norman.’

  The keeper’s confused for a moment; it’s obvious he can’t quite place him. Along with a slight tip of his head, he returns a toneless ‘Evening’ in Frank’s

  general direction.

  ‘So now – what can I get you, sir?’ Frank turns towards the speaker. He’s not seen this young barman in here before.

  ‘Pint of Linley’s bitter and a packet of crisps, if you please.’ He’s careful not to count out his money; instead he slaps it down on the counter like he’s getting rid of a bit of spare change. ‘Oh, and you can drop the sir – I’ve not been knighted, lad.’

  As this is to be his last pint, he intends to savour the full taste of the ale. It might be a ha’penny dearer than some of the pubs in the centre of town but the beer is always well kept.

  ‘Seems you’re not a member of the aristocracy then,’ Kirkwood says. ‘Now there’s a surprise; if you hadn’t said, I’d have taken you for a proper toff in all that finery of yours.’ The keeper looks around hoping to share the joke.

  Frank’s free hand curls into a fist. Moving closer, he stares the man straight in the eye and, without a word, laughs right in his face.

  Kirkwood’s expression doesn’t give an inch. ‘Don’t think I don’t know who you are. You’ve been staying on the Jenkins’ farm. I’ve spotted you mooching about in my woods where you’ve no right to be. Just this morning I found a whole lot of pheasant feathers under the ashes up on Windy Ridge. Poaching’s a serious offence round here and we know how to deal with it. I’ve more than a mind to have a word with Sergeant Roberts about you.’

  At first Frank’s mirth is forced but then the funny side of the situation becomes so apparent his eyes moisten with genuine amusement. ‘Ah, Norman, don’t you sometimes think to yourself of an evening how it’s a poor sort of an occupation for a grown man – killing free birds and little animals that are only following their nature and all of it just so a bunch of rich fools can take potshots at the pheasants and partridges you’ve gone and fattened so much the buggers can’t take off without being frightened half to death?’

  ‘Oh aye!’ Kirkwood rises from his stool so abruptly it falls back with a loud crash.

  The noise silences the voices around them in one beat. ‘And what the hell makes you so flamin’ superior, boyo?’ Kirkwood thrusts his forehead close to Frank’s eyes. ‘Look at you – a bloody down-and-out standing there smelling like a rancid fox without so much as a pot to piss in.’

  Frank’s about to take a good swing at the keeper’s jaw when a hand grabs his upper arm. Before he can shake it free, his other elbow is pinned back slopping his bitter in every direction.

  With no one singing, the pianist stops playing. Vic, the landlord, appears in front of them, two still-to-be-thrown darts clenched in his meaty right hand. ‘Now then, gentlemen – I’ll have none of that behaviour; not in my pub. Understand?’ He aims the twin points at each of them in turn before settling on Frank: ‘Best you get off home and cool off a bit. And don’t come back here till you’re ready to behave in a civilised way.’

  ‘Civilised, eh?’ The keeper’s crowing now: ‘I’m not sure this young commie knows what that means. Look at him – the man’s not fit for shagging shit.’

  The landlord’s face boils. ‘Let me remind you there are ladies present, Norman.’ He bends into the man. ‘Watch your language, d’you hear me, or you’ll be following him out of that door.’

  The big man looks from one to the other before he nods for the two holding Frank’s arms to release him. ‘Off you go now, sunshine.’

  With no choice but to oblige, Frank downs what’s left of the beer he’s clung to and slams the empty glass down on the nearest table. He adjusts his shirt and picks up his crisps, careful to take his time as he walks through the murmurs of the parting crowd.

  Chapter Two

  Without a word to the lad, Frank strides away into the gathering darkness. He’s thankful it’s still light enough to see his way through the woods without using his torch. All around him the night air is redolent with wild garlic – the smell strongest where it’s been crushed underfoot.

  He’s damned if he’s going to stick to the path. Reaching the top of the ridge he lingers amongst the beech trees looking for lights but there are none. Once he’s out of the woods it’s an easy downhill tramp. The liquid song of a nightingale does nothing to soothe his mind; as he nears the farmyard his fury hasn’t begun to subside.

  Back in his bunk, anger won’t let him rest. He keeps changing position unable to settle things into a shape that offers him any kind of comfort. He’s forgotten to pull the makeshift curtain across the open window and so a sliver of moonlight is illuminating the wall beside his head like a spotlight.

  Frank’s mind keeps running back over that threat. He’d only wanted to be left alone to enjoy a couple of pints at the end of a hard, working day. The sheer injustice of being ordered out makes him want to go back and tear the damned pub apart. Kirkwood and his master are well in with the law; a quiet word in the sergeant’s ear would be the spark that could light a fire.

  From a long way off he hears a dog’s incessant barking. Nearer, a worried lamb voices its concern in plaintive cries before it stops abruptly.

  Frank’s sigh is long and drawn out. Looked at another way, perhaps this evening’s been the spur he needed to move on. Though the fresh air and honest work suits him well enough, it’s not like he’s living in the lap of luxury. In any event, he’ll need to find better shelter come the colder weather. Why not push off now? There’s nothing much keeping him here but familiarity; maybe it’s high time he let that go. In the next breath, he changes his mind again. Won’t he be giving in? He’s done nothing wrong. The last thing he wants to give that bloody keeper is the satisfaction of thinking he’s run him out of the village.

  Frank’s finally beginning to drift off, when a shriek rouses him back to full consciousness – that ruddy barn owl seems determined to disturb his sleep. Judging by the volume, the bird is perching right outside. He should get up and shut the window to stop it flying another recce in here; he certainly doesn’t want to be dumped upon from a height – not twice in one night. But then a welcome breeze steals in bringing with it the earthy resonance of sun-hardened fields.

  Turning onto his side, he tries to settle his body at least. Outside the owl calls twice more and it reminds him of old Bart Cockle and what he used to say about owls. Frank can picture as clear as day the old man’s bent frame and weather-hardened features; the way he was forever pulling at that sparse white beard. On a fine evening, the old bugger liked to sit on a wooden seat outside his cottage in Cove Road smoking a skinny roll-up. Bart had many a tall story and old sayings he was willing to share if the kids pestered him for long enough. They’d sit themselves down in a disorderly circle at his feet and listen to his tales with serious faces – only to laugh like drains behind his back. More than once Bart had claimed, in all seriousness, that if you kept walking round and round a tree beneath where an owl is perched, the bird will continue to follow your every move with its eyes until, by and by, it wrings its own neck.

  Poor old Bart, along with all his damned silly ideas, he must be long dead by now. Frank’s sigh turns into a yawn. All that had been another lifetime ago. At sixteen, he’d matriculated near the top of his class but, with nothing left to keep him in Yorkshire, he’d moved south looking for work. When the war started, he’d been a general hand on Pascoe’s farm for a few years. Though he was in a reserved occupation, he’d volunteered straight away – so ruddy eager to do his bit for his country. At the time, joining the R
AF seemed the most glamourous option – how chuffed he’d been when they accepted him. God only knows why he’d been so determined to play his part as they used to say – like they were all actors and the fighting wasn’t real.

  A stronger wind seems to be getting up and with it the temperature in the barn begins to drop a little – a signal the weather might be getting ready to break at last.

  Before long the tin roof above him is creaking; a groaning wind tugging at the edges of the corrugated sheets. Although he’s tired out, Frank fights his need for sleep – he has no intention of resting until he’s worked out what to do next. Any minute he expects to hear rain beating down on the tin roof, but it never comes.

  Monday, May 19th

  With everything settled and his wages bulging the wallet in his pocket, Frank boards the eight-thirty train to London.

  For the journey he’s dressed in his best clothes – clean trousers and shirt with a proper tie and jacket. Though itchy, he knows the stubble on his face will soon thicken into a beard. His new haircut is making his bare neck feel too exposed. Everything he owns is contained in the small, battered case he stows in the rack above his head. Before the train sets off, heavy rain begins to streak the windows, washing away the fine weather’s accumulated dust.

  Once they’ve pulled away from the platform, Frank stands up to peer out of the top window; mesmerised by the changing countryside, the way the hills they’re leaving behind become obscured by clouds of steam and smoke. He’s enjoying the swaying motion, the fleeting glimpses of houses and then the factories – each presenting momentary pictures of the myriad small worlds where other people’s lives go on.

  Unwilling to sit down, he leaves the carriage to stalk the length of the corridor, excited to be off somewhere different and leaving behind the gruelling daily routine he’s grown used to.

  And yet a part of his mind remains troubled. Without intending to, he revisits the awkwardness of his leave-taking. Jenkins was disappointed enough to be losing a hard grafter but didn’t express much surprise. As good as his word, he even agreed to cough up every last penny of the overtime pay Frank was owed.