Shrapnel Read Online Free PDF Page B

understand your family was bombed out on Tuesday night, is that right?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Everybody well though, eh? No casualties?’
    â€˜No, sir. We’re staying with my gran over Hastley way.’ I indicated the bike. ‘That’s why I’ve got this.’
    â€˜Hmmm, well,’ he smiled, ‘it’s an ill wind, eh? House badly damaged, is it?’
    â€˜Not really, sir: glass and tiles mostly. My dad reckons it’ll be fixed in a jiffy.’
    â€˜That’s the spirit. Well – good to see you back amongst us, Price. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, won’t you?’
    There is one thing, sir
, I thought but didn’t say.
You could give me a year off and buy me flying lessons. Oh, and make Deadman clean the blackboard every afternoon with his tongue
.
    As Hinkley walked off, a small crowd gathered. Some sharp-eared tyke had overheardour conversation, and now everybody had questions. How close was the bomb? Did I hear it coming down? Was there a big crater? Had I found its tail, or any good shrapnel? Did I think Jerry was aiming at my dad because he made shell cases?
    I’d love to have said no to that last one – told ’em Jerry was after
me
because I was working undercover for the government. I didn’t though, of course. If walls have ears, why not bike sheds?

SIXTEEN
OHMS
    IT WASN’T THAT hard up to now, working with Raymond. In fact I felt a bit of a fraud, thinking of myself as a government agent, or at least
assistant
to a government agent, when all I was doing was keeping quiet about the revolver, and not telling Mum and Dad a state secret. I have to say I liked the feeling of knowing something they didn’t though, especially since I was doing it for my country.
    But then something happened which took some of the shine off my pleasure.
    Breakfast time Saturday, the postman pushedan envelope through Gran’s letter slot. Dad brought it to the table. It was long and brown, with a window. Along the top were the letters OHMS. It was addressed to Mr Raymond Price. Our home address had been scribbled out, and somebody had written
Bombed out – try 6 Trickett Boulevard, Hastley
, which was Gran’s address.
    â€˜It’s for Raymond,’ said Mum. ‘Looks official. I wonder what it’s about?’
    â€˜
I
know what it is,’ growled Dad. ‘It’s his call-up papers.’
    â€˜But he’s in a reserved occupation.’
    â€˜He
was
, Ethel,’ Dad corrected. ‘He chucked his job, now they want him in uniform. I
told
him, but he wouldn’t listen.’
    â€˜Well – what do we
do
with it, Frank? I mean, I don’t want him called up – couldn’t we just throw it away, pretend we never got it?’
    Dad shook his head. ‘Certainly not, Ethel. I’ll write
Not at this address
on it, and post it again.’
    I stared into my porridge and said nothing. It couldn’t be my brother’s call-up papers – he was serving already, but I wasn’t free to tell them that. I watched Dad write on the envelope. He slid it across to me. ‘Pop down to the pillar box with thisplease, Gordon. When you’ve finished, I mean.’
    I could’ve taken it to Farmer Giles, left it with the woman if Raymond wasn’t there, but what I
really
wanted to do was open it. OHMS stands for On His Majesty’s Service. It was probably orders, top secret. I didn’t open it – it’s an offence to interfere with somebody else’s mail and besides, I might be putting Mum and Dad in danger. So I posted it, promising myself I’d mention it to my brother next time I saw him.
    Nothing much happened that weekend. Saturday I went to the park, said hello to my balloon crew. There are five of them, all from different parts of Britain, but none from around here. When I mentioned this, Davy from Swansea laughed. ‘It’s what they do in the