The Piper (2 page)

‘Come in.’ He manages to make the two words sound weary, and even Helen’s spirits sink a little. This clearly isn’t going to be much fun. She takes a deep breath and steps into the room, which is filled with that ‘old person’ smell – equal parts vegetable soup and Vick’s VapoRub. There are a couple of rather pathetic-looking red balloons floating in one corner of the room, the nursing staff’s attempt to add a sense of occasion, Helen supposes, but it has failed dismally. The room is about as jolly as a funeral.

Grandad Peter is sitting in his armchair in front of the window, gazing out at the well-tended gardens. He doesn’t even turn his head to see who’s come to visit him and Helen feels a twinge of irritation. Strange old Grandad Peter, with his thin face and his haunted eyes and his odd, detached manner. Helen likes the old man, she really does, but he doesn’t make it easy. Perhaps it’s because she senses a terrible sadness in him, as though something happened to him back in the day and he’s never quite managed to get out from under its shadow.

She’s never understood why he and Dad don’t seem to get along, the two of them so distant, hardly ever speaking to each other. Grandad Peter’s wife, Emily, died more than a year ago, so Helen knows she needs to make a special effort with him because he must be so lonely. She unhooks the rucksack and takes out the slightly battered cake in its bright blue box.

‘Happy birthday!’

He looks at her for a moment, his cold blue eyes seeming to study her, evaluate her. She realises that she hasn’t really ever spent time with Grandad Peter on her own before. He’s never shown her much affection, not like most of her friends’ grandparents, but she’s always felt that deep down he does care about her. She finds herself wondering what happened to him to make him like this – so cold, so distant. God knows how Grandma put up with him for all those years. After a few moments, he nods and gestures to the little table at his side. ‘Put it there,’ he says. ‘I’m not hungry now.’

Helen feels another stab of irritation. She’s spent her own pocket money on this, would it kill him to try a taste of it? But she says nothing. She sets the cake down and hands him the card instead. ‘This is from all of us,’ she lies.

‘Thanks. You really shouldn’t have bothered.’

‘Of course we should!’ She takes off her jacket and drapes it over the back of a spare chair. ‘It’s a big day, Grandad. Your eighty-eighth birthday.’

His eyes widen slightly, as though he’s somehow surprised to hear this news. She watches as he tears open the envelope, pulls out the card and studies it dutifully. It depicts a smiling cartoon grandad, wearing a flat cap and tartan slippers, reclining in a chair with a huge tankard of beer in one hand and the words WORLD’S BEST GRANDAD printed in big red letters across the top. Helen can’t help but think how unlike the old man the cartoon is. He rarely smiles and, as far as she’s aware, he’s a lifelong teetotaller, but there wasn’t much to choose from. It was either this or cards featuring golf, racing cars or football, none of which he’s the least bit interested in. She watches as he reads the brief message she’s scrawled inside.

‘Happy birthday, Grandad!’ she tries again. She’s signed her own name and faked Mum and Dad’s signatures, trying to vary the handwriting for each of them. She doubts that he’s fooled for an instant. He closes the card and sets it down beside the cake. ‘That was nice of you,’ he says. ‘Very nice.’ A long pause. ‘So, it’s just you then?’

‘Yes.’ Helen tries not to feel resentful as she settles into the rocking chair beside him. What’s so bad about her? At least she’s better than nobody. ‘Mum’s in Oslo for that conference thing? I spoke to her on the phone yesterday. She, er… asked me to pass on her best wishes to you. Says we’ll take you out for a meal when she gets back.’

‘Oslo?’ He looks baffled. ‘What on earth is she doing in Oslo?’

‘Some kind of lecture at the university. Something to do with the environment?’ She shrugs her shoulders. Mum’s work has always been pretty much a mystery to her. ‘She says they’ve put her in a nice hotel.’

Peter nods. ‘She’s a busy lady,’ he said. ‘And … Tony?’

‘Feeling poorly. Another migraine. He sends his love.’

This is a lie. When she’d spoken to Dad just before she left the house, he’d said nothing about his father’s birthday, not until she’d brought it up. He’d been lying on the sofa at the time, with a wet flannel on his forehead. Dad’s migraines are legendary, though he only ever seems to go down with one whenever there’s something he doesn’t want to do. Like visiting his father.

‘Dad, we’re supposed to go and visit Grandad Peter,’ she’d pleaded with him. ‘You know, for his birthday and everything? You promised you’d take me.’

‘I know I did, love, but I’m feeling lousy.’

‘Well, then I’ll just have to go by myself, won’t I? On the bike.’

He’d pulled a face at this. ‘You know I don’t like you going on those busy roads all by yourself,’ he’d said.

‘So come with me.’

‘I can’t, love, really. Maybe we’ll go one night in the week.’

‘But his birthday’s today!’

‘I know, but …’ He gestured at the flannel. ‘I wouldn’t be very good company, I’m afraid. My head’s pounding and my vision … I wouldn’t be safe to drive.’

‘All right, then I’m going without you.’

‘Helen, wait a minute …’

But that was that. She’d stormed out of the house, got her bike from the garage and cycled the three miles to the care home. It was a Sunday and the roads were pretty quiet anyway.

Now Helen feels she has to make excuses. She looks at Grandad Peter and rolls her eyes. ‘Poor Dad. He was completely out of it when I left.’

‘He does suffer with those migraines,’ admits Grandad Peter. ‘Always has, even when he was a little boy.’

‘So I thought I’d just … you know, come over myself.’

‘How did you get here?’

‘On the bike.’

He scowls. ‘You need to be careful,’ he tells her. ‘The roads are full of maniacs, these days. Complete and utter headcases.’

‘Hmm.’ Helen takes this with a large pinch of salt. She knows for a fact that the old man has never learned to drive. ‘Dad said it was OK,’ she tells him.

Another lie.

‘So … how’s school?’ he asks her.

‘Oh, not so bad.’ She smiles. ‘Lots of homework. We’ve got a new history teacher, Miss Jacobs. She’s a bit of a frump, but I quite like her. And I’m looking forward to going away in September.’

‘Going away?’

‘Yes, there’s a school trip. Mum said I could put my name down for it.’

‘Anywhere interesting?’

‘I’m not sure. I was going to ask you, actually. It’s somewhere you’ve been before, I think.’

That’s enough to get his attention. He turns his head to look at her.

‘Whatever do you mean?’ he murmurs.

‘Well, didn’t you say once that you went there when you were little? To Romney Marsh.’

Something strange happens to Grandad Peter’s face. It’s as though he’s been asleep and, suddenly, somebody has snapped a switch to wake him up. He sits bolt upright in his chair and stares at her.

‘You’re … going to Romney Marsh?’

‘Yes. To an outward-bound centre. We’re going to be …’

But he’s shaking his head from side to side. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No, no, no, you can’t go. I absolutely forbid it!’

Helen feels like laughing at this, but the expression on his face hasn’t got anything to do with laughter. He looks scared. She stares at him, puzzled by his sudden animation. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asks him. ‘You’ve gone all pale.’ She starts to get up from the rocking chair, worried about him. ‘Perhaps I’d better get somebody,’ she says, but he grabs her arm, pulls her back down into a sitting position. She is momentarily shocked by the strength in those skinny arms.

‘Where?’ he demands to know. ‘Where exactly are you going?’

‘I already told you. Romney Marsh.’

‘Yes, but … the name. The exact name of the place!’

‘I don’t know…’ Helen struggles to remember. She has no idea what’s wrong with him, she’s never seen him like this before. ‘Somewhere near Rye, I think … It’s one of those activity holidays. There’s all kinds of things to do. You know, hiking, boating …’

‘Boating?’ Now he looks really agitated. ‘Listen to me, Helen, you … you can’t go there. It’s … it’s not safe.’

She laughs, a tad hysterically. His evident terror is starting to get to her.

‘It’s … OK,’ she assures him. ‘They have these trained instructors and everything. It’d be more dangerous crossing the road.’

‘You don’t know!’ he roars, and the anger in his voice almost rocks her back in her seat. ‘You silly girl! I was there. I was on the Marsh in the war, me and Daisy. We were just children. We saw everything. Everything. We saw too much.’

Daisy? Who’s Daisy? Helen has never heard him mention the name before. ‘Look,’ she says. ‘I can see that you’re worried, but … I’m a big girl now. I’m nearly fifteen. And it’s not as if I’ll be on my own. The whole class is going and …’ Her voice trails away when she realises that he isn’t listening to her. His eyes have a faraway look in them. He starts to talk, his voice soft and low, but gaining in power as he goes on.

‘I went there in September, 1939,’ he murmurs. ‘It was a strange time. Everyone knew that war was coming and they thought the big cities would be bombed within days …’

Helen stares at him. She realises he’s talking about something he’s never spoken of before, at least never to her, something that happened to him long ago.

‘Somebody came up with the bright idea of sending thousands of us children out to the countryside, where they thought we’d be safe.’ He laughs, a bitter laugh. ‘I expect they meant well. They couldn’t have known. How could they? So they packed us up and sent us all away to different places across the country. It was a government initiative, this evacuation. They called it … Operation Pied Piper…’

The rhythmic rattle of the old train should have been enough to lull Peter to sleep but there were too many thoughts careering around in his head to allow for that. Daisy had finally stopped crying a few miles back and she was now fast asleep with her head on his shoulder.

He was worried about Daisy. Leaving his parents in London had been bad enough for him, and he was thirteen, nearly grown up. Daisy was only seven and being torn away from Mum had been the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Mum had told Peter, the night before they’d left home, that he would have to be responsible for Daisy now. With Dad called up and Mum working shifts at the Ford factory, it was up to him to keep his sister safe until the war was over and they could come home again.

They had been up at six o’clock that morning and Mum had accompanied them to St Bartholomew’s, which was being used as an assembly point for all the schools in the area. From there, hundreds of children and their parents had marched in a column to a place where specially chartered buses were waiting to take them to Waterloo Station. A designated teacher walked at the head of each group. The children chatted excitedly amongst themselves, the boys trying to outdo each other in guessing how far they might be expected to travel. Arthur Hayes, whose father was a bank manager, claimed that he’d had a tip-off that they would all end up in Australia, but Mr Griffiths, Peter’s teacher, told Arthur in no uncertain terms to pipe down and stop talking nonsense. Peter told himself that wherever they were bound, it was going to be exciting, because most of the children had never been out of London in their entire lives and none had spent time away from their parents. He looked up at his mother, who was walking hand-in-hand with Daisy beside him. Mum looked pale and stern and the red rings around her eyes betrayed the fact that she’d been crying recently.

They piled aboard the buses and set off for the station. When they arrived at Waterloo, they found a scene of complete chaos waiting for them. Hundreds and hundreds of children and their teachers were milling around on the crowded platforms, shouting at each other and brandishing sheets of printed paper. Train whistles shrieked and engines belched clouds of steam, adding to the confusion. Trains came and went, with people fighting to get onto them. Teachers traded insults with each other and some sets of parents even came close to exchanging punches. It was gone midday by the time St Bartholomew’s were finally allocated a train and they hurried to their designated platform with no idea of where they were going or when they might get there.

Mum ignored the advice of the wardens, who told her to turn her back on the children as they walked away to make it ‘easier on herself’. No, she hugged them and kissed them and burst into frantic tears as they pulled themselves out of her arms and clambered aboard the train.

‘Don’t forget,’ she called to Peter as it rumbled out of the station. ‘Whatever happens, look after your sister!’

After the noise and confusion of the station, the journey itself had come as a blessed relief – but as the train clattered onwards, with no sign of arriving anywhere, the novelty soon wore off. Peter looked out of the window and saw wide expanses of green fields and hedgerows stretched out in the September sunshine, so unlike anything he’d known back in Dagenham. It was hard to believe that a war was coming, but Neville Chamberlain had been on the radio only the other night, saying there was no avoiding it now. And yet, with everything so warm and sun-dappled and peaceful, it seemed unlikely that anything bad was ever going to happen.

Peter looked around the packed compartment to see other children, some he knew well, some he barely knew, slumped into the seats all around him, every one of them with a big brown label attached to his or her coat, stating their name, address and school. Their suitcases and gas masks were piled up on the luggage racks above them. They had begun the journey by singing popular songs to try and keep up their spirits, but as the time passed, the energy had drained out of them and now most of the children were fast asleep as they clattered through the countryside, to some unknown destination. To make matters worse, every so often the train would come to a halt and stand still for ages with no explanation given, before finally setting off again.