Read Online At the Firefly Gate by Linda Newbery - Free Book Online
Authors: Linda Newbery
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stream,’ Simon suggested. ‘There might be sticklebacks.’
‘Can we?’ Henry asked his parents. He knew by now that Simon liked wildlife of all sorts, particularly frogs and toads.
‘How far is it?’ Mum asked Simon.
Simon made a vague guesture. ‘Not far. That way, out in the fields. There’s a footpath.’
Once Mum had satisfied herself that they wouldn’t have to trespass or cross any fields with bulls in them, she agreed. ‘Don’t get too hot,’ she warned.
It would be impossible
not
to get too hot, Henry thought, unless you stood up to your neck in a river. He felt the sun striking through his T-shirt and prickling his bare arms as Simon led the way along the footpath beside the church and out into a grass meadow.
‘I’ve been this way before,’ he told Simon, recognising the way Grace had brought him on Friday. The stream — the tree-shaded part of it Simon was making for — was down in the dip to their left; ahead, over the brow of a rise, was the stony track that led towards Amber’s paddock. It would be fun, Henry thought, to show Amber to Simon, and impress him with the story of the wild gallop. He’d call Amber a horse, he decided, rather than a pony; she was almost big enough to pass for a horse. He could make it sound like a one-horse Grand National. ‘Let’s go this way first,’ he told Simon.
A flurry of birds flew out from the low trees beside the stream and the water glinted coolly, making him wonder for a moment if it wouldn’t be more fun after all to paddle and look for sticklebacks. They reached the stile that led to the stony track, which they followed until it forked by a barn. Here, Henry soon realised that he must have taken a wrong turning. There was no shelter, no pony. Instead the field-edge was rising slowly towards a rusted gate. The rough path under their feet ran beside a dry ditch fringed with poppies and nettles, then became concrete, cracked and broken, with grass pushing up through the cracks. Henry and Simon climbed the gate and stood looking at the flat, open area, bordered by shrubby trees. The track widened, joining another at a sharp angle.
‘You know what this place is?’ Simon whispered.
Henry had no idea why Simon felt he had to keep his voice low — there was no one around — but he found himself whispering too. ‘No. What?’
‘It’s the old airfield. This is one of the runways. And that building over there must have been some sort of control tower.’
Henry looked at the crumbling brick building with broken steps leading up to a doorway. ‘How old?’ he asked. ‘This place doesn’t look as if it’s been used for centuries.’
‘There weren’t such things as aeroplanes centuries ago, dingbat.’ Simon gave him a friendly shove. ‘It was used in the war. I know cos my grandad was here, Grandad Dobbs.’
‘What did he do in the war, your grandad?’
‘Actually he’s my great-grandad — my dad’s grandad. He’s ancient, eighty-something. He flew in a Lancaster. But he wasn’t a pilot, he was a flight engineer. He told me all about it. There were seven of them, in a Lanc, all with different jobs: pilot, wireless operator, rear gunner — I forget the others. And all Grandad’s crew were killed one night, only Grandad wasn’t there cos he was in sick bay, with flu. They all died, all his best mates he’d been with since he trained. For a long time, he said, he wished he’d died with them. He felt guilty, for getting flu. He should have been there.’
‘To get killed? That’s a weird thing to wish.’
Simon shrugged. ‘That’s what he said.’
‘So didn’t he fly any more after that?’
‘Course he did! The war was still on. But he got transferred to some other airfield, with another crew. He was lucky, he said. One time he was due to fly, only there was something wrong with their plane so they couldn’t go, and seven out of the twenty planes got shot down that night. And another time he’d just left his
‘Can we?’ Henry asked his parents. He knew by now that Simon liked wildlife of all sorts, particularly frogs and toads.
‘How far is it?’ Mum asked Simon.
Simon made a vague guesture. ‘Not far. That way, out in the fields. There’s a footpath.’
Once Mum had satisfied herself that they wouldn’t have to trespass or cross any fields with bulls in them, she agreed. ‘Don’t get too hot,’ she warned.
It would be impossible
not
to get too hot, Henry thought, unless you stood up to your neck in a river. He felt the sun striking through his T-shirt and prickling his bare arms as Simon led the way along the footpath beside the church and out into a grass meadow.
‘I’ve been this way before,’ he told Simon, recognising the way Grace had brought him on Friday. The stream — the tree-shaded part of it Simon was making for — was down in the dip to their left; ahead, over the brow of a rise, was the stony track that led towards Amber’s paddock. It would be fun, Henry thought, to show Amber to Simon, and impress him with the story of the wild gallop. He’d call Amber a horse, he decided, rather than a pony; she was almost big enough to pass for a horse. He could make it sound like a one-horse Grand National. ‘Let’s go this way first,’ he told Simon.
A flurry of birds flew out from the low trees beside the stream and the water glinted coolly, making him wonder for a moment if it wouldn’t be more fun after all to paddle and look for sticklebacks. They reached the stile that led to the stony track, which they followed until it forked by a barn. Here, Henry soon realised that he must have taken a wrong turning. There was no shelter, no pony. Instead the field-edge was rising slowly towards a rusted gate. The rough path under their feet ran beside a dry ditch fringed with poppies and nettles, then became concrete, cracked and broken, with grass pushing up through the cracks. Henry and Simon climbed the gate and stood looking at the flat, open area, bordered by shrubby trees. The track widened, joining another at a sharp angle.
‘You know what this place is?’ Simon whispered.
Henry had no idea why Simon felt he had to keep his voice low — there was no one around — but he found himself whispering too. ‘No. What?’
‘It’s the old airfield. This is one of the runways. And that building over there must have been some sort of control tower.’
Henry looked at the crumbling brick building with broken steps leading up to a doorway. ‘How old?’ he asked. ‘This place doesn’t look as if it’s been used for centuries.’
‘There weren’t such things as aeroplanes centuries ago, dingbat.’ Simon gave him a friendly shove. ‘It was used in the war. I know cos my grandad was here, Grandad Dobbs.’
‘What did he do in the war, your grandad?’
‘Actually he’s my great-grandad — my dad’s grandad. He’s ancient, eighty-something. He flew in a Lancaster. But he wasn’t a pilot, he was a flight engineer. He told me all about it. There were seven of them, in a Lanc, all with different jobs: pilot, wireless operator, rear gunner — I forget the others. And all Grandad’s crew were killed one night, only Grandad wasn’t there cos he was in sick bay, with flu. They all died, all his best mates he’d been with since he trained. For a long time, he said, he wished he’d died with them. He felt guilty, for getting flu. He should have been there.’
‘To get killed? That’s a weird thing to wish.’
Simon shrugged. ‘That’s what he said.’
‘So didn’t he fly any more after that?’
‘Course he did! The war was still on. But he got transferred to some other airfield, with another crew. He was lucky, he said. One time he was due to fly, only there was something wrong with their plane so they couldn’t go, and seven out of the twenty planes got shot down that night. And another time he’d just left his
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