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their bombs at. In 1941, a good wet night was a blessing.
    I fell asleep listening to that drumming, and in the morning it was still coming down. I was dead relieved, but I pretended for Dad’s benefit to be disappointed. ‘Shame,’ I murmured, looking out of Gran’s parlour window.
    Dad nodded ruefully. ‘Wouldn’t be much fun on Myra Shay this morning, son. Maybe next weekend, eh?’
    â€˜Maybe,’ I agreed.
    I was worried. How would my contact, whoever he was, know I’d finished the plane? How would he know when to contact me? I thought about it, and an idea came to me. Not much of one, but at any rate the best I could come up with.
    What I did was, I stood the Skymaster on the table by the window. It was Gran’s best table – polished walnut – so I spread a tea towel over it first. Then I dashed outside to have a squint at it. The plane was clearly visible to anyone walking by. All I could do now was wait.
    I didn’t have to wait long. Just after ten there was a knock at the side door. Mum opened it, andcalled to me. ‘Young man from Carter’s, Gordon, asking for you.’
    I hurried to the door, recognized the man who’d sold me the kit. Poor chap looked half-drowned. ‘Come inside,’ I invited, but he shook his head.
    â€˜No time. Manager sent me with this.’ He thrust a folded paper at me. ‘It’s a receipt for five shillings, ought to have given it to you before you left the shop.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Keep it to yourself, read it, burn it. Good morning.’
    He spun on his heel and hurried off, shoulders hunched against the downpour. I stood gawping after him till the penny dropped.
    I’d been contacted.
    â€˜What did the young man
want
, Gordon?’ asked Mum.
    I stuffed the paper in my pocket. ‘It was nothing, Mum, just a receipt for my five bob. Dunno why they had to send him out on a day like this. I’m off to my room if that’s all right.’
    Under the skylight I smoothed the paper andread the words scrawled in pencil:
    Fly at Myra Shay Saturday next, ten a.m. Lose plane over Manley’s fence, it will be returned in minutes. Do not continue flying, do not examine plane. Leave in shed with bike. Await instructions. Burn this now.
    I read the note a second time, then struck a match from the box I kept for the gaslight. The paper was damp, it didn’t catch straight away. I held the flame to a corner. My hand shook. I was listening for footfalls but nobody came. Finally the paper caught fire and I dropped it in a Bakelite ashtray, where it burned to a blackened crisp. This I crushed to powder before throwing it out of the window. I rubbed my hands together, satisfied Sherlock Holmes himself couldn’t have made sense of it now.
    We secret agents can’t be too careful.

THIRTY
Bodywork
    ANOTHER MONDAY, ANOTHER double maths session with old Whitfield. I didn’t care. There were two good reasons
why
I didn’t care. One, I’d been contacted.
Activated
, if you like. I might
look
like the average English schoolboy, bored stiff and longing to get into the war, but I wasn’t. I was
in
the war: a secret agent, part of a team of undercover operatives doing hush-hush work vital to the survival of our country. I hadn’t a clue what Whitfield’s bally
x
equalled, and I wouldn’t be losing any sleep over it.
    And two, Dicky Deadman had fallen for abrilliant bit of spivvery dreamed up by myself, and was about to get his comeuppance.
    I closed the trap at morning break. There was a knot of kids round Dicky, who was selling off the last few bits of enemy bomber at the knock-down price of fourpence. Me and Walter Linfoot watched at a distance till they’d all gone, then sidled over. I nodded at the jagged two-inch square he’d kept for his own collection.
    â€˜Nice bit of bodywork, that,’ I remarked.
    He sneered. ‘You don’t say
bodywork
, Price