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– not when it’s an aeroplane. It’s a nice bit of
airframe
, or maybe
fuselage
. Cars have bodywork, you twerp.’
    I nodded. ‘I know, Dicky, and what you’ve got there is a nice bit of car bodywork.’
    â€˜Don’t talk rot, Price. This is off a Heinkel 111. Ask that duffer next to you –
his
brother liberated it.’
    Walter shook his head. ‘Not
that
, Deadman. The Heinkel’s at home.
That
’s a bit off a 1922 Robinson Roadster, and so are all the bits you’ve flogged at a tanner a time. You’re nothing but a cheap fraudster. I wouldn’t be you when your customers find out – you’ll be a deadman
then
all right.’
    Old Dicky. I wish you could’ve seen his face.

THIRTY-ONE
Not Expecting Jerry
    â€˜ HE’S IN THE conservatory, Gordon, come on through.’ I followed Sarah, passing about a million quids worth of antiques and pictures along the way. It’d be a major tragedy if a bomb ever hit this place.
    â€˜Gordon!’ Norman was sitting in a wicker chair, a stamp album open across his knees. He closed it, set it on a small table and got up. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
    I glanced at the powerful lamp on the table, then at the expanse of unshaded glass around and above us. ‘You’re not expecting
Jerry
eitherby the look of it – do your parents not
know
about the blackout?’
    â€˜Oh, pooh!’ He grinned. ‘Wardens can’t see this side of the house because of the high wall, and it only takes a sec to plunge the place into darkness if the siren goes.’ He looked at me. ‘Did it
work
, your ruse with the piece we cut from Tin Lizzie?’
    I nodded. ‘Like a dream. Deadman gave Walter half a crown for it, and made twenty-five bob selling it off in bits. We waited till he sold the last bit, then told him.’ I laughed. ‘With fifty chaps after his blood, I’m not expecting any more trouble from him in the near future.’ I pulled a face. ‘I only hope you don’t get into hot water with your dad for mutilating the Roadster.’
    Norman shook his head. ‘I shan’t. I told you, he never goes near it and if he did, I’d tell him I donated the piece to the
Saucepans to Spitfires
campaign. He could hardly shout about
that
, could he?’
    He was showing me his latest stamp – a cerise Guadeloupe triangular with a beautiful frigate bird on it – when Sarah reappeared. This time there were beakers of rich sweet cocoa and a plate of peppermint-cracknel chocs.
    â€˜Y’know, Sarah,’ grinned Norman, ‘I suspect there isn’t a war on at all down your end of the house.’
    The girl nodded. ‘You’re right, Norman – in my quarters it’ll always be nineteen thirty-two, and I’ll always be seventeen.’

THIRTY-TWO
Just Boys
    I COULD HARDLY wait for Saturday, when my real work would begin. Something amazing happened on Thursday, but not to me.
    Gran knew the people it happened to, they’d been neighbours of hers years ago. Varney was their name. They lived miles away now, out in the country. Mrs Varney had called to see Gran that day and told her the story.
    Wednesday night there’d been a raid on the city. An enemy bomber was hit. It turned for home, but one of its engines was on fire and the pilot was forced to make a crash-landing onfarmland. Some Home Guard chaps ran to the smoking kite and captured the three-man crew, who were practically unhurt. The nearest house belonged to the Varneys, and the Home Guard knocked them up at two in the morning and asked to use the phone. They had the German airmen at rifle-point. Mrs Varney invited everybody inside, and the prisoners drank tea till the police arrived. They were just boys, Mrs Varney said. Just boys.
    â€˜Could they speak English, Gran?’ I asked. ‘Did they say anything?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ she told me. ‘I