Read Online The Machine Gunners by Robert Westall - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Westall
Tags: Fiction, General, Historical, Classics, Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Military & Wars, Transportation, Aviation
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Boddser had come down in the world since the fight. For a start, his mother kept him off school a whole week; and then began calling at school for him every day at four o'clock in case the "big rough boys" got him again. She went on and on to everyone who would listen about the amount of bullying that went on at Garmouth High School. But one or two people had told her a few home truths about her darling's arm-twisting, so it was doubtful if she even knew herself whether she was guarding Boddser from the World, or the World from Boddser.
But even discounting his mother's goings-on, Boddser was a flop. His gang didn't want to know him any more. There had been a disaster, and they wanted a new leader. Besides, now he knew what the other side of pain was like, he was uncertain of himself. He put out his tongue at Chas as the bus swept past, and fell to dreaming of future revenge.
"Sit up, you great hulk," said his mother, poking him in the ribs with her elbow, "and wipe your nose,"
Chas, Audrey and Nicky reached Nicky's gate and hung around, unwilling to break up. They were all outcasts now.
"Like to see my goldfish?" asked Nicky. "It's six inches long."
"Gerroff," said Chas. "They always die when they get too big for the jam jar."
" 'Tisn't in a jam jar. He's got a pond all to himself. He's four years old."
"And my bloody rabbit's ninety-four," retorted Chas, but without much heat. He was nosey, so he let himself be led in. They passed the Lodge at the entrance, with its windows boarded up and people's names chalked on the door.
"That's where Graham the gardener lives," said Nicky, "but he's gone to Birmingham to work on munitions." The drive zigzagged through thick damp rhododendrons, and ended up nearly where it had started. There was a great white front door, like a Greek temple, but the paint was peeling off it. A sailor sat on the steps cleaning his boots. They stared at him, but he just said, "Bugger off," without looking up.
"We've got ratings billeted on us," said Nicky. "Come round to the kitchen. Might be something to eat." They went in. There was something to eat: a loaf still warm and a seven-pound tin of butter, opened and left lying like a tin of cheap peas. Nicky carved great lumps off the loaf. It bent like a concertina, and stayed bent. Chas stabbed into the deep well of butter. You could have got lost in it. Chas had never seen so much butter in one place since the War. "Whereja gettit?"
"Oh, it comes off the destroyers. Everything comes off the destroyers." Nicky kicked at a mass of empty gin bottles that lay stacked under the kitchen sink. Chas thought his mum wouldn't have liked that much. Or the plates of cold egg and bacon in the sink with cold water dripping on them, or the half glass of something brown with a dead fly in it. He suddenly felt sorry for Nicky; money wasn't everything.
"What does your mum do?"
"Not much since my father got killed." Nicky's father had been a ship's captain. Before the War, Chas had often seen his ship steam in, with its great white hull and yellow funnels. Captain Nichol had always dressed in spotless white too, with yellow braid on his shoulders. Every time he came home, he gave parties and garden parties, and Mrs. McGill said that people who got invited really thought they were somebody.
Then, in January 1940, the Cyclades was hit by a German torpedo off Gibraltar, even though she was camouflaged with grey stripes, and smiling handsome Captain Nichol vanished beneath the waves forever, and his photograph never appeared in the local paper again.
"Have some more," said Nicky, pointing at the bread.
"Ta," said Chas.
"What are you doing, Benjamin?" The new voice was haughty, but rather wobbly. A tall thin woman was standing in the doorway with a glass in her hand. Chas thought she looked like a film star gone wrong. She was still wearing her dressing gown, though it was just four o'clock. There were stains down the front; they could have been tea or
Boddser had come down in the world since the fight. For a start, his mother kept him off school a whole week; and then began calling at school for him every day at four o'clock in case the "big rough boys" got him again. She went on and on to everyone who would listen about the amount of bullying that went on at Garmouth High School. But one or two people had told her a few home truths about her darling's arm-twisting, so it was doubtful if she even knew herself whether she was guarding Boddser from the World, or the World from Boddser.
But even discounting his mother's goings-on, Boddser was a flop. His gang didn't want to know him any more. There had been a disaster, and they wanted a new leader. Besides, now he knew what the other side of pain was like, he was uncertain of himself. He put out his tongue at Chas as the bus swept past, and fell to dreaming of future revenge.
"Sit up, you great hulk," said his mother, poking him in the ribs with her elbow, "and wipe your nose,"
Chas, Audrey and Nicky reached Nicky's gate and hung around, unwilling to break up. They were all outcasts now.
"Like to see my goldfish?" asked Nicky. "It's six inches long."
"Gerroff," said Chas. "They always die when they get too big for the jam jar."
" 'Tisn't in a jam jar. He's got a pond all to himself. He's four years old."
"And my bloody rabbit's ninety-four," retorted Chas, but without much heat. He was nosey, so he let himself be led in. They passed the Lodge at the entrance, with its windows boarded up and people's names chalked on the door.
"That's where Graham the gardener lives," said Nicky, "but he's gone to Birmingham to work on munitions." The drive zigzagged through thick damp rhododendrons, and ended up nearly where it had started. There was a great white front door, like a Greek temple, but the paint was peeling off it. A sailor sat on the steps cleaning his boots. They stared at him, but he just said, "Bugger off," without looking up.
"We've got ratings billeted on us," said Nicky. "Come round to the kitchen. Might be something to eat." They went in. There was something to eat: a loaf still warm and a seven-pound tin of butter, opened and left lying like a tin of cheap peas. Nicky carved great lumps off the loaf. It bent like a concertina, and stayed bent. Chas stabbed into the deep well of butter. You could have got lost in it. Chas had never seen so much butter in one place since the War. "Whereja gettit?"
"Oh, it comes off the destroyers. Everything comes off the destroyers." Nicky kicked at a mass of empty gin bottles that lay stacked under the kitchen sink. Chas thought his mum wouldn't have liked that much. Or the plates of cold egg and bacon in the sink with cold water dripping on them, or the half glass of something brown with a dead fly in it. He suddenly felt sorry for Nicky; money wasn't everything.
"What does your mum do?"
"Not much since my father got killed." Nicky's father had been a ship's captain. Before the War, Chas had often seen his ship steam in, with its great white hull and yellow funnels. Captain Nichol had always dressed in spotless white too, with yellow braid on his shoulders. Every time he came home, he gave parties and garden parties, and Mrs. McGill said that people who got invited really thought they were somebody.
Then, in January 1940, the Cyclades was hit by a German torpedo off Gibraltar, even though she was camouflaged with grey stripes, and smiling handsome Captain Nichol vanished beneath the waves forever, and his photograph never appeared in the local paper again.
"Have some more," said Nicky, pointing at the bread.
"Ta," said Chas.
"What are you doing, Benjamin?" The new voice was haughty, but rather wobbly. A tall thin woman was standing in the doorway with a glass in her hand. Chas thought she looked like a film star gone wrong. She was still wearing her dressing gown, though it was just four o'clock. There were stains down the front; they could have been tea or
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