At the Firefly Gate (9 page)

SIXTEEN

PROMISE

Lunch was early on Saturday, because Mum was eager not to miss any of the village fête.

‘Are we still going?’ Henry asked. ‘It doesn’t feel right.’

‘Henry,’ Mum said gently, ‘if we could ask Dottie what she wanted you to do, what d’you think she’d say? Would she rather you went to the fête or would she prefer you to hang around indoors feeling miserable?’

Henry thought about it. All yesterday, all today, he’d had a hollow, empty feeling inside, and a sense that something was weighing him down.
This can’t be all,
he kept thinking.
This can’t be all there is! Someone’s here and then gone, leaving nothing.
Into his mind came Dottie’s face and her bright eyes looking at him, and her voice saying, ‘You go and have a good time! Don’t let me stop you, just because I’ve gone and died.’

He felt more cheerful. ‘Go to the fête.’

‘Yes, that’s what I think. It won’t make us forget all about Dottie, but it
will
take our minds off things for a while. And you can’t leave a hole in the relay team, can you?’

The fête was behind the village hall, which was decked with coloured flags. Usually empty apart from football goal-posts, the big field was now crammed with a bouncy castle, a large marquee, various stands and stalls and an agility course for dogs. The running-track had been marked out around the perimeter, roped off. Henry and his parents were among the first to pay their 50ps to go in, but soon the field was crowded with people, some of whom he recognised. There was the postman with his wife, and the lady from the shop, and Elissa with her parents, and Simon with a very bouncy, excitable collie called Pogo. ‘He’s doing dog agility,’ Simon told Henry, ‘and I bet he’ll win — he’s brilliant at it.’ Henry’s mum, noticing the plant stall, veered off in that direction, while Dad chatted to Simon’s dad, who had just the same fox-red hair as Simon, and Simon demonstrated how Pogo would Sit and Stay on command.

A few minutes later Neil arrived, and the three boys and Elissa went into a huddle and talked tactics. Henry was to run third, after Neil and Elissa, leaving Simon, the fastest runner, to do the final lap.

‘What’s the opposition?’ Henry asked, since the others were making the race sound very serious indeed.

‘The Crickford Cheetahs,’ Simon said. ‘They’re the ones we’ve got to beat. That’s Tim, Grace, Tracy and Dean.’

For a second Henry thought he said Cheaters, only he didn’t see how you could cheat in a relay. ‘Grace!’ he echoed. ‘Well, I don’t know if she’s coming, cos —’

‘She’s over there.’ Simon nodded towards the start. There was Grace, in running shorts and trainers, looking very fit and athletic. Like a winner.

‘I didn’t know we needed a team name,’ Elissa said. ‘What’s ours?’

Simon grinned. ‘I’ve entered us as the Hurtling Hens.’

‘The
what
?’ Henry felt himself beginning to go red; he felt betrayed — and by Simon of all people!

‘The Hurtling Hens. HENS stands for Henry, Elissa, Neil and Simon. Good, isn’t it?’ Simon pretended to be a running hen, with chest puffed out and arms held stiffly like wings, legs pumping up and down on the spot. Henry laughed with the others, relieved to be sharing a Hen joke that was nothing to do with him.

‘Only don’t run like
that.
’ Neil poked Simon in the ribs. ‘Or we’ll come last by miles!’

The sports began with the under-tens and infants — running races, egg-and-spoon, sack races and three-legged races. Henry began to feel nervous as the time drew nearer for his own event. He tightened the laces on his trainers.

‘Relay teams,’ the loudspeaker said. ‘Competitors go to the start, please.’

The number ones lined up, six of them — Neil, Tracy from Grace’s team and four boys and a girl Henry didn’t know. The others waited by the side of the track, jiggling up and down so that they were ready to run.

‘On your marks . . . get set . . .
go
!’ shouted the starter, and they were off. Henry felt himself tensed up with eagerness, wanting to run his best, not to let his team down.

Tracy was obviously the weakest runner of the Cheetahs — she was behind almost before they had rounded the first turn — but the other girl pounded strongly ahead, her blond pony-tail flying out behind. By the first changeover, her team — the Ridgeley Rockets — had a clear lead over Neil in second place, but their next runner wasn’t as fast. Elissa, on the second lap for the Hens, had a look of fierce determination that said she was going to catch up or burst a blood vessel in the effort. ‘Go, Lissa!’ Simon yelled.

Henry took his place, hand outstretched ready for the baton. Elissa pounded towards him, all the time gaining on the boy, her small weight seeming to shake the ground. Henry concentrated hard on the baton — mustn’t drop it, mustn’t fumble and waste time! — then gripped it surely in his hand and drove himself forward. ‘
Go
on, Henry!’ he heard Dad shout from behind the ropes. The Cheetahs’ handover hadn’t been so smooth and now Henry found himself running alongside Tim from Grace’s team, matching him stride for stride, with the Rockets runner a little behind and the others straggling. It would be Simon and Grace in the final lap; the race would be lost if he didn’t keep up.

Henry was straining every muscle, but slowly Tim inched ahead, every stride increasing his lead. Henry felt himself starting to wilt, with nothing more to give. In a second the runner in third place would pass him.

Then a voice yelled out, quite close, ‘Get a shift on, Henry! Move yourself! You can do it!’

He could have sworn, just for a baffled second, that it was Dottie’s voice, cracked and old, but rising above the shouts of the other spectators. She was cheering, just for him! There was no time to look round to see where she was, but he felt himself moving up a gear, finding an extra burst of energy as his feet pounded the track. Tim gave him a startled look as he drew level. Held his position. Second place wasn’t good enough for the Hens. He wanted to win — win for Dottie.

Simon was waiting, poised, hand stretched out for the baton, Grace next to him almost bursting with impatience. Henry made an extra spurt, found himself overtaking Tim, and even though his lungs felt like bursting, he kept his lead for the final dash. He thrust the baton safely into Simon’s hand, watched him sprint off, and stood by the trackside, hands on his knees, panting, but paying close attention to the last lap. ‘Well done!’ Neil thumped him on the back, and Elissa jumped up and down, saying, ‘That was great. We could win this!’

Simon and Grace were running strongly, Simon keeping his lead; the Rockets, not as good as their name, were in third place, and the other three teams hardly in the race at all. Although Grace had longer legs and was taller, Henry could tell from Simon’s look of set determination that he wasn’t going to let her pass him without a struggle.

‘Run, Si!’

‘Don’t look round! Keep going!’

‘Grace! Grace! Come on, Cheetahs!’

‘Go for it — you’re nearly there!’

It was almost a photo-finish — a few metres more and Grace would have won, but Simon kept up the effort right to the tape, and by sheer willpower managed to keep ahead.

‘
Yes! Yes!
We did it! We’ve won!’ Elissa shrieked.

‘A very exciting finish there,’ came over the loudspeakers, ‘with the Hurtling Hens just taking first place from the Crickford Cheetahs, but very well run by both teams.’

For a second Henry caught himself looking round for Dottie, knowing how pleased she’d be, before remembering that of course she wasn’t there and couldn’t know. A wave of regret washed through him, but there was no time to stop and think, as Grace — Grace! — came over to clap him on the back and say, ‘Well done, Strawberry. You did really well.’

It was generous of her, Henry thought, because it was obvious she’d have won if it had been a straight race between her and Simon. ‘You too,’ he said gruffly.

‘Yeah, well. Your team was better.’

Henry wondered what she’d say if he told her that Dottie had come to cheer him on, just as she’d promised. He scanned the faces of the people standing at the trackside, imagining Dottie’s face creasing up with pleasure, grinning in triumph, like when she’d got the eighty-six at Scrabble.

Already competitors were lining up for the sack race. ‘Lissa’ll win this, you watch,’ said Simon, and he was right. By taking quick little steps with her feet pushed to the bottom corners of the sack, Elissa beat all the people who took giant bounds and tired themselves out. Next, there was a slow bicycle race. Henry hadn’t tried that, but it looked like fun. Anyone who fell off their bike or had to put a foot on the ground was disqualified. It went on for so long that Simon and Henry got bored and wandered off to the Wellie Whanging, at which Henry’s dad was surprisingly successful.

‘Dog Agility is about to begin,’ said the commentator (who, Henry had realised, was the man who ran the Post Office). ‘Will all dogs wishing to take part please bring their owners to the Dog Agility course.’

Simon went to collect Pogo from his father. It was like TV programmes Henry had seen — the dogs had to weave through poles, leap up to a table and lie down, and go over miniature show jumps. Some of the dogs and owners looked very professional, but others were just having a go, like Simon. He told Henry, ‘Pogo’s ace at this. Just you watch.’

‘Simon Dobbs and Pogo,’ called the commentator, and Simon entered the ring with his dog obediently at heel.

‘He’s very well trained!’ said Henry’s mum, who had just joined them, carrying a straw basket full of plants.

‘Well, I do my best. The dog’s not bad, either,’ joked Simon’s dad.

The whistle sounded and Simon set off at a jog, whistling. But the collie was too overwhelmed with excitement even to look at the jumps; he dashed in mad circles, barking, while Simon tried to show him what to do. In the end Simon gave up with Pogo and completed the whole course himself, hurdling jumps, weaving through cones and even lying on the table while the collie looked on in puzzlement. Everyone applauded wildly as Simon left the ring, very red in the face, with Pogo bounding beside him looking as pleased as if he’d done everything perfectly.

‘You want to enter that lad for Crufts,’ one of the dog-handlers said to Simon’s dad.

Henry’s dad slipped him a two-pound coin. ‘Go and buy ice-creams for yourself and Simon. He looks as if he could do with one.’

‘I’ll take Pogo,’ offered Simon’s dad. ‘Course, it’d have been different with me in charge. Knows his master’s voice, that dog.’

‘Stage-fright,’ Simon told him, ‘that’s all it was. Dad, is it OK if Henry comes round tomorrow?’

‘Course,’ said Simon’s dad. ‘Tomorrow afternoon? Gran and Grandad’ll be there as well.’

As he and Simon crossed the field to the ice-cream van, Henry thought of all the things he had to look forward to. It was the summer holidays now, and he was going to Simon’s, and Grace was going to teach him to ride properly. In two weeks’ time he was going to Scotland with Mum and Dad, and when they got back Nabil was coming to stay. At the end of it would be school, but he needn’t worry about that yet, and anyway he had friends who would be just as new as he was. He’d run well in the race and — he couldn’t be certain, but he felt fairly sure — he’d grown a little bit taller, just a tiny bit, since they’d come to live in the village. When they got home, he’d ask Mum to make a new pencil mark on his bedroom doorframe, so that he could keep a check.

He looked across the field to the line of roofs and chimneys that was Church Cottages and home, and felt for the first time that he belonged here.

SEVENTEEN

RUSTY’S LUCK

Simon’s house was in Upper Crickford, a few miles away, and was one of a pair of farm cottages, with flinty walls. Everyone was in the garden — garden-living had become normal, this long, hot summer. Henry wondered what it would feel like to go back to rooms and sofas and fires.

In all the excitement of the fête, he’d forgotten that Simon’s great-grandad was Rusty Dobbs, but remembered in the instant of meeting.

Rusty Dobbs had grey hair, but otherwise looked like a much older version of Simon. He didn’t look nearly as old as Dottie. Henry realised that it must have been Dottie’s illness that made her so old and frail, but Rusty Dobbs could hardly have looked healthier. He played boisterous games with Pogo, told lots of jokes and laughed loudly at them. His wife, Simon’s great-grandmother, had just come from the swimming-pool, and her hair was still wet.

When, for a moment, Rusty and Simon and Simon’s dad all stood together admiring the runner-beans, Henry had the odd feeling of looking at a family of Russian dolls, all with the same smile. Just for a second, he thought of another family — Henry the Navigator, grey like Rusty, and Dottie, and someone around Dad’s age, and a boy of about ten, and a little girl in a pushchair. The family that never was, he thought. The family-to-be, that crashed into the sea with Henry.

Rusty Dobbs was amazed when Henry told him who Dottie was. He stared and stared, then shook his head like a dog shaking water out of its ears after a swim.

‘Yes, I remember Dottie all right,’ he told Henry, suddenly sounding much younger. ‘Lovely girl, she was — those blue, blue eyes, I remember, and that laugh! I always claimed it was me saw her first —’

‘You watch what you say!’ said Simon’s gran.

‘That was before I’d met Mary, of course.’ Rusty gave one of his grins and took her hand. ‘But Dottie only had eyes for Henry. And you mean she’s been over in Crickford St. Thomas the last few weeks and I could have gone over and had a good old natter? And now it’s too late?’

‘She’d have loved that,’ Henry said sadly. ‘Talking about Henry.’

‘Sad. Sad.’ Rusty was silent for a few moments; then he said: ‘Still, I’ll go and pay my last respects. Buy her a big bunch of flowers. You must get Simon to bring you round to our house some time,’ he added. ‘We’re in Stowmarket. I’ve got loads of photos I can show you. There’s quite a few of Henry.’ Then he gave Henry a sideways look. ‘You know what? You remind me of him.’

‘Dottie said that,’ Henry told him.

‘Yes, I can see why. Same dark hair, same eyes, same look. No wonder you brought all the old memories back, for Dottie. I’ll always remember him — a good mate, he was. Tell you what,’ said Rusty. He reached into the back pocket of his trousers and pulled out his wallet. ‘I’m going to give you something. Something of his, to keep.’

Henry could feel his heart beating. In the second before he saw it — something Rusty Dobbs kept in his wallet, in a screw of paper — he knew what it would be.

Henry’s sixpence. The sixpenny-bit Henry had given Rusty the very first time they’d seen Dottie.

‘You can’t give me that!’ Henry burst out. ‘It’s yours. For luck —’

Rusty gave him a curious stare. ‘Well, how d’you know that? You’re right, though. Henry gave it me and told me to keep it for good luck. And I always have. Now I reckon it’s your turn.’ He put the coin in the palm of Henry’s hand.

‘What’s that?’ Simon came over to look.

It still looked shiny and new. It showed the head of King George and the date, 1943. It had been in Henry the Navigator’s pocket and could easily have been spent at the canteen. But it had become Rusty’s Luck.

‘Wait!’ Henry protested. ‘What if
your
luck runs out, if you give it to me?’

‘Well, you know?’ Rusty gave a contented chuckle, and looked around the garden, then up at the sky, then at Simon. ‘I reckon I’ve had all the luck I could ever want, in my life. Now it’s your turn. You keep it, lad.’ He took the coin back, rewrapped it in its twist of paper and handed it to Henry. Henry put it carefully in his shorts pocket.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thanks a million.’

It didn’t seem enough.

What if Henry had kept it for himself, he wondered? Would things have been different? Surely not. It was only a coin. But he was going to keep it carefully, keep it always. He would find it a special place.

‘Tea’s ready!’ shouted Simon’s dad from the patio. There was a garden table laid with big platefuls of sandwiches and scones and doughnuts. Suddenly, Henry was ravenous.

‘Jam doughnuts! My favourite,’ said Rusty Dobbs.

When he got home, the first thing Henry saw was Dottie’s Scrabble box on the table.

‘Pat brought it round,’ Mum explained. ‘She thought you might like to have something of Dottie’s, to keep.’