The Turnarounders and the Arbuckle Rescue (31 page)

‘ ‘S got a choice ring to it, that,’ Alfie snorted. He pulled his tam o' shanter down over his eyes and folded his arms, giving a few beat-box braps. ‘The King’s Hadow Spirit is comin’ to get ya! If you don’t have your garlic it’ll kill you, I betcha!’ His words echoed in the confined space.

‘Shut up, you idiot!’ Valen laughed and clipped him round the ear. ‘How can you joke about it?’

Alfie was all seriousness as he answered her. ‘Valen, the Fear in the village is getting worse and worse, innit? And me and the Sedleys live right next to Urk Fitch’s place. There’s shrieks and wails and all sorts most nights. We’re way out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by I don’t know how many Falls, leading to I don’t know where and I don’t know when.’ His eyes were round and fearful. ‘Get out of bed on the wrong side and I could end up getting eaten by a raptor!’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Man, if I don’t laugh about it, I’ll cry.’

‘Come on,’ said Leo. ‘This place is giving me the creeps.’

They paused at the top of the steps, blinking. ‘Is it just me,’ Alfie asked, ‘or is this whole experience starting to feel like a really bad episode of Scooby Doo?’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Valen. ‘But unless Shaggy turns up to save the day pretty soon, it’s going to be a very miserable Christmas.’

Perhaps Reverend Denning had been thinking along the same lines when he organized the Christmas Party or maybe he had been thinking of the growing number
of evacuees who now roamed the village looking lost and lonely. At any rate, that night’s party promised to be a jolly affair complete with dancing and a small band consisting of anyone who could either play or get their hands on an instrument. The Kingston-Hawkes were Christmas shopping in London but they had contributed enough food and drink to feed a small army.

At half past six, Ralf, Leo, Hilda and the Arbuckles made their way to the Village Hall carrying plates of sandwiches, a fruitcake and several bottles of cider. You had to hand it to Denning, Ralf thought,
as he walked in. The vicar had really made an effort. The Hall was decorated with newspaper paper chains, there was a vast Christmas Tree in the corner and four long trestle tables were already weighed down with a selection of home cooked delicacies.

There were sausage rolls and pasties, fresh crusty bread, crumbly Kent cheese from the Sedleys, ham and tongue and chutney. The Hatchers had brought pickled herring and a huge fish pie and Frank Duke must have raided his cellar because there were bottles of lemonade and ginger beer as well as rich, dark stout and a keg of Dark Ferry Ale.

Ralf deposited his plate on the packed table and then turned as the room broke into applause. Rosie Kemp had arrived with the night’s star attraction, a homemade mock turkey, or ‘murkey’ as she called it, dressed with parsnips and bacon. Her husband followed with two fruit pies and a bun loaf. Ralf couldn’t help but smile as people crowded round to admire them and he had to take a step back for fear of squashing some tiny primary school kid keen on having a first taste.

It seemed like most of village had turned out and a few of the staff from the school had come down to join in the celebrations too. In short order they had all loaded their plates and were eating their fill. Ralf had two helpings of blackberry and apple pie and thought he’d done well, until he saw Alfie go back for a third slice. Where did he put it all?

After the meal, the tables were quickly cleared and Gordon Kemp suggested a toast to the plucky Finns who were holding back the advance of the ‘great, Russian war machine’. That done, amidst loud shouts of ‘That’ll show ‘em!’ and ‘Let our lads at ‘em!’ he beckoned to Reverend Denning.

Denning, with as much dignity as a man can muster whilst standing on a packing crate wearing a newspaper party hat, announced the winners of the raffle. In the shadow of the Christmas Tree, Mrs Tomkins was the lucky recipient of a lemon and collected the now rare citrus fruit in the manner of someone accepting a precious gem. Mrs Hatcher won a pair of silk stockings and was immediately surrounded by a crush of other women exclaiming over her luck. Even Alfie ended up profiting from the draw as Walter Sedley claimed his prize of a brand new torch and promptly gave it to the boy as a replacement for his taped one. But it was the announcement of the main prize that caused the most commotion. The news that Hettie Timm
ins had won a set of boxing gloves donated by Frank Duke was greeted with gales of laughter. In a marked contrast to her earlier mood, Hettie went to receive her prize, flushed and giggling as villagers hooted and whistled. Everyone cheered the efforts of the St Crispin’s boys who had raised an astonishing £243 towards the lifeboat. Everyone cheered again at the news that the village children had done almost as well.

‘And I do think its marvellous how all the boys and girls worked so well together,’ Denning added, enthusiastically.

As glasses were raised and gossip was exchanged, warm congratulations were given and accepted, backs patted and hands shaken, small children ran amok screaming in delight and eating huge handfuls of homemade fudge.

‘Did I just dream that?’ Leo asked over the noise.

Ralf was astonished. ‘I don’t get it!’ he breathed. ‘A few days ago the village and school were at each other’s throats! Kids fighting. Adults angry. It’s like a totally different set of people!’

‘They’re not even faking to be polite,’ Valen pointed out. ‘Look at Mr Cheeseman and that teacher with the big nose!’

Ralf couldn’t believe it. ‘Asinus and the milkman chatting like old friends!’

‘Collective amnesia,’ said Seth.

Alfie shook his head. ‘Nah! They’ve all just forgotten about it.’

‘That’s what I just said!’ Seth retorted with a withering look. 

‘It’s like the whole thing, the anger and distrust – everything – has all been overlooked,’ said Leo in wonder.

‘And to think of all the blimmin’ tickets we sold!’ Alfie exclaimed.

The music started then and the first couples took to the floor as kids played chase at the edges and the older women bustled about in the adjoining kitchen.

Ralf was impressed by the band. Ben Cheeseman rattled out a tune on the battered piano and was accompanied on fiddle and drums by Walter Sedley and Jem Curtis. The vicar played the tambourine and Ralf winced. Denning, he thought, could practice until he was a hundred but he’d still need a map and directions to find a sense of rhythm. Mind you, what he lacked in skill he made up for in enthusiasm. He was soon drowned out by Old Jack Sedley on spoons and a rather red-faced Winters who, after much persuasion, drew out the cornet he ‘happened’ to have with him. He added complicated harmonies when he wasn’t slurping at his tankard of beer.

The explosion must have been very near because it shook the tables and made the crockery rattle.

‘Invasion!’

‘Air Raid!’

‘The Germans are coming!’

The Hall was a scene of outright pandemonium as villagers rushed for the exit in a seething mass of panic. Everyone, including the Turnarounders, ignored the vicar’s pleas for calm and Gordon Kemp’s bellow to ‘Shut off the ruddy light!’ and streamed out on to the Green to see what was happening.

Confusion reigned for the next few minutes as people milled to and fro not knowing which way to run. Hettie was particularly bad for a while but her shrill cries of ‘We’re all going to die!’ came to an abrupt, gurgling stop when Mrs Kemp shook her until her teeth rattled and snapped. ‘Pull yourself together, girl!’

Ron Arbuckle also kept his head. ‘Over there!’ he pointed. ‘In the graveyard!’

Ralf saw it too. A cloud of smoke drifted from between the headstones, with it came the unmistakable smell of gunpowder. As the only person present to have served in the armed forces, Winters was viewed as the expert. He did what was expected of him and volunteered to investigate. Gordon Kemp commandeered Alfie’s new torch then Ron, Tom and Walter Sedley stepped forward to join him. The group crunched across the snow-covered green towards the church.

Val’s whisper was taut with anxiety. ‘They might be our Echoes. They’re supposed to be kept safe! What if it’s a bomb? They’ll all be killed!’

Ralf shook his head. ‘It isn’t a bomb. Air Raids haven’t started yet, remember?’

Minutes of silence followed, the whole village waiting for the roar of another explosion.

‘F– f– firework!’ Winter’s called from the darkness finally, the relief in his voice was clear for all to hear. The villagers let out a collective sigh and surged forward to examine and comment on this latest drama.

A second explosion ripped into the night. A sharp flash illuminated the top end of the lane as it curved towards the station. There was a rush towards the light until Winters shouted.

‘Stop! J-just because this first one was a f-f-firework doesn’t mean that that one is!’ His face, which had been so merry a few minutes ago, looked drawn. He seemed to have aged ten years in the same number of minutes. He said something to Ron Arbuckle then turned to lean against the wall, his whole body quivering. Seth ran over to him.

‘Winters is right,’ called Gordon Kemp. ‘I’ll have a gander up the lane. Everyone else stay here until I find out exactly what’s going on!’

‘Quite right,’ said the vicar. ‘No sense going off half-cocked. I do think, though, perhaps the police should be telephoned.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Walter Sedley.

There was another loud bang in the direction of the High Street. Everyone flinched. The evacuees, clustered round Denning, looked terrified. One shaking toddler buried her tear stained face in his white collared shirt. Women called for their children and the menfolk formed a protective circle around them.

‘Double quick, Walter,’ said Old Bill. ‘Take Jem Curtis or one of the others with you!’

‘The Echoes! They’re all going off in different directions!’ hissed Valen ‘What should we do?’

Ralf’s head whipped right and left. ‘I don’t know er – er – Let’s try to keep them in sight, okay?’ he said. ‘I’ll follow Walter Sedley. Leo you go and keep an eye on Kemp.’

‘On it,’ said Leo. He ducked away into the shadows, avoiding Denning who was trying to herd everyone into the church.

‘Where are the Muntons?’ asked Seth, suddenly back with them. ‘Anyone seen them?’ Alfie shook his head. ‘Right,’ Seth went on, decisively. ‘I’m going down to the harbour to see where they are.’

‘I’ll back you,’ said Alfie.

‘And what am I supposed to do?’ hissed Valen.

‘Stay here.’

‘What? With the women and children!’ said Valen in a furious whisper. ‘Ralf Osborne, if you’re telling me to stay here because I’m a girl – I’ll – I’ll –’

‘Valen! Winters and all three Arbuckles are staying right here,’ snapped Ralf. ‘That’s four of our most likely Righteous Echoes! We need a one-person army down here and you’re it. Now stop bleating! We’re wasting time!’

‘You should’ve said,’ Valen muttered, but she looked purposeful, almost happy, as she took up position by the door on high alert.

Seth and Alfie slipped away, hugging the side of the church and then dashed across
the Green at a crouched run.

Ralf watched them go. It was amazing really. Denning and the village women clucked protectively around the other children and yet no one noticed them leave. The Turnarounders seemed to be under the adults’ sightline, somehow, almost invisible. Even Hilda seemed to have forgotten about him, Ralf thought with a slight pang.

With a quick look round to make sure no one saw him, Ralf slipped across the graveyard, silent as a shadow, to follow Walter Sedley and Jem Curtis. Another bang, this time nearer the harbour. Ralf hoped fervently that Seth and Alfie were alright and hurried on.

Walter and Jem hotfooted it to the top of the High Street, ignored the broken public telephone box, and hurried down Rose Street towards Brindle’s.

The house was in darkness when they got there but Brindle emerged from behind a snow-draped laurel on the edge of the woods within seconds of them banging on the door. Still in her overalls, despite the late hour, she frowned at the sight of the two young men on her doorstep but strode forward to meet them. After what seemed like far too much time asking questions, she sniffed and agreed to walk down to the Post Office and telephone the police.

Ralf followed at a distance. The High Street was alive now. The few people who hadn’t been at the party were out of their houses, fearfully discussing the latest disturbance and by the time the little group reached the Post Office a small crowd had already gathered there.

It was only then that he remembered his own words: ‘
We know that something’s going to happen and we know where. What we don’t know is what’s going to happen or when!
’

Well this definitely qualified as ‘something’. The map reference! Whatever it was
, it was supposed to happen on the lane towards Merle Farm. What if all the fireworks in the village were just a diversion? It seemed foolish to stay with Walter now. What could happen amongst all these people, anyway?

He turned and half ran, half slithered back up the high street and then headed left in the direction of the Fitch place. It was hard going, the snow still thick here and churned by tractors. Half way down the lane, something caught his eye. At the bend in the road just before Sparra’s Pond there was movement. A humped shadow lurched from a seldom-used track that led down to the sea. Ralf scurried forwards, trying to keep quiet, wincing at each crunching footstep. What was that? The shape was all wrong. It was big, four-legged but all the wrong proportions for any bull or sheep. The legs were too long and spindly; there was no discernible head, just lumps and a curiously
humped back that seemed to ripple as it slunk across the road.