The Making of Alby - 3000 words

The Making of Alby

Chapter 1: An Important Announcement

Alby White was sure he’d never make it over the turnstile to the woods. His legs were moving faster, and his heart was beating louder than ever before, and he had no idea how big the gap was between him and his pursuer.

‘C’mon—faster!’ He could hear someone urging him on, and just as he thought his legs were about to give out from under him, he was lifted high in the air and catapulted over a fence, where he somersaulted and landed with a thud into the undergrowth. Face down; Alby was afraid to look up. His breathing was laboured and loud, and he knew he would give them all away.

‘You all right Squirt?’ It was the familiar voice of his brother Chalky. He picked Alby up by the neck of his jumper—a jumper that had once belonged to him—and brushed down the younger boy.

Alby beamed at his brother. ‘How many did we get Chalk?’ The boys gathered round, turning their pockets inside out. Bramleys of all sizes, and in varying stages of ripeness, fell to the ground.

‘I never knew old Dodds had it in him,’ Derek laughed, shining an apple on his trouser leg.

Chasing three young boys across Millfield wasn’t the most relaxing way to spend a Sunday morning but having no children of his own, Mr Doddington wanted to add to the boys’ sense of adventure. He didn’t really mind about the apples, he had an orchard full, and the boys weren’t a bad lot—he drank with Mr White at the local tavern.

The boys, feeling safer now they were on the Huntingfield property, made their way towards the manor. Derek had promised them a drink of lemonade for a job well done, and Alby could hardly wait. It had been months since he’d been allowed a fizzy drink. He thought back to Sunday afternoons at The Carpenter’s Arms; his father would enjoy a pint of ale with some of the other men, and the women and children would share potato crisps and Vimto in the garden. But Mr White had caught the boys blowing bubbles through their straws once too often, and since then it had been orange squash only.

Chalky told Alby that he first met Derek, who went to the posh school in neighbouring Faversham, when they were both pinching cherries from Spuckles Orchard. They had heard voices and dived into a nearby haystack, where they spent the next hour trying not to laugh. They’d been inseparable ever since. Alby knew that their mother and father were dead chuffed that Chalky had made friends with Derek Huntingfield, but it was embarrassing when his mother put on a posh voice every time Derek visited. Alby looked forward every evening to Chalky’s grand stories of Derek and Huntingfield Manor, and now, here he was—a part of one of those stories.

‘There you are!’ It was Derek’s mother. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’ Alby wondered how anyone’s mother got to be so beautiful. She looked just like the ladies in the magazines at the general store, and spoke just like the well-to-do ladies on the radio programs that his mother listened to.

Mrs Huntingfield ran a hand through her shiny, blonde hair, ‘I’m afraid you boys have to go home straight away.’

‘Awww but Mum . . .’

‘It’s important Derek,’ interrupted his mother. ‘The boys can come and play another day.’

Mrs Huntingfield didn’t sound angry. She was very kind, but Alby was disappointed. There would be no lemonade today.

‘Do you th-th-think Old Dodds has told Mum and Da-da-dad about the apples?’ Alby stammered as the brothers made their way home.

Chalky casually fished an apple out from his pocket and shined it on his thigh. ‘Nah Squirt. He wouldn’t have had enough time. Besides, it’s probably nothing to do with us. I bet Derek forgot they were going out or something.’

As they turned the corner towards Arnold’s Oak, they ran into Millicent Coventry and Esther Potts sitting under the old Oak tree.

‘Your Mum’s looking for the pair of you.’ Millicent’s arms were crossed, her forehead was creased and she sounded quite bossy.

‘Yeah, we know,’ replied Chalky. ‘Here, have an apple.’

Millicent shook her head. ‘It’s probably stolen.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Chalky shrugged and withdrew his hand.

Chalky had told Alby that Millie would often keep an eye out; and if she saw him walking round the corner, which he had to do to get home from the manor, she would make an excuse to come out and talk to him. Chalky said it was because she really liked him. Alby didn’t like girls much himself, and he felt sorry for his brother.

Then, from inside Millicent’s house came a high pitched command, ‘Girls! Inside this instant!’

‘Looks like your ma’s looking for you too,’ grinned Chalky.

Millicent blushed and stuck her tongue out at the boys, ‘C’mon,’ she said to Esther, ‘we’d better see what she wants.’

As they neared Glebe cottages, Alby could see his mother beckoning to them from the front door. He was certain there would be some kind of punishment in store for them, but as soon as she caught sight of the boys she ran towards them, arms outstretched. ‘Oh, thank goodness you’re both home safely.’

Alby could hardly hide his relief.

There were so many people crammed into their tiny front room that Alby was reminded of Christmas. Grandma White signalled to him to sit on her lap, but he pretended he hadn’t noticed. He adored his grandmother, but he had just been accepted into his brother’s gang and he was too old for that sort of thing now. Aunt Eadie and Uncle Taff were sitting either side of Grandma.

Alby seldom saw his older cousins, yet they were there too, along with old Mr Yates from next door. No one was speaking. Everyone looked serious.

‘Now then, everybody sshhh!’ Alby’s father lifted a finger to his mouth as he turned the volume control on the radio. He moved away and settled against the arm of the settee.

The familiar jingle that preceded the BBC News, broke the silence and was followed by a presenter who announced that the Prime Minister, Mr Chamberlain, was about to address the nation. After Mr Chamberlain had finished speaking, nobody said anything. The women were gently sobbing and blowing their noses. The ticking of the clock was louder than usual. Then Mr White said, ‘Well. There we have it then. We’re at war!’

The adults started to form small groups. Alby wasn’t sure what to do. Chalky was standing with the men, and the women, although upset, were organising cups of tea and sandwiches. Alby was about to head for the kitchen when the air raid siren sounded. ‘Everyone stay where you are,’ Mr White said, ‘it’s just a precaution.’ Amidst the solemn mood Alby felt a sudden rush of excitement.

Chapter 2: The Blackouts

Alby wished he could fall asleep as easily as his brother, only a few minutes earlier, Chalky had been telling Alby about a conversation he’d overheard between their parents about an attack on a British ship by a German submarine. It was the first news of a serious battle at sea since war had been declared, and Alby had a hundred questions.

‘How big was it?’

‘Enormous,’ said Chalky. ‘She was a destroyer.’

‘Was it near here?’

‘No Squirt. Norway I think.’

‘Why are ships called She?’

‘I don’t know Squirt, they just are.’

It was dark but Alby had propped himself up by resting his head in his hand, and he was facing his brother’s bed. ‘So, did we fight back?’ he asked enthusiastically.

‘Course we did. It’s the British navy remember,’ Chalky said quietly.

‘How many did we get Chalk?’

Alby waited.

‘Chalk? How many Jerry’s?’

‘Lots,’ Chalky’s voice was now a whisper.

Alby heard the springs in Chalky’s bed creaking as his brother turned over in bed.

‘If I was old enough, I’d want to be in the navy. What about you Chalk? Navy or RAF?’

Alby paused and tried again, ‘Chalk! Sailor or pilot?’

But Chalky had fallen asleep.

Alby sighed. He laid down and pulled the covers over his face. He couldn’t get the story of the sea battle out of his mind. He felt alone and frightened, and although he desperately wanted to turn on the lamp he understood how important it was that lights were turned off at night. He tried counting sheep, but he still didn’t feel sleepy. Surely no one would notice one small candle burning in a bedroom. And surely Mum could blow it out once he was asleep. He felt giddy, and the feeling reminded him of the first time Dad had got them all to try on their gas masks. The awful rubbery smell had made him feels sick, but he had been too terrified to make a fuss.

Chalky, on the other hand, had laughed so hard that he had fallen backwards and broken Mum’s best vase. Dad had been furious that Chalky wasn’t taking the drill seriously, and was made to peel and chop the vegetables every night for a whole week.

Get a hold of yourself. Who do you think is going to get you? Alby tried to rationalise his fear. But he could not bring himself to move the blankets away from his face. He was sweating profusely. If only he could call out to someone. His mum thought he had gotten over his fear of the dark years ago. And he could just imagine what his father would say: Never heard such rot in all my years, boy. And confiding in Chalky was out of the question. He’d call him a big girl’s blouse.

It was the alarm clock that woke him, but it was the smell of his mother’s sausage patties that enticed Alby out of bed. He threw off his blankets, rubbed his eyes and stepped onto the threadbare mat that sat between the two beds. He noticed Chalky’s bedspread was pulled loosely over jumbled sheets. He reached for the crumpled clothes he’d left at the bottom of his bed and made his way downstairs. Patties and HP sauce. It was what made Sunday’s special.

‘There you are sleepy head.’ His mother had pinned back her hair, and was wearing the frilly yellow apron the boys had bought her last Christmas. Dad had told Alby and Chalky to make the most of their marbles and comics because if the war went on much longer they’d be lucky to see the occasional banana or orange in their Christmas stockings.

Mrs White shovelled two patties and a piece of bread onto a plate. ‘I’m afraid we’ve no milk today. There’s been a spot of bother with Cecil and his deliveries.’

Alby felt his cheeks redden as he thought back to the day before. Derek hadn’t meant to release the handbrake all the way, and even Chalky had been stuck for words as Cecil’s milk truck rolled backwards down the hill outside Miss Pritchard’s house.

‘Cecil always stops for a cuppa and a chat with Miss Pritchard,’ Chalky had said to Alby and Derek. ‘He’s usually in there for ages. Long enough to nick a couple of bottles, but you gotta keep watch Squirt okay, and remember the signal.’

Alby nodded. But he knew that if he was to see anyone wandering up or down the hill he’d be so frightened that his stuttering would take hold and he’d be incapable of making a sound. Being a part of Chalky’s gang had its downside. You knew that sometimes the things you got up to weren’t right, but there was nothing you could do, because if you said anything to the grown ups you’d be made to leave the gang.

Alby wanted to change the subject. ‘Where’s Chalk?’ he asked as he slipped the crust of his bread under the table to Kip, their golden retriever.

His mother was already washing the dishes. ‘He said he’d meet you at the manor. You were snoring so loudly he didn’t want to wake you, and Albert, please don’t feed the dog your breakfast!’

Alby found it amazing that his mother was able to talk about lots of different things and see through the back of her head at exactly the same time. It must be a girl thing though, because the girls at school were good at it too.

‘Remember,’ Mrs White said, wiping her hands on her apron, ‘best behaviour, and mind your manners. Dinner’s at one o’clock on the dot. And be careful.’

Alby was pleased to see his mother so relaxed again. After the declaration of war against Germany, a few weeks earlier, she had been distraught. At first she had wanted to evacuate the boys to the Welsh countryside and even made enquiries, but Mr White had put his food down and said it was important that families stayed together during difficult times. Then she’d kept the boys home from school, and at first the boys had been delighted, but after a few days of her constant worrying and watching their every move, they had begged her to let them go back. She had eventually given in but insisted on walking them to and from the school. Alby had felt like a baby, until he realised that everyone else’s mother was doing the same thing. It was clear though, much to the boys’ disappointment, that apart from respecting the curfews at night, recognising the different air-raid sirens, and being on the lookout for anything or anybody out of the ordinary, nothing much had changed.

‘Yes Mum. I promise,’ he said and rushed out of the back door with Kip closely behind.

Chapter 3: Old Arthur

Alby took the laneway that led from the Old Rectory to the church. Cutting through the graveyard terrified Alby because according to local legend, a headless gravedigger named Arthur wandered the church grounds with his shovel, looking for children to bury. But the lane was the quickest route and Alby was eager to get to the manor where the older boys would be waiting.

Half skipping and half running; Alby practised his dribbling by keeping a medium-sized flint rock as near to his feet as he could. Chalky had told him that he needed to work on his technique and that until he could control the ball while running at full speed, he couldn’t hope to win a place in the Eastling Under 11s. Kip kept close as if hoping to be sent to retrieve the strange looking ball. So absorbed was Alby in his private game that he almost collided with Miss Pritchard and her pushbike.

‘Goodness me Master White,’ she said as she brought her bicycle to a sudden halt in the verge, ‘I almost lost the lot.’

Alby gazed down at the wicker basket on the front of the bicycle. It was full of eggs.

‘S-s-sorry Miss.’

Miss Pritchard straightened her hat. ‘No harm done.’ She leant down and patted Kip on the head. ‘Off somewhere nice?’

‘Yes Miss,’ Alby nodded. ‘Ch--Chalky and Derek are m-meeting me at the manor.’

The boys liked Miss Pritchard. She would often turn a blind eye to their antics, and Chalky said she wasn’t half bad for an old girl. ‘Well that sounds like fun Albert. Just make sure and keep to the laneway.’

Alby stood for a few seconds and watched as Miss Pritchard wobbled her way along the laneway. He wished Kip could accompany him all the way to the manor but his mother had told him it was bad manners to take dogs to other people’s houses. He commanded Kip to return home. But the dog sat down, wagged his tail and stared trustingly up at Alby. Alby cleared his throat and deepened his voice, ‘Home Kip. Now!’ This time the golden retriever turned and trudged back up the laneway. Alby watched Kip until he couldn’t see him anymore, feeling proud that the dog had eventually obeyed his command.

He turned toward the old flint wall that marked the beginning of the graveyard. Suddenly, taking the shortcut didn’t seem like such a good idea.

‘SCARED OLD ARTHUR’S GOING TO GET YOU?’

Alby jumped, but recognised the condescending tone immediately. Spinning around, he found himself face-to-face with Millie Coventry. She was laughing so hard that her auburn curls bobbed up and down. He noticed Esther Potts, standing quietly in the laneway. He wondered why a nice girl like Esther wanted to be friends with someone like Millicent Coventry. And poor old Chalky, he’d told Alby only yesterday that she was still following him everywhere he went.

Alby dug his hands deep in his pockets, just as he’d seen Chalky do, and took a deep breath. ‘As if I’m ss-scared of him,’ he said.

‘Well, I would be.’ Esther had moved forward a few steps. ‘You’re so brave.’ She had such a nice smile and Alby felt his cheeks flush.

‘It’s not just Old Arthur you need to worry about you know,’ Millicent said stepping forward. She was taller than Alby, so he hoisted himself up onto the church wall.

‘If you’re talking about the w-war, everyone knows there’s no J-jerry’s in the village,’ he said. ‘Our defence is too strong.’ He felt quite grown up sharing such intelligent information with the girls, and proud that he had managed to get most of it out without faltering. Recently, his father had sat him and Chalky down and explained that it was inevitable that there would soon be stories of German spies hiding in the tunnels beneath the church, and other such nonsense, but it was important to remember that these were just that—stories—and were not to be believed or encouraged. . . . .