Shadow of a Hero

SEPTEMBER 1990

‘I THINK THAT’S absolutely horrible,’ said Letta, putting the book down. ‘I mean, she was only eight! She didn’t know what she was doing! She didn’t choose! Her mother stuffed her into this barrel and threw her in the river and it went wrong and she got drowned, only she lived just long enough to give the message. And I bet she didn’t even know she was doing that, or what it meant, or anything. It was just something she had to get rid of before she could die. So they blub over her and think how noble they are and decide to go and fight the Turks after all. They just used her! It’s disgusting!’

‘One of the functions of legend is to make the disgusting tolerable,’ said Grandad. ‘There is in fact a poem by my great-grandfather about the daughter of Olla which makes much the same point. It’s called “Patriotism”. In fact it’s a difficult and obscure poem, very gloomy in tone, but I think what he’s saying is that patriotism is like the child’s message, something we don’t understand but we’ve still got to pass on, at whatever cost.’

‘He was using her too.’

‘I suppose so, but in his case . . .’

‘Hold it. That’s the telephone.’

Letta jumped up and ran downstairs. She and Grandad were alone in the house. It was the last day of school holidays. Momma was at work. Poppa was back in Bolivia, and Van was off on his bike somewhere up north. In fact he was supposed to have been back for lunch, and Letta was a bit cross with him for not letting her know, as she’d got it all ready, and she and Grandad had waited for him, too, when she’d been really hungry. She guessed the telephone would be him now, saying where he’d got to, all charm. She picked the receiver up, ready to snap, and gave the number.

‘May I speak to Letta Ozlins?’ said a woman’s voice.

‘Ozolins,’ said Letta automatically. ‘That’s me.’

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,’ said the voice. ‘Will you please sit down?’

Letta’s heart gave a desperate thud and her throat went dry. She groped for the chair and sat.

‘All right,’ she managed to say.

‘This is the Royal Hospital,’ said the voice. ‘It’s about your brother Van. Is that his full name?’

‘Yes. Is he all right? What’s happened?’

‘He’s had a serious accident. I don’t know the details, but I understand he was wearing motor cycle gear when he was brought in. His condition is stable. He’s now conscious, and he’s asking to see you.’

‘Me? Has anyone told Momma? My mother?’

‘Your mother?’ said the voice, surprised. ‘We understood . . . Hold on a moment . . . No, it’s Letta, his sister, he’s asking us to get hold of.’

‘He probably didn’t know her work number. I’ll call her, then I’ll come. It’s only five minutes. Which ward?’

‘Nightingale.’

‘All right. Thanks.’

Letta rang off, gave herself a few seconds to calm down, and rang IBM. Momma was in a meeting, said the man who answered. He’d ask her to call back. He made it sound like a favour. Letta said no, it was urgent, and told him about Van and the accident. Grumpily the man said he’d see what he could do. Letta sat waiting, watching the secondhand swing round the clock, until Grandad’s head poked round the door.

‘Something bad?’ he said. ‘I heard the tone of your voice.’

‘Van’s had an accident. Serious. He’s in the Royal. He wants to see me. I’m trying to get hold of Momma, but she’s in a meeting.’

‘Yes, that is bad. Shall I wait at the telephone, and you can go now?’

‘Oh. Yes. Thanks. I said I’d be there in five mins and it’s almost that now. Tell her he’s in Nightingale.’

She gave him the receiver, took a carrier-bag from the hook, ran up to Van’s room, snatched up a few things she thought he might need, stuffed them into the bag and ran down. Grandad was still waiting at the telephone. He waved reassuringly to her as she went past.

She reached the hospital in a sweat of hurry, panting and with her heart racing, stood in the main lobby to steady herself and went straight to the ward. The Ward Sister was obviously surprised to see that she was nothing like grown-up.

‘You’re Letta?’ she said. ‘There isn’t another one?’

‘No. We’re trying to get hold of my mother . . .’

‘It’s you he wants. He’s a bit delirious. It’s something about his motor cycle. I’ve got to give you the keys. In my office.’

Letta followed her. The telephone was ringing. The Sister answered it and began to talk about some other patient, but at the same time took a set of keys from a drawer and passed them over, then made signs about which way Letta should go to find Van. She walked anxiously up the long ward, peering at beds. He was in the furthest left-hand corner, curtained off. She slipped into the narrow space between the bed and the curtains.

He was lying half-propped on his back, with his eyes closed. There was a tube going in through his nose, but his face seemed undamaged, though it was a horrible grey beneath the tan. His right arm was splinted and strapped across his chest so that he couldn’t move it. There was a drip going into his other arm, and the blankets were supported clear of his body by some sort of framework, so Letta guessed there must be something badly wrong there, too. She touched his hand and he opened his eyes, looked puzzled for a second, saw her and smiled.

‘Hi, Sis,’ he whispered. ‘She gave you the keys?’

Letta held them up.

‘Grandad’s calling Momma at work,’ she said. ‘I’m sure she won’t be long.’

He frowned, then nodded. The tiny movement must have hurt, for he closed his eyes and paused before he spoke.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I want to keep her out of this. That’s why I asked for you. Listen.’

They were talking in Field, and since no other Varinians lived within twenty miles of Winchester there wasn’t a chance of anyone who overheard them understanding what they were saying, but even so he lowered his voice still further, so that she had to crane to hear.

‘This is complicated,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to get it right first time. Find my bike.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Don’t know. Last thing I knew, I was bombing down the M3. The cops will know. Say you want to get my stuff out of the panniers before it’s stolen. Now, look at the keys. See the one with two notches in the rubber? That’s the ignition. Unlock the panniers with the other one. Take everything out . . . hold it . . .’

Once again he closed his eyes. His lips went taut as a spasm of pain came and died away.

‘Shall I get someone?’ Letta whispered.

His grip closed on her hand. After almost a minute his face relaxed and he let out a sigh.

‘I’m OK,’ he whispered. ‘Right, you’ve taken everything out. Close the panniers and lock them. Now take the ignition key – got that? – put it into the locks and turn it twice in the wrong direction. You’ll hear a click. Unlock the panniers again with the other key. They’ve got false bottoms. You’ll find two packets, one yellow, one black. Take them out. Keep them separate if you can. Don’t let anyone see them. Push the false bottoms shut – they’ll latch – and lock the panniers. Take the packets home and hide them somewhere. Separate. They’re quite safe if they’re separate. They’re safe anyway, Sis, but you can be dead sure if they’re separate. Got all that?’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Good girl. Now the next thing is to ring Hector – number’s in my address book in the panniers. Do it from a call box. Chances are our phone’s tapped. Tell him you’re Vivian’s sister. Not Van, Vivian. Don’t say anything about bikes or accidents. He’ll ask you a question. When you answer, if you’ve got the packets OK, get “yellow” into your answer. He’ll make it easy. But if something’s gone wrong, “red”. Got that?’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘No time. He’ll want a number to call you back. He’ll have to get out to a call box, because his line’s going to be tapped too. Have you got a friend you can ask, a neighbour? Think of someone. And when you give him the number subtract six from it. Right?’

‘I suppose so, but . . .’

‘This is for Varina, Sis.’

‘All right.’

‘And you’re going to do this by yourself. You’re not going to tell anyone – anyone at all – what you’re up to?’

Letta looked at him and didn’t speak.

‘Varina, Sis. Varina,’ he whispered.

‘All right.’

‘Promise? Bones of St Joseph?’

‘Promise.’

She saw him relax. His eyes closed but his mouth fell open. His breath came in small sighs. She thought he’d fainted until he spoke again.

‘That’s a load off my mind,’ he whispered. ‘Now you can go and tell that nurse to give me something to stop it hurting. I had to make as if it wasn’t too bad till I’d seen you, or I might have been too dopey to explain.’

Letta found Momma listening to the Ward Sister. Without a word Momma hugged her to her side and went on listening. Van’s life wasn’t in danger, but his right foot was badly crushed and might need to be amputated. That was the worst thing, but his arm was broken in three places too, and his collar-bone, and he’d got several broken ribs, one of which had gone into his lung, so they’d had to drain a lot of blood out of it. Letta didn’t interrupt. It wasn’t easy with Momma there. She couldn’t explain about Van not wanting drugs till he’d seen her, and if she just said he’d started to hurt badly, they might think something new was wrong. To her relief Momma thanked the Sister and let go of her.

‘Do you mind waiting here, darling?’ she said. ‘I think one at a time’s enough.’

As soon as she’d gone, Letta explained, just saying it was something family Van had wanted to tell her about.

‘I’m sorry,’ she finished. ‘You see, I can’t explain, but he doesn’t want to bother Momma with it. It isn’t really that important, but . . .’

‘Don’t you worry, dear,’ said the Sister. ‘I knew he’d got something on his mind, and as long as he stops fretting about it now, it’s all the same to me. That’s what matters, keeping him quiet, isn’t it? Good looker, isn’t he, though? Broken a few hearts in his time, I’ll be bound.’

She almost winked. Obviously she thought the ‘family’ problem must be something to do with Van’s love-life. Letta managed to smile.

She wanted to be alone, to try to think, so she went slowly out to the waiting area by the main doors and settled into a corner. She was worried sick. There was only one thing she could think of that might be in the packets . . . two of them . . . absolutely safe if they were kept separate . . . he must have been a bit delirious to tell her that much . . . she’d promised on the bones of St Joseph . . . he was her brother . . . it was for Varina . . .

She hadn’t got anywhere when Momma came out and sat beside her, stiff and controlled.

‘I knew this was going to happen,’ she said. ‘I’ve had nightmares about it. I’ve hated that bloody bike from the moment I saw it. Let’s hope it’s a write-off.’

‘But he’s going to be all right?’ said Letta.

‘All right? With that foot? Oh, darling! You’ve seen little boys running? Lumps with legs? Van wasn’t like that, ever. When he was only five he ran properly, like a deer, beautiful . . . Get me some tea, darling. It’ll be disgusting, but I can’t drive like this.’

‘Why don’t we walk home and come back for the car?’

Momma stared into space. Letta guessed she was remembering what Van had looked like, a small, dark child running like a deer.

‘All right,’ she said suddenly. ‘Let’s do that.’

There was a young policeman in the hall, talking to Grandad, loud and slow, because he was bothered by Grandad’s accent and had decided he must be stupid. He turned with relief to Momma, who took him into the living-room, while Letta went into the kitchen with Grandad and told him about Van’s accident. She put an extra mug onto the tray, but by the time she carried it through, the voices had stopped and the policeman had gone.

Momma drank her mug in silence, standing by the window and staring out at the shaggy old rose bushes.

‘He could be dead,’ she said, not turning round. ‘He was coming down the outside lane when a van pulled out in front of him and forced him into the central barrier. They don’t think he was going desperately fast. The woman in the car behind him saw it all. He was thrown off his bike and landed half on the roadway and half on the central barrier and then the bike came slithering along and went over his legs. She managed to stop just in time, and there was a doctor in another car which stopped too. The ambulance was there in twenty minutes.’

‘I’m sorry,’ was all Letta could think of to say. ‘Would you like some more tea?’

Momma shook her head and went on staring out of the window. Grandad came across and put his arm round her shoulders. She didn’t seem to notice. She sighed, shook her head and tried to laugh.

‘God, I wish I hadn’t given up smoking,’ she said. ‘I bet there isn’t a cigarette in the house. Never mind. They want us to go and get his stuff from the bloody bike. I don’t think I can bear to look at it.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Letta. ‘You can just sit in the car.’

‘Oh, would you, darling? You don’t mind?’

‘Of course not. Where’s the bike?’

‘At a garage in King’s Worthy. He must have been almost home.’

‘We could get a taxi if . . .’

‘No, I’ll be all right. We’ve got to collect the car in any case.’

‘Are you going to ring Poppa?’

‘I can’t till – oh, God – at least ten o’clock tonight. He’s on a survey.’

‘I will call Steff and Mollie if you like,’ said Grandad.

‘Oh, yes, please. And if you could wait by our telephone, in case . . . in case . . . Oh, I’ll call you from the garage.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Grandad. ‘Oh, my dearest child, I am grieving for you.’

‘It’s all right. That’s what we’ve got to hang on to. It’s all right. He could be dead, and he isn’t!’

Momma drove more slowly than usual, but perfectly calmly. They found the garage and knew at once it was the right one, because the bike in its unmistakable colours was parked in a side-area behind the forecourt, next to an old yellow Mini with its bonnet stove in. The bike itself looked almost all right, apart from having a smashed headlamp. Momma stared ahead, trying not to see it.

‘Why don’t you go and phone Grandad?’ said Letta.

‘I’m going to. In any case, we’ll have to go and tell them who we are or they’ll think we’re stealing.’

They found a young man in oily overalls who didn’t even ask for identification. Only as they were turning away he said, ‘Them panniers is locked, you know. You’ll be needing the keys.’

Momma stared at him, not seeming to understand.

‘It’s all right,’ said Letta quickly. ‘Van gave them to me.’

Momma didn’t seem to notice anything odd, and started asking about telephones. Letta went round to the bike. She’d brought a grip and a carrier-bag. Trying to stand so that what she was doing was screened from the road – the Mini was a help – she unlocked the right-hand pannier. It was scraped and dented but the key turned easily and the lid opened. She took out two plastic bags full of clothes and a pair of trainers, put them in the grip, closed the lid, locked it, swapped the keys, turned the new one twice the wrong way, heard a sharp click from inside, swapped the keys back and opened the pannier again. What had seemed to be the bottom of it had opened up on a spring, and underneath was a yellow packet about the size of a thick paperback. She took it out and slipped it into the grip beneath the bags of clothes.

She glanced over her shoulder. Momma had still not got back to the car, so she went round to the other pannier, which turned out to be half-full of books and papers. She put them into the carrier and did the trick with the keys again. The packet below the false bottom was, as Van had said, black – stiff paper, heavily taped, holding a lumpy padded shape.

She took it out and weighed it in her hand. It felt like a small piece of machinery. Now, as she stood there hesitating, the shock of what she was doing almost overcame her. This wasn’t Varina long ago. It wasn’t legend. It wasn’t a struggle against enemies everyone could see. It was England, now, real. Her whole impulse was to put the packages back, to turn away, have nothing to do with them, let the mess sort itself out without her.

But then what would happen to Van, if anyone found them?

She couldn’t think about it now. There wasn’t time, and her mind wouldn’t work. She tucked the black package down under the books, closed and locked the pannier and went back to the car, feeling sick and ashamed, as if she was betraying everyone she loved.