Shadow of a Hero

SEPTEMBER 1990

WHEN THEY GOT home Grandad told them that there’d been nothing from the hospital, but Biddie had called to say that her parents were going out to the cinema and would Letta like to come and spend the last evening of the holidays with her. Once more Letta felt a wave of sick guilt at the way everything seemed to be helping her in her lies and betrayals, but Momma said, ‘It will do you good, darling. It’ll take your mind off things. I can see you’re upset. No point in our all sitting round being miserable together. I’ll be all right.’

So, feeling worse than ever, Letta went and put the grip and carrier up in Van’s room and took the packages up to her own room, where she hid the yellow one behind her paperbacks and the black one at the back of her jeans drawer. On the way down she copied Mr Orestes’ number out of Van’s address book. Normally she’d have gone up and said goodnight to Grandad, but she was sure he’d look at her and see she wasn’t just upset about Van, and ask her, so she didn’t.

Biddie was watching EastEnders.

‘I’m not allowed to if Mum and Dad are around,’ she said. ‘I feel I’m not normal if I don’t give it a go, and . . . What’s up?’

‘Van’s in hospital. He’s had a smash on that bike I told you about.’

‘That’s awful. How bad a smash?’

‘He’s not going to die unless something goes wrong, but he’s broken a lot of bones and they might have to cut his foot off. Momma’s very upset.’

‘I bet she is. We could go back up to your place, if . . .’

‘No, it’s all right. Besides . . . Is there a call box near here?’

‘Nearest one’s at the station.’

‘Look, don’t ask what it’s about, but I’ve got to go out and make a call and then I’ve got to come back here and wait for someone to call here . . . I’m sorry. It’s important. Van asked me, and I promised. Is it all right?’

‘I suppose so. You’ll have to warn whoever it is they only get three minutes.’

‘Oh, God, I’d forgotten. I suppose it’ll have to do. At least it’ll get it over. Thanks. See you soon.’

The payphone in the station was occupied by a girl in a black leather miniskirt with lank black hair and a ghoulish white face who babbled on and on, chain-smoking, while Letta hung around feeling more and more sick and anxious. It must have been at least twenty minutes before the girl stopped. Letta had the money ready and dialled. Mr Orestes answered at once. Letta knew it was him by the permanent slight whine in his voice.

‘I’ve got a message from Vivian,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘He’s in hospital.’

Pause.

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I shall send flowers. Do you know his favourite colour?’

Letta answered on the spur of the moment. It was something to do with Mr Orestes’ voice. She could hear, as sure as if he’d told her, that he didn’t give a damn about Van lying in hospital in an agony with his foot so smashed he’d probably never walk properly again. It didn’t matter that Mr Orestes didn’t actually know about that. If he had known, he wouldn’t have cared. All he cared about was his conspiracy, and the secret messages, and the excitement of what he was planning to do with the packages. Till that moment, Letta had been telling herself that though she didn’t like it at all, and was badly frightened, at least passing the message on would mean that Mr Orestes would come and take the packages away, and the whole thing would be out of her hands, out of the house, clear, nothing to do with any of them, even with Van, because it’d obviously be months before he was well enough to do anything much except lie around and get better . . .

Now, because of Mr Orestes’ voice, she changed her mind and said, ‘Red.’

Another pause.

‘You’re sure?’

She gulped and said, ‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps you had better give me the number so that I can enquire for myself.’

Letta had written it down while she was waiting for the ghoul-girl to finish. Half-panicking she read it out.

‘Thank you. I will call in a few minutes.’

‘Wait. I, er . . . there won’t be anyone there for about ten minutes.’

‘Very good. Thank you.’

Only as she put the receiver down did it strike her that she ought to have made a mistake over the number. Then he couldn’t have called back. She’d have time to think. What could she say now? She couldn’t find the bike? No, it mustn’t be anything that he could find out in the end was a lie, because then he’d know she’d been lying about the packages. He could find the bike himself somehow. He could ask the man at the garage. He’d known she and Momma had been there, taken things away. The panniers had been locked.

Or she could change her mind again, tell him she’d made a mistake about the colours, after all. He’d just think she was a stupid little girl . . .

Biddie let her in.

‘A man just called,’ she said. ‘He was asking for Vivian’s sister. I said did he mean Letta, because if he did you weren’t back, and he said he’d try again, and I said he’d have to wait five minutes because we’ve got a trick phone. Is that OK?’

‘Thanks.’

‘I thought your brother’s name was Van. Is it short for . . .’

‘No. I’m sorry, Biddie. I don’t want to involve you, but . . .’

‘Do you want me out of the way while you’re talking?’

‘Doesn’t matter. We’ll be talking in Field.’

Biddie was frowning at her, really worried.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Letta. ‘It’s all right.’

‘Is it?’

‘No, but I can’t tell you. Oh, Biddie!’

‘I’m sure it’s not your fault. I’ll make some sticky sweet cocoa.’

Letta waited by the telephone. The red light which showed you couldn’t use it was still glowing. After a little while it went out. A few seconds later the phone rang. The moment she answered Mr Orestes said, ‘What can you tell me?’

‘He was coming down the motorway. A van pulled out and pushed him into the barrier. He’s got a broken arm and collar-bone and ribs, and his foot’s smashed.’

‘My regrets. Where is the motor cycle?’

No, thought Letta. If that’s all he can say about Van, I’m not going to tell him I made a mistake. I didn’t. I was right.

‘At a garage at King’s Worthy,’ she said. ‘A policeman told us where it was.’

‘A policeman? Us?’

‘Just a traffic policeman. My mother drove me out. She doesn’t know. Look, we haven’t got all that much time before this phone goes off again. I’m sorry. It was the best I could do.’

‘Understood. Go on.’

‘My mother was telephoning when I got Van’s stuff out of the panniers. Nobody was watching. I got the false bottoms open OK, but there wasn’t anything under them.’

‘The false bottoms? Explain. There are supposed to be two packets.’

‘Yes, I know. One yellow and one black. Van said they were in his panniers, under the false bottoms. There’s a trick with the key to open them.’

‘That is where he told you to look?’

‘Yes. He told me exactly. All about the keys and so on.’

Pause.

‘When will you be seeing your brother again?’

‘Tomorrow, probably. It depends how ill he is. Look, I really don’t want to worry him.’

‘We are speaking of Varina, my dear. You could surely ask him . . .’

‘Only if I get him alone. And listen, he doesn’t remember what happened . . .’

‘Nothing?’

‘I don’t know. He just said he didn’t remember about the journey. I don’t know how far back.’

A longer pause.

‘Listen,’ said Letta. ‘Time’s nearly up. I’m not supposed to be using this phone. My friend’s parents will be coming back any moment. Don’t ring back. I’ll try and think of something better, and if I find anything out I’ll call you from a phone box tomorrow.’

‘And meanwhile, if you could go back to the motor cycle . . .’

The telephone gave its warning buzz.

‘I will if I can,’ gabbled Letta, trying to fill the time without putting her foot in it at this last moment. ‘But I really don’t think . . .’

The line went dead and the red light glowed. Letta blew out a gust of the spare breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Her heart was pounding so that it almost hurt. It could have been worse, she thought. It could have been much, much worse. She’d told several lies, but provided she stuck to her story there wasn’t anything anyone could find out about, unless they searched her room. Now all she had to do was get rid of the packages. You couldn’t put something like that in a dustbin. And she’d have to think of something to tell Van . . .

Dazedly she made her way into the kitchen. Biddie was pouring hot milk into two mugs. They sat down at the kitchen table. Biddie’s parents didn’t approve of sugar and never bought it, but they collected give-away packets from restaurants and airlines in case they had visitors less high-minded than themselves. Letta slowly tore five open and dribbled the sugar into her mug, then stirred, hynotizing herself with the brown eddy.

‘Did you hear any of that?’ she said. ‘Did I sound as if I was lying?’

‘I don’t think so – just dead worried.’

‘You can say that again.’

Letta sucked at the cloying cocoa – just what she needed. Good old Biddie.

‘Can I tell you?’ she said. ‘I’ve got to tell someone. I promised Van I wouldn’t . . . Oh, hell!’

‘Did you understand what you were promising?’

‘Not really. Not what it meant.’

‘Then it wasn’t a promise. Wait. If it’s as bad as that, then I’m not going to promise anything. I can’t. Don’t you see? I’ll do my best, but . . . well . . . that’s how it is. I’m sorry.’

‘No, you’re right. It’s like the daughter of Olla.’

‘Come again?’

‘They used her. She didn’t understand. It’s one of our stories. Hell. Listen. Suppose somebody told you there were two packages he wanted you to collect, and you’ve got to do it secretly, and you mustn’t tell anyone. They’re in a hiding-place. Two hiding-places, because they’ve got to be kept separate. They’re quite safe like that. They’re probably safe if they’re together, but they’re quite safe if they’re separate . . .’

Biddie nodded and stared at the table, doodling a blob of spilt cocoa with her forefinger.

‘This somebody isn’t a scientist?’ she said. ‘Nothing to do with scientists?’

‘No. I’m pretty sure.’

‘I was trying to think of something else. It’s got to be a bomb, though, hasn’t it? Explosives in one packet, timer and detonator in the other.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Bad.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’d better tell me. You’ve pretty well told me, in fact, haven’t you?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Something to do with Varina?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought that was all bagpipe-dancing and poems about mountains.’

‘It’s people. It’s people taking my grandmother away, and the body of a girl they thought was my mother, and no-one ever seeing them again. Remember, I told you about that.’

‘I am remembering. It’s like the worst kind of nightmare.’

So Letta started right back at the festival. Some of it Biddie had heard before, but bits and pieces in no special order. It took a while. Biddie asked a few questions, getting things clear. When Letta had finished she sat thinking.

‘If it’s a bomb,’ she said slowly, ‘then we’re not up to this. We’ve got to pass it on to grown-ups. I ought to tell my parents, if you think you can’t tell yours.’

‘Van made me promise not to. He did it in a way . . . oh, I can’t explain.’

(How could she? The bones of St Joseph? Letta didn’t really believe that they were his bones, or ever had been, but still they were a kind of password, a proof. If you broke a promise on the bones of St Joseph it was as if you had stood up and said, ‘No, I am not a real Varinian. I am only playing at it. But when it comes to the hard test, I’m an outsider, and Potok was a pretty dream.’)

Biddie was looking at her, desperately worried.

‘If you tell your parents they’ll tell the police,’ said Letta. ‘Van will go to prison. It would break Momma’s heart.’

‘Yes, I know, but I ought to. I’ll have to think. But if you tell yours, I won’t. I still ought to, but I’ll leave it to your family. And please, Letta, do think yourself about what I said before. He made you promise, didn’t he? And you didn’t understand what you were promising . . .’

‘I did, sort of. He’d told me about the packages first.’

‘But he made you. He’d sent for you specially. He was hurting badly, waiting just for you, so he could pass the message on and have some painkiller. You couldn’t have said no, could you?’

‘No. But . . .’

‘All right, let’s try it like this. This Otto Vasa is bad news?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Not just bad news in himself – bad news for Varina, bad news for your brother?’

‘Yes. If you’d seen the way he winked when he came in through the window . . .’

‘OK, let’s take that as fixed. Now, he gave your brother the bike. Did it have these secret compartments in it when he gave it to him?’

‘I should think so. It looks sort of all one piece.’

‘So it wasn’t just a present. It was so Otto Vasa could use your brother to carry things in secret.’

‘Right – but listen! He must have had it ready before anyone knew Van was going to be thrown out. I was talking to Grandad about this. There wouldn’t have been time to get it painted up in our colours.’

‘Let’s take that as fixed too. What Otto Vasa wants is bad news for Varina. He gave the bike to your brother to do something he wanted. That has to be bad news for Varina too. Your brother had his accident and had to get you to finish the job off, but it was bad news for Varina so you found a way of not doing it. So far so good.’

‘Biddie, you’re impossible! Nothing’s ever as easy as you make it sound!’

‘When it’s over it can be. When it hasn’t happened yet it’s tricky. But listen, you’ve got it right so far, but you can’t stop there. Otto Vasa is bad news for Varina. Who is good news for Varina?’

‘Oh, lots of people. Grandad’s the obvious one, only he’s old and tired and they won’t let him go back.’

‘But he’d know some of the others?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Well, the best way you can help the good-news people is by telling them what the bad-news people are up to. Don’t you think?’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘Put it the other way. Suppose you were him and you learned afterwards that you – the real you – had been in this trouble and you hadn’t been to him. How would you – your grandfather you – feel? Sad, wouldn’t you? Let down? Cheated? After all those crumpet teas?’

(Biddie had been a couple of times since she’d got back. Grandad liked her a lot, in spite of having to talk English.)

‘I promised,’ said Letta, miserable. ‘He’s my brother. It was Momma and Grandad he was mostly talking about when he said not to tell. Oh, God. And the Sister said he mustn’t be worried, and he’s going to worry himself sick about not knowing how I got on, and he’s going to ask when I see him. And . . . listen! I bet you the next thing Mr Orestes will do is try and come down and see him himself, to find out what happened to the packets!’

‘Tonight?’

‘What’s the time? No, I don’t think so. Tomorrow, though.’

Biddie sat in silence again. Letta could almost feel her thinking things through. If this, then that, or that, but not that . . . A cheeringly ridiculous thought struck her.

‘You’re too like Jeeves,’ she said.

‘Come again?’

‘The great mind turns.’

Biddie smiled and put the interruption aside.

‘That makes it easier. You’ve got to stop Mr Orestes seeing Van,’ she said. ‘You’ve got two ways. You could call him again and say you’ve made a mistake . . .’

‘No.’

‘Good, because then I think I should have to tell my parents. So you’ve got to get the hospital to say he isn’t well enough to see anyone.’

‘He doesn’t know which one.’

‘He can ring round. There’s not that many, and he’ll try the Royal first. But the only person, far as I can see, who can tell the hospital to say Van’s not well enough is your mother. That means you’ve got to tell her. Now. Tonight.’

Letta felt sick again. She couldn’t move. Anything she did would be wrong.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ said Biddie.

She meant it, too, though it was after the time she was allowed out without permission. She’d be in serious trouble, and she wouldn’t be able to explain. She’d already worked all that out, of course, but she’d still have come if Letta had asked.

‘I’ll be all right,’ said Letta, standing up. ‘Thank you, Jeeves.’