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  ‘Yes,’ Walker said, as he eyed something in his curry suspiciously. ‘These boys of yours, how has that been going?’

  Henderson cracked a broad smile. ‘They’re great. I found a Japanese drill instructor in an internment camp, and he’s licking the boys into shape. We’ve got six trainees in the first batch and they’re shaping up wonderfully. Superintendent McAfferty is on the road recruiting more boys, to form our second unit.’

  ‘Does that look like a mouse dropping to you, Henderson?’ Walker asked, as he pulled a small brown pellet from his bowl.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, sir,’ said Henderson, as he tried not to smile. ‘If you’re going to eat the food here it’s best not to put too much thought into it. And to be fair, it hasn’t killed me yet.’

  ‘It’s spices, innit!’ a flabby waitress said as she loomed over the table and scowled at the wall clock. ‘What do you expect if you order this funny foreign muck? Now, if you want a sweet you’d better hurry up ’cos I’m off home before blackout and all the tables gotta be cleared ready for dinner.’

  Walker flicked the brown pellet back into his curry and pushed the bowl away. ‘Perhaps you could send the sweet trolley over?’

  The waitress grunted. ‘There’s spotted dick or fruit crumble. We haven’t had a sweet trolley since four months back.’

  ‘What kind of fruit?’ Henderson asked, and immediately regretted it.

  ‘The kind that comes in a big tin marked fruit.’

  Walker held his stomach. ‘Do you know, I suddenly feel rather full? I’ll just have some coffee.’

  The waitress pointed towards a table at the back of the room. ‘In the pot, self service.’

  Henderson and Walker both laughed as the waitress waddled away with their plates.

  ‘The staff here are appalling,’ Walker said grinning. ‘Whatever happened to our white-gloved waiters and silver service?’

  ‘Off fighting the Boche,’ Henderson smiled. ‘Speaking of which, I was rather hoping that you could help me cut through some red tape. My boys will need parachute training if they’re going to infiltrate occupied France, but the RAF parachute training school is throwing up all kinds of barriers.’

  Walker paused to take this in. ‘Listen, Henderson,’ he said firmly. ‘Frankly, myself and several others at the Special Operations Executive feel that this whole scheme of yours to train up boys for undercover work is rather far-fetched.

  ‘You have more experience of working undercover in France than anyone else. We feel you should be at headquarters in Baker Street coordinating operations. I’d like you to become my second-in-command. That’s a two-rank promotion and you’d be running all undercover operations in the occupied portion of France.’

  Henderson was dealing with a senior officer and had to reply tactfully. ‘Sir, if those are my orders I’ll report to headquarters and do the best job I can. But with the greatest respect, I’m a field agent not an administrator. Meetings bore me and bureaucracy tends to rub me up the wrong way.’

  ‘I’d hoped you wouldn’t say that,’ Walker said stiffly. ‘But rather suspected you would.’

  ‘Square peg in the proverbial round hole, I’m afraid, sir.’

  ‘You’re really convinced that training up boys to work undercover is going to give us an edge?’

  ‘Absolutely no doubt in my mind, sir,’ Henderson said firmly. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to put in a word about the parachute training?’

  Walker pushed his chair back from the table slightly and sighed. ‘You’re a good man, Henderson, but I’m not the only one with doubts about your scheme. The intelligence services have very limited resources and I’m not at all convinced that we should expend them on parachute training for twelve-year-olds who are emotionally unsuited for undercover operations.’

  Henderson was dismayed by this sudden turn of events. He felt short of air and tugged at his collar. ‘Sir,’ he said anxiously, ‘the operation I led against the invasion barges was a huge success. The children I used behaved superbly and their youth was an advantage because the Nazis didn’t suspect them. We had a letter from the minister indicating that the Prime Minister himself approved …’

  Now Walker sounded irritated. ‘Commander, I’m well aware of the circumstances surrounding the formation of your unit. However, many people have the ear of the Prime Minister and his decisions are not irrevocable. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Henderson nodded, struggling to contain his anger.

  ‘At present, I’m not prepared to authorise parachute training or any other additional resources for Espionage Research Unit B and I further warn you that the entire future of your unit is under review.’

  ‘Sir, could I ask that my unit at least be given a chance to prove itself ? I know resources are scarce, but we’re close to having an operational espionage unit that could give the Boche a bloody nose. At least let me speak to the people conducting this review.’

  Walker stood up and threw down the napkin that had been on his lap. ‘Your little unit is a ridiculous distraction,’ he said. ‘If you are to play any part in the review process, you’ll be informed in due course. Now I have to get back to Baker Street.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Henderson said.

  As Air Vice Marshal Walker headed across the thick carpet and out towards the cloakroom, Henderson loosened his collar, rubbed his reddened brow and wondered how to save his unit.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Troy looked up. His one good eye sensed that the light coming down through cracks in the wooden doors was starting to fade. By his calculation they’d been in the cellar for eighteen hours. They’d had a couple of visits from boys coming through the small metal side door to take up buckets of coal, and one of the cooks had brought them a tin of water and a paper bag filled with vegetable scraps.

  ‘Stop rubbing your eyes,’ Troy warned, speaking in French. ‘You’ll make it worse.’

  Mason took his blackened hand out of his eye, apparently close to tears again. ‘I can’t help it,’ he whined. ‘It hurts.’

  The dust from the coal tickled throats and burned eyes. It crept inside their clothes, making everything itch, and sharp fragments on the floor had cut their feet.

  ‘How much longer?’ Mason groaned, as he threw a piece of coal against the metal door.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Troy said.

  ‘How long is it now?’

  Troy sighed. ‘They put us down here at bedtime last night. Now it’s getting dark, so it must be nearly four o’clock.’

  Mason counted on his fingers. ‘Almost a whole day,’ he said finally. ‘They must come and get us out soon.’

  ‘They might keep us here for a week for all we know,’ Troy said irritably. ‘And stop asking the exact same questions. You’re driving me insane.’

  ‘We should run away when we get out,’ Mason said.

  ‘And go where?’ Troy asked angrily. ‘We’re in the middle of Wales. It’s snowy outside, we’ve got no money and we’ll stick out a mile because of our accents.’

  ‘I can talk,’ Mason suggested. ‘My English is better than yours.’

  ‘Why didn’t you make your bed properly?’ Troy asked. ‘I’ve shown you twenty times. It’s not that hard.’

  ‘It’s not my fault we ended up down here,’ Mason said. ‘You hit Mr Williams.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Troy snapped. ‘I was trying to help you.’

  Mason shook his head and sent another piece of coal clanging against the metal door.

  ‘If you keep doing that they’ll come down from the kitchens and belt us,’ Troy warned.

  ‘I’m running away,’ Mason said defiantly. ‘I’d rather freeze than live here.’

  *

  Superintendent Eileen McAfferty was greatly relieved as she spotted the sign through the windscreen of her small Austin: Hay-on-Wye Approved School. She would have arrived much earlier, but for accidents blocking an icy road and the fact that every signpost in Britain had been taken down to prevent German inva
ders from knowing where they were.

  McAfferty turned the black car through a brick arch and gravel plinked against the underside as she cruised towards the main entrance. The red Victorian brick was reminiscent of her own Glasgow school, except that out here it didn’t get blackened with soot. The gardens seemed well looked after, while the blanket of snow over the playing fields and parade ground gave the place an air of serenity.

  It was less pleasant inside. The main door creaked, revealing a high corridor lit with bare bulbs. The smell was a mix of boys and overcooked greens.

  ‘Is anybody here?’ McAfferty asked, as she rubbed hands that had stiffened around her steering wheel. ‘Hello, hello!’

  As her Scottish accent ricocheted off the walls a petite secretary came out of a doorway. ‘No visiting our boys today,’ she said brusquely.

  But she tailed off when she saw McAfferty’s navy uniform. ‘I tried to telephone,’ McAfferty explained. ‘I’m looking for two boys with the surname LeConte.’

  ‘Are you a relative?’ the woman asked. ‘Because only relatives can visit. You must write a letter and come during authorised visiting times.’

  ‘I’m on military business,’ McAfferty explained. ‘I’ve been trying to track these boys down for some time.’

  ‘The French boys,’ the woman nodded, adopting a warmer tone. ‘They live in Mr Williams’ dorm, I believe. I expect they’ll be out on their run, but I can fetch Mr Williams. He’ll be at afternoon tea in the lounge.’

  ‘I see,’ McAfferty said. ‘So this is a correctional facility? A young person’s prison if you like?’

  ‘That’s right,’ the woman nodded. ‘We don’t lock them up in cells, but boys are sent here by the courts.’

  ‘So how did the LeConte boys end up here? I’m not aware that they did anything criminal.’

  ‘Special circumstances,’ the woman explained. ‘We’re a facility for delinquents, but we had beds to spare and with the war and all the children being evacuated from London, we’ve taken some ordinary evacuees.’

  McAfferty clearly didn’t approve. ‘The younger boy is only eight, I believe.’

  ‘Mason,’ the woman nodded. ‘He’s one of our youngest. It was thirteen to seventeen during peacetime.’

  Williams took his time emerging from a staff lounge less than ten metres from the entrance. He was shorter than McAfferty, but instantly adopted a bullying tone.

  ‘It’s quite impossible for you to see the LeConte boys today,’ he explained curtly. ‘They’re out on exercises with the sports master. Then we have dinner and evening work. You can’t just turn up here. We have rules.’

  McAfferty’s lips thinned. ‘I can wait for them to come back from their run, but I’ve driven a considerable distance and have no intention of leaving before I’ve seen them.’

  Williams seemed sly, but McAfferty had no idea what he was trying to hide.

  ‘What exactly is your business here?’ Williams asked. ‘Why the great interest in these boys?’

  ‘They speak French,’ McAfferty explained. ‘Which makes them useful to us for war work. You should have received a letter, and I tried to call ahead but your telephone appears to be out of order.’

  ‘We’ve received no such letter,’ Williams said abruptly, but the receptionist stole his thunder.

  ‘Our phone line came down under the weight of snow and hasn’t been repaired,’ she explained. ‘But we did receive a letter, I believe. I remember passing it on to the warden.’

  McAfferty’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Then I’ll see the warden.’

  ‘He’s away,’ Williams said triumphantly, as the receptionist disappeared back into the office. ‘The warden is a local councilman and he’s attending a meeting in Newport. You’ll have to come back when he returns on Friday.’

  ‘Mr Williams,’ McAfferty said firmly, ‘why do I get the impression that you’re doing everything in your power to stop me speaking with these boys?’

  ‘We have procedures, madam,’ Williams said importantly. ‘This is a correctional facility, there are rules and security regulations.’

  ‘For inmates sent here by court order,’ McAfferty said. ‘But these boys are evacuees. They’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘We treat them all the same,’ Williams said.

  McAfferty looked astonished. ‘You mean to say that you mix ordinary evacuated children in with hardened thugs and ruffians?’

  Before Williams could answer, the receptionist had emerged from the office holding a typed letter.

  ‘Here it is,’ she said. ‘The warden made a note to say that you’re welcome to meet with the boys and that he has no issue with your taking them away if they suit your requirements.’

  McAfferty saw that the receptionist was being diplomatic. The warden had actually scrawled, Tell her she can have as many of the little buggers as she likes, whatever she wants them for.

  ‘That’s settled then,’ McAfferty smiled, as she glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll need to interview the boys and make a decision about them. I have a long drive home, so if I could see them as soon as possible.’

  Williams’ face was going red and desperation was etched in his brow. ‘Right … I suppose that’s it then,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ll go fetch ’em indoors, but it’ll take a few minutes to get them in shape.’

  McAfferty smiled. ‘They can be in whatever shape you like, Mr Williams. I’m not going to faint just because they’ve got a bit of the countryside stuck to their legs.’

  *

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ Mason said, as he backed warily towards the coal heap.

  The metal door at the side of the cellar clanked open and the brothers jolted as Williams stormed in. He was aggressive as ever, but the boys sensed a lack of his usual confidence.

  ‘Some woman is here to see you,’ Williams barked. ‘So you’re going upstairs and you’re going to scrub up fast. If you dare to open your big mouths I’ll shut ’em permanently.’

  The air felt wonderfully dust free as Williams led the brothers through a sweltering boiler room. Troy clutched his ribs and tried opening his swollen eye as Williams led them up a set of spiral stairs to the kitchen.

  Williams’ behaviour became even more curious when, instead of taking the blackened pair directly across the main hallway to the showers, he led them out of a side door, around the outside of the building and into the shower block via a path covered with muddy footprints that led in from the playing fields.

  ‘Strip those rags off,’ Williams ordered as he reached up and turned the showers on full blast.

  As hot water from a dozen nozzles steamed off the tiles, the boys grabbed pieces of soap from a tiled ledge before diving under the spray and enjoying the warmth.

  Troy squeezed his eyes tightly as the coal dust came out of his hair. The water around their feet turned dark as black streaks ran down their skin. The steam was also relief for choked lungs and both lads let water into their mouths and swooshed it around to clear out the dust.

  ‘Scrub it all,’ Williams ordered. ‘Under your nails, behind your ears and get a good lather in your hair. I’ll be back in two minutes and I want you both sparkling.’

  As Williams rushed outside, Mason looked up at his brother. ‘Do you think he’s in trouble for leaving us down there?’ he whispered.

  Despite bruised ribs and a swollen eye, Troy smiled. ‘Maybe the warden came back early and yelled at him,’ he whispered. ‘Step over here, I’ll help you wash your hair.’

  ‘This water is so lovely and hot,’ Mason smiled, as he studied the cuts and grazes that the coal fragments had left on his arms and legs.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ Troy said, as he began rubbing his bar of soap against Mason’s head.

  Once the lather was out of Mason’s hair, the water halted abruptly and Williams threw grubby towels at them.

  ‘Dry up, quick smart,’ he ordered, as he glanced through the steam to make sure that the boys were thoroughly clean. Their toenails had black crescents bene
ath them and there were a few areas where Troy wasn’t perfectly scrubbed, but they’d look acceptable once they were dressed.

  ‘I got you fresh clothes,’ Williams said, trying to sound kind for the first time ever.

  When they’d towelled off, the brothers were startled to see gleaming white vests and boxer shorts along with clean brown overalls and almost-new boots.

  ‘Now remember: listen to what the lady says and keep your mouths shut unless she asks a direct question.’

  McAfferty was waiting for Troy and Mason at a teacher’s desk in an empty classroom. The two boys sat down in the front row, while Williams hovered at the door. Mason’s overalls were meant for a teenager and Troy helped him roll up his sleeves.

  ‘My goodness,’ McAfferty said, looking at Troy’s swollen eye. ‘What happened there?’

  Williams answered for him. ‘Always getting in fights, that one. He needs strong discipline.’

  Troy nodded submissively before speaking in weak English. ‘I know that I shouldn’t have fought,’ he said.

  McAfferty turned towards the door and spoke sternly. ‘Make sure you close the door firmly on your way out, Mr Williams.’ Once he’d left, she leaned towards the boys and switched to French. ‘Seems a dodgy character, that one.’

  Troy and Mason were relieved to hear their native language, even if McAfferty’s Scottish accent wasn’t exactly straight from the boulevards of Paris.

  ‘Troy, I’ve been led to believe that you acted with extraordinary bravery during the evacuation of Dunkirk,’ McAfferty smiled.

  ‘It wasn’t that big a deal,’ Troy answered, as he looked down at himself, feeling slightly embarrassed. ‘My father had a sailing boat and I helped him. It was what any boy would do.’

  ‘But your father was killed,’ McAfferty added.

  Troy nodded, as Mason played with his rolled-up sleeve.

  ‘And then you sailed back to France on your own, collecting Mason from your home and sailing eleven more soldiers back to Britain while under heavy fire.’