The Forget-Me-Not Summer (17 page)

Now, Steve knew that he was unlikely to be mistaken for a Browncoat boy as they marched through the streets towards their destination, but he thought it would be easier to mingle once they were in their sports gear. He had persuaded his mother to give him a short haircut, borrowed – without his brother's knowledge – Joe's Sunday shirt, and was wearing his most respectable kecks.

Once they reached the playing fields, there was a good deal of milling around and shouting and at one point Steve rather feared he might be picked for one side or the other, but they managed to get two teams together, with half a dozen boys left disconsolately on the sidelines, and it was one of these whom Steve approached. He was a short, red-faced, cheery-looking boy, and responded at once to Steve's friendly overture. ‘Gerald Grimshaw is second row forward . . .' He pointed. ‘He's in the upper fifth. His brother's in the upper sixth.'

‘Which one is he?' Steve said quickly. ‘I'd like a word with both of 'em, but I dunno if that's possible.'

The cheery one grinned. ‘I can see you don't know much about the Browncoats,' he observed. ‘We have the
playing fields by years; today is upper and lower fifth, next Saturday will be upper and lower fourth, and so on. The mighty men of the sixth play midweek; they get much more freedom than the rest of us, so you might find it easier to have a word with Julian than with Gerald.'

‘But I don't know him from Adam. I shan't be able to recognise him even if I could get up here during the week, which is real difficult,' Steve said miserably. He suddenly thought of the letter, and fished the folded sheet out of his pocket. ‘Look, if you could get this to Gerald, he could show it to Julian and they could decide what's best to do.'

The boy took the sheet of paper rather gingerly. ‘I reckon I'll have to read it,' he said apologetically. ‘For all I know you might be telling him to blow up the Houses of Parliament, or to aim a rocket straight through the windows of the headmaster's study.' He laughed but raised his brows. ‘But you don't know me from Adam either – I'm Henry Prothero, Hal to my pals. So – shall I read it, or shall I give it back to you so you can give it to Gerald yourself?'

Steve did not even hesitate. ‘Read it!' he commanded. ‘And if you can see any reason for not handing it to Gerald, you tell me here and now. It's a rather complicated story, though, and if you agree to pass on the letter I'll explain anything you don't understand.' The two boys had been standing on the sidelines, watching the game in progress, but now Hal jerked his head towards a clump of trees and bushes at the perimeter of the field.

‘Let's go over there where we're less likely to be spotted,' he said. ‘After the first half, those who didn't play to begin with have to swap with someone who's
had a game already. I hate rugger – I hate most sports, actually – and Mr Elliot, the games master, knows it, so I'll be first substitute if he catches my eye.'

Steve followed his new friend into cover and watched with some interest as Hal spread out the sheet and began to read. Watching his face, Steve saw perplexity but no trace of disapproval, and when Hal looked up and grinned at him he raised his brows. ‘Well? Do you feel you can pass it on to Gerald? Is there anything in it which worries you?'

Hal shook his head, then began to read the letter aloud.

‘
Dear Julian and Gerald, I trust you have not forgotten your old friend Missie. I write because I am in Liverpool, having arrived here without money or papers and thus with no means of returning to the island we all love. I know your parents would help me if they knew of my plight, but they are far away and you are near.

I am writing this letter to ask for your help and have entrusted it to my friend Steve. He and his friend have helped me write this letter and supported me, but it is to you I turn for the means to buy a passage back to the West Indies. I am living quietly but long to see you both and explain how I came to be here.

You know I would not ask for your help except in great need and I pray to God you have not forgotten your old nurse.'

‘Well, what more explanation do you need?' Steve said rather impatiently, as Hal came to the end. ‘She's not a young woman – Missie, I mean – and she needs their help to get home.'

‘Yes, but how did she end up in Liverpool? Did she come to England to look for work?'

Steve took a deep breath, trying to sort out how best to explain, then decided that it was unnecessary. Instead, he smiled and nodded. ‘That's it. But her new employers were unscrupulous and mean. When she told them she wanted to leave they confiscated her papers and wouldn't pay her the money they owed her. So my friend and I helped. But we don't have the money to get her a return passage to the Indies . . .'

He stopped speaking as Hal nodded understandingly. ‘Ah yes, I see. She'll want papers, a passport and so on, which you obviously cannot provide. But I expect the Grimshaws' uncle could help there. He's an old Browncoats boy and I know he's a lawyer.' As he spoke he was refolding the letter and pushing it into his trouser pocket. ‘I say, that poor woman! I'm sure the Grims will be glad to help. Gerry's a wizard fellow and Julian's okay, though he's the quiet studious type, unlike his brother. But how to get you together I really don't know, because apart from coming to and from the playing fields we can't officially leave the school premises, except for some definite reason.'

‘Like what?'

‘Oh, a trip to the dentist, a Scout meeting, or sometimes a special exeat to see a relative of whom the school authorities approve. Tell you what, when Mr Elliot blows the whistle I'll go straight across to Gerry, pass the letter over and tell him you're in the bushes. Maybe you can arrange something then.'

Steve was so delighted that he could have hugged the other boy but contented himself with uttering profuse
thanks. ‘You're brilliant, you are; I never thought I'd meet someone so willing to help,' he said. ‘When it's all over and Missie has been seen off safely back to her island, then I'll tell you the whole story. I wish I could do something to repay you in the meantime, though.'

‘I wish I could help you more,' Hal said, his rosy face split by a wide grin. ‘Wish I had a relative in Liverpool and could go a-visiting a couple of times a term. I s'pose you couldn't arrange that?'

Steve pulled a face. ‘I wish I could,' he said sincerely, ‘but though my mam's a grand woman, I doubt your teachers would think her respectable enough to entertain a Browncoats boy. Still, I'll see what I can do.'

Just as they emerged from the bushes the whistle blew and Mr Elliot began charging about and shouting. Hal made his way straight to Gerald Grimshaw and gripped his arm. Steve did not actually see the folded paper change hands, but guessed that it had done so when Gerald's eyes turned in his direction and he began to nod. He walked off the pitch, exchanging remarks with the other lads, and presently he joined Steve and shot out a hand. Steve shook it, taking a good look at his new companion. Gerald Grimshaw was a hefty young man who looked more than his fifteen years. He had short curly hair which stood up all over his head, broad cheekbones and twinkling brown eyes, a thick neck and broad shoulders. He grinned, then fished the letter out of his pocket. ‘Are you certain sure that the woman you've been helping is really our Missie? Melissa Grundy? Only when we were at Uncle Vernon's for the Easter vac he told us that Missie had disappeared in a bad thunderstorm on her way to help at the village school. The locals said she must have
gone into the sea for some reason and been taken by sharks – it does happen, especially during a storm when they have what we call a feeding frenzy – but she was certainly no longer on the island. Her house was given to someone else, and it did seem as though something like a shark attack must have been the reason for her disappearance, because nothing was missing, not so much as a pair of shoes or a teapot. And there was no – no body.'

Steve pulled a face. ‘She was afraid people would think that,' he said ruefully. ‘But you'd better read the letter first and then I'll fill you in on what we felt was too complicated to try to put into writing.'

‘Right,' Gerald said unfolding the paper. ‘How did you come to know Hal, by the way? He's a decent chap, one of the best, but he comes from somewhere north of the border and doesn't have any friends outside school so far as I know.'

‘Luck,' Steve said. ‘Read the perishin' letter, or your teacher will blow the whistle and our chance to arrange another meeting will be gone. And Missie is very much alive, as you'll see.'

Gerald scanned the page quickly, whilst a slow smile spread across his face. ‘That's the best news I've ever had, and it'll be the same for Julian,' he said happily. ‘But look here, lad, it's been a long while since Missie disappeared. How the devil did she get to Liverpool? She don't know a soul here apart from us. Can you explain a bit more?'

‘Well, I could, but I think it might be better coming from Missie herself,' Steve said rather apologetically. ‘But Hal mentioned that you had a relative in the legal profession. I wonder why Missie didn't think of him.'

‘Oh, she wouldn't,' Gerald said at once. ‘She never knew him. He's a great gun. If anyone can sort out papers, passports and so on it's our uncle, and I'm sure he'll do it as quick as a flash when we explain that it's for Missie. They never met, but he knows all about her, of course. And now you'd best explain to me what she's doing in Liverpool.'

Steve hesitated. The more he thought about Missie's capture and slavery aboard the
Pride of the Sea
the less likely it seemed. He was sure that if he told the tale he would not be believed, or at any rate a listener would take it with a grain of salt, as the saying went. They had all agreed on this, even Missie, and tempting though it was to tell all to this cheerful and friendly young man, Steve decided he had better stick to their original plan. ‘Look, I promised Missie she should tell her own story,' he said firmly. ‘I'm here to arrange a meeting, if that's possible. For reasons she'll explain when you see her, she will only leave her refuge after dark.'

Gerald grinned. ‘Yes, Missie always was a snappy dresser. She loved brilliant colours and exotic materials,' he said reminiscently. ‘I suppose she would stand out like a parrot amidst sparrows in Liverpool, where people tend to wear black or dark brown.'

Steve sighed. This was going to be even more difficult than he had supposed. ‘No, it's not like that at all. Missie wears the only clothing available to her, which is black and pretty much in rags. She wouldn't stand out at all in the area near the docks, but . . . oh dear, when you meet her you'll see for yourself. And honestly, it should be as soon as possible. My pal and I worry all the time that someone will start to take an interest in Jamaica House and Missie will find herself . . .'

‘Jamaica House? Our family used to run a business of some description, in Liverpool, and I think their headquarters were called Jamaica House – in fact I'm sure of it. So that's where Missie is holed up, is it? I've never seen it myself, the family haven't been involved in that particular trade for generations, but from what I've heard the house is little better than a ruin. Look, I don't know the way there but I do agree with you that we must meet Missie, and the sooner the better. Julian is a prefect, so though he would do everything in his power to help he won't want to break any rules.'

‘In that case it might be best if you came to Jamaica House on your own, preferably after it's begun to get dark,' Steve said. ‘Fortunately your brown blazers and grey kecks can look pretty anonymous, so if you take your cap off and get hold of a dark-coloured muffler you're unlikely to be spotted as a Browncoat boy. I guess you think I ought to bring Missie to you, but it would be really difficult. I'll tell you what bus to catch and which stop to get off at, and I'll meet you there and take you straight to Jamaica House. But can you get away? Without being caught, I mean.'

Gerald thought the matter over. ‘If Hal covers for me after the supper bell – we're in the same dorm – I can be with you by say half past eight in the evening. Then I can spend an hour or so with Missie and still get back to the dorm before anyone has checked that it's me curled up under the covers and not my pillow.'

‘Well, if you're sure, I'll meet all the buses from Crosby between eight and nine o'clock. If you're not on any of them, we'll have to think again,' Steve said. ‘Now, do you need to know anything else? Missie felt that the
letter she wrote might not be enough to convince you that we weren't playing what you might call an under-game, though why she would want to entice a couple of bleedin' Browncoats into a ruined house is more than I can tell you.'

He expected his companion to laugh scoffingly, but Gerald did not do so. ‘Extortion,' he said briefly, then grinned. ‘But you don't look the type to drag me off, chuck me into a cellar and demand a ransom from parents a thousand miles away. So you can tell Missie that one of us, at least, will be with her . . . what day did we say?'

Steve laughed. So that was what ‘extortion' meant! ‘We didn't, but what about Monday? Or would tomorrow be better for you?'

They were still discussing the details of their plan when Mr Elliot's whistle shrilled and the boys, both players and spectators, began to amble back towards the wooden building. Gerald started to follow them, turning at the last minute to say: ‘Monday evening, eight to nine. Cheerio for now.'

Steve did not hang about until the boys were back in uniform once more, but set off immediately towards the nearest bus stop. He was elated with the success of his plan, and looking forward to Monday evening. He and Miranda had grown fond of Missie, but Steve realised more than ever now that she was a real responsibility. He worried that someone would spot her when she went down to the docks to pick up any food she could find. He worried she would be seen leaving or entering the walled garden, or that one of the factory workers might follow her into her retreat, or perhaps inform the scuffers that a vagrant had taken up residence in the old house.
No, though he and Miranda would miss her, the happiest outcome of their strange friendship must be that Missie should return to the West Indies and the home she loved.