Peter Dickinson - Shadow of a Hero

‘It is true,’ she said. ‘They all said so. Now you must go and prepare to welcome our hero, and I must wait here. This is what it means to be in one’s second childhood – one must learn again to do what one is told. Goodbye.’

‘How did she know Grandad?’ asked Letta as they climbed the stairs. ‘I thought he was just a schoolmaster then, and she must have been famous.’

‘It’s a small country,’ said Steff. ‘Everybody knew everybody, among the intellectuals, at least. And then in the war – she’d been a German film star, remember, so a lot of the German officers had had a crush on her, and she played along and let them think they could trust her, but all the while she was sending information out to the Resistance. The trouble was, when it was over some of the Varinians wanted to shoot her as a collaborator, but Grandad got her out of that . . . all highly romantic and probably untrue, but that’s what Poppa told me.’

‘Of course it’s true,’ said Letta. ‘It’s got to be. It fits.’

‘Only in stories, Sis. In here, apparently.’

They had come to a wide landing with a new red carpet running a few paces to left and right. Beyond that stretched a tattered old brown one. Opposite the top of the stairs were some big double doors, through which came an odour of fresh paint. Letta followed Steff through and found Mollie and Donna in a grand, uncomfortable great room with more of the little gilt chairs, and some shiny tables, and huge gilt-framed mirrors with black blotches on them, and enough flowers for a funeral. Three tall windows looked out onto the Square, with a balcony outside. In front of the middle one was a podium with microphones. The man who’d led them up, some kind of hotel manager, started fussing around opening doors and showing them the rest of the suite. There was a bedroom with a vast pink bed and a lacy pink canopy covered with artificial roses; a little den with a desk and two easy chairs, where a workman was installing a telephone; a terrific bathroom with a bath about eight feet long and four feet deep and several vast brass taps controlling a shower-device which looked like something from a Jules Verne film; some immense cupboards; and yet another bedroom, this time with twin beds but also frothing with lace and roses, pale violet.

Letta had an urge to pretend she was six again and rush round trying out all the beds and turning on the tape and gadgets, but at that point Van came in, tousled and panting, and said, ‘I think he’s almost here. I heard them cheering.’

Nigel began to open one of the windows but Steff said, ‘Hold it, Nidge. That comes later. We don’t want to spoil the great moment.’

Letta craned, but the balcony was in the way so she took off her shoes and pulled one of the idiotic chairs over and climbed onto it so that she could see over the rail. The whole Square was crammed with people. Despite the closed windows she could hear that the cheers were louder and more intense, and over in the far right-hand corner the crowd was churning around. She could see the helmets of outriders trying to force a path through the mass. After them came the roof of a black official car. It stuck still, then moved on, and behind it appeared the cab of a truck, painted black and purple and white, with flags flopping listlessly on either side. Slowly it edged forward. It carried what seemed to be a festival float, swathed in the Varinian colours. The cheering crashed out like falling waters and the crowd became a forest of waving flags. On the float was a platform with a rail round it, and standing there, holding the rail with one hand and waving cheerfully with the other, stood Grandad.

He had to be dead tired, tired with the journey, tired with the sheer emotion of homecoming, but he held himself straight and turned to left and right and waved, and whenever the truck was forced to a halt he bent down to shake a few of the thousands of hands that reached up to greet him. He was wearing a black beret over his bald head, an open-necked shirt and grey slacks. The extraordinary thing, Letta thought, was that he looked exactly like himself, no different from the Grandad who had crumpets with her at tea-time, as if this, too, was something he did every day of his life.

At last the truck moved out of her line of vision. As it did so, she noticed that the colour of the crowd had changed from darker to paler beneath the layer of flags, as all those heads turned to watch it and she was now seeing faces, not hair. The cheering never stopped, but after several minutes its level dipped for a while and rose again. In the quiet spot she could just hear a band playing. That must be the national anthem, as Grandad climbed down from the float and up the steps and turned beneath the porch and stood there waving, while the cheers rose even louder than before, and at last died away as he turned and disappeared into the hotel.

There was a bustle below, but while it was still going on the door opened and Momma rushed in, laughing and crying at the same time, not acting like herself at all, but throwing her arms round everyone and hugging them with easy joy.

‘Isn’t this wonderful!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Letta, darling, how are you? I’m so happy you’re here! We’ve all come home, and you’ve never even seen it!’

‘Is Grandad all right? He’s not too tired?’

‘He’s fine, fine!’

And she rushed away to hug Van and Nigel and the others. After a bit they fell silent and just stood there, too keyed-up for chat or laughter, but listening to the murmurs below and the unending ocean-mutter of the crowd outside.

Time passed. Without warning the doors opened again and Grandad came through, with Poppa behind him.

‘Well, here I am at last,’ he said, smiling and erect. But when the doors closed they all saw his shoulders droop as he let the wave of exhaustion wash through him. Steff had a chair ready and helped him into it. Letta knelt and unlaced his shoes. He leaned back with closed eyes.

‘I would give all Varina for a cup of tea,’ he murmured.

‘Bet you Mollie’s got a Thermos,’ said Poppa.

She had, too. The tension broke and they laughed and talked about their journeys while Grandad sipped at his cup and nodded and smiled, though he still looked almost as old as he really was. But then he began to peer round the room and a curious amusement came into his face.

‘You know,’ he said to no-one in particular, ‘I have spent sleepless nights trying to devise some method of getting a bomb under this floor. This was the German Commandant’s office.’

He handed his cup to Letta, sat up and looked at his wrist-watch.

‘I have a few minutes still,’ he said. ‘Time for a wash, at least. Letta, my darling, in my bag there are clean socks.’

‘I’ll find them. What happens next?’

‘At noon I have to go out onto the balcony and make a little speech. I won’t offer to take you with me . . .’

‘I’d much rather be down there.’

‘Me too,’ said Van. ‘Is that OK, Momma? Mollie? If I take Sis and Nigel down and keep an eye on them? You can find Grandad’s socks, uh?’

‘You may have trouble getting back in . . .’ Steff began.

‘No problem. I’ll find a way. Come on, kids.’

He rushed ahead of them down the stairs, paused, surveyed the group in the entrance hall and plunged through. By the time Letta and Nigel caught up with him he was explaining his needs to the manager, who kept glancing aside, as if he was hoping for an escape-route to open up. Van was relentless. They were Restaur Vax’s grandchildren, so he must find a way of getting them out into the Square and then back in. Rescue! Some kind of minion passed with a cardboard box full of dead flowers. The manager grabbed it from him and gave instructions. The minion, happy to be relieved of his box, led them off into the maze of corridors, down into cellars, and along a stone passage which seemed to take them almost to the end of that side of the Square. Here he unlocked a creaking door and took them deeper down still, switching on lights as he went. This corridor led into a wider space. Along one side were several iron doors with small barred grilles. Their guide walked to one of them, bowed his head, crossed himself and muttered. He crossed himself again as he turned away.