Grandpa’s Great Escape

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack caught the gravediggers smirking at this. The boy couldn’t put his finger on it exactly, but he felt like something was very wrong here.

“Yes, we read about that in the local paper,” replied Dad. “A runaway bulldozer? Who would have thought it?”

“The good Lord moves in mysterious ways,” replied Reverend Hogg.

“You know what, Mr Vicar?” continued Mum. “I have been saying it to these two until I’ve gone blue in the face. And Jill at the cheese counter agrees.”

“So you work at a cheese counter?” enquired Reverend Hogg. “I thought I could smell Stilton.”

“Yes!” replied Mum. “One of our speciality cheeses. It’s such a beautiful aroma, isn’t it, Mr Vicar? Like perfume really.”

Dad rolled his eyes.

“Anyway, so Jill is of the same mind,” continued Mum again. “An old folk’s home would be the best place for him.”

Jack looked at his father and shook his head vigorously, but the man pretended not to notice his son.

“Is it a nice place?” asked Dad.

“Mr Bunting, I wouldn’t be recommending it if it wasn’t,” purred the vicar. “It’s better than nice. It’s like Disneyland for old people. The only problem is, it’s so popular…”

“Is it?” asked Dad, now also completely sucked in by the man’s patter.

“Yes, it’s very hard to get a place,” said Reverend Hogg.

“Well, that’s settled then,” said Jack. “He can’t go anyway.”

The vicar continued without pausing for breath. “Fortunately I know the matron who runs the place rather well. Lovely woman Miss Swine, and rather attractive I am sure you will agree when you meet her. If you wanted I could ask her if your dear old grandpa could jump the queue.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr Vicar,” said Mum.

“What’s this place called?” asked Dad.

“Twilight Towers,” replied Reverend Hogg. “It’s not far from here. Just on the edge of the moors. I could call Miss Swine now and ask one of my boys here to run him up there tonight, if you like…?” The vicar indicated his burly gang of gravediggers.

“That would save us the bother,” agreed Mum.

“NO!” protested Jack.

Dad tried to steer the family towards a middle ground. “Well, thank you so much, vicar, we’ll have a think about it.”

“No, we won’t!” protested Jack. “My grandpa’s never going into a home! NEVER!”

With that Dad started ushering his wife and son towards the car where Grandpa had been waiting patiently.

But as Jack was trailing behind, and just out of earshot of his parents, the vicar turned to him and hissed, “We’ll see about that, young man…”

7

Disneyland for Old People

It was nearly dawn by the time they were all home. Jack managed to convince his parents that it was for the best that Grandpa stayed with the family for the rest of the night, rather than return alone to his flat.

The boy put it in terms he thought his grandfather would understand. “Because of enemy reconnaissance missions in the area, the Air Chief Marshal has ordered you to move quarters.”

Before long, Grandpa was fast asleep on the bottom bunk in the boy’s bedroom, snoring for England.

ZZZzzz! ZZZZZZ!

Zzz! ZZZzz!

The ends of the old man’s moustache blew up and down with each breath.

Unable to sleep, and with his heart still pounding in his chest from the night’s adventure, the boy slid down silently from the top bunk. As was often the case he could hear muffled voices from downstairs and wanted to listen to what his parents were saying. Expertly he opened his bedroom door without making a sound. He sat on the carpet at the top of the stairs, one of his ears pushed between two bannisters.

“Mr Vicar was right,” said Mum. “A home is the best place for him.”

“I’m really not sure, Barbara,” protested Dad. “Grandpa wouldn’t like it.”

“Did you not listen to the nice man? What did Mr Vicar say about Twilight Towers?”

“He said it was like ‘Disneyland for old people’?”

“Exactly! Now I don’t imagine there are rollercoasters or log flumes or someone dressed up as a giant mouse, but it sounds wonderful.”

“But—”

“The vicar is a man of the church! He would never lie!” snapped Mum.

“Maybe it is like he said. But Grandpa’s always been such a free spirit.”

“Yes!” Mum replied with a note of triumph in her voice. “Such a free spirit that we find him up on the church roof in the middle of the night!”

There was silence for a moment. Dad did not have an answer for this.

“Listen, Barry, what else can we do?” continued Mum. “The old man’s becoming a danger to himself. He very nearly fell off that roof and died!”

“I know, I know…” Dad muttered.

“Well?”

“Maybe it is for the best.”

“That’s settled once and for all then. We can drop him off at Twilight Towers tomorrow.”

As Jack listened at the top of the stairs a tear welled in his eye, and rolled very slowly down his cheek.

8

Spit it Out!

True to form at breakfast the next morning Grandpa was acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. As he sat happily tucking into his fried eggs and bacon in the kitchen of the family home, it was clear that the old man had no memory whatsoever of the past night’s dramatic events.

“More bread! Quickly, please, Charlady, chop chop!” he ordered.

Mum did not appreciate being treated like some kind of servant. ‘Charlady’ was what posh people called their cleaners in the olden days. She looked to her husband to do something, but Dad pretended to read the paper.

Two slices of white bread were slammed down on the table and within a moment Grandpa began mopping up all the grease on his plate.

As he devoured the bread, he announced, “I’ll have the bread fried next time, please, Charlady!”

“Oh, will you now?!” replied Mum sarcastically.

Jack couldn’t help but smile, though he tried to hide it.

The old man slurped his tea, followed by a, “Down the hatch!” Grandpa said that whenever he drank anything.

“Mum, Dad, I’ve been thinking,” announced the boy. “As I was up so late, I think it’s best I don’t go to school today.”

“What?” replied Mum.

“Yes. I can stay here and look after Grandpa. In fact, I should probably take the whole week off!”

Jack didn’t like school much. He had just turned twelve so had been sent off to big school. He hadn’t made any friends there yet. All the other kids seemed to be only interested in the latest pop star or silly gadget. This being 1983, many of the kids spent their lessons fiddling with their Rubik’s Cubes under their desks. Jack couldn’t find a single person who had a passion for model aeroplanes. On his first day, he was laughed at by some older boys for even mentioning them. So Jack learned to keep his mouth shut.

“You are going to school today, young man!” Mum always called her son ‘young man’ when he had done something wrong. “You tell him, Barry!”

Dad looked up from his newspaper. “Well, it was very late last night…”

“BARRY!”

The man suddenly thought better of disagreeing with his wife and his sentence quickly changed tack. “…But of course you shouldn’t miss school. And in future please do absolutely everything your mother says.” Finally he added a rather mournful, “I know I do.”

Next, the woman gave her husband a rather unsubtle poke on the shoulder. It was clear she wanted him to make the big announcement about Grandpa. As Dad did not immediately respond, she poked him again. This time it was so hard he actually went, “Ow!”

“Bar-ry…” she prompted. Mum always said Dad’s name in that strange elongated way when she was trying to get him to do something.

Dad put down his paper and folded it slowly to put off speaking as long as he could. He looked straight at his father.

Jack feared the worst.

Was this the moment when Dad would tell Grandpa that he was going to be sent to Twilight Towers?

“Now, Dad. You know we all love you very much and only want the best for you…”

Grandpa slurped his mug of tea noisily. It wasn’t clear whether he had heard what his son had said at all, as there was no flicker in his eyes. Dad started again, speaking slower and louder than before. “Are… you… lis-ten-ing… to… me?”

“Spit it out, Cadet!” replied Grandpa. Jack smirked. The boy loved that his grandfather gave Dad a much lower rank than him. In fact, the lowest rank there was.

Dad (or ‘Officer Cadet Bunting’ as Grandpa called him) took a deep breath and started again. “Well, we all love you very much, and were thinking, well, it was the… er… Charlady…”

Mum glared at Dad.

“…I mean Barbara’s idea really. But after last night we both agree. We thought it might be best if you went into…”

Jack had to say something, anything. He needed to buy his grandpa some time. So before Dad could finish his sentence he blurted: “…School with me today!”

9

Coloured Chalks

Jack had been petitioning his history teacher, Miss Verity, to be allowed to bring Grandpa into her class all term. At his new school, they had started studying World War II. Who better to learn about it from than someone who had actually been there? What’s more, all the other kids could see how cool his grandfather was. Maybe then having a collection of model aeroplanes wouldn’t be so sad after all?

Miss Verity was a tall, thin woman who wore long skirts down to her ankles and frilly blouses up to her chin. Her spectacles hung down from her neck on a silver chain. She was one of those teachers who somehow managed to make an exciting subject deathly dull. History should be thrilling, with its stories of heroes and villains who shaped the destiny of the world. Bloodthirsty kings and queens. Daring battles. Unspeakable methods of torture.

Sadly, Miss Verity’s method of teaching was mind-numbing. All the lady would do was write dates and names in her beloved coloured chalks up on the blackboard. Then her pupils would have to copy everything down into their exercise books. “Facts! Facts! Facts!” she would recite as she scribbled away. Facts were all she cared about. One particular history lesson, all the boys from her class clambered out of the window for a crafty game of footy in the playground. Miss Verity didn’t even notice they were gone, as she never turned around from her blackboard.

Convincing the history teacher to allow Grandpa into the classroom at some point had not been an easy task. In the end, Jack had to bribe her with a set of coloured chalks from the local newsagent’s shop. Fortunately for the boy, the shop owner, Raj, had sold the set of ‘luxury’ chalks as part of one of his special offers. They had come free with an out-of-date box of fudge.

It was lucky that history was the second lesson of the day, as Grandpa made his grandson rather late for school. First, it took a while to convince the old man that when Jack had said ‘school’ he did of course mean an RAF ‘flying school’, and not just the local comprehensive. Second, the ‘shortcut’ through the park turned out to be something of a ‘long cut’. Grandpa had insisted on climbing to the very top of the tallest tree in the park so he could “keep an eye out for enemy aircraft”. Coming down took a great deal longer than going up, and in the end Jack had to borrow a ladder from a nearby window cleaner to coax his grandfather to the ground.

When the pair eventually passed through the school gates, Jack looked at his RAF-issue watch and realised his history lesson had started ten minutes ago! If there was one thing Miss Verity could not abide, it was lateness. All eyes turned to the boy as he entered the classroom. Jack went bright red with embarrassment. He hated being the centre of attention.

“Why are you late, boy?” barked Miss Verity, spinning around from her blackboard.

Before Jack could reply, Grandpa stepped into the classroom.

“Wing Commander Bunting at your service, madam,” he said with a salute, before bowing his head and kissing the teacher’s hand.

“Miss Verity,” she replied, giggling and covering her mouth nervously. The teacher was obviously flattered by Grandpa’s gallantry. It might have been some time since a gentleman had made a fuss of her in this way. That the teacher giggled made the class giggle too. To silence them, Miss Verity gave the children one of her famous death stares. These were so chilling that they always worked in an instant.

“Please take a seat, Mr Bunting. I had absolutely no idea you were coming today!” She glared at Jack. The boy offered his teacher a warm smile. “But you are here, so let’s make the best of it. I believe you are going to tell us all about your life as a World War II fighter pilot?”

“Roger!” replied Grandpa.

The teacher checked behind her, in case someone called Roger had entered the room. “Who’s Roger?”

“It means yes, Miss,” called out Jack.

“Pop your hand in the air if you have something to say, boy,” she snapped, before turning back to Jack’s grandpa. “We have just begun studying the Battle of Britain. Please can you tell us something of your personal experience of this?”

Grandpa nodded and twizzled the ends of his magnificent moustache. “Certainly, madam. The first day of the Battle of Britain we all knew the enemy had planned something huge.

Total obliteration, that’s what Mr Hitler wanted. Radar picked up a huge squadron of Luftwaffe Junkers over the coast. With Messerschmitt fighter planes acting as guard. There were so many that day the sky was black with them.”

From the back of the classroom, Jack beamed with pride. The entire class was hanging on the old man’s every word. For a moment he felt like the coolest kid in school.

“We had no time to lose. The enemy was coming in fast. If we didn’t take to the air immediately, we would have been knocked out on the ground.”

“Oh no,” said an enraptured girl at the front.

“Oh yes!” continued Grandpa. “The whole airfield would have gone up in flames. My squadron was the first to be scrambled, and as Wing Commander I was to lead the charge. Within seconds we were all in the air. Up, up and away. I pushed my Spitfire to 300 miles an hour…”

“Wow!” said a boy at the back, looking up from his football magazine. “300 miles an hour!”

“The Air Chief Marshal radioed me to tell me we would be outnumbered. He said four to one. So I had to think fast. We needed an element of surprise. I ordered my squadron to hide up above the clouds. The plan was we would wait until the enemy were so close we could smell them, and then ATTACK!”

“So what date was this exactly, Mr Bunting?” interrupted the teacher. “I need to put it up on the blackboard in red chalk. Red chalk is for dates only.”

Miss Verity used strict colour-coding on her blackboard –

Grandpa thought for a moment. Jack’s tummy twisted. He knew dates were not the old man’s strong suit.

But eventually Grandpa replied confidently, “July the third, eleven hundred hours. I remember it well!”

The teacher wrote these facts, facts, facts up on the blackboard, the red chalk squeaking as Grandpa continued.

“So I waited until the very last moment. As soon as I saw the first Messerschmitt emerge from under the clouds, I gave the order.

“What year was this?”

“Pardon me, madam?”

“What year was this?” Miss Verity pressed.

Then disaster. The old man’s face went blanker than blank.

10

Facts Facts Facts

From the back of the classroom, Jack dived in to defend his grandfather. “Miss, it’s best you don’t keep on interrupting by asking questions…”

“But this is a history lesson! We need facts! facts! facts!” replied Miss Verity.

“Just please let the Wing Commander finish his story, Miss, and we can get to all those later.”

“Very well,” muttered the history teacher, grasping her red chalk in readiness. “Please carry on, Mr Bunting.”

“Thank you, madam,” said Grandpa. “Now, where was I?”

It was clear the poor old man had lost his thread. It was a good job that his grandson knew this story so well. He had heard this particular tale of derring-do hundreds of times but never tired of it. Jack prompted his grandfather. “You saw the first Messerschmitt, and gave the order to—”

“DIVE! That’s right, man! As soon as my squadron of Spitfires descended through the clouds, we realised that this would be the fight of our lives.” Grandpa’s eyes lit up. He was back in the moment as if it was yesterday. “The radar had estimated a hundred planes in total. This looked more like two hundred! One hundred Junkers, and as many Messerschmitts. As for us, we had just twenty-seven Spitfires.”

The children were enraptured. Miss Verity was busy scribbling up her precious facts facts facts on the blackboard – like how many aircraft on each side – in an array of multicoloured chalks. As soon as she had finished, she switched back to red chalk (for dates only) and opened her mouth as if she were about to speak. But before she could say a word, the entire class went, “SHUSH!”

Grandpa was on a roll now. All the children were eating out of his hand. “I pressed on my machine guns and the battle commenced. It was thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. The sky was filled with bullets, smoke and fire.

Bang!

I hit my first Messerschmitt. The Luftwaffe pilot parachuted out.

Bang!

And another!

“Our mission that day was to take down the Junkers. They were the deadly ones. Each one of those bombers was carrying tonnes of explosives. If we didn’t stop them, their bombs would be raining down on the men, women and children of London. Up in the skies, the battle raged for what seemed like hours. The RAF must have shot down fifty enemy aircraft that day,” continued Grandpa. “Many of the other Luftwaffe planes were so badly damaged, they had to retreat back across the Channel quick smart. My squadron returned to base that day as heroes.”

All the children in the class burst into wild applause.

“HOORAY!”

11

A Legend

As the applause died down in the classroom, Grandpa began again. “But this was no time for celebration. We knew the enemy would be back, and soon. In even greater numbers than before. The Battle of Britain had well and truly begun. As for my squadron, I lost four brave pilots that day.”

The old man’s eyes glistened with tears.

The entire class sat in stunned silence. So this was what a history lesson could be!

The boy sitting next to Jack turned to him and whispered, “Your grandpa is a legend!”

“I know,” replied Jack and smiled.

“Well, thank you so much for your time, Mr Bunting,” said Miss Verity loudly, breaking the spell. “We are nearing the end of the lesson now. I have my red chalk poised at the ready. We need to note down all those facts, facts, facts! So please could you tell us all the year this happened?”

“The year?” replied Grandpa.

“Yes. I need to put it up on the board. If my pupils are to have any hope of passing their exam next term, we need to know facts, facts, facts! And yet more facts.”

The old man looked at the teacher, confused. “It’s this year.”

“What do you mean this year?” asked the teacher.

“This year, madam. 1940.”

The class chuckled uncertainly. Surely the old man was joking? Jack shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Miss Verity gave everyone another of her famous death stares and they were silent once more. “You seriously think this is 1940?”

“Yes, of course it’s 1940! King George VI is on the throne. And Mr Churchill is the Prime Minister.”

“No no no, Mr Bunting. This is 1983!”

“It can’t be!”

“Yes yes yes. Queen Elizabeth II is on the throne. And the wonderful Mrs Thatcher is the Prime Minister.”

Grandpa did not look at all convinced. In fact, he stared at the teacher as if she was BONKERS! “Mrs?! A lady Prime Minister?! You must have a screw loose, madam!”

“I think it is you who has the screw loose, Mr Bunting! Well, thank you so much for your oh-so-informative visit,” said the teacher sarcastically. “Now, goodbye.” As if shooing a pigeon, Miss Verity ushered the old man out of his chair. Under her breath she muttered to the class, “No need to write down a thing the old man said, after all! He doesn’t know what year it is and he is still wearing his slippers!”

Poor Grandpa stood at the front of the class. He had been soaring in the sky; now he looked like he had crash-landed on the ground. Jack’s heart ached for him.

DRING!

The bell rang not a moment too soon. The boy had never been so relieved a lesson had ended.

Jack pushed past the other children to get to his grandfather as they all shambled out of the classroom. It had gone from being the best history class ever to the absolute worst.

Just as Jack reached Grandpa, Miss Verity called the boy back. “Jack? May I have a word, please?”

“A moment, sir,” said the boy to his grandpa, as he plodded over to his teacher.

“Promise me you will never bring your grandfather into my classroom again,” the lady hissed.

“I promise!” replied Jack angrily. “There’s no way I am bringing him back here.”

The boy spun around and reached out for Grandpa’s hand. His old skin felt almost like a child’s. Soft and silky.

“Come along, Wing Commander. Let’s return to base.”