said. “This is a perfect place for him. Grass, flowers, insects.”
It was a perfect place. If she hadn’t been trekking three children and all this luggage across it, she would have loved standing here knee-deep in the fragrant grass, the breeze ruffling her hair, listening to the faint hum of bees. The meadow was golden in the afternoon light and full of buttercups and Queen Anne’s lace. A copper dragonfly hovered above a spray of white stitchwort, and a bird flashed past, dark blue against the bright blue sky.
“But if I leave Bill ’ere, ’e might get bombed,” Alf said, dangling the snake in front of Binnie, who was unimpressed. “The Dornier might come back and—”
“Let him go,” Eileen said firmly.
“But ’e’ll be lonely,” Alf said. “You wouldn’t much like bein’ left all alone in a strange place.”
You’re right, I don’t. “Let him go,” she said. “Now.”
Alf reluctantly squatted and opened his hand. The snake slithered enthusiastically off into the grass and out of sight. Eileen picked up Theodore’s duffel and her own suitcase, and they set off again. The other passengers had disappeared. She hoped they’d tell the bus to wait for them, though that was probably a fond hope, considering the headmistress’s attitude.
“Look!” Alf shouted, stopping so short Eileen nearly ran into him. He pointed up at the sky. “It’s a plane!”
“Where?” Binnie said. “I don’t see nuthin’.” For a second Eileen couldn’t either, then saw a tiny black dot. “Wait, now I see it!” Binnie cried. “Is it comin’ back to bomb us?”
Eileen had a sudden image of a vid in one of her history lectures, of refugees scattering wildly as a plane dove toward them, strafing them. “Is it a dive-bomber?” she asked Alf, dropping her suitcase and clutching Theodore’s hand, ready to reach for Binnie and Alf with the other and run.
“You mean a Stuka? I can’t tell,” Alf said, squinting at the plane. “No, it’s one of ours. It’s a ’Urricane.”
But they were still out in the middle of a meadow, with a stopped train—a perfect bombing target—only a few hundred yards off. “We need to catch up to the others,” she said. “Come along. Hurry.”
No one moved. “There’s another one!” Alf said deliriously. “It’s a Messerschmitt. See the iron crosses on its wings? They’re gonna fight!”
Eileen craned her neck to look up at the tiny planes. She could see them both clearly now, the sharp-nosed Hurricane and the snub-nosed Messerschmitt, though they looked like toy planes. They circled each other, swooping and turning silently as if they were dancing instead of fighting. Theodore let go of her hand and went over to stand by Alf, looking up at the graceful duet, his mouth open, transfixed. And rightly so. They were beautiful. “Get ’im!” Alf shouted. “Shoot ’im down!”
“Shoot ’im down!” Theodore echoed.
The toy planes banked and dipped and soared silently, trailing narrow veils of white behind them. Those weren’t clouds I saw from the train. They were vapor trails from dogfights just like these. I’m watching the Battle of Britain, she thought wonderingly.
The Messerschmitt climbed and then dove straight at the other plane. “Look out!” Binnie shouted.
There was still no sound, no roar as the plane dove, no machine-gun rattle. “Missed!” Alf shouted, and Eileen saw a minuscule spurt of orange halfway along the Hurricane’s wing.
“’E’s hit!” Binnie shouted.
White smoke began to stream from the wing. The Hurricane’s nose dipped. “Pull up!” Alf shouted, and the tiny plane seemed to straighten out.
That means the pilot’s still alive, Eileen thought.
“Get out of there!” Binnie yelled, and it seemed to obey that, too, fleeing north, white smoke trailing from its wing. But not fast enough. The Messerschmitt banked sharply and came around again.
“Behind you!” Alf and then Theodore shouted. “Watch out!”
“Look!” Binnie’s arm shot up. “There’s another one!”
“Where?” Alf demanded, “I don’t see it,” and Eileen suddenly did. It was above the other two planes and coming in fast.
Oh, God, don’t let it be German, Eileen thought.
“It’s a Spitfire!” Alf yelled, and the Messerschmitt cockpit exploded into flame and black smoke. “’E got ’im!” he said deliriously. The Messerschmitt keeled over and went into a spiraling dive, smoke billowing from it, still graceful, still noiseless in its deadly descent.
It won’t even make a sound when it hits, Eileen thought, but it did—a quiet, sickening thud. The children cheered. “I knew the Spitfire’d save ’im!” Alf exulted, looking back up at the two planes.
The Spitfire was circling above the Hurricane, which still streamed white smoke. As