“But it is true. I’ll give Edie that,” said Gus. “The bit about what Len said, at least, once you’ve got rid of all the mist and snarling. The brothers were definitely interested in that stretch of track. They started pacing up and down, as if they were measuring it out.”
“Perhaps they were looking for a message telling them which train to expect the piglets to arrive on?” said Edie.
“If someone was sending a message, surely they’d have agreed on an exact place to leave it,” said Gus.
“Maybe it was written on a piece of paper and it blew away in the wind?” suggested Edie.
But Gus shook his head. “In that case, they’d have had no idea where to start. They were only looking along the edge of the track.”
“True,” sighed Edie. She had to admit Gus was good at this sort of thing.
“Come on,” said Perky, springing up from his lookout post. “There’s nowt happening on the farm. We should go and have a look by this famous telegraph pole. Perhaps you missed summat.”
“All right,” agreed Edie, although she wished they could stay in the dining carriage a bit longer. She had always wanted her very own secret camp – somewhere she could play make-believe. They didn’t have a garden in Glasshouse Street, not even so much as a window box. The old railway carriage was even better than a real Wendy house would have been.
But the boys were already out the door, balancing on the fallen tree trunk, which acted like a drawbridge, and jumping down to the bank below. Edie followed and together they walked all the way back to the part of the line near the telegraph pole and paced up and down the edge of the railway, searching the same stretch of ground until their legs ached.
“It would help if we knew what we were looking for,” grumbled Perky. But he was far too busy trying to frighten Gus and Edie with his terrible tale of the Ghostly Signalman to be much use anyway.
“He had his head sliced off by a train way back in 1866,” he whispered, raising his hands like a spectre. “Whooo!”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Edie laughed. Perky was just about the most friendly looking ghost she’d ever seen.
Even so, she couldn’t help screaming when he leapt out at her from behind a bush five minutes later.
They gave up after that and trudged home, no closer to solving the mystery of what the Snigsons had been up to that day on the side of the tracks.
That night, as she lay in bed, Edie couldn’t get thoughts of the horrible headless signalman out of her mind. Suddenly Perky’s silly story and his ghostly moans didn’t seem quite so funny any more.
I’ll keep out of Perky’s way for a few days until he’s forgotten all about it, she decided sleepily. It’ll serve him right.
But, the very next morning, Perky was back.
“Edie,” he cried, dropping his bike and running across the meadow while she was milking Mr Hitler. “I’ve another telegram for you.” He waved the thin brown envelope in the air.
Edie froze. She tried to remember what Perky had said last time: telegrams didn’t always bring bad news.
She stood up, very slowly, clutching the milking pail.
She was trembling a little. She couldn’t help it. It was as if the Ghostly Signalman himself had run an icy finger down her spine.
“Here!” She thrust the metal pail into Perky’s hands. “You can finish milking Mr Hitler, can’t you?” she said. Without waiting for his answer, she grabbed the telegram and ran.
If it was bad news, she wanted to be alone when she read it. She kept running until she reached the wooden fence above the railway line – the place where they waved to the 9.15.
She sat down on the sunny bank and ripped the envelope open with one quick tear, like pulling a sticking plaster off her knee. With trembling hands, she unfolded the paper and read:
B-U TOMORROW = FLISS
For a moment, Edie wasn’t sure what to think. It wasn’t bad news at least. Fliss had sent the telegram herself, which showed she was safe and well. But what did it mean?
“B-U tomorrow,” Edie mumbled. “Be you… ?” Why did everything in this war have to be in code? Then suddenly, she leapt in the air and cheered, sending a pair of pheasants screeching into the sky.
“B-U!” she cried. “Of course! Beat-up.” She remembered the daring low flights Belinda Barton-Withers had described. She’d said it was what the ATA pilots did when they got a chance to fly near home, or where their loved ones were, at least. No wonder Fliss had written in code, or the censor would have stopped her for sure.
Perhaps that was why Fliss had given no exact time for her flight, either. Edie worried for a moment that she might miss her altogether, but realized with a rush of relief that whatever time the plane came the next day she would be sure to hear it as soon as it flew near.
Her heart soared. Fliss was coming. She was going to do a beat-up. Right here above Three Chimneys. Tomorrow.
Chapter Thirteen
The Storm
Edie woke with a start to the sound of Uncle Peter shouting again – more like screaming this time than actual words. It was followed by Aunt Roberta’s hurried footsteps rushing along the landing to his room.
She sat up in bed and hugged her knees as she listened to the murmuring voices down the hall.
It must be the middle of the night, she thought. She could hear the wind rattling the windows and Greta’s steady sleeping breaths beside her. In the glow of the night light, she could see Greta’s little blonde head resting on Mr Churchill, her fingers wound round the smart new stripy scarf that Maisie had knitted for him.
Greta could probably have slept through a direct hit in the Blitz! But Edie knew there
