The Time Bandit E-Book

Barry Cole

• Herausgeber: barry cole
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 116

Beschreibung

The Time Bandit follows the adventures of two eleven year old children and their local Bobbie, who thanks to the discovery of a one-arm-bandit in the local scrap yard, are able to travel back in time. How the machine got there nobody knows but as the trio were soon to find out, there was no doubting its power as they were transported back to times and places buried deep in the past, each of them with its own mystery.

Leseprobe

Copyright © Barry Cole 2016

Published by Elba Publishing, 2016 in partnership with

I_AM Self-Publishing.

The right of Barry Cole to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-0-9935831-5-5

This book is sold subject to the condition it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be circulated in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise without the publisher’s prior consent.

http://www.elbapublishing.co.uk

Dedication

To Dylan

Acknowledgements

MY THANKS GO to Daniella Foltz of Morphy Auctions for giving her permission for a photograph from their auction catalogue to be featured on the front cover of the book and to Claire Manion and her son Dylan for proofing the original manuscript and for their constructive suggestions and editing skills, for which I am truly grateful.

Contents

Chapter One – Followed

Chapter Two – The Scrap Yard

Chapter Three – The One Arm Bandit

Chapter Four – Sutton Hoo

Chapter Five – The Burial Boat

Chapter Six – Invisible

Chapter Seven – Aethelhere

Chapter Eight – Apprehended

Chapter Nine – Montana

Chapter Ten – US Seventh Cavalry

Chapter Eleven – The Little Bighorn River

Chapter Twelve – Reno Attacks

Chapter Thirteen – Custer’s Last Stand

Chapter Fourteen – Home Again

Chapter Fifteen – All Good Things

APPENDIX

Chapter One

Followed

SAM AND LIZZIE knew someone was following them. They had first caught sight of him as they came out from the spinney behind the Abbott’s farmhouse and again as they cut across the meadow where Mr Abbott grazed his two horses. Most worrying of all was the fact that he seemed quite unconcerned that they were aware of his presence. Lengthening their stride and keeping to the rutted track, which ran alongside a tall hedgerow, the two youngsters made a beeline for the cluster of houses in the distance. With arms and legs flying they raced down a steep hillside known locally as “The Slope” on account of it being used as a toboggan run on the rare occasions when there was a sufficient fall of snow. At the foot of the hill lay their final obstacle, the rusting remains of tall wrought iron railings, which ran alongside a disused railway line. Quick as a flash, Lizzie hitched up her dress and tucking it into her knickers, she scaled the railings with ease and dropped down safely on the other side. Agile as a monkey Sam followed after her and reaching the top, he paused for a moment to cast an anxious look behind him.

‘He’s still following us,’ said Sam, jumping down from the fence, ‘what do we do now?’

Lizzie stared thoughtfully for a minute and then her freckled face lit up with a smile.

‘Follow me,’ she said excitedly ‘I know just the place to hide.’ And with that she raced away with Sam hot on her heels.

Trudging along the narrow track PC Goodrich began to regret answering the telephone, ruefully aware that if he hadn’t picked up the receiver, he would still be back in his snug little office at the local police station enjoying a nice cup of tea, instead of gallivanting around the countryside on some wild goose chase. Reaching the end of the track and seeing his quarry disappear below the crest of the hill, PC Goodrich quickly pushed such thoughts aside and reminded himself that a crime had been committed and although it only involved the theft of a few apples, as the local constable it was his duty to investigate the matter and apprehend those responsible.

He was also very aware that the person who had made the phone call was none other than Miss Litchetwood, chairperson of the Parish Council and a lady who you definitely didn’t want to get on the wrong side of. His predecessor had made that mistake and as a result he was now back pounding the beat in Fordingham. No, the position of Tingwick village constable suited PC Goodrich very well and the last thing he wanted was to put it in jeopardy. So on reflection, answering the telephone had been a wise decision after all as apprehending the perpetrators of the crime would put him in Miss Litchetwood’s good books and that was not a bad thing at all.

Pushing his bicycle and quite out of breath he reached the top of “The Slope” just in time to see the two youngsters climb the railings and race away. He considered free-wheeling down the steep hill in pursuit but after viewing the phalanx of rusting railings and imagining for one horrible moment being impaled on their spear-like spikes he decided against it. Besides he reminded himself, there was really no need for him to hurry, after all he had a pretty good idea where his two suspects were heading for. In fact he would bet a week’s wages on it.

Chapter Two

The Scrap Yard

VASS’S SCRAP YARD lay on the far side of the village behind what remained of the old railway sidings, its piles of rusting metal and abandoned cars concealed behind a high corrugated iron fence, its panels coated in a thick layer of black paint. Once a thriving concern, with the closure of the main railway line the supply of scrap metal had dried up and the business quickly went into decline with the result that today there was barely enough work to keep old Mr Vass and his one employee occupied.

Some years earlier when the station buildings which had conveniently screened the scrap yard from the village were demolished, a petition had been organised by a group of newcomers to the village to have the yard closed down on environmental grounds – the real reason being that they thought that such an eye sore would put off potential buyers when they came to sell their properties. Thankfully for Mr Vass, the older residents, with memories of when the scrap yard had provided much needed employment for husbands and sons returning from the war, expressed their gratitude by successfully opposing the closure. As a compromise the Parish Council approved the payment from parish funds for the planting of a row of conifers to screen the yard from view but sadly due to the soil having been contaminated over the years by pollutants seeping into the ground from the yard, the conifers quickly withered and died. As it was deemed impractical to replace them with new trees, it was suggested to Mr Vass that to improve the appearance of the scrap yard, he might consider applying a coat of paint – several if necessary – to the corrugated iron fence which enclosed the yard. Thankfully and much to the relief of all concerned, Mr Vass complied with the request and so brought the matter to a close.

Lizzie and Sam crossed the tracks of the old spur line which had once allowed flat-bed trucks to be shunted into the scrap yard from the main line and made their way alongside the high corrugated iron fence, with Lizzie counting each panel as they went.

‘Where are we going?’ Sam enquired, ‘and why are you....’, ‘shush,’ snapped Lizzie, ‘can’t you see I’m counting?’

Sam shrugged his shoulders and gave a small smile. He and Lizzie had been friends ever since his family moved into the house next door to hers two years ago so he knew from experience that eventually she would reveal why they were wandering around the outside of the scrap yard instead of just sneaking in through the front gates, which he had noticed were wide open and unattended. He didn’t have long to wait.

‘That’s the one!’ Lizzie cried excitedly, point to one of the panels.

‘Great,’ said Sam surveying the eight foot tall fence, ‘so what do we do now, jump over it or dig a tunnel?’

‘Ha ha very funny,’ Lizzie replied, ‘just watch and all will be revealed.’ And with that Lizzie knelt down beside the fence and taking a penknife from a pocket of her denim jacket she set to work on the bolts which secured the corrugated iron panel to a thick wooden post. Forcing the blade of the knife under the rounded head of the lowest bolt, she prized it back until she could get her fingers behind it and then with a tug she pulled it free. Sam watched fascinated as in quick succession three more bolts succumbed to Lizzie’s penknife allowing her to pull back a corner of the panel and reveal a glimpse of the scrap yard beyond.

Sam frowned. True he was impressed with the way Lizzie had solved the problem of getting them into the scrap yard but all the same something was not quite right about how she had managed it. Then in a flash it came to him and picking up one of the long bolts which she had removed he held it up in front of Lizzie’s face.

‘Very impressive but would you care to explain what happened to the nuts?’

‘We don’t have time to go into that,’ snapped Lizzie, ‘just follow me and keep quiet.’

And with that she pulled back the panel, squeezed through the opening and disappeared from sight. Not wanting to be left behind, Sam dropped the bolt and followed after her. He found Lizzie waiting for him beside a large high sided van. All its wheels had been removed and in order to keep it off the ground the front and rear axles were propped up on bricks. As he scanned the once impressive sign writing on its panelled side Sam could just make out the word “Removals” and beneath what he took to be the company’s name the words “From here to there with care” which he thought quite appropriate given the firm’s line of work.

‘Come on,’ Lizzie whispered, ‘and stay close behind me.’

To Lizzie, Vass’s scrap yard had long been a special place and although it had been quite a while since she had last paid it a visit, she instinctively knew that once inside she and Sam would be safe. It was her older brother Ted and his two pals, Pete and Archie who had first taken her to what was their secret domain. Well, to be honest they hadn’t actually taken her at all; it had been more a case of her tagging along uninvited. Ted had threatened to throw a spanner at her if she didn’t go home but she had refused and fearlessly stood her ground with the result that - much to her brother’s horror - Pete and Archie had said that if she promised not to cry when she got hurt, she could join the gang.

The scrap yard had been a hive of industry then and although the war had been over for a long time there always seemed to be an endless supply of obsolete military vehicles, tanks, Bren gun carriers and half-track vehicles taking up every inch of space, each waiting its turn to be reduced to scrap metal. The men employed there worked long hours and during the winter nights the glow of acetylene torches could be seen from miles around. But to Ted, Pete, Archie and Lizzie the scrap yard was playground heaven and without giving a thought to the dangers around them, they would scramble over rusting armoured cars and squeeze into the turrets of tanks. The tanks were their favourites of course. Pete would bag the driver’s seat and Ted would man the gun, blasting away at make believe enemy vehicles while she and poor old Archie manned the radio and loaded the gun with imaginary shells. It was all great fun. On one occasion though, the yard did prove to be a dangerous place when she fell onto some scrap metal and cut her arm quite badly. Ted had been mortified, not because of her injury but because he knew that their Dad would give him a good hiding for taking her to the yard in the first place. Thankfully – and just before she burst into tears - Pete came to her rescue. Quick as a flash he bandaged the cut with his handkerchief and ruffling her unruly mop of hair, uttered the magic words ‘You’ll be all right won’t you girlie?’ And of course she was. She also fell in love with him there and then, as you do when you’re an eight year old girl.

Unwittingly, those fun filled days in Vass’s scrap yard were to have a profound effect on Pete and her brother Ted for as soon as they were seventeen, the two pals joined the Royal Tank Regiment and a year later they were over in Germany serving with the British Army of the Rhine. Pete wrote to her occasionally and she kept every one of his letters in an empty chocolate box her mum had given her – a gift from Uncle Percy last Christmas. The box also contained a blood soaked handkerchief which she had no intention of ever washing.

The two fugitives left the relative safety of the wheel-less removal van and dodging the numerous potholes full of oily water that pitted the strip of crumbling tarmac which ran the length of the yard; they ran towards a large open fronted lean-to. Once inside, Sam was amazed to see that the entire building was full of doors. Hundreds of them. Car doors, van doors and lorry doors, some without handles, some without glass in their windows, row upon row of them, all stacked together like slices of toast in a giant toast rack.

‘This way,’ Lizzie hissed, heading for an open doorway at the back of the building.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Sam, beginning to wish that they had just gone home.

‘The engine shed,’ Lizzie replied, pointing as she spoke towards a large wooden building at the end of the roadway.

‘I see it,’ Sam said.

‘Okay then, let’s go,’ said Lizzie as she dashed through the doorway.