Devil Day Care - A James Bond Story by blakewho

blakewho

Given the recent literary announcements from IFP and the number of members on here who weren't around on the old site, I thought it might be fun to resurrect this old bit of flim-flam for your collective amusement...



DEVIL DAY CARE

By ? writing as Sebastian Faulks writing as Ian Fleming after a particularly boozy lunch with Charlie Higson

PART ONE

James Bond hit the floor shoulder first. His precious cargo, the fruit of days and weeks of planning, spilled from his hands and smashed into a thousand useless fragments. He gazed momentarily at the devastation, feeling curiously detached from the scene, already accepting defeat and aware only of the brooding presence above him, its shadow sliding towards him like a deadly tide of oil.

“Well now Mister Bond. What have we been up to?” The voice was deep and resonant. It was a voice of authority that would brook no contradiction. Whatever it said would be final. A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and he felt himself hauled to his feet. He sensed rather than saw the other hand swing round towards his head just before the heavy blow thudded into his cheek, sending him reeling to one side. For an instant he tried to struggle, using the effect of the blow to drop to one knee and twist his shoulder, hoping at least to loosen the hold and wriggle free. It was useless. Taking a deep breath, Bond straightened himself up and looked defiantly into the eyes of his most implacable foe.

She was the most fearsome and colossal woman Bond had ever encountered. Her grey hair, drawn tightly back into a bun, had the colour and consistency of barbed wire laid thickly over the contours of a hill. Her steel-blue eyes bored into him like prison searchlights. The thin, cruel mouth was twisted slightly into a grin of malicious pleasure below a nose, fine and softly curved, which was the only feature of her entire person with the remotest hint of femininity. She looked like the harshest and most sadistic wardress in the toughest of jails. The grip of her massive hands held him like the jaws of a vice. He was caught, finally and completely, by this most awful of women. And this time, he knew, there would be no escape.

The evil mouth smirked at him. “I’ve been expecting this,” it said. “You didn’t seriously think I hadn’t worked out what you were planning did you?” Suddenly the grip on his arms was released, the hands pushing him aside with contempt. It was a dismissal, a statement that Bond was not even worthy of her attention, let alone a cause for respect or caution. Bond looked down at the angry red welts on his upper arms below his tropical short-sleeved cotton shirt. He rubbed them defensively. It was the final humiliation.

“You see, young Mister Bond, it’s my job to keep an eye on busybodies like you,” the mouth continued. “I’ve been doing it for many years and I am very, very good. Probably unique in my field if you will forgive the immodesty. So even when you appear to visit here on some perfectly innocent and plausible pretext, my senses are already alert. And when you later start observing my movements, taking an interest in my affairs that cannot possibly be misconstrued as innocent, it cannot escape my attention. So I turn your crude investigations against you. I make you see false patterns of behaviour, make you think it is safe to choose your strategy and select your time. But it was my strategy. My time!”

The voice was triumphant. It rose to a crescendo as she revealed how easily Bond had been outwitted. Bond said nothing. He understood he had lost, but he was damned if he would add to her victory by paying it lip-service. He would stand there and take it. That and whatever fate she had chosen for him. He would take it because he had no choice and because all he had left was defiance.

“Nothing to say? Poor Mister Bond. So charming, such pleasant company, but such a devious little snake in the grass underneath it all! Well, perhaps your silence shows that you are learning some manners at long last. And we shall have to make sure you have learned some manners before we reintroduce you into polite society, shan’t we?” She moved her face up close to Bond’s as she said it. The grin was wider and more malicious than ever, the scent of her Old Lavender perfume revolted Bond’s nostrils and he knew that she had decided what was in store for him.

“Oh, I know just the place for you Mister Bond. In the meantime, while we have your attention, you can help to clear up his awful mess you’ve caused. How about it?”
At last Bond spoke. But it was no voice he recognised. Somewhere between a tubercular whisper and the croak of an asthmatic toad it was the voice of someone whose spirit had at last been broken.
“Yes, Nanny,” he said. And, taking the brush and pan she held out to him, slowly, painstakingly, he began to sweep up the scattered fragments of shortbread which were all that remained of his long-planned raid on the biscuit tin.

***

The old taxi smelled strongly of woodbines and last night’s fish & chips. The woman was talking again, something about their destination, Bond thought. He gazed out of the window at the rain-sodden London streets and tried to ignore her. Thinking back he had known just how it would be three weeks before as he stood quietly outside his father’s study, gently scratching the back of his calf with the toe of one sandal as he waited for permission to enter.

“Come in!” It was a strong voice, but soft, deep and never raised. Bond slowly turned the handle on the heavy oak door and slid into the room with all the cool he could muster. It made him nervous, this holy of holies. The one room in the house he was expressly forbidden to enter without permission. It was the one rule they set him that he would obey without fail.

Bond loved everything about that room. From the silent swing of the heavy wooden door, to the thick pile carpet which scrunched under his feet, to the old mahogany desk which had been part of the furniture since the house was built nearly two hundred years before, to the dark recessed corners, groaning with overladen bookshelves, the gloom unbroken by the single lamp on the desk or the dim light of day through the window. But most of all Bond loved the man sitting behind the desk, sucking on his unlit pipe and staring at his only son through distant but fond eyes. Andrew Bond was not a handsome man, but his face had warmth and charm. It was full and round in shape, with thin laughter lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes. His hair, now thinning and showing flecks of grey, had once been a thick tangle of fair locks, its unruliness now shown only in the single comma of light brown, drooping across his forehead, which stubbornly refused to obey his brush each morning.

The elder Bond leaned forward across the desk and smiled at his son. The sleeves of his old tweed jacket, worn to a shine at the elbows, ruffled up towards the shoulders, the soft collar of his checked shirt rode up above the neck-line of his loosely woven sweater. “Well my boy,” he began, “and how are you today?”
“Very well, thank you sir,” replied James Bond.
“Jolly good! Jolly good…” his voice tailed off. He began to fiddle with his pipe. There was obviously some unpleasant business to be discussed. Bond shifted uneasily on his feet and wondered what he had done this time. Not that he was really worried about his punishment; his father was generally indulgent of his son’s “high spirits” and “mischief”, much to his mother’s despair. There was never any brutal treatment, but Bond still feared the look of disappointment in the old man’s eyes when he went too far.

“You enjoyed your trip to the seaside last week?” Andrew Bond continued in calmer fashion.
“Yes, very much.” It was true, Bond had enjoyed it. Especially the game of beach cricket and the athletic piece of fielding in the deep which had resulted in the “accidental” destruction of Ferdy Scaramanga’s prized sandcastle. Honestly, if a boy insisted on making a complete scale model of Balmoral Castle he was asking for trouble. Bond could still feel the grains of sand in the toes of his sandals. The memory warmed him and he smiled to himself.
“Always nice to have a chance to play with some boys of your own age, eh?”
“I’ll say!”

“Well now James,” Bond was always worried when his father called him James, instead of “my boy” or “young man”, “I want to talk to you about another trip. One your mother and I will be taking, in fact.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, well you see Menlove Edwards…you remember him don’t you?”
“Yes.” Bond recalled a slender, awkward and rather effete northerner who had spent a few days with the Bonds the previous autumn.
“Well, he’s leading an expedition to Chamonix in a couple of weeks’ time. Two of his party have dropped out with injury and your mother and I have been offered the chance to fill their places.”
“Oh, so when do we leave?”
Andrew Bond paused again. He looked down at his pipe, clutched in both his hands, and slowly turned it over and over. He had come to the nub of it. How to tell his son that he wouldn’t be coming too? How not to tell him that the reason was their reluctance for him to be on the scene in the event of a serious accident?

“Well, you see James, your mother and I feel that you would be much better off staying here. We’ll be off climbing pretty much as soon as we get there and there really isn’t very much for a boy of your age to do there while we’re on the mountain.”
“Oh.” Bond was downcast. He looked at his feet and tried to bury his emotions.
“Now don’t be sad James. It’s only for a few weeks. And it’s such a marvellous opportunity for us both. Edwards is probably the finest rock-climber of our time, there’s no-one better to tackle the ridge of Aiguilles Rouges with. And of course I first met your mother in Chamonix. In fact we’ll be staying in the very hotel where we met for the first night or two.”
“I should like to see it one day.”
“Well that would be grand, James!” Andrew Bond sat back in his chair, relaxed now the difficult talk was over. “We’ll all go together one year, when you’re a bit older. For Christmas perhaps. That’s a lovely time of year to be in the Alps.”
“All right,” said James Bond. “So it’s off to Aunt Charmian’s for a while I suppose.”
“No James. Your aunt isn’t well, so we’ve had to make some other arrangements. Your mother will tell you all about that.” He smiled broadly. “Cheer up my boy! It’s not the end of the world. You’ll be off to Prep school at the end of the summer, this is just what you need to get used to managing on your own without a pair of old fusspots like your mother and me under your feet.”

Monique Bond went straight up to her son as he came out of the study. She bent down and kissed him tenderly on both cheeks, brushing that unruly lock of hair back from his forehead. She looked at him intently for a moment. So like her in appearance. That jet-black hair, those steel-blue eyes that seemed to see right through you. But so like his father in manner; warm and charming enough, but always something hidden inside, something private that would never be shared. The two men she loved most in the world, and half the time she hadn’t the faintest idea what either of them was thinking.
“Now then Darling, has Daddy explained everything?”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“Well then. You mustn’t worry. We shan’t be away very long, just a quick walk up to the top of that silly mountain and then a quick walk back down again.”
Bond smiled, there was something about his mother’s sing-song voice and her elegant French-Swiss accent that could make the worst news palatable.
“And we’ve found a simply wonderful Nanny to look after you while we’re away.”
“But I don’t need looking after. I can manage.”
Monique Bond laughed. A delightful, high-pitched bell-peal of a laugh.
“Oh, but Darling, whatever would the neighbours think? No, I’m quite sure you can take care of yourself, but we have to leave someone with you just for appearances. You understand?”
“Oui, Maman.”
She giggled and pinched his nose. “Stop it James, you know I can’t resist you when you speak French to me.”

She got to her feet and took him by the hand.
“Come along now. I’ll take you to meet Nanny Evgenia.”
“Evgenia? That’s a funny name.”
“Yes, it is. She’s from Russia you know. She’s quite old now, but when she was a young woman she looked after the children of Count von der Pahlen, would you believe! Then she got married, a young officer in the Count’s regiment I think, and had a child of her own, just as the revolution was breaking out. You remember me telling you about the revolution?”
Bond nodded.
“Well, it seems that because of their connection with the Pahlen family they had to flee Russia, only they got separated. She managed to get out through Estonia and into Sweden, but her husband and child were stranded in Russia. She later heard that her husband had been shot by the secret police. She never found out what happened to her child.”
She stopped walking with a start, hauling Bond back in his tracks.
“Oh, but what am I doing? Telling you all these terrible things!”
“That’s all right Mummy. I’m not a child any more. I understand.”
“Darling, you’re seven. Well, perhaps a very grown-up seven. Still, these poor people, that poor little girl in Russia. I shouldn’t make you think of such things.”

They had reached the door of the drawing room. Monique Bond swung it open and led her son through. There, in an upright, green leather chair by the fireside, sat a rather stern, rather fat grey-haired woman in a painfully old-fashioned black calf-length dress and black ankle-boots. She stood up. Mrs Bond led her son towards her.
“James,” she said cheerfully, “this is Nanny Evgenia. Evgenia Klebb.”


***
to be continued...

NicNac

\m/
Brilliant stuff Blakey

blakewho

Part two:

The taxi had pulled up to the kerb and Nanny Evgenia was dragging Bond out on to the pavement by the arm. She was everything his mother was not. She was heavy, where his mother was light, hard where she was soft, stern where she was gay. She dragged him towards the shabby portico of a once genteel Bayswater house. The rain was lighter now, and Bond watched as the droplets dripped from the peak of his cap and stuck to the nap of his blue woollen blazer. His socks were wet through his sandals and he felt his feet squelch as he scurried along behind Nanny Evgenia.

They stopped at the door. Nanny Evgenia grabbed the handle at the end of the long chain and gave it a sharp tug. Bond heard a bell tinkle far away in the back of the house. It reminded him of his mother’s voice. She was far away too. A few moments later the door was opened. A tall, fair-haired woman, perhaps ten years younger than Nanny Evgenia, stood in the doorway, a smile of welcome on her face. She was a working woman, obviously. Her hair, swept up and away from her face, was beginning to escape its confinement. The sleeves of her embroidered white blouse were rolled up above the elbows. There were patches of dust on her plain blue skirt where she had been kneeling on the floor. She pushed a hair back in place. And then something strange happened. Nanny Evgenia, beaming from ear to ear, threw her arms open, exclaimed “Angelika Grigorievna!” and rushed into the other woman’s arms.

Bond tried not to look. There were tears, there were kisses and streams of endearment in a language Bond had never heard before. Then he realised they were talking about him. Both women looked down at him, their conversation silenced.
“Well now,” said the stranger, “you are a handsome fellow. What’s your name?”
“James Bond.”
“Come along then, James,” said the stranger, holding out her hand to him and leading him towards the door. Bond turned to look at Nanny Evgenia, who looked sternly back at him, then turned sharply on her heels and walked off down the path. As he turned his head back towards the house, his eye was caught by a small brass plaque by the side of the door. It read: De Ville Day Care & Nursery. Proprietress Mrs A. De Ville.

“Are you Russian?” asked Bond as he walked hand-in-hand with the stranger down a long, plushly carpeted hallway. Bond had heard about Russians even before his mother told him about Nanny Evgenia. Sometimes, when his mother and father had friends over in the evening, Bond would creep out of bed and slip slowly down the stairs to a point halfway between the landing and the ground floor where any noise drifting up from the drawing room would reach his ears. There he would sit quietly in his pyjamas and slippers, trying to catch a few stolen words or sentences. Young as he was, it was part of their lives he wanted to share. Mostly it was like trying to catch a far-off whisper but sometimes, when his father was impassioned, he would hear more clearly. Usually it was politics that caused his father to raise his voice and then, for a brief, delicious moment before his mother urged him to lower his tone, “lest you wake the boy”, he would hear a couple of sentences as clear as he could wish. Their meaning was mostly obscure, but frequently it seemed to be problems in Russia that caused his father such distress, and a man called Stalin most of all. James Bond had formed the opinion that the Russians were a race to be treated with the utmost caution.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to ask questions like that?” Angelika De Ville shot back sharply.
“I’m sorry.”
She stopped and looked at him. “That’s all right,” she said, smiling. “As it happens I am Russian, or at least I was once. But I’ve lived in England for almost 15 years. I can’t imagine going back to Russia now, not when I see what it’s done to people like poor Evgenia.” She bent down and looked more closely at him. “You and Nanny Evgenia haven’t been getting along too well, have you?”
“No,” said Bond. There was no point denying it. “But how do you know?”
“Because this is where nannies bring children to when they are being very naughty and causing a lot of trouble. Have you been naughty James?”
“Yes. I’m almost always naughty I think. But I don’t mean any harm. Nanny Evgenia’s just so strict, and she never smiles and she smells of horrible perfume.”
Mrs De Ville laughed.
“Yes, a lot of women in Russia smother themselves in perfume.”
“Not you though. You smell of soap. That’s much nicer.”
“It must be an English habit I have picked up from my husband.”
“Your husband is English?”
“Oh yes, that’s how I came to be here. He was with your Foreign Office, posted to the Embassy at Moscow. We married there, then he left the Foreign Office and came back to London to work in business.”
“What sort of business?”
“Never you mind! My word, you do know how to get a woman talking, don’t you! Now really, we mustn’t stand here like chatterboxes all day. You must come and meet the other children.”

At the end of the hallway Mrs De Ville led Bond into a large refectory filled with empty chairs and tables. Bond caught a glimpse of a kitchen through a door to the right then, following Mrs De Ville, he passed through another door to the left and stopped dead in his tracks.

It was the hugest room Bond had ever seen. Once, when Bayswater had been a fashionable district and the house had been frequented by the most refined society, it must have been a grand ballroom. One magnificent crystal chandelier still hung from the precise centre of the ceiling, sparkling in the sunlight (the rain had stopped now) cast through the four tall French windows in the far wall. But the grand ballroom floor was now thinly and rather shabbily carpeted in faded red wilton, while the ornate Victorian wallpaper had seen better days and was mostly covered by paintings and drawings executed by children of variable talent.

The children, there were perhaps twenty of them, were gathered silently around half a dozen circular tables. All were drawing on paper with intense concentration. Bond had never seen so many quiet children. It impressed him. Whatever else this place was, he thought, it was a place where bad behaviour would not be tolerated. Mrs De Ville led him towards a small desk at which he saw a small, plainly dressed young woman who hid an attractive face behind unsightly, thick-framed glasses.
“Miss Watson,” said Mrs De Ville as the young woman rose from her chair, “this is James Bond. James, give your cap and coat to me please. Miss Watson will show you to your place.” Bond took off his cap and blazer, still damp from the rain, and handed them to Mrs De Ville. “Oh, and one more thing,” she said.
“Yes, Mrs De Ville?”
“Behave yourself young man. We have no time for any nonsense here.”
Bond, still not sure what to feel about this place, could answer with no more than a mute nod.

Miss Watson was brusque and businesslike in manner. Bond could get nothing out of her. She showed him to a table occupied by five other children about his age. Looking around, Bond could see that most of the children in the room were between 5 and 7 years old. He would be among the oldest there, he supposed. Miss Watson gave him a pad of drawing paper and two sets of pencils, one plain lead, one coloured. He could occupy himself for the rest of the hour, about 45 minutes, by drawing something either from observation, or by copying one of the drawings and photographs in the middle of the table. At the end of the hour there would be half an hour of play-time, in the garden if the weather allowed. Following that there would be an hour of reading time; the children could choose a book from the library or be read to by Miss Watson. The day would proceed in precisely that manner; work, play, work, play, until it was time to go home.

Bond took his seat at the silent table and began flipping through the pictures looking for something to copy. He selected a photograph of a remote Highland Glen and set to work. Tiring of this presently - Bond was not naturally gifted in the creative arts - he pushed his work to one side and began to gaze around the room. The first thing he noticed was that he was the only one doing this. A room of about twenty boys and girls, who were all here, presumably, because they were too troublesome for their parents or nannies, and not one of them, not one, was showing signs of boredom or distraction. It was incredible.

“Bond!” He sat bolt upright in his chair, Miss Watson’s voice still echoing around the room. “What do you think you are doing?”
“You said we were to draw from observation, Miss Watson,” said Bond with a gulp. “I was observing the room and the other children.”
Miss Watson let out a subtle but plainly audible snort of disbelief. “You have ten minutes left,” she said. “I look forward to seeing the fruit of your labours.”

Ten minutes later a bell rang and Miss Watson took Bond’s two clumsily executed sketches from him with arched eyebrows and a knowing look. The children filed slowly out through the French windows into the sunlit garden. Bond followed on behind them, watching for signs of life. Once outside it seemed that normality returned. A group of boys formed a circle and began playing marbles, a smaller group of girls were playing hopscotch while several others took out skipping ropes. A handful of younger children were already outside. One, a young boy of about two with strange dark eyes and wispy ginger hair was busy excavating a toy lorry from the sand pit. Achieving this, he waved the lorry at Bond, saying proudly “Big truck!”
“Yes,” replied Bond, “a very big truck.”
The boy beamed and went back to his game. Bond let his eyes take in the scene, vaguely looking for a group to join or someone to make friends with.

The garden, enclosed by high walls of yellowish brown old London brick, was as massive as the house itself. Close to the house, where Bond still stood, a quadrangle between two wings of the house had been gravelled over to provide this play area for the children. Beyond that stood a large lawn, flat but not immaculate, which Bond imagined would be perfect for cricket or tennis in drier conditions. At each side of the lawn stood two tall apple trees, with two more in the far corners of the garden bordering an area of shrubbery. Had Bond been old enough to appreciate such things, he would have thought it a lively scene in the watery summer sunshine, expressive of all that is best on an English summer’s day. As it was, he merely reflected that at least two of the trees ought to be worth a climb and how bright and colourful it seemed, how fine to be outside in the sun after the dreariness of the day so far.

It was colour that first alerted Bond to the girl’s presence, a flash of gold in the corner of his eye. He turned to look at her. She was a blonde. A blonde to make a snowflake look tarnished and dull. Her golden hair was not tamed into pigtails like most girls’ would have been, but allowed to fall in dazzling curls about her shoulders. She wore a simple sleeveless cotton summer dress in buttercup yellow with brown leather sandals on her feet. Her pale, smooth skin was in exquisite contrast to the deep Mediterranean blue of her eyes while her lips were the exact shade of pink as the inside of a seashell Bond had discovered on the beach weeks earlier and kept in his bedroom ever since. She smiled, and Bond felt the curious sensation that the blancmange he had eaten at lunch had settled in both his knees. He had never had much interest in girls before, but this girl, inexplicably, was different.

“Hello,” she said gaily. “You must be James Bond.”
“Yes, I am. And your name is?”
“Ophelia. Ophelia Ponsonby.”
Bond could hardly be blamed for the look on his face.
“I know,” Ophelia continued. “Awful isn’t it! Still, it could be worse.”
“How so?”
“Daddy wanted to call me after his aunt Loelia. But Mummy wouldn’t let him. At least she promised him that if they had another daughter they would call her Loelia instead.”
Bond laughed. “I bet she’s been praying for boys ever since!”
“Day and night,” said Ophelia with a giggle.

It was amazing, Bond thought later, how easy it was to make friends with a girl if you avoided the temptation to pull her hair or tell her she smelled of poo. They took their sandals off and walked on the damp grass. Bond told her all about Nanny Evgenia and his misfortune with the biscuit tin. She giggled and said he was funny and Bond wasn’t sure he liked that. But when she told him of her own naughtiness, of tying her nanny’s shoelaces together when she dozed off after lunch, or the other occasion when she had fastened her hair to the back of a chair with a hairpin, Bond thought that Ophelia was about the most wonderful person he had ever met.

They strolled back towards the house, passing on the way the larger of the apple trees. Bond explained about his parents and used one of the tree’s wide, crooked branches to illustrate the difficult traverse of the Aiguilles Rouge they were engaged upon. He drew largely upon his imagination. As they reached the end of the lawn Bond noticed a tall, slender boy who had detached himself from the marble players. He was staring straight at Bond and Ophelia.
“Oh, Lord!” said Ophelia. “Look out!” She ran off towards a group of girls sitting on the swings, casting one anxious look back at Bond. Bond stood and looked after her, puzzled by this sudden burst of panic. Then he turned his attention to the boy, who had ignored the girl’s departure. His eyes were fixed on Bond, boring into him. Even at this distance, Bond was sure he could see the deep black irises totally surrounded by clear whites. The stare was oddly hypnotic. This, Bond thought, must be the local playground bully. He noticed two other boys sidle up quietly and stand guard behind the stranger and knew that his suspicions were right.

It was Bond’s inclination, the natural instinct of the only child, to avoid confrontation and keep a low profile. However, it never did to show such people that you were intimidated by them. So Bond strode confidently up to the threesome and announced himself.
“Bond” he said.
“Blackstone.”
John Blackstone held out his hand and Bond took it. It was a firm, confident handshake but Bond noticed something strangely uneven about it. Turning Blackstone’s hand over in his he saw what it was. The top joint of his little finger was missing.
“A misfortune of birth” Blackstone sneered.
“Bad luck.”
“So you’re the new boy are you?” Blackstone’s wary eyes remained fixed on Bond, trying to unsettle him. Bond decided he would not be unsettled whatever the provocation.
“That’s right,” he said simply.
“Well Miss Watson will have told you that we don’t tolerate troublemakers here. If anyone is foolish enough to cause trouble, I make sure they never do it again. With the help of my friends Mr Johnny and Mr Vegas here.”
“Which is which?”
“I thought you might have met Vegas at your table earlier.” He gestured to the thinner of the two boys, a weasel-faced child with a thin slick of neatly parted hair barely covering his bony skull.
“Oh yes, I believe I did.”
Blackstone smiled. “Well, now that we’re all friends, how about a game of marbles next break? Oh, but of course I was forgetting! Vegas does not play marbles, Vegas does not play dominoes, Vegas does not play snap! What do you play Vegas?”
Vegas’s thin lips quivered slightly. His face flushed, but he said nothing. It was a deliberate act of humiliation put on for Bond’s benefit. A demonstration that the guard dogs which kept the playground in fear were themselves in fear of their master.

“Oh well, it will have to be singles then. Any objections Bond?”
“None at all Blackstone.”
“All right then.”
A bell rang and the children began filing slowly back through the French windows. Bond moved to follow them, but Blackstone placed a hand on his arm.
“You do understand me don’t you,” he said. “I will have no trouble here.”
“Couldn’t be clearer.”
Blackstone nodded and walked off. Bond let him go ahead for a few paces, then followed slowly behind. As he neared the door he spotted Ophelia on the edge of a group of girls. She hovered behind them slightly, looking towards Bond with an anxious face. Before she turned to go inside, Bond was just able to make out the words she mouthed for him:
“Miss Watson’s nephew.”

***
to be continued...

blakewho

PART THREE:

Time dragged for Bond while he waited for the next break, the last of the day, to arrive. He could sense that this would be more than just a simple game of marbles. It would be a test of his mettle. He did not yet know how long he would have to stay in this place, but however long it was, the events of the next break would determine what sort of stay it would be.

At last the bell rang and Bond filed out through the French windows with the rest of the children. Blackstone was waiting for him, a look on his face that was half smile half sneer.
“Ready to play marbles, Bond?”
“Ready to lose, Blackstone?”
“I never lose. Come on, let me show you how we play marbles here.”

De Ville rules, Blackstone explained, were much the same as the standard rules of marbles. A large circle was drawn in the gravel and 49 marbles, of various colours and sizes, were gathered together in its centre. Each player had a tolly, a marble slightly larger than those in the circle, with which to shoot at the marbles and try to knock them out of the circle. The player who captured the most marbles by knocking them out of the circle would be the winner.
“But we play seriously here, Bond. The marbles I win are mine to keep, and the same goes for you, not that you’ll be winning any. Because you’re new I’ll give you the marbles to start with. But if you want to play again you’ll have to buy them back. A shilling for two dozen.”
“A shilling?” Bond had only once had possession of so much money in his life, and that was when his mother had given the sum to him for the church collection plate one Sunday.
“Like I said, Bond. We play seriously here. Of course if you feel you’re not quite in this league then…”
“No,” said Bond. “I’ll play.”
“Good. I was hoping you might.”

Bond watched as Johnny and Vegas piled the marbles into a pack at the centre of the circle. Vegas then shambled over and handed Bond a single marble.
“Here’s your tolly,” he said in a vaguely transatlantic drawl.
That explains the funny name, thought Bond. He looked down at the large marble in his hand. It was opaque, made of a pearly glass with green and blue flashes. It felt good in his hand. Bond closed his fist over it tightly for a moment and offered up a quick prayer to whichever god took an interest in marbles. Then he walked up to the edge of the circle and held his tolly to the tip of his nose.
“Shall we tolly off then?”
“That’s all right Bond. As a new player it’s your privilege.”
Bond nodded back to Blackstone, then crouched at the edge of the circle, his tolly balanced in the crook of his right index finger, pushed up tight against the line in the gravel. His gaze slid slowly from his hand to the pack of marbles. He took aim.

To anyone arriving in the De Ville Day Care playground at this moment it would have looked as though a singular obsession had taken over all of the children. Skipping ropes lay discarded by the French windows, the swings swung fractionally in the breeze, the lawn dozed emptily in the creeping afternoon shadows, the sandpit was deserted and its usual occupant, the ginger-haired boy with the strange, dark eyes, could be seen crawling through a pair of legs at the edge of a massive crowd that comprised all of the children in that very singular institution. And apart from the distant traffic down the Bayswater Road, the hiss of the wind through the apple trees and the faint, oily creak of the swings, the only sounds to be heard were the tense whispers of the crowd of children and the sharp, periodic clack of glass on glass.

Bond’s first shot struck the edge of the pack on the rise. His tolly careered off out of the circle. The pack was dispersed, but no marbles had been knocked out. Blackstone looked at Bond with a contemptuous leer, crouched into position and took aim. His shot was unambitious, but precise. Two marbles had settled near the edge of the circle at two o’clock from his shooting position; any reasonable shot which hit one of them was likely to ricochet into the other. This is precisely what happened. Blackstone’s tolly struck the first marble on the inner edge and bounced straight towards the second, knocking both out of the ring. His tolly came to rest just where the second had lain, entitling him to another shot, from the point on the edge nearest that position. He picked the easiest shot available, straight across the top third of the circle where a single marble at ten o’clock was knocked out without fuss. One shot each, and 3-0 to Blackstone already.

Bond countered with a shot of inspiration. Aiming at the edge of the remaining pack, he struck three marbles at once, which spun away taking another two marbles out of the circle with them. 5-3. The game soon began to follow a distinct pattern. Bond displaying flashes of the spectacular, followed invariably by glaring misses, while Blackstone always chose the simplest option, picking away at the easy targets but never failing to register at least one or two scores per turn. Long periods of stalemate would inevitably end with Bond blasting away at the largest available pack and Blackstone picking off the pieces. After 10 minutes Blackstone was marginally ahead by 17 to 14.

Crouching for his next turn, Bond was suddenly aware of cool air on the back of his neck where before there had only been the hot breath of the crowd. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the children making their way back towards the house, from which Mrs De Ville and Miss Watson had emerged, each carrying a tray of tall glasses.
“Sorry to disturb your game,” said Mrs De Ville cheerily, “but as it’s turned out so nice I thought you might like some lemonade.”
Bond looked over at Blackstone. “Half time?” he said. Blackstone smiled back, with surprising sincerity, and both boys walked over to take a drink.

Before Bond could even get as far as Mrs De Ville’s tray, he found a glass pushed towards him. It was Ophelia.
“Thanks,” he said, raising the glass to his lips and taking a deep draught. The tension of the game, he realised, looking at the now half-full glass, had given him a thirst.
“That’s all right. Sorry I ran off earlier. I’d rather stay out of Blackstone’s way.”
“I don’t blame you. Curious fellow. Miss Watson’s nephew you say?”
“Yes, he’s the power behind the throne. Keeps everyone in order, by force. Makes quite a lot of money out of us too.”
“Money? How so?”
“Well, he told you about buying back marbles if you want to play again?”
Bond nodded.
“Well he won’t take no for an answer. He plays at least twice a day and if he can’t find anyone to take him on willingly, Johnny and Vegas find him a volunteer.”
“Really? And Mrs De Ville isn’t concerned about this?”
“I doubt she knows. And if anyone tried to tell her, whom would she believe? Miss Watson and her nephew or the naughtiest children in London?”
“Yes, I can see the problem.”
“And that’s not all. I mean he never loses. Never. He’s a good player and all that, but if he gets close to losing to someone, well, he…”

“BOND!” It was Blackstone’s voice, calling from the circle. “Time we resumed our game, wouldn’t you say?”
Bond nodded back and downed the last of his lemonade, giving the glass to Ophelia.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not in the habit of losing.”
He strode off towards the circle, pushing through the gathering crowd, Ophelia’s murmured last words playing at his ears. What was it she had said? “Keep your eyes on the circle?” Some traditional marbles saying, he presumed.

Resuming his interrupted shot, Bond levelled the scores with an impressive three-way cannon. Blackstone took aim again, sniping at another easy target near the circle’s edge with customary success. With the game now advanced and the marbles dispersed around the circle, Bond was soon forced to adapt his strategy, following Blackstone’s own game of aiming for the easy single hit. Both players kept pace with each other, score matching score, as the game approached its denouement.

The tension was building now, the whispers of the crowd had ceased and even the wind seemed to have quieted its incessant rustle through the trees. It appeared to have no effect on Blackstone. Bond looked more closely at his opponent and admitted to himself that his countenance, if not exactly handsome, was certainly impressive. Blackstone’s face was a long, noble affair of high forehead, square brows and long, leonine nose. Added to his superior attitude it gave him a rather haughty demeanour. He reminded Bond somewhat of a man he had met earlier that summer. Visiting Lord’s cricket ground with his father, Bond had watched as Douglas Jardine made a brilliant 74 not out to win the game for the Rest versus England in the Test Trial match. Spotting Andrew Bond chatting with friends outside the Pavilion after the close of play, Jardine had stopped for a brief word with his fellow Scot. Young James was quickly introduced and Jardine had immediately impressed the boy with his firm handshake and determined stare.

“What did you think to Jardine?” asked Bond’s father afterwards.
“I liked him. He’s a fine player.”
“Yes he is. And I like him too. He’s a good, straight man to do business with. But quite ruthless too. I think he’d do almost anything to win.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
Andrew Bond looked down at his son fondly, pleased at the chance to impart another of life’s lessons.
“Well, let’s put it this way. He may well captain England one day. And according to my old friend Rockley Wilson, who was his master at Winchester, if he does we may well win the Ashes, but lose a dominion in doing so.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“That it’s all very well to beat the Australians but it wouldn’t do to make enemies of them in doing it.”

And what, Bond wondered, would John Blackstone do to win? Whatever it was, Bond was sure he would find out soon as he, by a deft use of backspin, kept his tolly in the circle for three consecutive shots establishing a two shot lead over his opponent. Over the next four shots, Blackstone clawed back at Bond’s lead until, with just three marbles left in the ring, the scores were level once more. But it was Bond’s shot. Calmly he took out the most central of the marbles, leaving only the two nearest the edge for Blackstone. But the two remaining were separated by a good two feet in distance, and each was so near the edge as to make it highly unlikely that Blackstone could keep his tolly in the circle to earn a second shot. The best he could hope for, surely, would be to draw level with his next shot and leave Bond to win the game by a single shot next turn.

Bond looked up from the circle into Blackstone’s face, trying not to appear too smug. Blackstone, crouched into his shooting position, stared straight back at Bond, his eyes wide with contempt, and something else. What was it? Triumph? It seemed ridiculous, but Bond could not escape the feeling that Blackstone’s eyes were the eyes of a predator, calmly sizing up its prey. No, they were the eyes of the deadliest predator of all, the cobra, hypnotising its victim into submission. Bond willed himself to break the stare, but he could not. Blackstone held him there by some tremendous force of will, and he would be held there until…

“Clack – clack.” It was the sound of marble striking marble. But twice. Twice! The spell broken, Bond looked down at the circle. It was empty. Blackstone had pulled off the impossible shot. Wide eyed, Bond looked back up at the victor.
“How..?” was all he could manage to say.

But at the same instant, in the corner of his eye, he registered Vegas collecting the last two marbles to his right. And Bond, who had studied the circle so carefully over the last few turns, knew at once that something was wrong. One of the marbles was the wrong colour. Those flecks of black and gold; he hadn’t seen them before. That marble hadn’t been in the game. Blackstone’s own green tolly lay at his feet. Bond turned his head to the left and saw Johnny crouching at the edge of the circle, directly opposite Vegas, a dreadful smirk on his face.

Bond leapt to his feet and turned on Blackstone, who was walking across the circle to claim his tolly.
“Blackstone, you’re a damned che…”
His words were cut off by a sharp blow across his cheek, delivered with a flat palm. He staggered back and felt his arms pinned to his sides. Looking over his shoulder, Vegas’s oily grin sneered back at him.
“You should mind your language Bond,” said Blackstone. “I told you we don’t stand for any nonsense here. That includes slanderous accusations.”
Bond glared back in silence.
“Nothing to say? Well in that case I shall consider the matter closed. Perhaps you would care for a re-match tomorrow? No? Well, we shall see about that. Let him go, Vegas.”
Vegas pushed Bond forward and he tumbled to his knees. He stayed there for a moment, contemplating his second bitter defeat in one day. Then, brushing his hair back from his eyes, he stood up.

The crowd had melted away. He watched them go, shoulders slumped as though a long hoped for deliverance had once again failed to materialise. But Ophelia was still there with him. Bond studied her expression. She was sorry for him, he was sure, but there was pity there and palpable disappointment. Bond, accustomed to feeling very big for his seven years, suddenly felt like the smallest boy in the world.
“I did warn you to keep your eyes on the circle,” she said.
“Yes, you did. I should have listened.” He shrugged. “I still don’t get it though. Even with Johnny taking out the second marble, it was one hell of a shot for Blackstone to make with his eyes fixed on me.”
“Yes, a hell of a shot. But from a good foot inside the circle.”
“What?”
“While you were busy gazing into his eyes he was moving his hand well inside the circle. In the end he was so close he could hardly miss.”
“The filthy cheat!” spat Bond.
“That’s what we’ve all said. Welcome to the club.”
She turned and walked off, head down, towards the house. Bond felt like he should run after her, say something, do something. But what? A feeling began to gnaw away at Bond’s insides, and if he could have put it into words it would probably have been these: “You’re a failure James Bond. And everybody knows it.”

***
to be continued...

blakewho

PART FOUR:

"Cat got your tongue, young Master James?" asked Nanny Evgenia.
Bond answered with the faintest of shrugs and continued poking absent-mindedly at a fillet of sole which frankly deserved better. Whatever her faults, Nanny Evgenia was an excellent cook. She moved away from the stove and sat down opposite Bond at the large kitchen table.
"Listen Master James," she said. "I took you to Mrs De Ville's to learn some discipline. Not to turn you into a quiet boy who never says boo to a goose, you understand?"
"Yes Nanny."
"Good. Is there something you want to say to me?"
"I'm sorry for stealing those biscuits."
"That's nice, but I meant anything else you want to tell me?"
Bond said nothing.
"You sure, Master James?"
Bond stopped fiddling with his fish and put down his fork. He seemed to have made up his mind about something.
"Nanny, there's this boy at Mrs De Ville's..."
"A boy named Blackstone?"
"How do you know?" Bond was astounded. Nanny Evgenia smiled gently.
"You're not the first little boy I've taken there. Go on about him. I want to hear more."
And so Bond began to tell her everything. About Blackstone acting as Miss Watson's personal enforcer, about Johnny and Vegas, about the crooked marbles, and suddenly he felt he could trust her, this huge, overbearing woman he had once thought he could only ever despise. Bond came to the end of his tale and Nanny Evgenia leaned forward, her hands placed flat on the table, her cold eyes boring into Bond.
"This Blackstone," she began, "is no more than a bully. And the thing with bullies is they live on fear. They come in many different sizes; sometimes one boy holds a school in his grasp, sometimes a group of bullies takes over a whole country and holds it by fear. But if you have no fear, they lose their power over you. And sometimes it takes just one man to stand up and show he isn't afraid, for the whole thing to come crashing down. After all, if one man can stand up to them without fear, what could a whole class, a whole school, a whole country do?"
"A whole country?"
"Yes, a whole country," said Nanny Evgenia. Slowly, patiently, she told Bond about her past and Bond began to learn about earnest men with thoughtful expressions and diabolical ambitions, about wars in city streets and snowy wastelands, about children separated from their parents and people separated from their countries and about revolutions promising peace, bread and land and delivering only blood, blood and more blood.

When Nanny Evgenia dropped Bond off at Mrs De Ville's the next morning she surprised her old friend by suggesting that she would return for some tea an hour later. "I have only a little shopping to do, and it would be nice to drink good Russian tea and talk about old times." An hour later she returned as promised and Angelika De Ville set up the samovar on a small table in the north wing of the house, looking out over the gravelled play area.
"Is it just about time for the children to have their playtime?" asked Nanny Evgenia innocently, "I would so like to watch the children playing today. I can't help thinking about my poor little Rosa." A wistful expression came over her face as she thought of the daughter she had last seen at the age of four, a podgy little thing with her bright red hair tied neatly in pigtails who loved nothing more than to nurse her dolls, cooing at them gently and promising them their pain would soon be over. What would happen to a nice little girl like that in one of those horrible state orphanages? She shuddered at the thought.
"Perhaps it's not such a good thing to dwell on the past," suggested Mrs De Ville.
"How can a mother forget her child? Angelika, you have lived here too long and you're becoming cold and unfeeling like the English. Remember you have a Russian heart that beats Russian blood through your veins."
"Oh, you're probably right Evgenia. Although the English aren't really cold and unfeeling, they just think that showing emotion means weakness, that you couldn't be relied upon to keep your head in a crisis. They can be quite sweet once you get to know them, really. Arthur's a perfect darling, although you wouldn't think it when you first meet him."
The two women set their chairs to face out of the window, looking across the broad expanse of playground towards the school-room in the opposite wing. As Mrs De Ville slowly poured two cups of strong, black tea from the ornate old samovar, a distant bell tinkled and presently the children began to file out through the French windows in orderly fashion.
"There, I was right," said Nanny Evgenia. "Perfect timing. I must say you do a wonderful job here Angelika, such discipline in those children. Such a change in my young Master James after just one day here."
"You think so? Good, I'm glad to hear it. And anyway, I don't think your young charge is such a bad boy. A little wild perhaps, and too charming by half, but basically honest."
"Honest, yes. That's it exactly. His parents told me he would probably be naughty, but he would never lie. Oh, are they going to play marbles?"
"Yes, there's usually a game during playtime, especially on a lovely sunny day like this."
"And who is that rather long-faced boy starting the game off now?"
"Oh, that's Blackstone. Relative of Miss Watson I believe. Well behaved and quite intelligent but a bit of a "cold fish" as Arthur would say. Can't say I like him much."
"No, it's not a very likeable face. Perhaps he's quite sweet when you get to know him too."
"Perhaps, but I doubt it. He seems to enjoy his marbles though. Plays almost every day and wins so often I'm surprised anyone wants to play him."
"Really? Well he's certainly got quite a following judging by the size of that crowd. And that's my young Master James keeping an eye on things too if I'm not much mistaken."

James Bond was keeping a very close eye on things indeed. Before lessons had even started Blackstone had sidled up to him and offered another game, a chance to even things up, for the requisite fee of course. Bond had declined, politely. It wasn't part of the plan to play the game himself. Blackstone had smiled coldly, considering perhaps whether to force Bond into a game with the aid of Johnny and Vegas. But then he simply shrugged and walked off. There were plenty more fish in the sea, and Bond's turn would come around soon enough. In the end it was a thin, sickly-looking child called Ashley-Cooper who was Blackstone's chosen victim for the morning. Johnny and Vegas could be seen towering over the boy as he meekly turned out his pockets, offering up what little change he had for the "chance" of playing Blackstone at marbles.

Bond had not spoken to Ophelia that morning. Their eyes had locked just once, long enough for Bond to shoot her a reassuring smile and flirtatious wink and to note her puzzled stare in response. It would be just as well if she stayed out of it, he thought. The game began and Bond took his station on the perimeter of the circle. Gradually he edged around, closer and closer to Blackstone, but not so close as to arouse suspicion. The boy Ashley-Cooper played with more skill than Bond had expected. His game was much the same as Blackstone's, cautious and methodical, and there was little to choose between either player. Bond realised that there would be little point in Blackstone playing someone whom he would beat with ease. The thing with Blackstone was that he liked to cheat, so it was clearly more enjoyable for him to cheat in a game in which his cheating would make a difference.

He edged a little more to the left and felt someone else move up behind him. Both Johnny and Vegas were in their usual stations at opposite sides of the circle - it was why he had chosen the game to make his move; the one time when Blackstone's two heavies were not covering his back. But had Bond miscalculated? Was there someone else to take into account? He felt the hot breath on the back of his neck.
"You're up to something, aren't you." It was a girl's whispered voice. Ophelia! Bond turned his head slightly and smiled.
"Trust me," he said.
"Be careful. There are three of them and only one of you. No-one else will dare to help you."
"They're all too afraid of Blackstone."
"And Miss Watson. Don't forget, they've got this place sewn up between them." He felt her squeeze his arm gently, then heard the rustle of her frock as she moved away through the crowd. Well, at least he had one person on his side, even if she wouldn't be much use in a fight.

Bond tensed as the game approached its inevitable denouement. Blackstone was two shots ahead with just the one group of four marbles lying undisturbed in the centre of the circle. Bond looked to his right and saw Johnny poised ready to take his shot. All eyes were now on the circle, except those of the two players which were locked on each other. Bond took his chance and edged still closer. He was now right next to Blackstone, close enough to strike when the moment came. His eyes darted swiftly from Blackstone to Johnny and back, which shot would come first? If Johnny were to take the first shot then that would be perfect, but Bond would have to be lightning quick to react. Suddenly he saw Johnny's eyes move from Blackstone down to the marbles in the circle, he saw the thumb clench more tightly behind the tolly, the skin taut and white over the knuckle. As if it were one movement Johnny's thumb flicked the tolly into the circle and Bond's foot shot out, crashing down on Blackstone's forearm. Blackstone's fingers lost their grip and the tolly rolled hopelessly onto the gravel. Bond's foot continued to pin Blackstone's arm to the ground. It was at least a yard inside the circle.
"Blackstone," said Bond calmly, "you're a damned cheat. You've been caught red-handed in front of all these witnesses and I think you owe them all an apology."
"Let go of my arm Bond. Or you'll regret it."
Bond had known all along that he would have just enough time to make his accusation and no more. Through the corners of his eyes he saw the crowd edge back as Johnny and Vegas dashed from their positions to help their master. They came round behind Bond and lifted him by the arms away from Blackstone. Now he was for it, thought Bond. They were all for it come to that.

Bond had never been in a fight before. He had read about playground scraps in books and knew that he might have to learn to take care of himself in school, but it wasn't something he looked forward to. He had spoken to his father about it once and asked if he would teach him how to box.
"The thing you need to remember," said Andrew Bond, "is that a gentleman always fights like a gentleman. If, that is, he is fighting a gentleman. In my experience there are very few playground fights conducted on a gentlemanly basis. Most of them are just scraps. The best thing to do is not to start a fight. If you do get into one, make sure you give the other boy good cause not to pick a fight with you again. It's not just about a good clean punch to the chin, whatever you may have read."

James Bond learned well the lessons his father taught him that day. He knew about aiming for the soft targets like the stomach and groin, he knew that aiming for the neck and above might cause serious injury, and he knew that solid blows could be struck with just about any part of his limbs. He felt Johnny's two hands grip his right arm; with his right heel he lashed out backwards and caught the other boy painfully on the shin. He heard Johnny howl in pain and blessed Nanny Evgenia for suggesting he wore his solid leather shoes today. The grip was released. He pulled away from Vegas with his arm, Vegas tried to pull him back and was caught off guard when Bond suddenly altered his thrust and thundered his elbow into Vegas's stomach. Both heavies now writhing on the ground he turned to Blackstone, who had risen from the ground and was holding his injured arm and staring at Bond in amazement. Bond launched himself head-first at Blackstone's chest. They hit the ground together and Bond rained in a series of punches to Blackstone's midriff. He heard Blackstone groan and felt him struggle to escape before a sudden cry of "James!" from Ophelia warned him that Johnny and Vegas were back on the scene. Bond's elbows were grabbed again and he was hauled to his feet. He threw himself left, straight at Vegas and all three boys collapsed in a pile together. Bond was up first, dragging Johnny with him. He gave the boy a solid punch to the stomach and threw him down on top of Vegas. He turned to face Blackstone once more.
"You don't fight like a gentleman, Bond," said Blackstone.
"You don't do much like a gentleman at all, Blackstone." Bond moved in again, but Blackstone backed away. Bond prepared himself for another charge, lowering his head, but before he could move he felt his arm held tightly by a hand bigger than either Johnny or Vegas possessed. He turned and looked up into the cold, deadly stare of Miss Watson.

"So," said Miss Watson, "brawling in the playground like a common ruffian. I might have known. What have you to say for yourself?"
"I have nothing to say to you Miss Watson. Why don't you ask your nephew?"
"Well, John?" she said, turning to Blackstone. "What's been going on here?"
Blackstone's face took on an aspect of great misery. He wiped his eye with a sleeve.
"I don't know, Aunt Ada. I was playing marbles with Ashley-Cooper and then Bond came up and demanded to play. I said we didn't have time before lessons and would have to play later but then he just started to hit me. He hit Johnny and Vegas too. I think he must have gone a bit mad."
"Well then, James Bond. I think you have an appointment with the cane. Come with me please."
Miss Watson dragged Bond back into the school room. The other children followed meekly behind. They knew what was coming and they hated it. But what could they do to intervene? Miss Watson fetched a long, thin cane from behind her desk and stood Bond up in front of the class.
"Bend over, Bond," she said. Bond did so. He knew he would have to take it and just hoped it wouldn't last long. He had done his part, all that remained now was the hope that everything that had happened had been seen; that there were witnesses other than fifty of the naughtiest children in London. Behind him he sensed Miss Watson raise the cane high above her head. He bit down hard on his lower lip and waited.

"Miss Watson!" The voice came like the crack of a rifle from the doorway. "Put that thing down."
"But Mrs De Ville, he's been fighting. If I can't punish him for that how can I keep discipline here?"
"I know he's been fighting, Miss Watson. I saw the fight, and I saw what led up to it too. Come here Bond."
Bond straightened up and saw Mrs De Ville standing by the door. Nanny Evgenia was behind her, a look of triumph on her face once more. But he sensed that this time it was his triumph she was pleased about, not her own. He walked up to Mrs De Ville. "Good morning, Mrs De Ville," he said.
"Good morning Bond. Won't you tell me what's been going on?"
"Blackstone and his two friends have been holding this place in fear for weeks, Mrs De Ville. He forces people to play him at marbles, makes them pay for the privilege and then cheats to make sure he wins. I think you saw him cheating."
"I may have have done, James, I may have done. What about you Blackstone? Anything to say? Is Bond speaking the truth?"
"Of course he isn't Mrs De Ville," came Miss Watson's voice.
"I believe I was asking the boy, Miss Watson. Well, Mr Blackstone? Anything to say?"
Blackstone, his face like thunder, said pointedly "Bond is a liar."
It was then that Nanny Evgenia made her one comment. "James Bond may be many things, but a liar he is not."

"It's true." A small, quiet voice came from the crowd of children. Ophelia Ponsonby stepped to the front and looked straight up at Mrs De Ville. "Oh, please believe me Mrs De Ville. I know we've all been naughty at times and I can understand why you might not want to believe us, but everything James said about Blackstone is true. He must have made at least twenty pounds out of us this summer. Isn't that right?" She turned to face the other children. Slowly, one by one, they nodded their assent.
"She's right," said one. "Blackstone's had three guineas off me. I had to steal it from my mother's housekeeping, so they sent me back here for even longer!"
"He's had more than two pounds from me."
"From me too!"
"All right, all right!" said Mrs De Ville, holding her arms up in an appeal for quiet. "I believe you all." She turned to Miss Watson. "And how much did you know about this?" Miss Watson said nothing. She collapsed into her chair and lowered her head into her hands.
"Very well," continued Mrs De Ville, "I will see you in my office later. Mr Blackstone, I will see you in my office now. And bring your two cronies with you."
Blackstone walked slowly to the door behind her. Passing Bond, he shot him one last comment under his breath. "Snitch," he said.
"Cheat," replied Bond calmly.

Bond turned to Nanny Evgenia with a smile. "Did I do all right?"
"Yes, Master James, you were perfect. I think you have a natural talent for intrigue."
"Intrigue? What do you mean?"
"Never mind, I will explain one day. In the meantime I think someone wants to talk to you."
Bond turned at saw Ophelia standing in front of him. Her eyes sparkled more brightly than the room's grand chandelier, her lips, slightly parted, looked warm and inviting. As if drawn together by some unseen force the two young bodies moved closer and...

It was an embrace that Bond could have stayed in forever. Warm, comforting, secure and with that frisson of excitement which comes from knowing that you are truly loved. And when his mother released him and lowered him to the ground he gazed up at her beautiful face feeling happier than he ever had in his whole life.
"Oh, my darling James," she said, "you've no idea how much I missed you!"
"I missed you too Mummy. How was Chamonix?"
"Oh just wonderful. I must take you there sometime. Climbing with Edwards was an inspiration. I think your father and I will go back one day and try that ridge by ourselves. And how about you? How did you get on with Nanny Evgenia?"
"Oh all right. It was a little difficult at first, but we got to understand each other in the end."
"And did she teach you some new things? Did you learn a lot about Russia?"
"No, but I learned a little about marbles."

*
THE END.