Chapter 5

"So, Lynda," said Spike. "What do you want me to do with these interview notes from Uncle Charles?"

Lynda thought. "Give them to Sarah and – no, wait a minute." She considered. "How would you like to write the feature?"

"Me?" Spike looked surprised.

"Well, he's your relative. It might be a good angle, you know, a family perspective, handing down stories, that kind of thing. I think it could work. Sarah can give you a hand, if you like."

"Couldn't you?"

"Couldn't I what?"

"Couldn't you give me a hand? I'm not trying anything . . ." he said hastily, seeing Lynda's face change to a frown and her mouth open ". . . but you were there and I think you'd be a better help to me."

Lynda thought. "Fair enough. I'll help you. You write a rough draft and we'll go through it together later, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks, Lynda."

A loud crash sounded and they both looked towards the obvious source, which was Colin's office. Colin was picking up a tin that had dropped to the ground and hastily stuffing coins back into it.

"What's he up to?" asked Spike.

"I don't know," replied Lynda, as Colin finished retrieving all the coins, picked up a flat white box he had also dropped and slunk out of the newsroom. "He looks even shiftier than usual. You'd better follow him. That had better not be Junior Gazette money. If it is, I give you full permission to extract it back by any means possible."

"You got it, Boss."

Spike followed Colin at a safe distance from the newsroom across town. Colin didn't stop along the way but walked at a determined pace until reaching the Norbridge War Memorial.

"What is he up to?" asked Spike to himself.

Colin opened the box which folded out to be a tray with plastic poppies in it and placed the tin on top. Being so close to Rememberance Day, there were plenty of people around and almost immediately, they approached him and began buying poppies.

"I don't believe this!" Spike waited until Colin was alone and then collared him.

"Spike!" squeaked Colin.

"Colin, you'd done some pretty low things in your time, I'm betting, but this – this is really disgusting."

"What are you talking about?" Colin was struggling to talk normally with Spike's hand clamped around his neck.

"Taking money from people in the name of the guys who returned from war? Not cool, Colin. Not cool at all!"

"No! Spike, I'm – I'm just . . ."

"Colin!" A crisp voice cut through the air and Spike turned to see an older gentleman, obviously ex-military, standing behind him.

"Hello, Grandfather," replied Colin, as Spike's stranglehold eased.

"Any trouble, Colin?" asked the man, eyeing Spike beadily.

"No, sir. He's just an American. You know what they're like, sir, always trying to prove the point about who won what." Colin rolled his eyes theatrically.

"An American, eh?" said the old man, gruffly. "Yes, well, we couldn't have done it without you chaps, could we, but that doesn't mean you have to rub it in all the time!" He harrumphed, turned sharply and marched off.

"My grandfather makes me sell poppies every year," explained Colin to Spike. "It's not something I'm proud of, but I'm scared to death of the man. Look at him! It's a nice little money spinner for the veterans. I'm thinking of trying to implement something similar in future for . . ." he broke off at Spike's look. "Never mind." He plucked a poppy from the tray. "Here, Spike. Have one of these."

"Thanks," Spike took the poppy and pinned it to his jacket.

"Er, Spike . . ." Colin tapped the tin. "They're not free."

"Oh, right." Spike fumbled some loose change into the tin. Colin looked disappointed.

"Is that all the war veterans mean to you, Spike? 40p?"

"All right, all right!" Spike pushed a pound coin into the tin. "Happy?"

Colin smiled and nodded.

"You're very good at this, you know," Spike said. Colin grinned.

"I know. Why do you think he gets me to do it? I outsell everyone in the district by 150 poppies a year!"