Stay Where You Are and Then Leave (10 page)

“Alfie! Answer the door, will you? If it's the milkman, tell him I'll pay him next week!”

They sent me over as a stretcher bearer last night, love. On account of how I cheeked the sergeant. He's not right in the head, that one, if you ask me. I brought back six bodies—rotten to look at, they were. But I brought them back and managed to survive it. There's only one in five stretcher bearers make it through the night. They usually send the conchies over, not us. I brought one lad back, Margie, and put him with the other bodies. They were piled up together like sacks of rubbish. It was only as I walked away that I saw one of his eyes open. I nearly shouted out with—

“Alfie! Tea's ready. Where are you, are you upstairs? Don't let it get cold!”

There's all sorts going on out here now, Margie. Eight different battalions all mixed together. Something happened a few days ago, a bad business in one of the German trenches. Some of our lot captured it, and four soldiers were told to stay there and keep it safe. When we got back it turned out there'd been a German boy still alive and they'd shot him. And now all hell's broken out about the rights and wrongs of it. One lad says it's a damn shame and he wants the sergeant to do something about it. The others say it doesn't matter, that this is going on all the time, so where's the difference? I don't know. Seems to me if he was alone and unarmed they should have taken him in. There's rules, isn't there, and—

“Alfie!”

Georgie had stopped writing altogether a year ago. Either that or Margie had found somewhere else to hide his letters, although Alfie didn't think that was the case because he'd searched everywhere. The very last letter stashed under her mattress was the most confusing of all. Alfie had read it so many times, he could have recited it from memory, but still none of the words or sentences made much sense to him.

… going to get out of here, am I? They're everywhere, they are. Eating at my feet. My legs are sore. Bonzo Daly left the tarpaulin off the milk churns and the birds got at them. Stop now, stop now. You heard that one, didn't you, Margie, if you were the only girl in the world and I was the only boy. What is he now, eight? He must be all grown up. Wouldn't recognize him. We shot him, didn't we, on account of how he was complaining about everything. I didn't want any part of it, but the sergeant said I had no choice or I'd be court-martialed too. The look on Sadler's face afterwards! Made me laugh, it did. Nothing else would matter in the world today. Stay where you are and then leave—that's what he says over and over. Stay where you are and then leave. Makes no sense. We could go on loving in the same old way. Can't sleep, can I? All your fault, all your bloody fault. This headache won't go. What was it that Wells sang that night? If you were the only Boche in the trench and I had the only bomb … Help me, Margie, can't you? Help me. They said it'd be over by Christmas. They just didn't say which Christmas. Everywhere I look all I can see is—

And then there were no more letters and everything went quiet.

*   *   *

Margie had baked a cake for Alfie's ninth birthday. He didn't know where she'd found the flour or the cream, but somehow she'd got hold of them. He'd heard that Mrs. Bessworth from the corner shop at Damley Park had an in with the black market. Granny Summerfield came for tea, and so did Old Bill Hemperton, just like they had four years earlier when the war broke out. Kalena and Mr. Janá
č
ek were missing, of course. No one seemed much in the mood to celebrate. When Alfie read his birthday card it said:
Happy birthday, Alfie! Love from Mum and Dad
. Joe Patience put a quarter pound of apple drops through the letter box and no one knew where he had found them; Granny Summerfield wanted Alfie to throw them away, but Margie insisted that he be allowed to keep them.

“What are you doing?” he asked his mother that night when everyone had gone home again. Margie was sitting by the gaslight with a basket of clothes and she was holding a shirt close to her face as her sewing needle went in and out and in again.

“What does it look like I'm doing? I'm sewing.”

“Whose clothes are they?”

“Not ours, that's for sure. Have you seen the quality of them?” She held the shirt up for Alfie to feel, but he shook his head.

“Whose clothes are they?” he repeated.

“Oh, you don't know her,” she said. “Her name's Mrs. Emberg. She's a friend of Mrs. Gawdley-Smith's. Very well-to-do. She said she'd give me a shilling for every basket I do. Every ha'penny helps, Alfie.”

“So you're working day and night as a Queen's Nurse, you're taking in laundry, and now you're doing sewing for some rich lady too,” said Alfie.

“Oh, Alfie.”

“Mum, where's Dad?”

Margie dropped her needle on the floor and it made a tinny sound as it hit the stonework of the fireplace. She didn't have a shift at the hospital that night; she'd swapped with one of the other girls for Alfie's birthday.

“You know where he is,” she said. “What do you want to go asking a silly question like that for?”

“Tell me the truth this time.”

Margie didn't say anything for a few moments, but she picked up her needle and held the half-finished shirt in front of her. “I've to finish six of these by the end of the month,” she said, shaking her head. “This one's not bad, is it? I told you I always wanted to find something I was good at. Maybe this is it. I'm in a race with Granny Summerfield. Do you know, she knitted thirty pairs of socks last month! That's a pair a day. And with her bad eyesight! I sometimes wonder if she puts it on for effect.”

“Mum!” said Alfie, tugging at her sleeve. “Where's Dad?”

“He's away at the war, isn't he?” she snapped, turning on him now, her voice growing cold. “He's away at this blessed war.”

“He never writes anymore.”

“He can't at the moment.”

“Why can't he?”

“Because he's fighting.”

“Then how do we know?”

“How do we know what?”

“How do we know that he's all right?”

“Of course he's all right, Alfie. Why wouldn't he be all right?”

“Maybe he's dead.”

And then something terrible happened. Margie threw down her sewing, jumped out of her seat, and slapped Alfie, hard, across the face. He blinked in surprise. Neither Georgie nor Margie had ever hit him in his life, not even when he was very small and acting up. He put a hand to his cheek and felt the sting there but didn't make a sound. Nothing like this had happened since that monster Mr. Grace had made him hold out his hand six times for Excalibur and smiled while he was beating him, the purple veins in his great drinker's nose pulsating with pleasure.

A moment later, Margie burst into tears. She threw her arms around him and pulled him to her, and he could feel the dampness of her face against his shoulder. “Oh, Alfie,” she said. “I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean it. I was upset, that's all. I didn't mean it, honest I didn't.”

“Where's Dad?” he asked again, and Margie pulled away, holding him by the shoulders and looking him directly in the face. The flames from the fire showed the streaks of her tears along her cheeks.

“What?” she asked.

“I want to know where Dad is,” he said. “I want to know why he hasn't written in almost a year.”

“Of course he's written, Alfie,” said Margie nervously.

“Then where are the letters? You used to keep them under your mattress, but there haven't been any new ones since—”

“What are you doing looking under my mattress?” cried Margie. “Snooping in my things? Honestly, Alfie, I should—”

“If he's written, then where are the letters?”

Margie shrugged and looked as if she were trying to think of a good answer. “I don't know,” she said eventually. “I must have lost them. I must have thrown them away.”

“I don't believe you,” shouted Alfie. “You wouldn't do that. I know you wouldn't. Tell me the truth! You keep talking about a secret mission but you never explain it.”

Margie dried her face and sat back on her chair. “All right,” she said at last. “He's not fighting anymore, you're right. But he doesn't have time to write. A man from the War Office came to see me. He said that your dad was one of the bravest soldiers they'd ever seen, so they gave him new orders. He's doing what he can to put an end to the war.”

“What kind of mission is it?” asked Alfie.

“He wouldn't tell me,” said Margie. “But I'm sure it's very important. Anyway, the point is that until it's finished, your dad isn't allowed to write to us.”

Alfie thought about it. “When did he come to see you?” he asked.

“Who?”

“The man from the War Office.”

Margie blew her cheeks out a little and looked away from him. “Oh, I can't remember,” she said. “It was months ago.”

“And what was his name?”

“I don't remember. What does it matter anyway?”

“Why didn't you tell me that he came?”

“Because I didn't want to worry you. I know how clever you are, Alfie, but you're only nine. And you were only eight then. There are some things that—”

“Did you tell Granny Summerfield?”

“No, of course not.”

“But she's a grown-up.”

Margie looked flustered and stood up, shaking her head. “Alfie, I'm not going to continue with this conversation. You asked where your father is, and I've just told you. He's on a secret mission. Now can we please just leave it there?”

Alfie was happy to leave it there. There was no point asking any more questions because he was absolutely certain that she wouldn't tell him the truth anyway. No man from the War Office had ever called at their house; there might have been lots of secret missions going on but his father wasn't part of any of them, and wherever he was, Margie knew but wasn't willing to say. But Alfie was certain that he would figure it out eventually if he just put it all together one piece at a time.

Between then and now, however, he hadn't got much farther in his investigations. No more letters had arrived, and whenever Alfie caught his mother and Granny Summerfield deep in conversation, they always stopped talking and began discussing the weather or how difficult it was to get fresh apples these days.

In fact, Alfie came no nearer to understanding where his father might be until that day at King's Cross when he polished the shoes of the military doctor and his papers got scattered across the concourse.

EAST SUFFOLK & IPSWICH HOSPITAL

Summerfield, George.

DOB: 3/5/1887.

Serial no.: 14278.

And that was the moment Alfie knew he had been both right and wrong in the things he believed. His dad wasn't on a secret mission. But he wasn't dead either. He wasn't even in France anymore.

He was back in England.

In hospital.

 

CHAPTER 7

HELLO, WHO'S YOUR LADY FRIEND?

Margie was surprised to find Alfie sitting up in bed reading when she opened his bedroom door, but he'd already been awake for almost an hour.

“Are you all right?” she asked, checking his forehead for a temperature. “You're not coming down with something, are you?”

“I'm fine,” said Alfie. “I just woke up early, that's all.”

“Well, what's seldom is wonderful.” She looked around and sniffed the air with a frown. “Why does it always smell of shoe polish in here? It makes no sense when your shoes are always so scruffy. Anyway, your breakfast is downstairs on the table. I'm going to pick up a bit of chicken for our supper this evening. I heard of a butcher on Pentonville Road who might be getting a delivery today. That's the whisper anyway. He's the brother of one of the Queen's Nurses down on Surgical Two, and he's promised to put a bit aside for us.”

“Chicken?” asked Alfie, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “Doesn't that cost a lot of money?”

“There was a bit more in my purse this morning than I expected,” said Margie, giving him a quick wink. “Funny how that's always happening to me. Do you know, I managed to pay almost all our bills
and
the rent this week? And the good news is that I'm not working tonight, so we can stay in, just the two of us, and eat together.”

Alfie frowned. On any other day he would have been pleased by this news, but today he wasn't sure if it was for the best. After all, he didn't know what time he would be home. He had plans. Serious plans. A secret mission of his own.

“Oh,” he said, looking away so Margie would not be able to tell that he was lying, “but I told Granny that I'd go over to her house for supper.”

“She never mentioned it.”

“Maybe she forgot. Like when she forgot to tell you that she liked that new dress you wore last week.”

“That wasn't forgetfulness,” said Margie, rolling her eyes. “She said that I shouldn't accept charity from Mrs. Gawdley-Smith, but if she was going to throw it out and was happy for me to take it, then why shouldn't I have it? I can't go round in rags forever, can I? Anyway, beggars can't be choosers.”

“We're not beggars,” said Alfie.

“That's what your granny said. But we're still perilously close to penury, Alfie. Perilously close to penury.” Margie seemed to love this phrase. “Anyway, can't you tell her you'll go another day? It's not often I'm here in the evening.”

“I'll ask her,” said Alfie, pulling the sheets back now and getting out of bed. “But if I'm not here when you get home, it means that she got upset and I had to stay.”

“All right then,” said Margie. “Well, do your best and hopefully I'll see you later.”