by John Boyne
“No, sorry.”
“All right then.”
They didn’t say anything else all the way back to King’s Cross, and when they arrived, Georgie seemed unwilling to get off the train, the sound of the screeching engines and the whistles of the conductors making him tremble visibly. When Alfie finally coaxed him out onto the platform, he seemed even less happy to be led back in the direction of Damley Road. When they reached the top of the street, Alfie peeped round the corner first, hoping that no one would be in sight, but there was Mrs. Scutworth from number fifteen and Mrs. Candlemas from number thirteen standing side by side, washing their windows.
“We’ll just wait until they’re finished,” said Alfie, and Georgie nodded.
They stood and waited, and the minutes ticked by. Every time Alfie looked at his dad, he wanted to say something to him, but Georgie’s forehead was wrinkled and he seemed to be crouched over a little, his fists clenched, his body rocking back and forth, and Alfie couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make things worse.
“Come on, Dad,” he said finally, when the two women had gone back inside their houses, and he found himself taking his father by the hand and leading him down the street to his front door, just as Georgie had done with him when he was a little boy. He put his key in the lock, twisted it quickly, and let them both inside.
Georgie looked around; he seemed a little unsteady on his feet. Nothing much had changed in the four years since he’d last been here, but perhaps the memory of number twelve was too much for him, for the moment he stepped inside the front parlor he fell into the broken armchair in front of the fireplace and buried his face in his hands.
“When they saw it was us, they were different, weren’t they?” he mumbled to himself. “I can’t be on stretcher-bearer duty again—three nights in a row is too much for any man, it’s torture … Stay where you are and then leave—that’s what he told me. Makes no sense, does it? Where’s Unsworth? Where’s he got himself now?”
“Dad!” said Alfie, kneeling down beside him. “Dad, what’s wrong? I don’t understand what you mean.”
Georgie looked up and shook his head, and for a moment he seemed more like his old self. “What’s that, son?” he asked in a cheerful voice. “Oh, don’t mind me, I was away with the fairies, that’s all. Ask your mum to make us a nice cup of tea, there’s a good lad. I need an early night if I’m to be up in the morning.”
Alfie nodded and stepped into the kitchen, putting the water on the range to boil. He looked in the tea caddy: it was a quarter full, so he put a spoonful in the teapot, filled it with the hot water, and left it to stew for a few minutes while he took some bread and cheese from the larder. When the tea was brewed, he put everything on a tray and brought it into the parlor. Georgie was standing by the fireplace, holding a portrait of the three of them—himself, Margie, and Alfie—taken only a few weeks before the war began.
“Nice-looking family,” said Georgie as if he didn’t recognize any of them.
“Dad, that’s us,” said Alfie, handing the tea across. “Here, drink this. You’ll feel better, I promise.”
Georgie nodded and sat down with the cup, taking a careful sip. “You forgot the sugar,” he said. “Never mind, we’re probably out. Think on, if we were back in London, my Margie would never forget the sugar.”
Alfie stared at him. “Dad, this is—”
There was a rat-a-tat-tat on the front door, and Alfie jumped. Only one person ever knocked on the door like that. “Stay in here,” he said, turning to his father. “Don’t move, all right?”
“Yes, sir!” said Georgie, saluting as he sat back in the chair.
Alfie stepped outside into the hallway and opened the front door only a little, looking out into the street but keeping his right foot positioned so no one could just walk in.
“All right, Alfie?”
“All right, Old Bill,” he said, smiling at his next-door neighbor, who was peering over his shoulder into the corridor. Behind him, Alfie could see Mr. Asquith standing in the middle of the road with Henry Lyons sitting on the bench-seat behind, the milk float filled with empty churns. He was doing everything he could to get the horse to trot on, but Mr. Asquith was staring intently at number twelve and would not move under any circumstances.
“Everything all right in there?” asked Old Bill.
“Yes. Mum’s at work, though, if you were looking for her.”
“No, it’s not that,” he said. “Alfie, I might be going mad, but I was coming into my front room a few minutes ago and glanced outside, and I could have sworn that I saw a familiar face passing by my window.”
Alfie swallowed and hoped that his expression wouldn’t give him away. He tried to look as if he didn’t understand.
“A familiar face?” he asked. “Whose?”
“You all alone in there, Alfie?” asked Old Bill.
“Come on, old chap!” cried Henry Lyons at the top of his voice.
“I told you: Mum’s at work.”
Old Bill scratched his beard and seemed uncertain whether or not he should ask more questions. “I thought I saw … well, look, I know this sounds crazy, but I thought I saw your dad walking down Damley Road. Large as life and twice as ugly.” He turned around and stared at Mr. Asquith. “What the flamin’ ’ell is wrong with that horse?”
“My dad?” asked Alfie, laughing out loud, and even to him it sounded fake.
“Yes, your dad. You know—tall bloke. Went away to the war. Your dad, Alfie.”
“My dad’s on a secret mission,” said Alfie.
“Then my eyes must have been playing tricks on me.”
“I suppose so.”
“I must have been dreaming.”
“There’s no one else here.”
“Can I come in, Alfie?” asked Old Bill.
“I’ve got to go to school.”
Old Bill glanced at his watch. “At this time?” he said.
“I mean the shops. I told Mum I’d get something in for our tea.”
There was a long pause, and they stared at each other, man and boy, waiting for the other to crack. Finally, with a great neighing sound, Mr. Asquith lunged forward down the street, clip-clopping along, turning his head back once or twice to look at Alfie reproachfully.
“Right you are,” said Old Bill finally, sighing deeply. “Well, I suppose I’ll see you later on. Good-bye, Alfie.”
“Good-bye, Old Bill.”
He closed the door and stood with his back to it for a moment, shaking his head. That had been close. When he went back into the parlor, Georgie’s cup was lying on the floor, the tea seeping into the carpet at his feet. He looked up at Alfie like a little child who has been discovered doing something he shouldn’t.
“I dropped it,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Alfie. “It’ll dry out.”
“No, I better clean it up,” he said, reaching for one of the cushions from the sofa and moving to press it down on the damp spot.
“No, don’t do that,” said Alfie, grabbing the cushion away from him. His mum would go mad if he got tea on that. “It doesn’t matter. Just leave it.”
“Yes, sir, Sarge,” said Georgie, sitting back again.
“I’m not a sarge!” cried Alfie in frustration. “I’m Alfie!”
“Of course you are, son,” said Georgie with a shrug. “I know my own son, don’t I?”
Alfie glanced over at the clock on the sideboard. It was the middle of the afternoon now, and he realized that he had never really thought about what he would do once he’d brought his father home again; he had just wanted to get him out of that terrible hospital, with its blood and its stench and the constant groaning of damaged men in the air. But now he realized that maybe being cooped up inside this small house wasn’t the best thing for Georgie right now, and an idea struck him. He ran up to his bedroom, opened his wardrobe, took the shoeshine box from its storage place, and came back downstairs. “We’re going out,” he said, looki
ng at his father.
“Out? Where to? I was just getting comfortable.”
“I have to go to work.”
Georgie frowned. “Work? The dairy won’t be open now. Not for us anyway.”
“I don’t work at the dairy,” said Alfie. “I work at King’s Cross.”
“Train driver, are you? They’re a posh old lot, them train drivers.”
“I’m a shoeshine boy,” said Alfie in frustration.
“Well, that’s a good honest way to make a living.” His dad gazed around and suddenly looked as if he didn’t recognize where he was. “I need to get out of here,” he said in a tone of sudden terror.
“Good, because that’s what we’re doing. Come on.”
They left the house, and this time Alfie walked Georgie the long way around, ushering his father ahead of him so they wouldn’t pass Old Bill Hemperton’s front window. At the end of the street he turned around for a moment and saw Joe Patience standing in his doorway smoking a cigarette and watching him. How long had he been standing there? Had he seen Georgie? Their eyes met for a moment, but Joe gave nothing away, just continued to smoke, and Alfie turned the corner, where his father was waiting for him, staring up at the sky.
“It’s a big world, isn’t it?” said Georgie. “Do you think they all hate each other on other planets too?”
* * *
“This is my spot,” said Alfie when he reached his usual place at King’s Cross, equidistant between the platforms, the ticket counter, and the tea shop. “And that’s the chair I let the customers sit in. Do you want to sit on it?”
Georgie shrugged, so Alfie pulled it over and his dad stared at it for a few moments before sitting down. Alfie took his brushes, dusters, and cloths out of the shoeshine box and fitted the footrest on top of it as his father watched, saying nothing.
“I took this from Mr. Janáček’s house,” he explained. “After he and Kalena got taken away. The soldiers thought they were Germans but they weren’t, they were from Prague. I know I shouldn’t have, but I don’t think Mr. Janáček would have minded. You’re not angry with me, are you, Dad?” he asked.
Georgie shook his head. He stared at the boy and smiled. Alfie didn’t understand why his dad’s mood kept changing the way it did. “No, son, I’m not angry with you,” he said. “Mr. Janáček would be happy to know that it was being put to good use.”
“I come here four days a week. I give most of the money I make to Mum. She’s been working as a Queen’s Nurse, you know. And taking in washing. And doing a bit of sewing for some posh piece. But I keep a little bit for myself for a rainy day. That’s how I paid for the train tickets.”
Georgie nodded and reached into the pocket of his jacket. There was nothing there, so he reached into the other one. Nothing there either. Alfie knew what he was looking for. All the men who sat down here did that. They reached for their pipe or a cigarette. Everyone liked a smoke when they were getting their shoes shined. Even the prime minister.
“Would you like me to shine your shoes for you, Dad?” asked Alfie, looking down at his father’s feet, and Georgie nodded and put his left foot on the footrest as Alfie got to work. There was a lot of dust on them from all the time they’d spent in the upstairs wardrobe. He had to give them a good dusting before he could start with the polish.
“Can you come home, Dad?” said Alfie quietly, not looking up as his fingers moved across the shoe.
“This is home, isn’t it? London? Or have I gone mad?”
“I mean, home home,” said Alfie. “For good. Back to Damley Road. Back to the milk float and Mr. Asquith. Back to the way things used to be.”
A drop of water fell on the tip of his father’s left shoe, and Alfie frowned as he wiped it off. The roof must be leaking. He looked around at the crowds making their way through King’s Cross, and for a moment he thought he saw a familiar face over by the tobacconist’s, watching him. A beaten face. Scars and burns. He blinked and tried to focus his eyes, but the people walking to and fro blocked his view, and when they parted, there was no one there.
“I hate the war,” said Alfie with a sigh.
“Everyone does,” said Georgie. “It’s rotten to the core.”
“They said it would be over by Christmas, but it wasn’t.”
“Even when it ends, there’ll be another one along soon enough. They’re like buses, aren’t they? You miss one, you’ll catch the next one. You need to get away from here, Alfie, you hear me? Don’t let them take you. We need thirty years of peace if you aren’t to be called up.”
Another drop of water fell on the shoe, and Alfie lifted his head. The roof wasn’t leaking; his dad was crying. He’d never seen him cry before and it frightened him. “Dad,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, son, nothing,” he replied, wiping his face with his handkerchief. “Don’t mind me. Just make sure that you get those shoes sparkling, all right? I might take your mum to a dance later. What time does she get home from work?”
Alfie shrugged. “She might have a night shift,” he said. “But if she does, she’ll probably cancel it since you’re back home. Although sometimes when she gets home she—”
A terrible noise came from behind them—the sound of twenty train carriage doors being slammed shut, one after another. Alfie looked up—he’d heard this sound dozens of times a day ever since he’d started working here and hated it; it was like gunfire, rapid reports one after another, and seemed to go on forever—but when he looked at his father, Georgie was holding his hands over his ears, crouched over, his head down.
“Dad,” said Alfie, sitting up. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
A horrible cry was coming from his father, a mixture of groaning and weeping, and Alfie looked over toward the train; there were still about ten more doors to go.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Dad!”
“Alfie, help me,” he pleaded. “Stop them…”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Alfie, get down! Keep your head covered.”
Bang!
“On the count of three, we go over the top, all right? Three!”
Bang!
“Two!”
Bang!
“One!”
He took his hands away from his face and leaped from the chair, but Alfie was too quick for him and grabbed him around the waist, stopping him from running away.
“Dad, it’s all right, it’s me, it’s Alfie. It was just the train doors slamming, that’s all.”
Georgie looked across the platform, and slowly, very slowly, started to nod, understanding now. His face was pale. There was perspiration trailing its way down his forehead. His legs seemed to give way under him, and he sat back on the seat.
“My pills, Alfie,” he said. “I need my pills. My head is pounding.”
Alfie’s stomach turned in anger at himself. He’d forgotten the pills from the medicine cabinet. He’d have to wait until he got home.
“I don’t have them,” he said. “I’m sorry, Dad, I left them at home. We can go back and get them if you like.”
“Can’t do that,” groaned Georgie, reaching into his pockets again. “A smoke at least. Dempster in the next foxhole has a pack. Tell him I’ll give him two on Tuesday if he gives me one now. That’s a good deal, isn’t it?”
Alfie nodded. He reached for his cap on the ground and took out the few pennies that he always left there to encourage customers. The tobacconist’s was at the very end, by platform six. “I’ll get you some,” he said.
“Dempster,” insisted Georgie.
“Yes, I’ll ask him. One now, two for him on Tuesday. Got it.” He stared at his dad for a moment, uncertain about leaving him there alone, but it would be more trouble to get him to stand up and come over to the end of the concourse. If he ran over alone he could be back in less than two minutes.
“Stay where you are,” Alfie said in a determined voice. “Do you hear me, Dad? Stay where you are.”
“And then leave,”
muttered Georgie—this phrase again that he kept repeating over and over.
“What is that?” asked Alfie, kneeling down before him for a moment. “What does that mean?”
“The sergeant,” said Georgie, staring at the ground. “He said it to us before we went over the top every night. He made us line up on the ladders. A row of men with their heads almost level with the ground. The next set of men a few steps below, ready to follow. The next set at the base of the trench, ready to put their feet on the ladder. We were to wait until each row went over the top and then it was our turn. We weren’t to move until the men in front of us had disappeared into the smoke and the gunfire. Stay where you are and then leave, that’s what he told us. Stay where you are and then leave. Every night. Every night, Alfie.”
He pressed his hands to his temples again and gave a low cry of pain, like an animal caught in a trap, and Alfie turned on his heel, running toward the tobacconist’s shop. This would take away the pain, he was sure it would. There was someone in front of him, taking forever to count out his coins, and he looked back to make sure that his father was still in the seat, but the early-evening crowds had started to gather and he couldn’t see through them.
“Ten cigarettes,” said Alfie, throwing his coins on the counter when it was finally his turn.
“What kind?” asked the man behind the counter.
“Any kind! It doesn’t matter. The cheapest ones.”
The man nodded and reached behind him, opening a drawer and taking an empty box from one of the shelves and counting them out. A train conductor’s whistle blew, a shrill sound, before he shouted that the train to Liverpool was about to depart from platform three, the platform closest to Alfie’s shoeshine stand.
“Quickly, please!” cried Alfie, looking around, and there he was again—a figure breaking through the crowd. Someone Alfie knew, but gone too quickly for him to recognize. He looked around; confusion everywhere. Noise. Movement.
“More haste, less speed,” said the tobacconist. “I don’t want to count out the wrong number, do I?”
People were running toward the train now, and there was the sound of the steam engine whistling through its funnel. He could see the conductor heading over, a long row of open doors before him.
