The road stretched winding and treeless like a steel-blue ribbon away among the moors. There was nothing on it at all. It was early afternoon—the time when the long-distance drivers take their afternoon snooze until it is cooler. Neil sat down and looked in each direction. Nothing to be seen. He didn’t know in which direction was the camp and which Doncaster. Maps were puzzles to him, and although he had been shown several times how to read one he seldom seemed able to concentrate.
A car was approaching now . . . he stood up and hailed it. It shot past, the driver not even turning his head in the direction of the would-be traveller. After a long wait another car appeared. It scarcely slowed down, as the driver put his head out and shouted, ‘Where d’you want to go?’ When Neil shouted, ‘Doncaster,’ the man jerked his thumb in the direction from which he had come. Neil crossed to the opposite side of the road. Nothing was in sight. He was aware that he was shivering again although it was hot. He put his jacket on again after looking all over the horizon to see if there were any signs of his fellow men or of the army lorries which would presently come hunting up the stragglers. Nothing . . . the moor was as empty as the road.
Mike had said that it was easy to get a lift. Maybe it was for Mike. Neil had come to recognise that for himself nothing was easy—because he was in constant fear. If Mike had been here with him he’d have made that motorist stop, turn round, and drive him back the way he had come, to Doncaster. Mike was like that. He scanned the long empty road again. Should he start walking along it? He had better—surely he must be too near the camp here for safety should any of the army lorries come along. He began walking slowly and wretchedly along the road. He had gone about a mile before the van caught up with him and slowed down. A red-faced cheerful man leaned down from the driving seat. ‘You’re going in the wrong direction for the camp, son,’ he said. ‘I want to get to Doncaster,’ said Neil.
The man’s eyes narrowed. He whistled. ‘Not on the exercise then?’
‘No.’
‘Want to get to Doncaster station?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hop up, then.’
Now this was a contingency Mike had not advised him on. Did one ride outside in the cab with the driver—or did one ask to get in behind under cover? Surely it would be asking for trouble to flaunt his uniform in the driver’s cab; but to ask to get under cover might also arouse suspicion.
‘Better get in back there,’ said the man, pointing to the canvas covering on the lorry. ‘You can sleep a bit. There’s plenty of sheeting there with the furniture—and some cushions.’ ‘Thanks, thanks . . .’ muttered Neil so gratefully that the man knew his suspicions to be correct. This lad had no travel warrant in his pocket—of that he was certain. His look of relief when he had suggested that he get under cover was sufficient answer to his doubts. The kid was on the run. What should he do?
‘Going on leave?’ he asked carefully.
‘Yes. Unexpectedly. That’s why I’ve got to get a lift to Doncaster.’
‘Get in, then. We’ll be stopping on the way for a cuppa—that’s the only stop. Should make it between five and six. Got far to go from there?’
‘London.’
‘I may be able to put you on to someone going that way. We’ll see. Get in, mate.’
He noticed the delicate flushed face, the almost white blonde hair and the narrow shoulders. Poor little devil . . . I know what it was like back in ’43, he thought. Lots of ’em aren’t cut out for it—and nor’s this one by the look of him. He felt no compunction about helping the lad. It wouldn’t be the first time. The kid hadn’t asked for a lift. He’d been trudging along the dusty road when he’d overtaken him. The driver’s sympathies lay with those who wanted to be free of military service. Let those who wanted war form the bloody army themselves. He hoped his sons would never have to go through what he’d gone through in ’43. ‘Okay there?’ he called, as the lad climbed up and through the canvas flap. ‘Fasten it at the top and leave yourself a bit of air. Gets stuffy back there. Got something to lie on?’
The lorry started up again and they were off. It was bumpy—and the furniture none too securely packed. Neil was in constant fear that a large wardrobe would fall on him and when he dared to take his watchful regard off that he saw that a heavy mirror was balanced above him. True, it was tied with rope—but it did not look any too safe. What would be the use of running away if either the wardrobe or the mirror fell on him? He moved as far as he could away from them, so that should they fall they might possibly just miss him. He was dangerously near the flap though and the draught was strong. He saw a hollow place between two upturned armchairs and, crawling over, pulled two of the seat cushions down with him and, curling himself up, lay there gratefully and exhaustedly. He did not sleep for some time. Waves of fear swept him so that he alternately sweated and shivered. Fear of what he was doing, fear of its consequences, fear of the reception he could expect at the end of his journey, fear of being caught even now, that at any minute the van would be overtaken and he removed ignominiously by the Red Caps. But stronger than these loomed Mike and the urging drive to get away from him. So obsessed and tortured was he by the thought of life under Mike’s domination that he had even contemplated death as an escape. But he was afraid of death, too.
He was dead asleep when the van reached a pull-in for lorries and the driver woke him. ‘Hi there! Want a cuppa, lad?’ Neil awoke with the instinctive terror of the fugitive—his hands out on the defensive.
‘Want to oil the throttle and stretch your legs?’ he asked, grinning. ‘Come on. You’ll be okay here. Don’t look so scared. No questions asked. Mind their own bloody business in this line—pity other lines can’t do the same.’
‘Got any money?’ he asked later, as the two sat drinking tea and eating great slabs of fruit cake in what had once been a Nissen hut and was now a popular stop for long-distance drivers. There were several customers there, and their studied disinterest as they relaxed over their tea or lay back after it was soothing to the lad’s jagged nerves. Got any cash?’ repeated his host.
‘Yes. How much do I owe you for the lift?’ asked Neil quickly.
‘No, no. I don’t mean that. You’re welcome, lad. How are you fixed for going on further?’
‘I’ve got enough money for my ticket.’
‘But you’re not going by rail, are you?’ The keen blue eyes bored into his and Neil said abruptly, ‘No, I hope to get a lift, but everybody isn’t as easy as you.’
‘I can fix you for London. But it’s an old, slow van. Take you some time. But Pat is safe—and he’s not inquisitive. He’ll drop you somewhere on the outskirts very early in the morning. How’ll that suit you?’
Neil considered. Mike was intending to follow-on twenty-four hours later. That would be tomorrow afternoon. It would be easier for Mike because he’d got civvies and he intended to wear them. If he were to be successful in double-crossing Mike and getting away before he arrived to join him then he mustn’t arrive in London too late himself. But if it were very early in the morning it would be safer. He could get in his grandmother’s window. She slept below street level and her window opened on to a little piece of grass which sloped up to the street. He’d got in that way last time he’d deserted. A lorry was always safer than a train. If one travelled by train there was always the risk of the R.T.O. or the Red Caps at the stations. They could ask to see your warrant, your leave ticket if they liked. A lorry would be safer.
‘Thanks. That’ll be fine.’
‘Why are you going home unexpectedly? Anything wrong at home?’
‘My brother’s been killed in Cyprus.’
‘Sorry about that. Army?’
‘Yes.’
‘Service or Regular?’
‘Service. He’d almost finished it.’
‘Bad luck that.’ He offered Neil a cigarette, studying his face, his hands, the details of his uniform carefully. Later on he might have to remember them. He hoped he wouldn’t have to. If the b
oy was just running away nothing more would be heard of him. But if, as sometimes happened, he’d done some damned silly thing and was running away from its effects then the details might be needed and given.
‘Come on. We’ll get along,’ he said, when his cigarette was finished, ‘or we might miss Pat.’
It was getting dark when they pulled up again, at another similar pull in. And here, sitting at a table playing shove ha’penny, was Pat, a large genial Irishman with a blue peak cap and bright red hair.
‘I’ll take him. But it’s slow. We’ll make Putney about five with any luck. That do you, boy?’
‘Fine, thanks. How much?’
‘Sure! nothing at all. I’ll do it for love of the uniform!’
He threw back his head and roared. Neil was frightened. The other customers were regarding their table with interest. But no one questioned him, no one looked in the least curious.
‘You don’t need to look so frightened, lad.’ The driver who had brought him and who was addressed as ‘Pug’ by his pals said concernedly to him as he was saying good-bye, ‘If you look so worried and frightened, people will notice you. Try to behave normally—as if you really were going on leave.’ These last words, whispered with a chuckle, alarmed Neil more than anything else. So Pug knew. Did this Pat know too? Did they all? He looked round at the impassive faces drinking tea, smoking, playing shove ha’penny or twitting the two women serving them. Well, and if they did? They were all right. Pug had said so. He had nothing to fear. He tried to arrange his features into a mask of impassiveness like theirs. It was difficult. He showed every emotion on his transparent face. He kept his mouth open when he was frightened. He’d been told that. He shut it firmly and, glancing in the mirror over the counter in which the waitresses prinked, he saw that the firm set lips were most unnatural-looking. He opened his mouth again and accepted a cigarette from Pat.
The van which Pat drove was slow indeed. There was little space to lie down for the load consisted of sacks of some cereal and Neil had to squeeze in between two sacks which he managed to shift. He was quite hidden, but there was not much air and it was far more bumpy than Pug’s furniture van had been. Nevertheless he slept again, fitfully, dreaming horribly of the camp, of the exercise, of Mike. It was half-past four when they reached Putney. Pat dropped him near the Underground station by the bridge, refusing to accept anything for the lift. ‘Sure, you’ll do the same for another lad one day. Good luck to you. . . .’ And he was off quickly so as not to arouse suspicion should any cops be on patrol there as he said.
Neil found there was a train very shortly to West Brompton. From there it was only a short walk to his home. He sat down in the deserted station. A negro porter was sweeping the stairs and singing cheerfully. He could not shake off his feeling that he was being followed. He put the exact money in the ticket machine and got a ticket. No one looked at it or clipped it. He sat down on the empty station to wait for a train. He was so frightened that his teeth chattered and his stomach was queasy.
CHAPTER II
ALL old Mrs. Collins could see from her position in bed ALL was a small corner of the window with the milk bottle and the two geraniums on the sill. Even to see that she had to strain herself up on her elbow and the effort was painful. She no longer woke at the rattle of the milkman in the street—the drugs prevented that. Now, when she awoke slowly and unwillingly, the empty bottle had already been exchanged for a full one. If she felt able, she would roll herself over to the side of the bed under the window and, after some fumbling ill-directed movements, she would get the window latch undone and pull in the milk bottle. She liked to fling open the pane of glass and feel the air come in, although, in this sudden, unexpectedly early heat-wave there did not seem to be much difference between the air in the room and that which came in.
This morning she awoke with a start, conscious that something unusual had broken her sleep. Her eyes went instinctively to the small aperture of light. She could just make out the milk bottle—and it was empty—so it could not have been the milkman who had woken her. What was it then? She peered again at the greyish pane and realised that it was still early, and that a blurred mass blocked out the view of the piece of waste ground opposite which she could see if she sat up. Pulling herself up, she tried to make out what the mass was. Was it a hand? It was tapping lightly on the glass now—and although from below in the bed it appeared distorted and squat she could make out five separate shapes—like a leaf of some kind. It was a hand, and the mass with dark sockets and a moving black slit below them was a human head magnified and monstrified through the steamy glass. She rolled herself over until she was under the latch and began fumbling with it. She hated having the window shut, but her granddaughter Nona was nervous. The latch was undone at last and she pushed the window wide open letting the fresh air stream in on her. Framed between the two pots of geraniums was the white agitated face of her grandson Neil.
‘Neil!’ She was startled—and yet not surprised. So he had come twice previously—like a thief in the early hours of the morning. ‘You!’
‘Can I come in? Is it all right?’ His voice was urgent, defeated somehow.
She stared at him speechlessly for a moment, then slithered over in the bed again so that she had made way for him to enter. He climbed quickly through the small window, his foot kicking the flower pots. ‘Mind my geraniums—and mind that milk bottle,’ she breathed, ‘and don’t make a sound. That Mrs. Danvers upstairs has sharp ears. Better shut the window after you.’
He reached his long gangling legs down on to the bed, muddying the covers with his boots. Then, closing the window softly, he collapsed on the bed. While he had been climbing in she had been conscious of his breathing, harsh and loud—as if he had been running. Now, on the bed, he began shuddering violently and the jerks became sobs.
The old woman leaned over from her crouching position and said sharply, ‘Quiet now, Neil lad. The walls have ears in this place.’ Even as she said this, her eyes went anxiously from his face, now hidden in his hands, to the door and the window. She felt dazed and stupid with sleep still, and began resolutely and determinedly to shake off the cobweb of unreality still enveloping her from the drugs.
‘You’ve run away again?’
He nodded speechlessly.
‘I didn’t think you’d be back again—not after you’d given me your word to stick it out,’ she said quietly.
He lay back suddenly in a childishly helpless way and, removing his hands from his face, she saw two great tears trickling from under his lids. In the cold grey light of the semi-basement his face was grey, his eyes, lips and hair seemed all of a piece with his khaki uniform. As he turned his head away in a sudden gulping sob she saw the nape of his neck showing white and childish, and she saw back through the vista of the years the toddler with those first wisps of baby hair parting at the neck to show that vulnerable little hollow and a terrible compassion flooded her.
‘Where’s your cap?’ she asked, to hide her emotion. ‘Not gone and left it somewhere have you?’
Without a word he pulled the beret from his pocket. ‘Sit up,’ she said, ‘and listen. The milkman’ll be here soon and he’ll look in the window. You can’t stay like that on the bed.’
He shifted himself awkwardly until he was on the edge furthest from the window. ‘Where’ll I go then?’
‘What time is it?’
‘Dunno. Must be all of seven o’clock.’
‘When did you leave?’
‘Yesterday afternoon.’
‘Hungry?’
He nodded. ‘No food since yesterday evening—I got a sandwich then.’
‘How did you travel?’
‘Hitch-hiked. A lorry—and a delivery van.’
‘How far away did the last one drop you?’
‘Putney. I came by Underground from there.’
‘See anyone coming in here?’
‘Not a soul. It was still dark when I arrived. I waited a bit . . . I couldn’t wake
you, Gran.’
‘No. It’s the drugs. What happened? Why are you in this state, Neil?’ She looked at him with mounting anxiety and apprehension. She had seen him terrified before but never in this sickening state of collapse. When he didn’t answer she said, her voice sharp from fear, ‘Why have you come here? You know they’ll be after you in no time—and I’ll have to hand you over again. What else can I do?’
He heard in her voice her resentment and reluctance to be again drawn into such a predicament as he had twice placed her already. ‘Gran,’ he said urgently, Gran. I can’t go back. This time it’s finished.’
At the word ‘finished’ she was overwhelmed with a new apprehension for him. Looking at him, white, shaken, scarcely coherent she was terrified for him. ‘What d’you mean finished? You haven’t become violent have you? Done something violent, have you?’ In her mind were the frequent newspaper reports of violent deeds by youths. Fear is never far from crime, she thought desperately. What has he done? What?
He shook his head. ‘No! No!’
‘Hist! Get down under the bed.’
The rattle of the milk bottles clattered in from the silent street. The boy dropped down and lay flat under the high iron bedstead. The red face of the milkman peered in at the window as he planked down a full bottle on the stone sill and removed the empty one. The woman in the bed lay with her eyes almost closed until he had gone, but she could see the window and the face at it through the dingy pane of glass.
When the man had gone she whispered to Neil to emerge. He scrambled up, his uniform covered with dust. ‘Dirty under there,’ he observed, brushing himself down, ‘Nonie doesn’t sweep like I do.’
The Fledgeling Page 2
