Stay Where You Are and Then Leave (19 page)

“You're welcome,” said Alfie, who had made up every word of that last speech. But he simply wanted the man to leave and hopefully to get lost in the corridors of the East Suffolk.

“You did brilliant, Dad,” said Alfie when the man was gone, but Georgie had relapsed into his former absent state now and it took him a long time to turn his head.

“What was that, Alfie?”

“You were just like your old self. He didn't suspect a thing.”

Georgie said nothing, simply frowned and then closed his eyes as he let a low groan emerge from his mouth and pressed his hands to his temples.

“Dad,” said Alfie. “Dad, are you all right?”

“Fine, son,” said Georgie quietly. “Can we go inside now? I think I should get back to my bed.”

“No! I'm taking you home, remember?”

“Oh yes,” he replied. “All right then. If that's what you think is best.”

Halfway down the drive, Alfie saw three nurses coming up it, and he pushed his father behind a group of trees.

“What's going on?” asked Georgie, looking around as if he'd just woken up.

“Shh!” said Alfie. “Don't make a sound.”

“Sergeant Clayton on the prowl, is he?”

“Dad! Shh!” insisted Alfie, watching the nurses as they passed.

“I was only asking.”

“Dad!” Alfie felt himself breaking out into a sweat. All it would take was for one of the nurses to turn her head and she would surely see them hiding in the greenery. He held his breath and only exhaled again after they had passed by. “Right,” he said. “Come on, we need to get out of here as fast as we can.”

He broke into a run, and Georgie watched in confusion for a moment before running after him. When they were clear of the hospital gates, they stopped and caught their breath. “The train station's down here,” said Alfie. “Just follow me.”

“Alfie,” said Georgie as they sat down on the grass a few minutes later, waiting for the train to arrive. “You did remember my pills, didn't you?”

“I told you,” said Alfie. “There's plenty of pills at home. You can have some of those. But you won't need them, I promise. Once you're back home in Damley Road, you'll be right as rain.”

“All right, Alfie,” said Georgie, nodding his head, satisfied.

“All right, Dad,” said Alfie.

 

CHAPTER 12

I WANT TO GO HOME

Georgie remained very quiet on the train back to London. He sat in the corner of the carriage, staring out at the passing scenery, his arms wrapped around his chest as if he were trying to stop himself from rocking back and forth. Whenever the train stopped at a station—or
near
a station—to let passengers on or off, he closed his eyes. When the conductor blew his whistle, and at one particularly busy stop, when the doors were being slammed all the way down the train, Alfie was sure he could hear a low groan emerging from his mouth. At these moments he tried to talk to him, but his dad would only reply with single-word answers:
yes
,
no
,
Clayton
,
tomorrow
,
pills
,
sometimes
,
help
.

At Manningtree a young Tommy climbed aboard and sat in the carriage with them, lighting up a cigarette and turning from one to the other with an arrogant, cheeky smile on his face. His uniform was clean and freshly pressed; it appeared as if he was wearing it for the first time. Georgie looked him up and down for a moment, a distressed expression on his face, but when the soldier caught his eye he turned away.

“What you staring at?” he asked. “Never seen a soldier before?”

Georgie said nothing, and Alfie tried to concentrate on
Robinson Crusoe
so he wouldn't think of talking to him.

“Cat got your tongue? I said,
Never seen a soldier before?
”

“Seen a few,” muttered Georgie, staring out of the window.

“What's that you're reading?” asked the soldier, flipping the book out of Alfie's hands in a deft move and spinning it around to read the cover. “
Robinson Crusoe
. My old dad has a copy of this at home. Looks boring.”

“It's the best book ever written,” said Alfie.

“Ha,” said the soldier, shaking his head. “As if you would know. Who's the barrel of laughs in the window seat?” he asked, nodding in Georgie's direction.

“My dad,” said Alfie.

“Got a screw loose, has he? Hey, you! You got a screw loose, do you?”

Georgie turned around and stared at him for a moment, cocking his head to the side as if he were trying to understand exactly what was going on before turning to look out of the window again.

“Here, what do you think?” continued the young Tommy, pointing at his uniform. “Looks pretty smart, doesn't it? It's my first day. On my way to London to meet my new pals, then on to Aldershot to start training. I've been waiting for this day for four years. They said it would be over by Christmas, didn't they? Thank Christ they were wrong about that. Here, why aren't you fighting, mate?” he asked, shouting over at Georgie, who immediately stood up and walked out of the carriage, shutting the door behind him furiously. “Feather man, is he?” he asked, laughing, and Alfie felt his hands twist into fists, wishing he could shut this fool up. “They're everywhere, they are. Takes a real man to win a war. I'll sort out Fritz, never you mind about that. Me and my new pals.”

Alfie stood up and left the carriage without a word, making his way through the train, and finally discovered his father sitting alone, his head buried in his hands.

“Dad?” he said, sitting down next to him. He wanted desperately to put his arm around him but he didn't know how; it felt too awkward. “Dad, are you all right?”

“I'm fine, Alfie,” replied Georgie in a low voice. “I'm just tired, that's all. You don't have any of those pills on you, do you?”

“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, looking at his father.