Stay Where You Are and Then Leave (20 page)

“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. Janá
č
ek'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. Janá
č
ek 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. Janá
č
ek 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.

“Ten cigarettes,” said the tobacconist. “Thru'pence please.”

Bang!

The first of the doors on the Liverpool train being slammed.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“You're a farthing short,” said the man, and Alfie let out a cry of despair as he reached into his pocket and found a single farthing at the bottom of it. “Here,” he said, grabbing the packet and throwing the coin across the counter.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

He ran through the crowd, almost tumbling over as he tried to force his way between them to return to his father.

“All aboard!”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Watch where you're going, boy!”

“Sorry.”

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Finally he broke through. He was back in his usual spot and breathed a sigh of relief. He bent over, a stitch in his side, relieved to see that the chair in front of the shoeshine box was still occupied. When he stood up straight again, he reached out and handed the packet across.

“Cigarettes?” asked Mr. Podgett, the man from the bank. “Thank you, but I'm a pipe man. Is this a new service, then? A shoeshine and a free cigarette? Very enterprising of you, young man, but I'm not sure it's a very good idea. It'll eat into your profits.”

Alfie stared at him, his eyes opening wide as he turned, staring around the station. He couldn't see his father anywhere. He was gone.

He'd stayed where he was.

And then left.

 

CHAPTER 13

THERE'S A LONG, LONG TRAIL A-WINDING

Alfie ran through the front door of number twelve and collapsed on the bottom stair with his head in his hands. He thought about everything that had happened that day and couldn't believe how stupid he'd been. He should never have taken Georgie out of the hospital—of course he shouldn't! How could he have been so stupid? But he had only ever wanted to help his dad, to bring him home to his family. And now he had lost him. What would he do if he was never found again?

He heard voices in the parlor and looked up in hope. Perhaps Georgie had found his way back again? He jumped up and ran inside to find Margie sitting on the broken armchair in front of the fireplace talking to someone on the sofa. He spun around, hoping that he would see his father sitting there—but no, it was Granny Summerfield.

“Alfie,” she said. “What's the matter with you? You have a guilty expression, and I can't bear a boy with a guilty expression.”

He looked at his mother, who narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “You do look pale,” said Margie. “And your eyes are red. Have you been crying?”

Alfie shook his head. As it happened, he
hadn't
been crying, but he had been sitting with his head in his hands, so that might have accounted for the redness.

“No,” he said.

“Where have you been?” asked Granny Summerfield, leaning forward and taking off her spectacles. “You have the look of a boy who's been up to no good.”

“I haven't done anything!” he shouted, raising his voice in a way that he had never done in front of his grandmother before.

“Alfie!” said Margie.

“What?” he asked, staring at her before throwing his arms up in the air. “I'm going to my room,” he added, running into the hallway, charging upstairs and into his bedroom, where he slammed the door shut behind him and flung himself on the bed as he thought through the events of the last couple of hours.