CHAPTER 5
WHEN THIS LOUSY WAR IS OVER
Alfie started work at eight o’clock in the morning, one of the busiest times of the day at King’s Cross. He took up his usual position with a view of the platforms, the ticket counter, and the tea shop, pulled over a seat for his customers, threw his upturned cap on the ground, and looked around for his first shine of the day. While he waited, he took Robinson Crusoe from his pocket and picked up where he’d left off the night before. The edges had grown a little scruffy, the paper was a little torn, but the words were all intact.
“Hello, Alfie!”
He looked up to see Mr. Podgett, a local bank manager who got his shoes shined every week, standing before him.
“Hello, Mr. Podgett,” replied Alfie.
“The usual, please,” he said, sitting down and unfolding his newspaper as he placed one foot on the footrest and let out a great sigh of comfort. Alfie took a look at his dark-brown shoes; they were a little dusty at the tips and had suffered a number of scuffs since the previous week. “Cold morning, isn’t it? Well, it is almost November, I suppose. Can’t expect a heat wave.”
Alfie took out his dusting cloths and wiped Mr. Podgett’s left shoe clean before dipping a buffing cloth in the tin of polish and spreading an even coat across the surface of the shoe. Then he picked up the brown horsehair brush and began to run it briskly over the clean area. He quite liked the smell of polish; it reminded him of when he used to run into number six to play with Kalena. Her house always smelled like this.
“Better news today,” said Mr. Podgett as he scanned the headlines. “Looks like things are going our way for a change. Maybe this blasted war will come to an end soon after all. I said to Mrs. Podgett this morning, ‘Mrs. Podgett,’ I said, ‘I think it’s only going to be a few more months before the end is upon us.’ Of course, she claims that I say that all the time and it never comes true, and perhaps she’s right, but this time I really believe it.”
Alfie said nothing. He knew from experience that Mr. Podgett preferred to talk and talk without being interrupted. It was better not to speak until he was asked a direct question that required an answer.
“Our son, Billy, is still over there, of course,” he added after a moment. “I’ve told you about Billy, haven’t I? He’s somewhere in Belgium with his battalion. Can’t say where, of course. All very top secret, hush-hush, and on the QT. He has more than three hundred men under his command, if you can believe it. Of course, he was always very responsible and conscientious, even as a boy. Never gave us a moment’s trouble. You’re the same, I’d imagine, aren’t you, Alfie? A credit to your family.”
“Mum says I’m a proper handful,” said Alfie.
“Well, I’m sure you don’t mean to be. But Billy was always well behaved so it’s no surprise that he’s gone on to earn such responsibility. All right, there was that incident when we went to Cornwall to visit his aunt Harriet and he got into a terrible fight with the Cattermole boy, but that was something and nothing, I always said, and it should never have been allowed to develop into such a fuss. The boy was all right in the end, after all. It wasn’t as if he was in hospital for more than a couple of days. And as for that girl, the one who said she’d witnessed it all, well, she was a flighty piece, everyone knew that. There was talk about her—I won’t say what kind of talk, Alfie, on account of your young ears, but let’s be honest, there’s no smoke without fire, is there, and it’s hard not to imagine that she was playing one of them off against the other. Ever been to Cornwall, Alfie?”
“No, sir,” said Alfie.
“Beautiful part of the world. Where do you go on your holidays, then? The Lake District? Wales? Somewhere up north?”
Alfie tried not to laugh. Sometimes adults asked the stupidest questions. He’d never been on a holiday in his life. He wasn’t even entirely sure what you did on one. Was it the same things you did on any other day, only in a different location? If his family went on holiday, would he be shining shoes on Blackpool Pier? Would Granny Summerfield be looking for a bit of a gossip at Stonehenge? Would Margie be struggling to make ends meet on the Isle of Wight?
“Of course, things worked out quite well for the Cattermole boy in the end,” continued Mr. Podgett, not waiting for an answer. “Harriet told me that he wasn’t able to go to the war on account of how his leg never healed correctly afterwards, but I can’t imagine that had anything to do with Billy. Might have even done it deliberately to avoid being conscripted. You hear stories like that all the time, don’t you? Disgraceful business. I’d have more respect for a conchie than I would for someone like that. No, if you ask me, Billy did the boy a favor, and now look at him! Somewhere in the middle of Europe, leading five hundred men in and out of danger zones, putting the welfare of his country before his own safety. He wrote to his mother recently and said that he hoped the war would never end, that’s how much he enjoys the fighting, but I can’t imagine he meant it. Everyone wants the war to end. Mrs. Podgett, she burst into tears when she read that letter; she said that it was all our fault that he turned out like he did, but I said, ‘Alice, what are you talking about? Our son has a thousand men under his command and he’s proved his worth time and again, leading all those brave men into battle, writing to the parents of every boy who’s been killed. Why, he can’t even go over the top himself anymore on account of how much writing he has to do.’ No, he’s a fine boy, Alfie, I’m proud of him, but it says here”—and with that he tapped on the newspaper once again—“it says here that things are looking up and maybe there’s an end in sight. That’d be good, wouldn’t it? You’d like to see an end to the war, I expect?”
Alfie nodded. He’d finished with the left shoe by now and had started on the right. This was a direct question. It required an answer.
“I would, sir, yes,” he said.
“Well, of course you would. Everyone would. Heavens above, boy, that’s a fine shine there on that shoe. You should do this for a living.”
“I already do,” muttered Alfie quietly.
“I tell all my colleagues at the bank about you. I expect you’ve seen a few of them here? You should have me on commission, you really should. Or at least give me a free shine every now and then.” He laughed when he said this, but Alfie didn’t think he was joking. He put his head down and got on with his polishing.
“All done?” asked Mr. Podgett finally when Alfie gave them a last dusting and sat up to admire his work.
“Yes, sir,” said Alfie.
“Very good.” He stood up and threw a penny in Alfie’s cap, hesitating for a moment as he looked down at the boy. “I did my best for him, of course,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual. “Maybe if I could go back … but you can’t, can you?” He shook his head, and now he was almost whispering. “Even if you wanted to.” Alfie stared at him, uncertain what he was expected to say, and Mr. Podgett looked back with a sorrowful expression on his face and simply shook his head. “You remind me a little of him, you know,” he said. “When he was a boy. He had an open face, like yours. There was kindness there once. Anyway…” He sighed and shook his head, looking up at the station clock. “I better be getting on. Same time next week, Alfie? You’ll be here?”