Between then and now, however, he hadn’t got much farther in his investigations. No more letters had arrived, and whenever Alfie caught his mother and Granny Summerfield deep in conversation, they always stopped talking and began discussing the weather or how difficult it was to get fresh apples these days.
In fact, Alfie came no nearer to understanding where his father might be until that day at King’s Cross when he polished the shoes of the military doctor and his papers got scattered across the concourse.
EAST SUFFOLK & IPSWICH HOSPITAL
Summerfield, George.
DOB: 3/5/1887.
Serial no.: 14278.
And that was the moment Alfie knew he had been both right and wrong in the things he believed. His dad wasn’t on a secret mission. But he wasn’t dead either. He wasn’t even in France anymore.
He was back in England.
In hospital.
CHAPTER 7
HELLO, WHO’S YOUR LADY FRIEND?
Margie was surprised to find Alfie sitting up in bed reading when she opened his bedroom door, but he’d already been awake for almost an hour.
“Are you all right?” she asked, checking his forehead for a temperature. “You’re not coming down with something, are you?”
“I’m fine,” said Alfie. “I just woke up early, that’s all.”
“Well, what’s seldom is wonderful.” She looked around and sniffed the air with a frown. “Why does it always smell of shoe polish in here? It makes no sense when your shoes are always so scruffy. Anyway, your breakfast is downstairs on the table. I’m going to pick up a bit of chicken for our supper this evening. I heard of a butcher on Pentonville Road who might be getting a delivery today. That’s the whisper anyway. He’s the brother of one of the Queen’s Nurses down on Surgical Two, and he’s promised to put a bit aside for us.”
“Chicken?” asked Alfie, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “Doesn’t that cost a lot of money?”
“There was a bit more in my purse this morning than I expected,” said Margie, giving him a quick wink. “Funny how that’s always happening to me. Do you know, I managed to pay almost all our bills and the rent this week? And the good news is that I’m not working tonight, so we can stay in, just the two of us, and eat together.”
Alfie frowned. On any other day he would have been pleased by this news, but today he wasn’t sure if it was for the best. After all, he didn’t know what time he would be home. He had plans. Serious plans. A secret mission of his own.
“Oh,” he said, looking away so Margie would not be able to tell that he was lying, “but I told Granny that I’d go over to her house for supper.”
“She never mentioned it.”
“Maybe she forgot. Like when she forgot to tell you that she liked that new dress you wore last week.”
“That wasn’t forgetfulness,” said Margie, rolling her eyes. “She said that I shouldn’t accept charity from Mrs. Gawdley-Smith, but if she was going to throw it out and was happy for me to take it, then why shouldn’t I have it? I can’t go round in rags forever, can I? Anyway, beggars can’t be choosers.”
“We’re not beggars,” said Alfie.
“That’s what your granny said. But we’re still perilously close to penury, Alfie. Perilously close to penury.” Margie seemed to love this phrase. “Anyway, can’t you tell her you’ll go another day? It’s not often I’m here in the evening.”
“I’ll ask her,” said Alfie, pulling the sheets back now and getting out of bed. “But if I’m not here when you get home, it means that she got upset and I had to stay.”
“All right then,” said Margie. “Well, do your best and hopefully I’ll see you later.”
She left the bedroom and Alfie heard her sweeping the hallway before leaving for work. He felt a bit guilty for making her sad but it was for a good reason, he was certain of that. He ran out to the landing, charged down the stairs, out to the privy at the end of the garden, then back inside before the cold could freeze his fingers and toes off, and upstairs to his room, where he took his bag of coins from the back of the sock drawer and poured the contents out onto the sheets.
He counted his money. He’d been saving ever since becoming a shoeshine boy and there was almost eight shillings there now. Eight shillings! He’d never counted it before because he worried that if he knew how much he had, then he might go a bit mad and spend it all. But he’d always felt that the day would come when he would need this money; he just didn’t know when that day might arrive, or why. And the day was finally here.
Downstairs, he ate his breakfast, had a quick wash at the kitchen sink, and made sure that his hair was neatly combed. There was less chance that anyone would stop him if he looked like a respectable little boy. Satisfied, he put his shoes on, slipped a handful of change into his pocket, and left the house.
As he walked down Damley Road he noticed Joe Patience smoking a cigarette in his doorway just as an army van came round the corner. Alfie froze. He glanced over at Joe, who looked back at him with an empty expression, but then his eyes, like Alfie’s, watched the car as it began to slow down and all the curtains along the street started to twitch. In a moment, the doors opened one by one and the women came out, looking at each other in fear, their faces pale and white as Joe stepped back into his hallway, the door still open, but out of sight of his neighbors.
Not me, they were all thinking.
Please, God, not me.
Not today.
The car stopped in front of Alfie, the window rolled down, and an officer stared at him as he pressed himself back against the wall.
“Is this Damley Avenue?” the man asked, and Alfie gave a sigh of relief. He only wanted directions.
“Damley Road,” he replied, the words getting caught a little in his throat.
“What’s that, son?”
“Damley Road,” he repeated. “For the avenue, you need to go down the end of the street, turn left, then take the first right. You can’t miss it.”
The man nodded, rolled the window up again, and the car drove off as the women went back inside, leaving only Alfie and Joe Patience looking at each other.
“We live to fight another day,” said Joe, smiling the kind of smile that wasn’t a real smile at all. Alfie noticed that one of his front teeth had been knocked out and he had a black eye that wasn’t really a black eye at all; it was more of a purple, green, and yellow eye. “All right, Alfie?” he asked.
“All right, Joe.”
“You wanna know, don’t you? You wanna know what they done to me? My own fault for answering my door after dark.”
Alfie stared at him. He didn’t know what Joe meant, but he didn’t have time to find out. He had a busy day ahead of him. He shook his head quickly and ran down the street, turned right, and made his way toward King’s Cross.
He got there more quickly than usual because he wasn’t weighed down by his shoeshine box, which always seemed to grow much heavier halfway between home and work, and when he reached the station he glanced toward his usual spot, which was empty now, but standing next to it looking around was Mr. Podgett, the banker whose son Billy hoped that the war would never come to an end. He was looking at his watch, probably waiting for a shoeshine, but a moment later he gave up and disappeared into the crowd. Alfie marched over to the ticket counter, which was higher than his head, and waited his turn.