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. Janáček’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. Janáček 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. Janáček 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.”