“I didn’t know he was going, did I?” snapped Margie. “If I’d known, I never would have allowed it. But we have to look for him. He’s out there somewhere. Who knows what harm he could come to? Bill, how about you and I—”
Just then there was yet another knock on the front door, and everyone turned around.
“I’ll get it,” said Granny Summerfield, standing up and going into the hall. When she opened the front door, she slammed it shut again and marched directly back into the parlor.
“Well, who was it?” asked Margie.
“Nobody,” said Granny Summerfield. “Now, Doctor, you were saying…?”
“It can’t have been nobody!” cried Margie, and before Dr. Ridgewell could speak again, there was another knock on the door.
“Ignore it!” cried Granny Summerfield.
“I will not ignore it!” said Margie, marching out of the room, her face growing red with fury. She opened the door, and there was Joe Patience, the conchie from number sixteen, standing outside.
“Joe,” said Margie with a sigh. “It’s not a good time.”
“He’s sitting in my front room,” said Joe.
“Do not let that man into this house!” cried Granny Summerfield, storming out into the hallway now and staring at Joe Patience as if he were the devil incarnate. “Shut it in his face, Margie!”
“Mrs. Summerfield—” said Joe.
“Don’t Mrs. Summerfield me!” roared Granny Summerfield, rushing forward. “Everything I did for you, Joe Patience! Everything I did! And how did you repay me? My son goes to war and you—”
“I couldn’t!”
“Because you’re a coward!”
“Because I won’t hurt people! Like I was hurt!”
“Coward!”
“Be quiet!” roared Margie, looking at her mother-in-law as if she might tear her limb from limb. “Joe, what did you just say?”
“He’s sitting in my front room,” repeated Joe.
“Who?” asked Granny Summerfield.
“Your son,” said Joe. “Your husband,” he added, looking at Margie. “Your dad,” he said, turning to Alfie, who was standing behind his mother and grandmother now. “He’s sitting in my front room.”
At first no one moved. Then Margie ran. She broke past Joe and charged along to number sixteen, where the door was swinging open, and disappeared inside.
“What have you done?” asked Granny Summerfield, confused now, her voice filled with bewilderment.
“I haven’t done anything,” said Joe. “Alfie brought him home, didn’t you, Alfie?”
Granny Summerfield turned to look at her grandson as Old Bill Hemperton and Dr. Ridgewell stepped out into the hall.
“I wanted to save him,” said Alfie. “That’s all. You don’t know what it was like there.”
“Alfie came to me,” said Joe, looking at Granny Summerfield. “He told me what he was going to do. I suppose I should have told you. Or Margie. But I didn’t think he’d go through with it. But then I saw them. And I wasn’t sure what to do for the best. I couldn’t come over. Georgie didn’t look right—you understand that, don’t you? I thought if I came over that I might cause more harm than good. So I waited. I followed them. Alfie took him to King’s Cross. I watched them. And when he ran, I ran after him. I caught up with him. I took him for a drink. And we had a chat. Just like old times. And then I brought him home.” He sighed. “I think he’s going to be all right, you know. If we all help him.”
There was a long silence, and Granny Summerfield’s face softened. “You ran after him,” she said quietly.
“Of course I did,” said Joe. “After everything you did for me? He’s my oldest friend. Of course I ran after him.”
Granny Summerfield looked away. She hesitated for a few moments, and then she raised her left hand and reached out toward Joe’s face, to the smooth burn marks that separated his hairline from his forehead. “Joe,” she said. Nothing more.
“I’m sorry,” said Dr. Ridgewell, stepping forward now. “But your son … I need to see him.”
“Of course,” said Joe Patience, pulling back now, and as he did so Granny Summerfield stepped forward and linked her arm through his. “He’s over here. Come across, all of you.”
Joe, Dr. Ridgewell, Granny Summerfield, Alfie, and Old Bill Hemperton all made their way quick-smart to number sixteen and hurried inside, where they found Margie and Georgie sitting on the couch together, holding each other, their heads on each other’s shoulders.
“Georgie!” cried Granny Summerfield, running forward and throwing her arms around both of them.
“Help me,” whispered Georgie, looking up at his mum and his wife. “Help me. Please. Someone help me. My head…”
“Are you all right, Georgie lad?” asked Old Bill Hemperton, leaning forward.
“Mr. Summerfield, it’s me, Dr. Ridgewell.”
“Dad!”
Alfie fought his way through and buried his body against his father’s, locking his arms around his waist, pushing everyone else aside. A moment later, a great noise built from outside in the street, and everyone, except Alfie and Georgie, turned their heads to look out of the window.
“What on earth…?” asked Old Bill Hemperton, watching as all the doors began opening and the people from the houses opposite came out and started crying and hugging each other. “What’s going on out there?”
“Stay here,” said Margie, opening the front door, and as she did so, Helena Morris from number eighteen and Mrs. Tamorin from number twenty ran past.
“What’s happening?” shouted Margie. “What’s going on out here? Why all the fuss?”
“It’s over!” said Mrs. Tamorin. “Haven’t you heard? The war’s over. We won.”
On the sofa, Georgie’s eyes closed tight and tears started to stream down his face as he wrapped his arms tighter around his son, holding him in a close embrace.
The war was over at last.
And there were still six weeks to go to Christmas.
CHAPTER 14
TAKE ME BACK TO DEAR OLD BLIGHTY
Kalena Janáček looked into the front parlor of her home at number six Damley Road and found her father sitting in an armchair with a newspaper open on the floor beneath him. On his left sat an open shoeshine box made of dark-brown mahogany wood, twice as long as it was wide, with a gold-colored clasp to unlock the lid from the base. Carved into the side was the word Holzknecht, and an emblem that displayed an eagle soaring above a mountain, wild-eyed and dangerous.
Mr. Janáček was shining his shoes.
“Do you have the present?” she asked, and her father nodded, pointing toward the table, where a copy of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens sat. It was July 1922, almost four years since the end of the war, and Alfie Summerfield was having a thirteenth birthday party.
“We should go,” said Mr. Janáček, putting his shoes on and standing up. He reached for his cane—the one that he’d bought when he first came back from the Isle of Man; the same one that helped him make his way from number six to the sweet shop and back again. His leg had been fine before he left, of course; this was something that had happened to him inside the camp. “Should we tell them our news today or wait?” he asked. Should we tell zem our news today or vait?