from glancing at the door of the room to see whether it was
bulging yet under an attack from the other side. Often it took quite
some while for the owner to get adjusted.
"Funny . . ." Bill said as he turned away. He spoke in a musing tone.
"Sometimes I'd give anything . . . You been called lately, 'ave you?"
"What do you think I'm doing here?" And, impelled by the same need which
had caused him to speak up at Irma's, and knowing what he had to say
would register on Bill if anyone, he suddenly produced from his pocket
the press cutting which included him in a list of heroes decorated at
Buckingham Palace. "I got the George Medal for it," he muttered. "See?"
"Crikey!" Bill said, his eyes widening. "The George Medal, eh? Wish I 'ad
'arf your imagination! I thought I was pitchin' it a bit strong when I
backed Lovely Cottage for the National!"
He studied the press cutting avidly. But before he could make a further
comment, they were interrupted by a real crash from Gorse's room:
probably the hand-basin shattering. Godwin hastily retrieved the slip
of paper and made for the door.
"See yourself out!" Bill invited ironically, and turned back to the
kitchen. Struck by a thought, however, he checked.
"Show me that again!"
"Uh . . . Well, if you like." Godwin complied, feeling for some
unaccountable reason extremely nervous -- not because of the renewed
noises from the room, but because there was a frown on Bill's usually
cheerful face.
"September the twentieth," Bill said at last, tapping the paper with a
blunt forefinger.
"Yes!"
"1940?"
"Yes, of course-during the Blitz!"
"I don't believe it," Bill said with finality, surrendering the paper again.
"Nobody's asking you to!" Godwin snapped, returning it to his pocket.
But a sour taste was gathering in his mouth, and he forced himself to
add the crucial question: "Why?"
"Weren't no George Medals then, nor George Cross neither. Didn't get
introduced until September the twenty-third." Bill gave a crooked smile.
"I don't waste all me time watchin' football on the telly. Always bin
interested in the war. An' that I remember clear as daylight. September
the twenty-third just 'appens to be me birthday . . . Lord, there she
goes again! 'Ave that door down in a minute! Better scarper -- see yer!"
A moment later Godwin was back in the dingy street under a dismal sky.
People seemed to be looking at him more than even they had at Bill in his
out-of-date finery. Their faces were cold and pinched with hunger. Some
of the children playing in the gutter wore only ragged vests or outgrown
dresses and were mechanically masturbating as they gazed at him with
dull eyes.
Godwin shivered and hurried on by, pulling up the collar of his jacket
against those stony, chilly stares.
But at least he could now look back on a job complete, and before claiming
his reward he could afford to relax and unwind for a while. Starting today?
Starting tomorrow?
There was no hurry. Sometimes there was, as though pressure were being
applied, but not at present. He had time to think over what he wanted
next.
And needed it. What Bill had said had disturbed him. He felt as though
the foundation of his existence had been shaken, as by earthquakes.
There was only one tenable explanation. Birthday or no birthday, Bill
must have made a mistake.
It was inconceivable that the owners should.
Abruptly, as he was heading away from Bill's place, it dawned on Godwin
that he was within easy walking distance of Harry Fenton's. On the spur
of the moment he decided to go there and pick up a passport; he had used
his present one twice.
But when he arrived at Harry's basement flat, in a narrow street of
sleazy gray-brick houses beset -- like the whole of London -- with
abandoned cars, there was no reply to his ring . . . this being one of
the few doors which did not automatically open even to his touch.
The most likely explanation was that Harry had been called, and for that
there
bulging yet under an attack from the other side. Often it took quite
some while for the owner to get adjusted.
"Funny . . ." Bill said as he turned away. He spoke in a musing tone.
"Sometimes I'd give anything . . . You been called lately, 'ave you?"
"What do you think I'm doing here?" And, impelled by the same need which
had caused him to speak up at Irma's, and knowing what he had to say
would register on Bill if anyone, he suddenly produced from his pocket
the press cutting which included him in a list of heroes decorated at
Buckingham Palace. "I got the George Medal for it," he muttered. "See?"
"Crikey!" Bill said, his eyes widening. "The George Medal, eh? Wish I 'ad
'arf your imagination! I thought I was pitchin' it a bit strong when I
backed Lovely Cottage for the National!"
He studied the press cutting avidly. But before he could make a further
comment, they were interrupted by a real crash from Gorse's room:
probably the hand-basin shattering. Godwin hastily retrieved the slip
of paper and made for the door.
"See yourself out!" Bill invited ironically, and turned back to the
kitchen. Struck by a thought, however, he checked.
"Show me that again!"
"Uh . . . Well, if you like." Godwin complied, feeling for some
unaccountable reason extremely nervous -- not because of the renewed
noises from the room, but because there was a frown on Bill's usually
cheerful face.
"September the twentieth," Bill said at last, tapping the paper with a
blunt forefinger.
"Yes!"
"1940?"
"Yes, of course-during the Blitz!"
"I don't believe it," Bill said with finality, surrendering the paper again.
"Nobody's asking you to!" Godwin snapped, returning it to his pocket.
But a sour taste was gathering in his mouth, and he forced himself to
add the crucial question: "Why?"
"Weren't no George Medals then, nor George Cross neither. Didn't get
introduced until September the twenty-third." Bill gave a crooked smile.
"I don't waste all me time watchin' football on the telly. Always bin
interested in the war. An' that I remember clear as daylight. September
the twenty-third just 'appens to be me birthday . . . Lord, there she
goes again! 'Ave that door down in a minute! Better scarper -- see yer!"
A moment later Godwin was back in the dingy street under a dismal sky.
People seemed to be looking at him more than even they had at Bill in his
out-of-date finery. Their faces were cold and pinched with hunger. Some
of the children playing in the gutter wore only ragged vests or outgrown
dresses and were mechanically masturbating as they gazed at him with
dull eyes.
Godwin shivered and hurried on by, pulling up the collar of his jacket
against those stony, chilly stares.
But at least he could now look back on a job complete, and before claiming
his reward he could afford to relax and unwind for a while. Starting today?
Starting tomorrow?
There was no hurry. Sometimes there was, as though pressure were being
applied, but not at present. He had time to think over what he wanted
next.
And needed it. What Bill had said had disturbed him. He felt as though
the foundation of his existence had been shaken, as by earthquakes.
There was only one tenable explanation. Birthday or no birthday, Bill
must have made a mistake.
It was inconceivable that the owners should.
Abruptly, as he was heading away from Bill's place, it dawned on Godwin
that he was within easy walking distance of Harry Fenton's. On the spur
of the moment he decided to go there and pick up a passport; he had used
his present one twice.
But when he arrived at Harry's basement flat, in a narrow street of
sleazy gray-brick houses beset -- like the whole of London -- with
abandoned cars, there was no reply to his ring . . . this being one of
the few doors which did not automatically open even to his touch.
The most likely explanation was that Harry had been called, and for that
there
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