The Hour of the Donkey

Bastable came to himself with a jolt as Wimpy spoke. He had been staring at the black hat on Wimpy's head— he knew he had been staring at it because when he leaned forward to keep the cart moving it was only a foot from his nose, and it dummy4

was all he could see, that black hat... the old Frenchman's Sunday hat—but he was not aware of doing so until now, when Wimpy tried to turn towards him, and couldn't quite manage it.

'What?' The word was hard to say: he hadn't spoken a word for so long, the sound of his voice was unnatural to him.

'Julian Grenfell, Harry—

he shall know,

Not caring much to know, that still Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will.

Very apposite, old boy—I... didn't know you were poetically inclined ... other than a bit of the old Play up, play up, and play the game! You're a bit of a dark . . . horse, old boy—a dark . . . horse.

Bastable felt the blood rise in his cheeks beneath their coating of clammy sweat. He must have spoken those words—

those lines from that secret poem of heart-breaking beauty which was utterly private to him—he must have spoken them aloud, without knowing that he had done so. He must take a grip of himself, a much firmer grip—it was fatigue on the surface that had made him light-headed for a moment, but dummy4

there were accumulated layers of gibbering cowardice under that, and if he let go of himself they would surely take over.

Wimpy was still trying to turn towards him, while continuing to hold on to the child on his lap. The child's face was turned towards Bastable, and she was staring at him with huge dark eyes devoid of expression. Where it wasn't smudged with grime, her skin showed very pale, contrasting with Wimpy's, which was greyish and etched with lines he hadn't noticed before.

'A dark—' Wimpy started to repeat himself, but then clenched his teeth and grimaced as the cart bumped over a pot-hole '—horse.'

The fellow was in pain. Although he had appeared to be lolling back in comfort, with his legs dangling over the front of the cart, every time the cart bumped—which was all the time—his bad ankle must have been jarred against the frame.

And, although he hadn't made a sound, the addition of those clenched teeth and that grey complexion to the memory of the angrily-swollen joint produced a degree of painfulness which made Bastable ashamed of his own minor aches.

He pulled back at the cart, trying to slow it. For some time now he hadn't really been pushing it at all, it had been travelling downhill of its own accord, carrying him along with it.

He looked around him, seeing the landscape for the first time. How far he'd come from the road, it was impossible to tell, for they were down in another of those long, shallow dummy4

folds of damned, featureless, foreign countryside in the middle of nowhere, devoid of comforting houses and hedges and telegraph poles. The trackway along which they'd come—

it was hardly wide enough to be called a road—stretched straight from one blue-misted crest behind them to another equally indistinct one ahead there were woods, already dark and uninviting, a few hundred yards to the right, and to the left the fold curved away out of sight.

The moment of exhilaration was entirely gone. As the cart finally creaked to a standstill the leaden weight of responsibility took its place, bowing down Bastable's spirit.

Even the thought of their recent deliverance rang empty in his mind. It was still a miracle, in a succession of miracles, but it was a miracle in the midst of a far greater catastrophe—

a catastrophe so huge that he was unable to imagine its full extent, but could only guess at it.

'Ahhh . . . that's better!' said Wimpy, easing himself gingerly into a more comfortable position, and then finally succeeding in turning his head sufficiently to look at Bastable. 'Still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, old boy?'

'I'm all right.' Bastable returned the look without betraying himself. 'How's your ankle?'

'Ah . . . inconvenient, let's say.' Wimpy considered the bandaged extremity in silence for a moment. 'I think ... if you could help me to alight ... we might make a structural adjustment in my chariot which might make life easier for me, if not for you . . . Also ... I think it's time for a spot of dummy4

refreshment, too.' He swivelled to Bastable again, smiling lopsidedly. 'And then we can discuss the Destined Will perhaps, eh?'

The old, well-worn feeling stirred within Bastable's breast, half irritation, half admiration. Even in pain and weariness the blighter couldn't resist mocking him. But also, even in pain and weariness, the blighter was still unbeaten, and thinking for himself when Harry Bastable was full of despair and self-pity.

He was the better man still, damn it!

Wimpy shifted his hold of the child. 'However... if I help our little Alice Mark Two over the side first—and if she helps to steady my descent—do you think you could avoid unloading me like a ton of coal this time, Harry old boy?'

Without the child's weight, it was easy. Or maybe it was easy simply without the onlooking presence of the German Army?

He rubbed his aching arms and looked at Wimpy.

'But first things first while it's still light enough to read...'

Wimpy balanced himself on one leg, steadying himself with one hand on the cart, and felt in the top pocket of