The Hour of the Donkey

self and studied Wimpy. He found himself wondering how the chap had become 'Wimpy'—thanks to Major Tetley-Robinson, he had said it had been—after having been plain

'Willy' to his Latin pupils... yet whether he even liked being

'Wimpy'—he didn't seem to mind, but Tetley-Robinson was nobody's friend, and his least of all ... Because if he didn't —

But that wasn't what Wimpy was worried about now, and he was surely worried about something.

'That French soldier said something?' Bastable remembered that he never had received any answer to that question.

'No, not really.' Wimpy looked at him at last. 'He said the Germans were everywhere. But he'd been running for a long time, that lad had. And he'd been bombed half out of his wits, I think, too ... No, Harry—it's... it's more something I feel...

It's... like, we're by ourselves, but we're not alone.'

Bastable shared the embarrassment. It didn't make sense, that; so he didn't know what to say to it.

'I read this story once, Harry—a sort of ghost story, by some foreign writer chap . . . never heard of him before —can't remember his name now . . . about this Austrian cavalry patrol in the fourteen-eighteen War, scouting in the Carpathian Mountains or somewhere ...' Wimpy tailed off, suddenly even more embarrassed. 'Oh, damn! It doesn't matter, anyway.'

But it did matter, Bastable knew that as surely as he knew the wholesale and retail prices of soft furnishings, ladies' gloves dummy4

and dining-room suites. The chap wanted to talk, and when a chap wanted to talk—especially a naturally talkative chap like Wimpy—it was better to let him get it off his chest. Batty was taking his time backing the car, anyway.

'No, do go on, old chap,' he said. 'Sounds a jolly interesting story—let's hear it.'

Wimpy remained silent for a moment. 'All right, then . ..

They were scouting, and they ambushed a Russian force at a bridge—charged over the bridge and cut 'em to pieces ... and then they pushed on. Only the country was empty, or almost empty—the people in it were strange ... and so were the narrator's fellow officers—he was a cavalry lieutenant, the fellow telling the story—and they got stranger and stranger.

And so did the countryside—kind of misty and shimmery as well as empty. Until they came to another bridge.'

He stopped again. He was no longer looking at Bastable, who now thought it sounded a damn funny story, and that Wimpy was behaving in a damn funny way, too. But then he hadn't exactly covered himsef with glory back in the car. In fact, he had nearly covered himself with something else.

'Another bridge—yes?' If Wimpy was windy, it was best to know about it here and now.

Wimpy swallowed. 'A great golden bridge over a shining river of silver. And then he knew.'

'Knew where they were, you mean?'

Wimpy swung towards him. 'He knew they were all dead.

dummy4

They'd been ambushed at the first bridge, not the Russians—

They'd been cut to pieces, not the Russians. All except him, and he was badly wounded, hovering between life and death.

So that was where they were—he was still in the no-man'sland between life and death, where time stands almost stationary. Only they were fading as they crossed their final bridge, a second or two after they'd been killed, but he had a final choice—don't you see?'

Bastable didn't see at all. Except that it was a damn weird story, and this was not the time or place for it, and he was glad no one else was around to hear it.

'Don't you see?' repeated Wimpy.

'Yes.' Bastable humoured him. 'Jolly interesting ... in a creepy sort of way — ghost story, of course, you said? So I take it he made the right choice, what? Obviously he did —otherwise there wouldn't have been any story!'

'No—I don't mean that —' Wimpy gestured despairingly, and then swept his hand towards the ridge and the wood. 'It was like the country we're in, Harry . . . It's not right, somehow.

And now we're making our decision.'

Bastable stared up the road which wound between its sunken banks and occasional bushes to another wood on the skyline.

It was undeniably empty, but it was no stranger than any other bit of French countryside. It was rather dull really, not nearly as steep as his own beautiful downland above Eastbourne and between Polegate and Lewes ... a bit like the Lewes road, maybe . . . But certainly neither misty nor dummy4

shimmery. And with no golden bridges and silver rivers.

Perhaps Wirnpy was sickening for the mumps, it occurred to him. It couldn't be drink, because the fellow had been in plain sight for the last hour or more, and there wasn't a whiff of it on his breath.

'Sir!' squeaked Fusilier Batty Evans at his elbow.

With a very great effort Bastable clapped Wimpy on the shoulder. Normally he hated touching people—anyone —

beyond the obligatory handshake. But Harry Bastable wasn't Henry Barstable. And