The Hour of the Donkey

An old man—a genuinely old man—a youth, and three women of mature age . . . perhaps not grandmothers, but it was hard to tell under their enveloping shawls.

They all regarded Wimpy and Bastable with undisguised hatred.

'Pardonnez-moi, mais—' Wimpy started again.

We are no different from 'les Baches' to them, thought Bastable. And to them we are just as much to blame for this as 'les Baches'—perhaps even more so. Because if we hadn't been here then this wouldn't have happened . .

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The looks didn't change as Wimpy spoke, if anything they intensified. And Wimpy faltered under them.

'Tell them about Alice,' said Bastable.

'Oh . . . right—yes . . .' Wimpy changed gear. 'Mon camarade

—'

As the words spilled out of Wimpy, Bastable parted the edges of the shawl to reveal Alice's little face. It looked white and pinched at first, but even as the material parted it began to redden—and he knew what that meant: Alice was about to register her protest with the world again.

He rocked her desperately in his arms. 'There now, Alice—

everything's all right now, Alice!'

Suddenly he wanted very badly to get rid of her. He had wanted to do that off and on, more or less continually, ever since he had acquired her—he recognized the desire. Harry Bastable carrying a baby, pushing a baby, saddled with a baby, was ridiculous . . . and she had already made him do things that sickened him when he thought about them and she smelt, and she had wet his arm, and his shoulder ached, and she was just about to make that awful noise again.

One of the women moved in front of him. She made noises—

the sort of noises women made to babies, French noises not quite the same as Evelyn Gorton had made to her Precious, but the same noises more or less—as she reached up to relieve Bastable of his burden.

He smiled and nodded at the woman, who was rather ugly dummy4

and had crooked teeth, but who also smiled and nodded back at him. The only French words he could remember were

'Pour le chien', and as they were hardly appropriate he went on smiling and nodding.

The baby started to whimper. She didn't cry—even to the very end of their relationship she was a very good baby, he had to admit that.

'Tell her—tell her I gave her a bottle of milk last evening, and some bread and water this morning,' said Bastable. 'I expect she's hungry.'

He wondered where the woman was going to find milk in this desolation. But that was her problem now, he was free of it; and at least she was better placed to deal with it than he was.

Wimpy translated, and the woman nodded. Then she said something softly to Bastable, touching his arm before she turned away.

Bastable thought that the old man and the youth didn't look a lot friendlier, but the other women clustered round the baby, and that seemed to take the edge off the situation.

'I told her you'd saved Alice under fire,' said Wimpy. There are times to gild the lily, and I rather think this is one of them.

He turned back to the old man and gabbled more French at him.

The old man replied grudgingly.

'What does he say?' asked Bastable.

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The old man spoke again, this time obviously putting a question of his own to Wimpy.

'He wants to know if we are the British coming back,' said Wimpy. 'He says the Germans have gone, whatever that means.'

'But where's the battalion?'

Wimpy addressed the old man again.

The old man shrugged, gestured eloquently up the road, and spoke briefly. Then he shrugged again, and said something else.

'What does he say?'

'They were in a cellar . . . hush!' Wimpy cut Bastable off.

More words, more gestures, all equally indecipherable.

Wimpy listened and nodded, leaving Bastable in an agony of ignorance.

Finally the old man stopped, and then simply turned away, taking the youth's arm. Bastable realized that the women had disappeared into the ruined shop, with the baby, without his noticing their departure.

'Please—?' It was a strange feeling to be unencumbered.

'What happened?'

Wimpy's shrug owed something to its French model. 'They don't really know. There was an attack, so they