'Merci, Madame,' he said again, aware as he spoke that the would-be lynching party behind him was dispersing.
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She scrutinized him for a moment, this time neither speaking nor smiling. Indeed, he could see no friendliness in her face at all: it was as though they were back where they had been when he first saw her, before he had revealed Alice to her. So perhaps that was where they were, with all debts settled—his life for Alice's—and nothing left for him but to leave her alone in the ruins of her town, to go away and never ret urn.
'M'sieur,' she said finally, and then nodded, and turned away into the dark interior of her wrecked shop. He heard her picking her way carefully over its littered floor, but eventually the crunch of her footsteps on fallen plaster faded into silence.
Now he was alone again, with the motor-cycle, and he felt oddly light-headed. It must be the French lady's brandy, he decided. He had drunk rather a lot of that, and on a stomach containing only the bread he had shared with Alice in the half-light of early dawn... though by the position of the sun it was still only early morning, even though so much had happened to him since then. Indeed, the French lady's brandy must also be to blame for that sudden blinding, murderous rage he had surrendered to, which had nearly been the death of him.
He started to wonder what else would happen to him, but resolutely stopped wondering when the first instant possibility to occur to him was that this could be the day of dummy4
his death—the odds on that lay all around him.
Wimpy must have wandered out of earshot, or out of range of the sound of the motor-cycle's engine-noise anyway, for
But . . . supposing Wimpy didn't come back?
Then he would truly be alone. The last, the very last, of the Prince Regent's Own South Downs Fusiliers, outside death and captivity.
That thought was unbearable, so he turned his mind away from that too, and busied himself with examining the motorcycle. He had never ridden a motor-cycle— Father had refused point-blank to permit it. But if ... but it shouldn't be too difficult to work the thing out, one way or another. If ...
'Hullo there,' said Wimpy, conversationally, from behind him. 'You've found one of the bikes, then.'
'Yes.' Bastable was surprised at Wimpy's lack of enthusiasm.
'Where did you get it?'
'Oh . ..' Past time flowed for an instant before Bastable's eyes, as for a drowning man, and then was gone. It didn't really matter: it was over.'... The Frogs supplied it, old boy.'
'They did?' Wimpy looked at him incuriously. His face had an unnatural look; it had lost its healthy tan, and was like the piece of upper arm which showed through the tear in his battledress blouse—pasty white under dirt. 'That was deuced civil of them.' He bent down to examine the motorcycle.
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'Yes, it was.' Wimpy's lack of interest decided Bastable finally to keep the details of his own experiences to himself.
'The 500 cc Norton ... I would have preferred the Ariel,'
murmured Wimpy ungratefully.
'The Ariel?'
'Only 350 cc, but more nippy . . . And damn good front suspension...' Wimpy tweaked the machine. 'Petrol's okay, that's one good thing. Right!' He stood up. 'Hold this, will you?'
He threw a battledress blouse to Bastable, and then started to unbuckle his equipment. Bastable stared at the blouse, which belonged to a captain in the RAMC.
'Is this Doc Savmders's?' It was a stupid question, really.
Wimpy stripped off his own blouse and held out his hand for the exchange.
'He won't be needing it.' Wimpy handed his own blouse to Bastable in exchange for the RAMC one.
'What?'
'My need is greater than his.' Wimpy buttoned up the blouse and picked up his equipment. 'Wrap it up and put it on the baggage thing at the back and sit on it. I'll take my stuff out of it later —' he pointed to the metal carrier on the back of the Norton'—it'll protect your arse in the meantime. Let's get the hell out of this bloody place.'
Bastable blinked unhappily at him. This was a strangely-dummy4
altered Wimpy, and he preferred the old one.
'For Christ's sake, come on, Harry!' snapped Wimpy, throwing his leg astride the Norton.
Even before Bastable could reply he stood fiercely on the kick-starter. The engine turned over, but didn't fire.
'Fuck!' spat Wimpy. 'Start, damn you!'
He kicked again, and the engine roared explosively. Bastable wrapped the battledress blouse into an untidy bundle and placed it on top of the metal carrier, and himself on top of it, astride it.
'Hold on,' commanded Wimpy.
Bastable clasped him desperately. The road ahead was scattered with rubble and pock-marked with holes in the pave, but before he could protest at Wimpy's assumption of command the motor-cycle was moving, and all consecutive thought was jolted out of his mind.
Except—
