The Hour of the Donkey

But it would be a mistake to stand up, above her.

Why was he doing this?

It would be a mistake, therefore he must crawl that yard, through the wreckage of her grandmother's linen sheets, through the tangle of her grandmother's wedding dress—her mother's wedding dress?—which she would never wear in her turn.

Mustn't take his eyes off her, either.

He moved on knees and one hand, the other still extended towards her.

'Chocolat?'

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She was focusing on him, and the little clenched hands moved as the flat chest behind them inflated with a long fearful breath.

Poor little mite, thought Harry Bastable— poor little mite and poor Harry Bastable, both equally stretched beyond endurance!

The chocolate was disgusting—revolting—a dead man's possession; he flung it to one side with a twitch of his wrist and stretched out both arms to her, opening his hands to offer her the only thing he had that was his, the comfort of his own loneliness, his own confusion and fear.

She was in his arms.

'Good man!' said Wimpy. 'I knew you could do it, old boy.'

'What?' Bastable moved his head just enough to take Wimpy in, without disturbing the child more than was necessary.

'I said 'I knew you could do it'—you've got a way with them, Harry—that's all. But now we must go.'

'What?'

'We must go—downstairs—on the double, too—'

'Why?'

'The fields are crawling with Jerries., old boy—tanks and infantry—crawling with the blighters . . . what we want is ...

something white to wave—' Wimpy bent down and picked up the remains of the torn linen sheet '— this'll do fine.'

'Why?' With the child hanging on to him so desperately, dummy4

Bastable was unwilling to move from the safety of the attic.

Wimpy tore savagely at the sheet. 'I told you—the Jerries are all around . . . and if they start searching the houses for our chaps before we can get outside, then I want to be ready for them, old boy. That's why!'

'But . . . won't we be safer here?'

'I wouldn't like to bet on it—here, take this strip—' Wimpy thrust a large square of sheet into ore of Bastable's hands '—

wave that as you go out—'

' Out?' The word squeaked.

'That's right—out. Now's the time to go through them, if there's ever going to be a time—before they've got themselves organized, don't you see?' Wimpy examined the piece of sheet he had torn for himself. 'If I could attach this to a stick or something . . . Now's the time: we'll just be civilians running away—with a bit of luck they won't bother about us, they must have seen thousands of civilians trying to beat it out of the line of fire. The sooner we get out of their way, the better—for them as well as us—don't you see?'

Bastable saw. But now, he also saw, things were different.

The little limpet which was attached to him made them different.

'But what about the child?'

'We take her with us—of course.' Wimpy frowned at him. 'It was your idea in the first place, Harry—and a bloody good idea, too, by God!'

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'My—idea?' Bastable stroked the little girl's back with his empty hand, feeling the back-bone through her dress, quietening the sobs to an irregular trembling.

'With the baby—our little Alice that was.' Wimpy peered down the trap-door opening. 'The child will take Alice's place, that's all.'

'What?'

'She's part of our disguise, don't you see?' Wimpy looked up at him. 'Come on.'

Bastable tightened his own hold on the limpet protectively.

'No, Willis. I won't have it! We can't risk her.'

'We won't be risking her. The Germans won't shoot a child.

They're not savages.'

'No, damn it!'

'She'll double our chances... They'll not look twice at two civilians with a child.' Wimpy shook his head in surprise.