‘Didn’t understand a word of it,’ I said to her, and smiled. What else was I supposed to say?
James looked very shifty. He said, ‘Had to come to a compromise, you know?’
‘No I don’t. What have you let me in for?’
‘She’ll take the kid for the time being,’ he said, ‘providing we pay for its upkeep.’
‘That’s OK.’
‘There’s more.’
‘Tell me the worst,’ I asked him.
‘For some reason she thinks the kid’s from somewhere called Brittel. I think that’s about a hundred miles away; further to the east. She says they’ll contact someone they know in Brittel. If they find one of his relations they’ll pass him back.’
‘That sounds OK, too.’
‘They don’t want an extra mouth to feed permanently.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘If they can’t find anybody, they are going to dump him outside the nearest Army base, with a label around his neck bearing the service number and name of one of us. We’ll get him back.’
‘And you said she could have mine?’
‘That seems fair.’ That was Les putting his oar in. ‘It was you that talked us into lifting the little bugger in the first place. No point giving him to me. I’ve plenty of my own.’
‘What about James?’
‘The Major’s a confirmed bachelor. He’d never manage. Nah; if it comes down to it Charlie, he’ll be much better off with you.’
‘He’ll have to find me first.’
‘Isn’t that what your girl Grace said to you? Isn’t that how you ended up here in the first place?’
I said, ‘Fuck the lot of you.’
I broke my golden rule. When we walked back to Kate I couldn’t resist having a quick look over my shoulder. Frieda had the boy again. She raised his arm to make him wave to me. I waved half-heartedly back. I heard her spit out a stream of Kraut, and picked up Papa and Englander. I asked, ‘What was that all about?’
Les said, ‘She told him that you may be his new English father, and come back for him soon.’
I looked again. The little bugger was smiling at me. What else could I do? I grinned back at him. Les told me, ‘He’s got a little dark patch under his nose. That’s where the moustache will grow. Just like Hitler. What will the people down your street think when you get ’ome and bring ’im wiv you?’
I didn’t answer him because there were tears in my eyes. There were tears in my eyes because I had imagined taking him home to my little sister Francie. She would have adored him. So I suppose that I did what Francie would have done anyway. I was almost at Kate’s door when I grunted, ‘Forgot something,’ to them, and, ‘Won’t be a min.’
I hurried back to Otto, Frieda and the kid. I fished out my tags, and pulled off the spare. We always had to wear the two. One was to be tacked on to your grave marker, and the other sent back to your unit. It was nice to find something useful to do with them instead. I put the spare in my jacket pocket – I’d find a string to wear it on later – and hung the other around young Adolf’s neck. I got another slobbery kiss from the woman for the gesture. This time I didn’t look back; that was too difficult. Les put an arm around my shoulder and squeezed, avoiding the tender part. I don’t think that that sort of thing came too easily to him. He said, ‘Proud of you, Charlie. That was nice,’ and, ‘I’ll drive.’
James was already in the back with his notebook open. I don’t think that he even noticed. I reflected on what Les had been willing to do a few hours ago.
Twenty-Four
We made it through the valley in a oner this time. At a Y junction at the end of our valley there was no village smithy under the spreading chestnut tree. It was spreading its new green mantle over an ageing AEC Matador lorry instead – the four-wheeled type, with the soft back. The lorry had that unmistakable sulky look that machinery adopts when it breaks down. The driver, old RASC like Les, was standing beside his cab looking perplexed. He had a fag behind his ear. I waved to him. He nodded back. In the ditch about thirty yards away – up the road we weren’t meant to take – one of those little Jerry jeeps was on its side. It looked otherwise unharmed. The driver caught my glance, nodded towards the wreck, and said, ‘Don’t. It’s wired.’
I never argue with Yorkshiremen: they get too much pleasure from usually being right. I said, ‘Thanks,’ as Les and I walked over to him.
James stayed put in Kate. Les must have felt secure: he left his Sten on Kate’s driving seat. It was National Nodding Day because he nodded too: up at the lorry. It had the name Obadiah lettered neatly in Gothic on a plate above the wind-screen. Les asked, ‘What’s up?’
‘Iffy diffy. That’s the third I’ve run this war. I dunno what he does wi’ ’em.’
‘Why don’t you get rid of it? There’s some good new Bedfords coming in.’
‘Naw. Obi’s taken me up over Italy. Might as well finish it with him.’
Our own esteemed driver poked one of his big pink fingers into the soft canvas canopy covering the lorry’s load.
‘What you got?’
‘Socks. Winter woollen socks, and coffee, tea and some boxes of medicines.’
‘Bremen?’
‘Yeah. You?’
‘Yeah.’
Les pulled at his lower lip. Then he asked, ‘When did you get your orders?’
‘Yesterday. I understand that
