CHAPTER 1
SEND ME AWAY WITH A SMILE
Every night before he went to sleep, Alfie Summerfield tried to remember how life had been before the war began. And with every passing day, it became harder and harder to keep the memories clear in his head.
The fighting had started on July 28, 1914. Others might not have remembered that date so easily, but Alfie would never forget it, for that was his birthday. He had turned five years old that day and his parents threw him a party to celebrate, but only a handful of people showed up: Granny Summerfield, who sat in the corner, weeping into her handkerchief and saying, “We’re finished, we’re all finished,” over and over, until Alfie’s mum said that if she couldn’t get ahold of herself she would have to leave; Old Bill Hemperton, the Australian from next door, who was about a hundred years old and played a trick with his false teeth, sliding them in and out of his mouth using nothing but his tongue; Alfie’s best friend, Kalena Janáček, who lived three doors down at number six, and her father, who ran the sweet shop on the corner and had the shiniest shoes in London. Alfie invited most of his friends from Damley Road, but that morning, one by one, their mothers knocked on the Summerfields’ front door and said that little so-and-so wouldn’t be able to come.
“It’s not a day for a party, is it?” asked Mrs. Smythe from number nine, the mother of Henry Smythe, who sat in the seat in front of Alfie in school and made at least ten disgusting smells every day. “It’s best if you just cancel it, dear.”
“I’m not canceling anything,” said Alfie’s mother, Margie, throwing up her hands in frustration after the fifth parent had come to call. “If anything, we should be doing our best to have a good time today. And what am I to do with all this grub if no one shows up?”
Alfie followed her into the kitchen and looked at the table, where corned-beef sandwiches, stewed tripe, pickled eggs, cold tongue, and jellied eels were all laid out in a neat row, covered over with tea towels to keep them fresh.
“I can eat it,” said Alfie, who liked to be helpful.
“Ha,” said Margie. “I’m sure you can. You’re a bottomless pit, Alfie Summerfield. I don’t know where you put it all. Honest, I don’t.”
When Alfie’s dad, Georgie, came home from work at lunchtime that day, he had a worried expression on his face. He didn’t go out to the backyard to wash up like he usually did, even though he smelled a bit like milk and a bit like a horse. Instead, he stood in the front parlor reading a newspaper before folding it in half, hiding it under one of the sofa cushions, and coming into the kitchen.
“All right, Margie,” he said, pecking his wife on the cheek.
“All right, Georgie.”
“All right, Alfie,” he said, tousling the boy’s hair.
“All right, Dad.”
“Happy birthday, son. What age are you now anyway, twenty-seven?”
“I’m five,” said Alfie, who couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be twenty-seven but felt very grown up to think that he was five at last.
“Five. I see,” said Georgie, scratching his chin. “Seems like you’ve been around here a lot longer than that.”
“Out! Out! Out!” shouted Margie, waving her hands to usher them back into the front parlor. Alfie’s mum always said there was nothing that annoyed her more than having her two men under her feet when she was trying to cook. And so Georgie and Alfie did what they were told, playing a game of Snakes and Ladders at the table by the window as they waited for the party to begin.
“Dad,” said Alfie.
“Yes, son?”
“How was Mr. Asquith today?”
“Much better.”
“Did the vet take a look at him?”
“He did, yes. Whatever was wrong with him seems to have worked its way out of his system.”
Mr. Asquith was Georgie’s horse. Or rather he was the dairy’s horse; the one who pulled Georgie’s milk float every morning when he was delivering the milk. Alfie had named him the day he’d been assigned to Georgie a year before; he’d heard the name so often on the wireless radio that it seemed it could only belong to someone very important, and so he decided it was just right for a horse.
“Did you give him a pat for me, Dad?”
“I did, son,” said Georgie.
Alfie smiled. He loved Mr. Asquith. He absolutely loved him.
“Dad,” said Alfie a moment later.
“Yes, son?”
“Can I come to work with you tomorrow?”
Georgie shook his head. “Sorry, Alfie. You’re still too young for the milk float. It’s more dangerous than you realize.”
“But you said that I could when I was older.”
“And when you’re older, you can.”
“But I’m older now,” said Alfie. “I could help all our neighbors when they come to fill their milk jugs at the float.”
“It’s more than my job’s worth, Alfie.”
“Well, I could keep Mr. Asquith company while you filled them yourself.”
“Sorry, son,” said Georgie. “But you’re still not old enough.”
Alfie sighed. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to ride the milk float with his dad and help deliver the milk every morning, feeding lumps of sugar to Mr. Asquith between streets, even though it meant getting up in the middle of the night. The idea of being out in the streets and seeing the city when everyone else was still in bed sent a shiver down his spine. And being his dad’s right-hand man? What could be better? He’d asked whether he could do it at least a thousand times, but every time he asked, the answer was always the same: Not yet, Alfie, you’re still too young.
“Do you remember when you were five?” asked Alfie.
“I do, son. That was the year my old man died. That was a rough year.”
“How did he die?”
“Down the mines.”
Alfie thought about it. He knew only one person who had died. Kalena’s mother, Mrs. Janáček, who had passed away from tuberculosis. Alfie could spell that word. T-u-b-e-r-c-u-l-o-s-i-s.
“What happened then?” he asked.
“When?”
“When your dad died.”
Georgie thought about it for a moment and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, we moved to London, didn’t we?” he said. “Your Granny Summerfield said there was nothing in Newcastle for us anymore. She said if we came here we could make a fresh start. She said I was the man of the house now.” He threw a five and a six, landed on blue 37, and slid down a snake all the way to white 19. “Just my luck,” he said.
“You’ll be able to stay up late tonight, won’t you?” Alfie asked, and his dad nodded.
“Just for you, I will,” he said. “Since it’s your birthday, I’ll stay up till nine. How does that sound?”
Alfie smiled; Georgie never went to bed any later than seven o’clock at night because of his early starts. “I’m no good without my beauty sleep,” he always said, which made Margie laugh, and then he would turn to Alfie and say, “Your mum only agreed to marry me on account of my good looks. But if I don’t get a decent night’s sleep I get dark bags under my eyes and my face grows white as a ghost and she’ll run off with the postman.”