And then, finally, he did what he always did in the morning. He turned to page four to read the numbers. The number of deaths on our side. The number of deaths on their side. The number of wounded. The number missing in action. But there was only one number that Alfie really cared about: 14278. His dad’s number. The number they’d assigned him when he signed up.
He ran his finger along the list.
14143, Smith, D., Royal Fusiliers
14275, Dempster, C. K., Gloucestershire Regiment
15496, Wallaby, A., Seaforth Highlanders
15700, Crosston, J., Sherwood Foresters (Notts & Derby Regiment)
He breathed a sigh of relief and put the paper down, sipping his tea, trying to think of something else. He shivered a little; the house was always cold. Margie put a few coals on the fire first thing in the morning, but she said there was no point heating the whole place all day when there was just the two of them and she’d be at work and he’d be at school.
“Throwing money away, that is,” she said. “No, we can live with the cold in the mornings. When you get home from school, you can light it for the evening. Only a few coals, mind, and not too many sticks. Kindling isn’t cheap.”
Alfie finished his breakfast and went over to the sink, washing everything that was sitting there—Margie’s breakfast things and his own. He dried them with the tea towel, then hung it on the hook next to the range before putting everything away in the cupboard. He took out the scissors and left them on top of the newspaper so he could cut it into squares later; today’s news was tomorrow’s toilet paper. He looked around and wondered whether the floor needed sweeping, but it seemed clean enough. That was one of Alfie’s jobs now; he kept the place shipshape and Bristol fashion. That’s what Margie called it, anyway.
“We all have to pitch in,” she said. “I wouldn’t ask you if I had time to do it myself.”
Alfie didn’t mind. He hated mess.
He put the kettle on the stove again and heated some more water, poured it in the sink, and let the carbolic soap sit in it for a minute to soften. Then he took off his pajamas and stood in the middle of the kitchen floor—he’d never have done this if Margie was home; he’d have told her to stay outside and put a chair against the door just in case she forgot—and gave himself a bit of a wash, upstairs and down. There was a second towel hanging by the fireplace, and he used that to dry himself. It was rough against his skin and he hated the feel of it, but it was the only one they had. When he was done, he ran back upstairs and got dressed.
It was a Tuesday—a school day. But Alfie didn’t go to school very much anymore. The teachers didn’t seem to mind. They didn’t take a roll-call and they never called on anyone’s mother to say that someone wasn’t showing up. He went sometimes, of course, maybe twice a week. Usually on Monday and Thursday, because Monday was when they studied history and Alfie was very interested in history, especially anything to do with kings and queens and all the wars that had been fought for the Crown of England; on Thursdays they did reading, and Alfie was the best in the class at reading—he was the best in the school, in fact—and he loved to hear Mrs. Jillson, the librarian, reading from a book in class or passing it around so that everyone could have a go at a page or two. Mrs. Jillson was as old as the hills, but she put on funny voices and made all the children do the same thing, and Alfie loved that part of it.
All the teachers now were different than the ones he’d had a few years before. Back then, there were a lot of young men in the school and they were good fun and always wanted a kick-about at lunch time. Now, of course, there wasn’t a single young man left, except Mr. Carstairs, who had two bad legs and walked with crutches. There was hardly a single young man anywhere, in fact, except for Joe Patience, the conchie from number sixteen, and no one ever talked to him. Not even Granny Summerfield, who’d known him since he was a child and had once said that he was like a second son to her—or that she was like a second mother to him, Alfie couldn’t remember which. (Now you couldn’t mention Joe’s name to Granny Summerfield or she’d lose her temper, and once Alfie, watching from his window, had seen them passing in the street, and Granny had slapped him, hard, across the face. Joe Patience! Who was the nicest, friendliest man you could possibly meet!)
The school was now run by old people, some of whom used to be teachers before the war and who said that they thought they were finished with all this malarkey, that they’d been looking forward to a long and happy retirement. People like Mrs. Jillson or Mr. Flaker, the retired civil servant, or Mr. Cratchley, whose son used to teach in the school but was “over there” now, as he told them every day when he asked them to say a prayer for Cecil, for that was his son’s name. Cecil Cratchley. Some had never taught in schools before, but it was all hands to the pump now—that’s what Mr. Flaker said, anyway. Needs must.
And the old people were the worst for caning. The young teachers before the war didn’t do it so much, but Mr. Flaker could barely get through a lesson without beating a boy. Mr. Grace, who had been a valet at Buckingham Palace until he turned sixty-five, even kept a stick up his sleeve with a metal weight taped to the top of it. He called the stick Excalibur. Almost everyone had been on the receiving end of it at one time or another. Not that the boys complained much; most of them got a slap at home for the slightest thing. Only Alfie had never been struck by his parents—Georgie and Margie said they didn’t believe in it—and when he mentioned this one day to Mr. Grace, he went home with Excalibur’s mark seared deeply into his left hand as punishment for his cheek.
Today, however, wasn’t a Monday and it wasn’t a Thursday, so there would be no history and there would be no reading. It was a Tuesday, and so when Alfie was fully dressed, he reached into the back of his wardrobe and pulled out the wooden shoeshine box that he kept there. He placed it on the carpet, opening the lid carefully. The pungent smell of two boxes of polish seeped out, and he checked that everything he needed was inside: his brushes, his shine mitts, his jars of polish, his shoehorn, his horsehair brush, and his leather balm. He checked to see how full everything was, but he’d only restocked from his earnings the previous Friday so it should be another two weeks at least before he’d have to buy anything new. When he was satisfied that he had what he needed, he closed the box, went downstairs, made sure that there were no dirty marks on his face—he had learned long ago that he did better business when his hair was neatly combed and his skin clean—put his coat and scarf on, and went out into the cold October morning.
Alfie Summerfield was the man of the house now, after all. And he had a living to earn.
CHAPTER 4
YOUR KING AND COUNTRY WANT YOU
The shoeshine box was made of dark-brown mahogany. It was twice as long as it was wide, with a gold-colored clasp to unlock the lid from the base that, when opened, revealed three compartments within.
The first contained two horsehair brushes—one black, one brown—with corrugated grips on the handles; the second revealed a set of four gray shining cloths and a pair of sponge daubers; the third held two tins of polish that had been almost full when Alfie found the box. Carved into the side was the word Holzknecht and an emblem that displayed an eagle soaring above a mountain, wild-eyed and dangerous. Secured to the underside of the lid was a footrest that could be taken out and attached to the top of the sealed box through a pair of thin grooves etched into the side. This was where a customer laid his foot when he was having his shoes shined.