Free Stay Where You Are and Then Leave by John Boyne Page B

that since he’d started working at King’s Cross he’d learned instinctively when someone wanted to talk and when someone wanted to be left in peace. Men like Mr. Podgett enjoyed the sound of their own voices. Others, like Wilf, seemed as if they wanted a bit of a conversation. And as far as Alfie was concerned, that was all part of the job.
    â€œGoing somewhere nice, sir?” he asked.
    â€œCheltenham,” said Wilf. “Nice place; not a nice reason.”
    Alfie looked up and understood immediately why the young man was wearing black.
    â€œMy brother’s funeral,” explained Wilf. “My younger brother, that is. Alistair. They brought his body back this weekend.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Alfie.
    â€œYes,” replied Wilf, the word catching in his throat a little. “Yes, so am I. Only eighteen years old, you see. The youngest of us all. And the brightest. I only saw him about a month ago. He was shipping out of Aldershot on his way to Calais. I went down to Southampton to wish him luck.”
    Alfie stopped buffing when he heard that word— Aldershot . That was where Georgie had been sent for training. He’d stayed there for a couple of months, learning to fight, learning to kill, before being sent to France, where he’d written to them every week for almost two years before the letters suddenly stopped and Margie said that he couldn’t write anymore, on account of the fact that he was on a secret mission for the government.
    Which, as far as Alfie was concerned, was an adult way of saying that your father is dead but we don’t want to tell you the truth.
    â€œAlistair got himself killed only a couple of weeks after he arrived, poor chap,” continued Wilf. “I don’t know if it was a blessing for him or a tragedy. He didn’t have to spend years in the trenches like some of the other poor souls over there. He’s out of it now, isn’t he?”
    â€œWhat happened to him?” asked Alfie, looking up, knowing he shouldn’t ask questions like this, but the words were out of his mouth before he could pull them back.
    â€œSome fool of a sergeant sent him over the top in the middle of the night as a stretcher bearer,” said Wilf. “It’s a suicide mission, isn’t it? Collecting the dead. No one can survive it. There should be an hour’s armistice when both sides can go over and collect their fallen soldiers. I suggested it once, at GHQ, and the way the generals looked at me you would have sworn I was waving the white flag of surrender. All I wanted was a bit of civilized behavior in an uncivilized world. Still, Alistair wouldn’t have felt a thing, which is something, I suppose. But by God, it took them long enough to ship the body home. The funeral’s later today. The War Office gave me the day off. So it’s over and back to Cheltenham for me, and no time to spend with my family. I have to be at my desk again first thing tomorrow morning or there’ll be hell to pay.”
    Alfie glanced over at Wilf’s cane, which was propped up against the chair next to him. His eyes lingered there for a moment before he realized that Wilf was watching him.
    â€œWondering about this, are you?” he asked. “It’s kept me out of it for the last two years. Took a sniper bullet through my femur just outside Mons. Lay in a field hospital for a week or two while they tried to save the leg. Nothing doing, of course. Would have saved a lot of time and energy if they’d just cut the blighter off the day I arrived instead of waiting for two whole months.”
    Alfie stopped what he was doing, his hands hovering in the air over Wilf’s left shoe.
    â€œOh yes, that’s a false leg, I’m afraid,” he said. “Don’t be frightened, boy. There’s nothing to fear.”
    Alfie shook his head and went back to his shoe shining. “I’m not frightened,” he