Free Perfect Gallows by Peter Dickinson Page B

the bobby the brass dancer, which he’d taken for that purpose.
    â€œVery nice,” said the bobby. “You got something to remember her by, then. Off to the station with you now.”
    His voice was gruff with emotion. Andrew thanked him again, with a choke in his own voice. A couple of streets further on he tossed the dancer up into a static-water tank and heard it splash. No alliances, no obligations, no memories, no regrets. Clean.
    He pushed through swing doors into the Woodbine-reeking fug of the police-station front office. Four or five people were waiting, crouched on hard benches in the long boredom of war. A woman wearing a fur coat and a pork-pie hat like a man’s was at the counter watching the desk-sergeant write in a ledger. At the movement of the doors she turned.
    â€œAndrew!” she said. “Oh, thank heavens!”
    It was Cousin Brown. The sergeant stopped writing and looked up.
    â€œFound him already?” he said. “There’s service for you.”
    â€œOh, my poor boy,” said Cousin Brown. “How dreadful for you about your mother, but how wonderful that you are alive. Of course we believed that you must have been at home when the bomb fell but they had failed to find you. They had telephoned The Mimms, thinking you were still with us, so I came in to see what I could do. You will come home with me, won’t you? There is no need to pay the slightest attention to what Father says—in the evenings, that is.”
    Andrew shook his head. His dazedness was real. He felt exhausted, too feeble to summon the protective presence of Adrian to act for him.
    â€œHalf a mo, madam,” said the sergeant. “That’s not how we do things in the police force. I’ll have a few particulars from the young gentleman, if you don’t mind.”
    Fetching a fresh ledger he wrote with deliberate slowness. Andrew let Cousin Brown spell out the address of The Mimms as his new home, but as soon as they were out on the steps he said, “It’s very kind of you, Cousin Elspeth, but actually I can’t come back to The Mimms now.”
    â€œOh, but …”
    â€œI’ve got a job. Acting. It’s only Dopey in the panto, but it’s something.”
    â€œMy dear boy! I quite understand. You have somewhere to live?”
    â€œMrs Habermas—she’s the stage manager’s aunt—she’s got my ration-book so I can eat there. I’m sleeping under the stage.”
    Cousin Brown stopped in her stride and turned to face him. It had started snowing again, crumbs of whiteness dribbling through the grey air. Her breath rose in a cloud. Her eyes glittered.
    â€œHow too lovely for you! And of course you cannot tell the authorities lest they try to prevent you. I shall not. I know you are doing precisely what you should. Perhaps I shall come and see the show this afternoon.”
    â€œI suppose I’ll need somewhere to live when the run ends. It’ll be term again then. I don’t want to swap schools—there’s Higher Cert this summer.”
    â€œI shall have to think about that. We have several connections in Southampton—old servants and so on. We shall look after the rent, of course, and I must talk to Mr Oyler about making you an allowance …”
    â€œBut …”
    â€œNonsense. You positively must have independence. Now, Andrew, I have a proposal to put to you. To anyone who did not think as we do it might seem heartless, raising such a matter so soon after your poor mother’s death, but I know you will understand. I barely slept following our talk last week and was quite disappointed to discover when I rose that you had already left. The thing is, I have decided to revive the Players this summer. I shall put The Tempest on. I want you to help me.”
    Andrew gazed at her, saying nothing. The feebleness which had overcome him in the police station was back, worse. He’d had two dry