Free The Man in the Shed by Lloyd Jones

a while.
    The name ‘Andrei’ was called out—it was the man who had sat across the aisle on the bus. This morning he had offered Maggie a carrot smeared with horse radish. Mr Simpson had declined it with a wave of his hand. Maggie had smiled, and said, ‘No, but thank you very much.’ They had their water crackers and tea flask.
    Now this same man left the table to run and hug ‘Lenka’, a woman unused to make-up perhaps, and whose hair was more usually kept in a scarf. The women whose names were called appeared older than the men. Their faces bore the lines of perseverance Mr Simpson had seen in old
National
Geographic
s—Soviet women in overalls and scarves, shouldering brooms and shovels.
    Not everyone stood up and paired off, thankfully. And soon the business was completed, and the Simpsons were fed a watery stew of potatoes and cabbage. The man alongside pointed to the contents of his glass and said, ‘Schnapps.’ Mr Simpson nodded that he understood. So did Mrs Simpson.
    There was no dessert. There were second helpings if the Simpsons cared for them. The other diners, Mr Simpson noted, gave no thought to it; and he did not wish to appear insensitive. The room was abuzz with laughter and had recovered the high spirits of earlier, when the Simpsons had found themselves alone, outside. The ‘couples’ wandered around the two tables. The women presented their men, who were embraced, their faces held and kissed on both sides.
    They were deserters from the Russian army. Soldiers in the last regiments to fall back from occupied Germany in the late forties. Men impatient to be with their girlfriends, their wives and families. They had fled the army, only to flee their homeland.
    Mr Simpson learnt this outside the restaurant. Maggie was off trying to find a bathroom; and he was enjoying a cigarette when he felt a tap on his shoulder, and the surprise of his name spoken.
    ‘Mr Simpson, please?’
    It was the same man who had shown them to their place in the restaurant. Over his shoulder Mr Simpson saw the doorsof the restaurant burst open with the exit of a happy laughing couple and there was a split-second view of the bus driver looking back his way.
    The man in the waistcoat was very polite. He meant no harm. But he needed to know some things.
    ‘How did you find this bus tour, please?’
    Mr Simpson told him the business of his wife going out to buy ice-cream—how she had returned with the cardboard notice. And the man said, ‘Yes, yes,’ as if these were things he already knew. He said there was a man, Kolya, and he pointed back at the restaurant. Kolya had a confectionary shop popular with Russian émigrés in London. Could it have been there that Mr Simpson’s wife had found the notice?
    ‘Look, she went out to buy ice-cream. That’s all,’ said Mr Simpson. He didn’t know anything about Russian deserters. He told the man he was a builder. A successful builder. Then he told him the name of his country, as if that fact alone might explain everything.
    ‘It is very important,’ the man said. ‘The women are to travel in the bus as far as Leningrad. From there they will return and the men will carry on. Please, we do not want unhappiness. We wish to avoid mistakes.’ The man asked Mr Simpson to show mercy. ‘These people are not traitors. They are husbands and wives.’
    There were more people than seats on the bus but no one thought to complain. Mr Simpson looked out the window. It was pitch-black. Nowhere did there appear so much as afarmhouse light. He guessed they would be on back roads all the way to Leningrad. He passed on to Maggie what he had been told. He whispered of the people around them who were swaying in the bus aisle, laughing and kissing. Someone had a camera and was taking photographs. Across the aisle Lenka sat in Andrei’s lap. He tickled her behind the ear, and she in turn gave his nose a playful tweak. A Polaroid was passed around. The couple laughed at themselves in the photo.