Anybody could outrun such a granddad of a copper, if the only course was to bolt. A Woodbine packet sent spinning along the gutter by a damp wind was run over by a bus. The constable was smiling, so widely it was a wonder his false teeth stayed in. ‘You’ve dropped your Identity Card, sonny.’
‘Oh, thank you, officer. That was careless of me.’
The old fool even picked it up for him. ‘Can’t lose your identity card, lad, or you won’t know who you are, will you?’
‘Not much difficulty there.’ Herbert gave the expected laugh. That bloody cold, with its runny nose calling for the handkerchief so often, had almost done for him. He stowed the card safely in his wallet and looked again at the cover of No Orchids for Miss Blandish set temptingly behind the glass, meanwhile waiting for the Special to turn the corner.
A mindless and happy wandering among carts and lorries in Covent Garden was ended by a violent splashing of rain. Horse piss was washed away, petrol fumes mellowed, but the wind was cold after rain, the sun fickle.
At the clarity of the air a sudden panic sent him back to the safety of the Underground, going down at Holborn and getting out at St Pancras. A shadow passed over him in the great space. He was threatened by odours of smoke and steam, wanted to flee but the street was even rowdier. What to do or where to go was the greatest problem on earth. The worst thing was to look bereft in the booking hall of a mainline station.
His heart thumped at the peculiar sensation of freedom, of having to deal with choice, take risks with reference to nobody else, lock into throngs of people who had a purpose and knew what they had to do. In a German town soldiers with rifles and fixed bayonets might surround him any moment and march him back to the prison camp. At least you’d know what was what.
The cheerful scene, even an educational experience, told him he would be safe as long as he kept moving and appeared certain of what he wanted to do. But what was that? He could only say it was good to be in England now that April was here. Instinct, welcome reinforcement to his fix, said that other people were his best camouflage, the commoner the better, so he stood at the back of a queue and stayed till an army sergeant in front asked for a ticket to Nottingham. Why not? Herbert’s twenty-one shillings and eight pence was at the ready. Whoever will imagine I’ve gone to such an outlandish place?
There was a rush along the line to get on board and, well trained in games of murder ball, he forced his way through. A balding middle-aged man in spectacles glared as Herbert fell into a spare seat. Simpson had put the NCOs through a course of unarmed combat, so if it came to a fight he could hurl the weedy twerp through the window.
He was disappointed. A scrap would have been fun, made him feel less tight, though it wasn’t on because you didn’t draw attention to yourself when on the run. The pathetic man, a clerk most likely, folded his newspaper to read standing up. Maybe he had been wounded in Normandy and was now demobbed, you never could tell, which thought made Herbert give up his seat to a woman and her child.
He stood in the crowded corridor, back to Caged Birds, though the narrative seemed less gripping now. The train moved slowly through railway yards, and he was glad to be on his way, almost gloating. Let them find me. I’m safe for a hundred and thirty miles, unless we go into a river like the train at the Tay. Life was exciting, helped by the metallic thump-thump of the wheels. The only thing wrong was in being hungry, but that was also part of the escape. Dismal buildings bordered the line, bare bulbs glowing between in the partially lifted blackout. A man stood at one in his undershirt, perfectly still, as if watching every face in the train, like a policeman off duty.
What peculiar places people lived in. If he had to hole up in such style — he pushed a soldier away who was trying to lean on his shoulder and go to sleep — he might not like his freedom at all. On the other hand maybe he would be glad to live in such a room. He’d be glad to live in even worse at the moment, except that he had to vagabond as far as possible, go somewhere else after — where was it? — Nottingham, and lay a twisting trail to mystify and wear out the most fanatical hue-and-criers.
The market square seemed vast in the semi-blackout. But for a single trackless bus it looked like an encampment that had been abandoned to flowerbeds and low stone walls. Herbert wasn’t worried about finding a place to sleep, but knew he would sooner or later have to discover a niche into which a policeman was unlikely to poke his nose. His money was almost gone, and his gas mask had been left behind, though he didn’t think there could be any use for that at this late stage of the war.
Eight boomed from the clock above the Council House and it felt like midnight. On a further exhausting perambulation of the square, pausing again to look at the lions, those same old lions, he saw a pub, or rather heard it, the noise sounding as if the whole population of the town was carousing inside. He edged a way to the bar through a crowd of mostly servicemen.
Sixpences were draining away but he scorned to spend them carefully. Glancing at an old man close by, dressed in a clean blue overcoat, a cap and scarf, and with an empty half-pint glass by his side, he said: ‘Have a drink on me.’
The man’s look of surprise was more obvious than his expression of distrust. ‘All right. I’ll have the same again.’
Herbert, celebrating his escape from school, called for two, and along they came for a shilling.
‘Throwing your money around, aren’t you?’
‘Not particularly.’ Herbert refrained from sneering. Parsimony was the last refuge of — he couldn’t think what. ‘Perhaps I want to get rid of it. Anyway, it’s a great occasion for me.’
‘Is it, then? How much money have you got?’
Herbert wiped his nose, and explored the cloth caverns of his pockets. ‘Another two shillings.’
‘Where did you pick up that stinking cold?’
The whole damned school had had one. ‘On the train, I suppose.’ Colds were loathsome, only inferior types stricken — till you caught one yourself. ‘It was packed.’
‘They usually are. Here’s to your health, which seems a fair toast.’
Wasn’t there a line in Lullabalero about Nottingham’s fine ale? He’d never tasted anything so good. ‘And to yours, as well.’
‘I’m Isaac Frost.’ A frail hand was held out for shaking. ‘What might yours be?’
He touched the cold fingers. ‘Herbert.’
‘Is that all?’
‘For the moment.’
Isaac looked at him pityingly. ‘I’ve met some funny chaps in my time, but not one that throws his money about when he’s got so little.’
Herbert supposed that his lavish father would easily spend his last shilling treating someone he didn’t know to a drink, especially if he came into a place like this and met one of his old soldiers — except that he most probably wouldn’t set much store by this dive. He took his foot from the brass rail and stood full height. ‘As soon as I’ve nothing left it will collect my mind wonderfully towards getting some more.’
Isaac adjusted his glasses on hearing such pretentious nonsense. ‘Sounds a cock-eyed notion to me. And you’re a bit too young to be a philosopher. You’re from London, I suppose?’
Herbert had heard of coppers’ narks, and wondered whether he shouldn’t make a run from this noisy and exuberant den, though pride decided him not to. Either that, he thought, or I’m too done in to care. ‘Thereabouts.’