Stay Where You Are and Then Leave (18 page)

In one of those terrible wards.

He threw the duffel bag behind a potted plant and opened the door, poking his head inside. The coast was clear. There was a staircase halfway down the corridor and he looked up; it was at least three stories high, with rooms on the perimeter of every floor. His heart sank, wondering how on earth he would ever find his dad in so large a place.

In front of him was the nurses' station where he had been discovered the last time, and he walked quickly toward it, pleased to see that there was no one there now. If the angry doctor found him again, he'd never believe his story about being the milkman's son. He looked around, stepped behind the desk, and as he did so he saw Dr. Ridgewell, whose shoes he had shined twice now, emerging from one of the wards with another doctor, younger and nervous-looking, and he slipped down behind the counter, hoping that they wouldn't come around to this side.

“… can go home early next week, I think,” Dr. Ridgewell was saying. “Book him in for some appointments with Davis in Harley Street. I've spoken to his secretary—she knows all about it. Once a week should be enough. It's encouraging though, isn't it? To see someone improve so much. It gives one hope for the others.”

“Have you heard anything from the War Office yet, Doctor?” said the younger man.

“About what?”

“Recognition.”

There was a silence for a few moments. “Not yet, no. None of these bloody politicians wants to be the one to actually state the obvious, to make it clear to the public that this condition is real and that it's something we all have to deal with. We'll be dealing with it for years to come, I'm afraid. The problem is, the public still think of it as cowardice, and no one in Parliament has the guts to tell them otherwise.”

“I thought…,” said the young man. “That is to say, I was wondering whether…”

“Oh, spit it out, Chartwell. I don't have all day.”

“Well, it's just that we've had some successes, haven't we? And some failures. Would it be helpful to invite some gentlemen of the press here? They could write about it. Put it about a bit with the general population. We might get a little more public support that way.”

Dr. Ridgewell didn't say anything for a few moments, and when he did his tone suggested he was astounded by the very idea. “Gentlemen of the press?” he asked, slowly enunciating every word. “Have you quite lost your reason, Chartwell? Invite the newspapers here? To the East Suffolk? Do you really think that's what our patients need—a load of gawking journalists interviewing them and taking pictures of them to sell papers?”

“I only meant that if we could tell the world what's going on here, then we might encourage them to speak to their local Members of Parliament. We could show them people like Boyars, since he's going home practically mended. We could tell them about the good work we're doing.”

“And what about those who aren't getting any better, Chartwell—have you thought about them? Levinson on the first floor? Hobbs in the ward next to him? Summerfield on the second? Should we wheel them out too and make a spectacle of them to the world and its mother? Am I to become P. T. Barnum, and these unfortunate men my circus freaks?”

Alfie's ears pricked up when he heard his own surname being mentioned.
Summerfield on the second
.

“I'm sorry, Doctor,” said the young man, a note of contrition in his tone now. “It was a bad idea.”

“It would have to be a considerably better idea, Chartwell, to qualify as a bad idea. It would have many degrees of stupidity to get through before it could aspire to such an elevated term. No, let's just get on with what we do best—the practice of medicine—and leave the outside world to think what they will think. Now, I can't stand around here all day chin-wagging. I have patients to see, and I'm sure that you do too.”

And to Alfie's relief, they started to walk away and never noticed him hiding there.

He jumped out from behind the counter and began climbing the stone stairs, reaching the landing of the first floor and continuing up to the second. At least he knew his father's floor now. There was the murmur of low voices here—patients in their rooms, nurses tending to them—and he tiptoed quietly along, looking into the first ward, trying to stay quiet so that no one would notice him.

It was difficult to identify his father, though, for so many of the men were either curled up in their beds with the blankets pulled up to their faces or sitting in chairs with their backs to him, staring out of the window. His heart sank, and he didn't know what to do—but that was when he saw him, in a ward with the words
ST. MARGARET'S
written above the door, seated by the window, shuffling a pack of cards, pulling different ones out at random, and staring at them for a few moments before putting them back in.

Alfie stepped inside and looked around. There were three other men in the ward. The first was lying in the bed to Alfie's left and was fast asleep, a blanket pulled up to his chin while his hands gripped it like a small child. Opposite him was another man sitting up and reading a book. He put it down when he saw Alfie and started grinning. He didn't have any teeth. Alfie raised a hand and held it in the air for a moment, and the man shook his head and looked away. In the third bed was a very young man—he didn't look more than about eighteen—lying down with his hands clenched into fists, which he held at the sides of his head. Every few seconds his eyes would close tightly and he would emit a strange sound, like a gasp of horror; then the moment would pass and his fists would unclench again before it all began once more. And finally, there by the window was Georgie Summerfield.

“Dad,” said Alfie, reaching him and kneeling down before him. “Dad, it's me. Alfie.”

Georgie stared at him, and the signs of recognition appeared on his face. He already seemed better than he had last week. “Alfie,” he said. “It's never you.”

“It is,” said Alfie. “I told you I'd come back.”

“When did you tell me, Alfie? I'm not dreaming this, am I? Come here to me, son.”

Alfie moved forward, and Georgie put both hands out to touch Alfie's face. His fingers moved across his cheeks and chin, the way a blind man's might if he wanted to find out something about you. “It is you, isn't it?” he said, in a quiet voice, amazement mixed with emotion. “But you've grown so big. You're not five anymore, are you?”

“I'm nine,” said Alfie, confused, for his father had seen him only a few days earlier but seemed to have completely forgotten about it. He glanced at the bedside locker, where three different-colored pills were laid out on a tin plate beside a glass of water, and he wondered how much medicine they were giving Georgie every day and whether it was making him forget things.

“Nine,” said his dad, shaking his head in wonder. “You're not here now too, are you?” he asked suddenly, an expression of horror crossing his face before he shook his head. “No, of course you're not. I'm not thinking straight; you're just a boy. You couldn't be. But then what are you doing here? Who let you in?”

“I've come for you, Dad,” said Alfie.

“For me?”

“To take you home.”

Georgie swallowed and shook his head. “I can't go home,” he said. “I'm not well, Alfie.”

“You're not well because this place is making you not well. But if you come home with me I'll make you better. I promise! You need to get back on the milk float. Mr. Asquith is still there, you know. He misses you something rotten.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Asquith,” repeated Alfie. “You know! Mr. Asquith!”

“Oh yes,” said Georgie, shaking his head slowly as if he had no idea what Alfie was talking about.

“I can come to work with you,” said Alfie. “You said I could when I was older.”

“Five is too young for the floats. Your mother would have my guts for garters.”

“But I'm
nine
now, Dad! Nine!”

A sound came from the boy in the bed opposite, and Alfie looked across at him. His eyes were open but they didn't seem to be focused on anything.

“He's barely said anything sensible in a week, poor blighter,” said Georgie, shaking his head. “His mind's done for.”

“Dad, you have to come with me,” said Alfie, tugging at his father's hand. “We can leave, both of us. There's a train. I've got two tickets. I'll take you home. You'll get better if you just come home.”

“All right, Alfie,” said Georgie, shrugging his shoulders as if he didn't have any choice in the matter. “Dr. Ridgewell's said it's all right, did he?”

Alfie hesitated but then nodded quickly. “Yes,” he replied. “He says you're better and all you need is to go home to your family. He told me to come and get you.”

“He never said anything about it to me. Ow,” he cried suddenly, grimacing and putting a hand to his temple. “Pills, pills,” he grunted, pointing at the dish beside the bed, and Alfie ran over to get them and the glass of water. Georgie swallowed each one quickly and sat back in his chair, breathing heavily as if this had already exhausted him. “It's the headaches,” he said quietly. “I get them every so often. Rotten things, they are. Pain like you wouldn't believe. They make me sick. I need my pills, Alfie. They give me them every three hours. Don't let's go without them.”

“It's fine, Dad,” said Alfie, who knew there was a medicine cabinet in the bathroom at home next to the bandages, a gloopy green bottle for when he had a cough, and a couple of bottles of pills—he didn't know what for. “We've lots of pills at home. You can have some of those.”

“Oh, all right then, Alfie,” said Georgie, shrugging his shoulders again, and it was only now that Alfie realized that his dad wasn't behaving like his dad anymore. It was as if they'd swapped roles and Georgie simply believed whatever Alfie told him; as if he were the adult and Georgie the child. This idea made Alfie feel very uncomfortable and even a little frightened. His dad was supposed to take care of him, not the other way around.

“Come on, then,” he said, pulling his father up again and leading the way out of the ward. “We need to go downstairs quietly.”

“Bye, lads!” said Georgie cheerfully, waving at the men in the beds, but his voice was too loud and Alfie shushed him. They made their way to the ground floor without anyone noticing them, and out into the courtyard, where Alfie retrieved his duffel bag; he opened it and pulled out the trousers, shirt, and jacket that he'd taken from his dad's wardrobe that morning.

“Put these on,” said Alfie. “That way no one will grow suspicious on the train.”

“All right, Alfie,” said Georgie, obediently putting the clothes on over his pajamas and then slipping on the shoes that Alfie handed him. “You are sure about this, though, aren't you? Dr. Ridgewell says it's fine?”

“He told me to come and get you,” said Alfie. “Come on, Dad, let's go.”

As they turned the corner, Alfie saw a man marching toward them wearing a full dress uniform and he felt his heart jump in his chest. The man was staring at the two of them and picking up his pace as he got closer.

“Don't say anything, Dad,” whispered Alfie. “Leave this to me, all right?”

“All right, Alfie,” said Georgie.

“You, boy,” said the man, stopping before them. He had very red cheeks and a snow-white mustache and was carrying something resembling a cane in his hands. “Where am I?”

“The East Suffolk and Ipswich Hospital,” said Alfie.

“Yes, I know that,” said the man irritably. “I'm not completely stupid, you know. I'm looking for the entrance to B wing. There's a bloody great dog down there at the main doors, and every time I try to go in he growls at me. I would have shot him, but I left my gun at GHQ.”

Alfie stared at him in horror. For a moment he wondered whether this was just another one of the patients, but the man's uniform said otherwise.

“Who are you anyway?” asked the man. “What's a boy doing here? And who's this fellow?”

“Georgie Summerfield,” said Georgie, smiling as if the whole thing was a terrific joke. “I had a dog myself when I was a boy. A little King Charles. Melancholy little fellow. But full of love.”

“Fascinating,” said the man. “Work here, do you, Georgie?”

“
Dr.
Summerfield,” said Alfie quickly.

“Oh,” said the man, looking him up and down and backing off a little. “You're in charge around here, are you?”

“Not me, sir, no,” said Georgie.

“Dr. Summerfield is just leaving for the day,” said Alfie.

“At this time?” asked the man, checking his watch. “Bit early to stop work, isn't it?”

“He was on the night shift,” said Alfie.

“And what are you, the ventriloquist's dummy? Can't Dr. Summerfield speak for himself? Who are you anyway?”

“His father is a patient here,” said Georgie, standing up straight now and speaking in a clear voice.

“And how's he doing?”

“Not well. He came to see him, but we can't have boys here. I'm making sure he gets back to the station on my way out.”

“Hmm,” said the man. “Very well. Give him a clip around the ear, did you?”

“No, sir,” said Georgie.

“I would have. Can't abide boys, me. Or girls. Any children, really. Either gender. I don't discriminate. Hate them both equally. Well, look … B wing—help me out, will you?”

“Go through this door,” said Alfie, “then walk down the corridor, take the first left and you'll come to a staircase, go up one flight and turn right until you reach St. Hilda's Ward, then go through the door that says
No Entry
, and the long corridor there will lead you to B wing.”

“Thank you,” said the man, nodding cheerfully now. “Think I got all that.”