Chapter One
Alfred was growing a moustache.
An untrained observer might think he was idling, at a loose end in the
countryside, but this wasn’t the case. In fact, he was concentrating, thinking
his way through every bristle, making sure they would align and be all right.
His progress so far was quite impressive: a respectable growth which already
suggested reliability and calm. There were disadvantages to him, certain
defects: the shortness, inelegant hands, possible thinning at his crown, habit
of swallowing words before they could leave him, habit of looking mainly at the
ground-and those few extra pounds at his waist, a lack of condition-but he
wasn’t so terribly ugly, not such a bad lot.
Mainly his problem was tiredness-or more an irritation with his tiredness-or
more a tiredness that was caused by his irritation-or possibly both. He could
no longer tell.
It wasn’t that he was awkward, or peculiar, quite the reverse: he was biddable
and sensible and ordinary, nothing more: but even an ordinary person could
sometimes have enough and get browned off and, for example, want to be offered,
every now and then, a choice.
That was only reasonable, wasn’t it? A man had to imagine he’d got a chance at
freedom, a bit of space. The interval between alternatives, that gave you space.
But sometimes you would consider yourself and all you could see were
obstructions and you’d be amazed that you ever were able to leave your
house-your bed, never mind your house. You’d look in the mirror some mornings
and wonder why it didn’t show; the way most of you was always yelling to get
out.
Moustache or no moustache, that wouldn’t change.
The trouble was, you had too much to do: breathing, sleeping, waking, eating:
you couldn’t avoid them, were built to need them, and so they just went on and
on. Where were the other possibilities, the changes you might want to make-like
walking off beneath the ocean-not being a fish, he bloody hated fish, but being
a man tucked away in the ocean, why couldn’t he try that? Why couldn’t he try
out whatever he thought?
And thinking itself, that wasn’t helpful and yet you had to do it all the time.
It was there when you dreamed, when you spoke, when you carried out your very
many other compulsory tasks. If you couldn’t keep control and stay wary, you
might think anything, which was exactly the one freedom you’d avoid. You could
dodge certain thoughts, corkscrew off and get yourself out of their way, but
they’d still hunt you.
You have to watch.
This morning he could feel them, inside and out, bad thoughts getting clever
with him, sly. They lapped like dirtied water behind his face and outside him
they thickened the breeze until the surface touching him, pressing his lips, was
far more quick and complex than only air. Today it had the smell of blue, warm
Air-Force blue: the stink of drizzle rising up from wool and everywhere the
smell of living blue: polish and hair oil and that sodding awful pinky-orange
soap and Woodbines and Sweet Caporal and those other cheap ones, the ones they
gave away after ops: Thames cigarettes, to flatten out the nerves.
“Hello, looks like London Fog again.”
Pluckrose had started them calling it London Fog: the Thames smoke haze in the
briefing room-him first and then everybody. One of the things they had between
them as a crew: “London Fog again.”
But he wouldn’t remember Pluckrose, wasn’t going to ask him in.
Chop it. All right?
And this time I mean it. All right?
So the noise throttled back, obedient, let him be where he was.
Not that he was any too clear about that-his precise location-beyond the fact
that he was sitting, sitting behind a young moustache.
They’d left the path an age ago, Alfred hadn’t noticed when, and there was no
doubt they were lost now, if they ever had known where to go. And that had been
something of a pain, an irritation: arriving in nowhere, having to stumble and
tramp along on a track that divided and twisted and then abandoned them
completely: sent him sweating through ragged scrub behind a man who was a
stranger-Vasyl-someone you heard about: rumours of bad history and a knife.
But this is fine. I am still enjoying my situation. It doesn’t worry me a bit.
Because I am choosing to be happy. It’s all so big and flat out here that I can
have room for that.
And it’s a fine day and good to get a rest, clear off out of it into the open.
So I won’t be downhearted: there’s no need.
Plus, at least this is peaceful and I always did appreciate a little peace. You
can have enough of crowds. They pester your head.
One at a time, you could deal with people, but not crowds, and these last weeks
had been very much less than deserted-being transported, lectured, ordered
about-just like the old days-too much like the old days-you and the other
volunteers. First rule of civilised life-never volunteer. So it’s sensible
today, when you’re not required, that you should go and catch your breath, get
settled down, and nobody can do that with an audience: it’s neither possible nor
dignified.
Vasyl, of course, is not an audience and therefore doesn’t count. Men you hear
stories about take no interest in what you do. They let you carry on as you want
to and pretend they haven’t seen. They act the way they hope you will for them.
It must have been a while since they’d packed in the walking, settled themselves
on a patch of turf scattered with small yellow flowers he couldn’t name. His
view of the moorland was gently shuddering with heat and he realised he’d kicked
pale dust all over his boots, his trouser cuffs. Everything he wore was loaned
to him, not truly his responsibility, but still in some part of himself it was
kit he was used to maintaining. Why else keep wearing it? He didn’t have duties
today, it wasn’t necessary.
Look at you-filthy-all over the place-you’d have been torn off one for this,
Day. You’d have put up a black for this. A proper disgrace to everyone
concerned.
Sod it now, though, eh? No more playing silly buggers over that.
Not to mention that King’s Regulations no longer apply.
And the dust, you might say, was so distant there at the far end of his body and
nothing to do with up here and the neat, clean secrecy of private thought,
invited thought.
A good roast of sun, it slows you, lets you relax-and out here if there’s
anything wrong, you can see it coming with bags of time to do what’s next. This
is the place and the weather for peace, for the cultivation of a friendly mind.
He wriggled his fingers and focused on enjoying the well-trained, emptied murmur
that mildly ran his brain inside his skull, circulated the blood, kept him
smooth and defended and working, imagining a thrum against his hands where they
cuddled the back of his head and kept him from the lumps and buttons in his
folded jacket. Battledress made a lousy pillow. You might almost think it had
been invented with some other purpose in mind.
The wiry grass was pricking through his shirt, but that was quite calming for
some reason, as was the din of insects, singing out around him for mile upon
tussocky mile. Lying down like this: it was very good-a long time since he’d
known it be so satisfactory and really improved by having this stranger with
him, this Vasyl, this silly basket who was sitting and rocking and shifting and
messing about, flicking an American lighter constantly, sucking on stolen
American cigarettes. Very possibly he stole the lighter, too.
“D’you have to smoke that loudly?”
“I do, yes. I do.” Funny accent, as if his tongue had been damaged, or was numb.
“These are good. Highest quality. You want one?” And a dry voice, dulled-it
made you feel some part of him had died, although you ignored that-nothing to do
with you.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Everybody smokes, Mr. Alfred.”
“Then I must be nobody, Basil.” Enjoying the thought of annoying a man it might
be awkward to upset.
“Vasyl. Vasyl. Not a difficult name. A nice Ukrainian name. Also I can be called
Slavko. This is another name I have. Better name.”
“You mean like a middle name? Like Basil Slavko.”
“I mean my other name. Other name for other things. Vasyl.” That sounded as
nettled as a dead voice could, but still was not satisfactorily upset.
“Where did you get the lighter?” And adding, “Vasyl,” making sure to say it
wearily and too loud, because nobody had to bother about people’s names, not any
more-insisting on details was absurd-and because maybe he wanted to pick a
fight. Alfred wondered if this, in fact, was why he’d come-make a jaunt across
the heath for exercise and education, have someone punch your lights out, then
beetle off back. It would make a change.
But now Vasyl only giggled in a monotone that made Alfred feel slightly sickened
and also ridiculous and, “You take one.” The pack offered with a sharp little
prod at his shoulder. “Have one. You would like.” Vasyl leaning on his arm,
breathing, sweating. “Real Chesterfields.” His uniform possibly hotter than
Alfred’s.
Alfred waiting until the bleeder had retreated. “You have one for me. I’m
nobody, remember? No other name. No other things.”
“OK.”
Alfred flicked a look across, caught Vasyl lighting a second cigarette, holding
one in each hand at this point and grinning-deepish eyes staying worried, or
certainly busy with some type of calculation, an urgency-but the mouth
apparently friendly and content. Funny skin he had, pitted-made Alfred think of
shrapnel, explosions. Which didn’t suit his mood.
“And what you look like, I can’t say” Alfred subsided, realigned his head
against his palms and stretched.
“I look like a man with a great many of cigarettes.” An emphasis in this, sharp,
and next a hacking laugh that funnelled quickly into coughing, silence, then a
regular drag to the left, drag to the right.
I never did smoke, no matter what. They said that I would in the end, but I
didn’t. Ma told me not to-wouldn’t see me spending all my money and then she’d
go mithering herself about accidents I could have-petrol and engines and fires.
I told her she needn’t worry. But you do what your ma says anyway, don’t you,
cocker? Have to try and keep to that.
And I sent her a bit of my money. Not enough.
Not that she asked.
She would never have asked.
I tried.
That’s the thing. That I tried.
Oh, ar. I was a good boy. I’ve murdered and I stole and used big words, but I
never smoked and I was a good boy. A grand lad, me.
The sky was staring down at Alfred, taking quite an interest suddenly, and he
squinted up at it, felt a balance agreed between them, unwinding him, washing
his limbs. “Must have been a storm somewhere.” He was slow enough to stall
completely, tip into a sweet, smooth drop.
“Ha?”
High gauzes and drags of cloud, in where the blue was strongest: he’d learned
what that meant. “Cirrostratus . . . moisture . . . It freezes up there.
Everything freezes up there.” Catching the idea before it pushed in any further
and turned nasty. “There’ll have been a storm somewhere. Earlier.” And he was
glad that he hadn’t heard it, that no one had, because he was very much soothed
at the minute, but you never knew what might become a strain, what might become
a trouble for somebody. People were unpredictable-eventually, being with them
always showed you the same thing: there was nothing on which to rely. Anyone
could splinter in your face.
Bit bloody miserable that, though: isn’t it, our kid?
Which isn’t like us. We’re as happy as the bloody day is long.
Yes, but this bloody Day isn’t bloody long. Five foot bloody four in my bloody
socks, I thank you. That is short.
That is usefully short.
How Pluckrose always put it-“This is my friend and colleague, Sergeant Day,
Alfred F. And, before you mention, he is not a stunted little bastard, he is
usefully short. Couldn’t fit him in the turret otherwise, could we?”
(Continues…)
Excerpted from Day
by A. L. Kennedy
Copyright © 2008 by A. L. Kennedy.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Knopf
Copyright © 2008
A. L. Kennedy
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-307-26683-5
