tomorrow by his caucus of unions. According to the D. Worker Sir William maintained that he wanted a minimum wage of twenty pounds a week for all workers, as well as a communist government of six hundred and forty deputies to be chosen by him and sent to the House of Commons. Great cheers from all the workersâ.
âDonât call me Sir William, lads. I shit on the Sir. Call me Bill â Bill Posters as I was born and bred.â Comrade Posters, party boss, in his cloth cap and big topcoat as he inspects blast furnaces and power stations. âGood old Bill. Weâve got what we want now.â Until an aeroplane flying over one day, sky-writes high up in the blue: âNo you havenât. BILL POSTERS WILL BE PROSECUTED .â
Mostly the people who gave Frank lifts were happy to do so. One man was not, and said, when they were well into the wolds beyond Louth: âDonât you sometimes feel ashamed, to be begging lifts like this?â
Thereâd been no smile when the man stopped to pick him up, nothing but a slit-mouth asking where he wanted to go. He wore a belted mac, and cap, was pale at the face and kept his steel-blue eyes angled towards the road. âTo get where Iâm going,â Frank replied, âit would be cheaper by bus. I only hitchhike to give miserable bastards like you a break from yourself. Stop this car and put me down.â
The man smiled. âWell, now look here, I didnât mean to be offensive, you know. I asked a question because I donât see much point in sitting quiet for the next ten miles.â
âIf you donât pull up Iâll grab that wheel and swing you into the ditch as well.â
The car stopped quickly. He reached for his pack and got out, not a word said, happy to have weight again on his moving legs. He gave lifts to hundreds of people, even those who didnât look as if they wanted one. On the last day before leaving, anything to get out of town, warm sunshine dazzling through the spotless windscreen, he sped along a straight, narrow lane that ran two flat miles across open wasteground, had a yen to take his car off and crash the fence, subside into the ditch and grind up onto wider spaces. But what was beyond them except what he could see now? â the Trent, the power-station and, over the river, hills forming a hazy blackening cloudbank?
Driving towards a rooftop sea of newly built houses increased his worm-eaten discontent. Fields and woods bordered the sluggish river, a live, cloud-reflecting limb held under by a smart new bridge. Beyond the estate he turned to the main road, and, seeing a soldier and kitbag planted hopefully for a lift, drew up to find out where to. âLoughborough, sir,â came the obliging answer.
âSling your sack in,â Frank said, opening a packet of twenty, fresh and newly shining like Alfonsoâs teeth: âFag?â He was about twenty â short haircut and come-to-bed eyes for a female ape â sallow-faced and ill at ease as he drew the door to. âSlam it, mate, or youâll roll out, then you wonât be worth much as a soldier.â
âIâm in a good regiment,â the soldier said, stammering slightly. Frank lit up before driving off. âOn leave?â
âYes, sir.â
âDonât call me sir. It makes my ulcers jump. Call me Frank. I might have a car, but Iâm still one of the mob.â Deep angry creases formed on the soldierâs forehead, as if he wondered: âWho does he think he is, telling me not to call him sir?â
âHow long you got?â â a few bob a day, and kept on call with nothing to do but read Flash Gordon comics.
âSeven days, sir. Iâm a bit fed up. Iâm married, and donât see much of my wife. This is the first bit of leave Iâve had in months.â Frank pitied him, stepped on the accelerator to get him back sooner to his hearthrug pie. âYou know what you ought