The Death of William Posters Read Free Page B

to do?’
    â€˜What, mate – Frank?’
    â€˜Pack it in. I’ll drive you down to London if you like. Fix you up at my house with a suit of civvies, and you’d never get caught. I’ll take your wife down at the same time. It’s no good being in khaki and having to jump out of your dreams every time some bloke with two pips on his bony shoulders opens his plumby mouth. I know. Was in myself once.’
    â€˜I couldn’t.’ The soldier hesitated, still with a slight stammer, as if obliged to consider it seriously for the privilege of his lift. ‘I’m due out soon. There’s no point. Anyway, did you desert, then?’
    â€˜No,’ he answered, unperturbed, ‘there was no one to help me. I was too stupid in those days’ – and went on talking as they sped along, making a short journey of it, plying the soldier and himself with cigarettes and hoping to brainwash him into saying: ‘All right, mate, stop the car, I’ll desert now’ – though it’s hard to brainwash someone with no brains. Not that Frank was serious; he was playing a game, knew it when a startling question was etched on the emptiness of his own mind, saying that since he was telling this young man to run away from his khaki troubles, why didn’t he pluck up guts enough to light off himself, sell his car, buy a rucksack and bike, and just fade out into the blue-and-green? He smiled: it was impossible to do anything while thinking about it.
    The built-up area fell like red flakes around them. The youth seemed happier. ‘Where’s your camp?’ Frank asked. ‘Is it easy to get into the armoury from outside?’
    â€˜I suppose so,’ he stammered. ‘It’s right near a wood on the edge of Harby camp. The doors are locked in case anybody tries to get in without a pass.’
    Frank laughed. ‘Wirecutters and a hairgrip. When you’re on guard next send me a telegram and we’ll clean it out together. Draw me a map of the camp, will you?’ – passed him pencil and paper.
    The youth’s face became rounded, his eyes and mouth open. ‘Do you mean it?’ He was glum, set in a grim mould of discontent and fear, which made two of them.
    â€˜Don’t worry,’ Frank said, ‘I’m not serious.’ Passing a disused railway station, he climbed the smooth tarmac up a hump bridge, and the speed of his fast-cruising car dropped them into an airpocket on the other side.
    Ashamed to be begging lifts! I’m learning more in two weeks than twelve years in factories and living with Nancy. I couldn’t get this from a paperback. The blue wolds drew him in, treeless heights rolling and dominant. He struck off the main road after making his exit from the car, cut along a minor route marked red and thinly on his map as the veins in somebody’s bloodshot eye. No woods or villages, just onward rolling fields, the smell of dead rose bay and the lonely farm every mile or two. At the moment he felt more at home on this paved lane where no traffic passed than he had on the A road further back. Black and white cattle, huge and sleek, were dedicated to a slow contemplative chewing of grass, contrasted to his own troubled mind as he spared a glance for them and walked on.
    Sunday and distant bells muffled the cold air. A mile ahead and dropping two hundred feet was a village still locked in afternoon sleep and stillness. Peace was rampant out of town and factory, obtruding, obvious and disturbing, and it wouldn’t let you be. The other day he was at Wainfleet – about five in the afternoon – and thought he’d nip along a lane and get to the sea, have a paddle before dark. He reached the sand but water was nowhere to be seen, then walked miles, it seemed, out over the hard sand, jumping ruts and channels in places. It was flat, dead flat, and no matter how far he walked and how much he looked across this sand he