Read Online Day by A. L Kennedy - Free Book Online

suggest a sense of humour among Kriegies and bravery, too – but nothing that might be unpleasant, or disturb an audience. Without the dying cabbages and so forth, they’d be left with just a scruffy mob of lads prodding round in sterile squares of dust. The film people complained, called a parade and uttered threats, forgetting that senses of humour and bravery (even in tiny amounts) might make such efforts quite counterproductive. The atmosphere turned a trifle sour, until it became slowly, quietly clear that the miniature gardens were filling again, as mysteriously as they’d emptied. This time they held real seedlings, proper life.
    The growing weather was good and everybody saved their washing water to pour on what they thought of now as their allotments. The film people said they were pleased and that everything was for the best, but they also started keeping to themselves, eating their meals in a team at one corner of the improvised canteen, not joining in with the cricket games, or the football.
    Out in the rest of the camp the Ukrainians and their willing prisoners were rubbing along not too badly.
    â€˜Lend a hand on the land, eh?’ Alfred assumed that the gardener would not understand him, but grinned as you should in such circumstances and got a laugh in answer.
    â€˜Winston.’ The Ukrainian’s turn to grin.
    It was as good a greeting as any. ‘Winston. Yes.’
    Next, with considerable concentration, ‘This is a splendid afternoon.’
    â€˜This
is
a splendid afternoon.’
    â€˜Monty.’ This said with finality, the Ukrainian shouldering his hoe and waving as he tiptoed out between the brightness of the seedlings.
    â€˜Monty.’ Alfred waved back
    He shifted his chair across into the shadow and dived down again to reach Holmes and Watson and John Scott Eccles of Popham House, Lee.
    He’s not the one with the severed thumb – he’s got a disappeared governess and a murder, or the fictitious business in Birmingham, I’m not sure.
    The cases had blended together, but that was fine, because being unsure of what ended up where meant the stories could stand a few readings, twisting into each other more closely each time, while you went to them increasingly for nothing but the chatter between Holmes and his best friend and the hours you could spend constructing how they lived when you weren’t there to see. Maybe not the best use of your mental energy.
    But stops you wondering if she ever constructed how you lived when she wasn’t there to see.
    Chop it.
    The trouble was, after a while tucked up in the Luftwaffe bag, you had truly felt fictional and afterwards it didn’t leave you. The idea there was somebody beyond you imagining, picturing, guessing – it could make you seem more solid, more likely to survive, and worrying – you were ashamed of this – but if they might worry about you, that could wish you almost human again. You were certain on some days that worries could be a great power.
    How to calculate deflections, how to clear jams and keep firing, how to apply to the station commander for leave not exceeding seven days, how to think of her thinking of you, how to believe it – you’d ended up with all sorts of habits that didn’t suit you once your war was gone.
    While I was in the bag, though – there are things you can’t help, you just need them.
    That she would think of me.
    That she would worry.
    Should have stuck to studying. I had a chance at learning Greek: we did have a primer. And before that, the RAF would have taught me Persian, but I never asked. Probably they’d have preferred that I just kept shooting.
But I could have asked.
    I could have done all kinds of things.
    â€˜Little Boss, will you do her or not?’
    Hoping you’ll make the right choice when for you there won’t be one. That’s the way your world works, that’s your regulations, the ones that will