paraffin; the roof leaks, and we pay rent to a ruddy farmer who lives in a manor house and owns half the flamin’ county. It’s like I’ve fought a war and ended up living in the Middle Ages or summat. What does the G stand for?”
“Pardon?”
George leaned forward and tapped the nameplate. “ G. ROAKE. What’s the G stand for?”
“Oh, right. It’s Gordon, actually.”
“Give me a new house, Gordon. I fucking deserve it.”
Roake rested the lower part of his face in a cup of skeletal fingers.
“Yes,” he said, “you do.” He slid the form across the desk. “Fill this in, Mr. Ackroyd. I have to tell you, however, that, of itself, national service does not give you any special advantage.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No.”
George folded his arms and sat back in the chair.
“How about you, Gordon?”
“Sorry?”
“The war. Were you in it?”
There was a sneer in the question.
Roake blinked at him through his spectacles.
“Yes. However, unlike you, Mr. Ackroyd, I didn’t see a great deal of action. I spent almost three years in Japanese prisoner-of-war camps. Well, labor camps, to be accurate. In Burma, mostly.”
“Ah,” George said, embarrassed, enduring that familiar feeling of being outranked and outflanked. He cleared his throat. “That would’ve been tough, I should think.”
“Yes,” Roake said, “I think it would be fair to say that. Of the one hundred and eight men under my command, only eleven survived. Not all of us are glad of it.”
He held out the form.
“Fill this in, Mr. Ackroyd. I’ll do my best for you.”
“Thanks,” George said, adding, out of habit, “sir.”
It took George almost a month to deliver the form back to the town hall. For reasons he did not want to share with himself, he had decided to keep it secret. He filled it out, carefully and only slightly mendaciously, at his bench at Ling’s during the second week of his work there. Then, when he thought it was done, he discovered that he would also have to produce his marriage certificate and Clem’s birth certificate. He had no idea where these were and could think of no plausible reason to ask. So in stolen moments he hunted through the nooks and crannies of Thorn Cottage. He found his marriage certificate in the front room, his mother-in-law’s dark museum. It was scrunched up double in a drawer in the coffin-black sideboard, behind a canteen of cutlery that had not conveyed food to a human mouth in a century. Evidence of his son’s birth was harder to find. In the end, in bed, he asked Ruth where it was.
“Why, George?” Sleepy question.
“I’ve never seen it.”
“He’s a lovely boy, George. Don’t you worry. That’ll be all right.”
The next morning, in the kitchen, yawning, she handed the certificate to him. Win saw it.
“What yer want that for?”
George put the paper into his overall pocket and smiled at her.
“Forms to fill in, Win. National Insurance. The welfare state. What we voted for. Everything down on paper, fair and square.”
Win looked at him, drying her red hands on her apron.
“Welfare state, my arse,” she said.
W HETHER OR NOT ex-Captain Gordon Roake interceded, George waited only two years and a bit for his council house. The letter arrived on a bright June morning in 1950. Win had already left for work. (Willy’s electric road-boat had been replaced by a petrol-engined van, which Willy drove as though it were a high-spirited and unpredictable stallion, never trusting it enough to risk third gear.) Clem, as a treat, had been allowed to eat his porridge sitting on the back step in the sun. George used his bread to wipe the marge from his knife and slit the envelope open.
Ruth watched him, holding her cup with both hands. Outside of birthdays and Christmas, the postman paid rare visits to Thorn Cottage. She suspected trouble.
“What is it, George?”
He didn’t answer her but read the letter through again, then handed it to her. She studied it,
“Pardon?”
George leaned forward and tapped the nameplate. “ G. ROAKE. What’s the G stand for?”
“Oh, right. It’s Gordon, actually.”
“Give me a new house, Gordon. I fucking deserve it.”
Roake rested the lower part of his face in a cup of skeletal fingers.
“Yes,” he said, “you do.” He slid the form across the desk. “Fill this in, Mr. Ackroyd. I have to tell you, however, that, of itself, national service does not give you any special advantage.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No.”
George folded his arms and sat back in the chair.
“How about you, Gordon?”
“Sorry?”
“The war. Were you in it?”
There was a sneer in the question.
Roake blinked at him through his spectacles.
“Yes. However, unlike you, Mr. Ackroyd, I didn’t see a great deal of action. I spent almost three years in Japanese prisoner-of-war camps. Well, labor camps, to be accurate. In Burma, mostly.”
“Ah,” George said, embarrassed, enduring that familiar feeling of being outranked and outflanked. He cleared his throat. “That would’ve been tough, I should think.”
“Yes,” Roake said, “I think it would be fair to say that. Of the one hundred and eight men under my command, only eleven survived. Not all of us are glad of it.”
He held out the form.
“Fill this in, Mr. Ackroyd. I’ll do my best for you.”
“Thanks,” George said, adding, out of habit, “sir.”
It took George almost a month to deliver the form back to the town hall. For reasons he did not want to share with himself, he had decided to keep it secret. He filled it out, carefully and only slightly mendaciously, at his bench at Ling’s during the second week of his work there. Then, when he thought it was done, he discovered that he would also have to produce his marriage certificate and Clem’s birth certificate. He had no idea where these were and could think of no plausible reason to ask. So in stolen moments he hunted through the nooks and crannies of Thorn Cottage. He found his marriage certificate in the front room, his mother-in-law’s dark museum. It was scrunched up double in a drawer in the coffin-black sideboard, behind a canteen of cutlery that had not conveyed food to a human mouth in a century. Evidence of his son’s birth was harder to find. In the end, in bed, he asked Ruth where it was.
“Why, George?” Sleepy question.
“I’ve never seen it.”
“He’s a lovely boy, George. Don’t you worry. That’ll be all right.”
The next morning, in the kitchen, yawning, she handed the certificate to him. Win saw it.
“What yer want that for?”
George put the paper into his overall pocket and smiled at her.
“Forms to fill in, Win. National Insurance. The welfare state. What we voted for. Everything down on paper, fair and square.”
Win looked at him, drying her red hands on her apron.
“Welfare state, my arse,” she said.
W HETHER OR NOT ex-Captain Gordon Roake interceded, George waited only two years and a bit for his council house. The letter arrived on a bright June morning in 1950. Win had already left for work. (Willy’s electric road-boat had been replaced by a petrol-engined van, which Willy drove as though it were a high-spirited and unpredictable stallion, never trusting it enough to risk third gear.) Clem, as a treat, had been allowed to eat his porridge sitting on the back step in the sun. George used his bread to wipe the marge from his knife and slit the envelope open.
Ruth watched him, holding her cup with both hands. Outside of birthdays and Christmas, the postman paid rare visits to Thorn Cottage. She suspected trouble.
“What is it, George?”
He didn’t answer her but read the letter through again, then handed it to her. She studied it,
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