Read Online Stay Where You Are and Then Leave by John Boyne - Free Book Online

man at the center table, who was about ten years older than he was and had dark-black hair, parted neatly at the side and with so much hair cream in it that his comb had left teeth marks like a freshly plowed field. Alfie heard a wolf whistle and turned around to see Leonard Hopkins, kneeling by his shoeshine box, leering at a girl who turned in surprise and smiled before being dragged away by her mother.
    â€œCan I help you?” said the man behind the desk.
    â€œThe name’s Georgie Summerfield,” said Georgie. “I was told to come along to organize my transport.”
    â€œYou’re a new recruit, are you?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    The man behind the desk nodded but wore a very serious expression on his face. He glanced at the men on either side of him, who exchanged an amused look before shaking their heads and getting back to their ledgers.
    â€œAll right then, son,” said the man in the middle. “You’re new at all this, so I’ll assume that you don’t understand the way we do things around here. First things first: take the cigarette out of your mouth and put it out.”
    Georgie stared at the man, and Alfie stared at Georgie. Something changed on his dad’s face—a sudden realization that life was different now than it had been a few days before. He did what he was told, tossing the cigarette onto the ground and crushing it beneath the heel of his boot. Alfie noticed a slight tremor in his hands as he did so.
    â€œNow stand up straight and look ahead, there’s a good fellow. You’re not an animal in the jungle. Posture. At all times, posture.”
    Georgie adjusted his stance, standing to his full height, shoulders back, eyes looking straight ahead. Beside him, Alfie did the same thing. His head came up to his dad’s waist.
    â€œThat’s better. Now let’s try this again, shall we? I think what you meant to say was, ‘Good afternoon, sir.’”
    â€œYes, sir,” said Georgie.
    â€œYour name again?”
    â€œGeorgie Summerfield.”
    The sergeant raised an eyebrow and put his pen back on the table, staring at Alfie’s dad with an irritated expression on his face.
    â€œGeorgie Summerfield, sir ,” whispered Alfie.
    â€œGeorgie Summerfield, sir,” repeated Georgie in a quiet, resigned voice.
    The sergeant nodded and leafed through a book, running his finger along a list of names. “Damley Road?” he asked, looking up.
    â€œThat’s right, sir.”
    â€œYou’re in luck, Summerfield. You’ve got a few days yet. Wednesday morning. Eight a.m. transport from Liverpool Street. Aldershot Barracks. Basic training for eight weeks. Bring this with you on the morning”—he handed a ticket across—“and you’ll see our lot soon enough on platform four. 14278, that’s your number. Don’t be late, there’s a good chap. We call that desertion.”
    â€œRight you are, sir.”
    The sergeant looked at Alfie. “And who’s this blighter, then?” he asked.
    â€œThat’s my boy, sir. Alfie.”
    â€œProud of your old man, are you, Alfie?” asked the sergeant, but Alfie didn’t say anything. “Well, you will be,” he went on, dismissing them both now. “One day.”
    â€œI thought we came to look at the trains,” said Alfie when they were walking home.
    â€œWe did,” said Georgie.
    â€œNo we didn’t,” said Alfie, pulling his hand free of his dad’s as they walked along.
    *   *   *
    Now Alfie was back in King’s Cross for the first time since that day. He looked around, remembering where the sergeant had sat, but there were no desks there now, although the location of the ticket counters hadn’t changed. There were a lot of soldiers to be seen making their way across the concourse. Some were waiting in small groups beside the tea shop, their rucksacks on the