‘I’m not on my own – I have Corporal Pig. He’s a trusty companion.’
‘You look after each other?’
‘That’s right.’
He smiled at me and nodded and I shifted as close to CP as possible, laying my head on his side. I fell asleep, curled up practically wound right round CP to protect him. I woke to Squintsmiler shaking me and I almost strangled CP in panic.
‘It’s alright, I don’t want to hurt your bleedin’ pig. It’s your stop, kid. You’re getting off here.’
He lifted me and Corporal Pig like we were nothing and set us down on the road.
‘Here, kid, take some of these.’
He threw me sweets and cigarettes.
‘You got any money, comrade-sir?’
‘Have I got any money?’
‘Yes, comrade-sir, we’re weary from walking. We need money for train fare.’
The truck was pulling away, too fast for us to keep up. Squintsmiler disappeared, moving back into the throng of soldiers.
I could hear them chanting. ‘Corporal Pig! Corporal Pig!’
‘You hear that, CP? The soldiers, they love you, CP. They really do.’
I saw something fall from the back of the truck as it rounded the corner and I waved, but they’d gone. I broke into a run, hoping it was more cigarettes or candy I could use to barter for a ticket or some food, but when I got to it I saw it was just a piece of the nudey magazine. I picked it up, unfolded it and found money nestling between the woman’s legs.
‘I sure like pussy, CP,’ I said, shoving the money in my pocket. ‘I sure do.’
No pigs. That’s what he said. Dirty animals. Show some respect to the Corporal, I said. I’m not having that animal shitting all over this train, he said. I protested, I cajoled. I pleaded with my fellow humans. London, I said. I miss my family, I said.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘Leave the pig behind and we have no problem, but that animal isn’t staying on this train.’
‘I can pay extra,’ I said, holding the remaining money in my hands. ‘I’ll clean up any shit.’
‘There will be no shit to clean up. No pig, no shit, and no you. Now get lost.’
I thought for a moment then pulled out the packet of cigarettes. I smiled.
‘Huh? What do you say?’ I shook the packet, raising my eyebrow.
‘Get!’
CP trotted in front of me, half falling onto the platform. I started after him, cursing my way down the corridor when I felt the nudey picture in my pocket.
‘Wait!’ I said, turning back to the conductor. I unfolded the picture, holding it up.
‘You like pussy, eh?’
He barrelled after me, crushed the nudey picture in his hand and grabbed a hold of me by the back of my shirt, manhandling me right off that train. I lay on the platform, bruised, wielding my ticket and yelling ‘I paid good money for this, sir! Comrade-soldiers paid good money for this. I’ve got to get to London. We’re refugeesevacueesescapees.’
‘Then you’re going the wrong way!’ he yelled at me.
I rubbed my bruised knees as I watched the train pull out of the station.
‘You’re going the wrong way,’ the man said.
I told him my story of woe, adding here, taking away there. I didn’t get in trouble at all, not this time, but elicited pity from the stationmaster, or more like he just wanted me to leave him be, but he took my ticket and returned my money and I bought food for me and CP. We stayed there a day and a night and I stuffed CP full, as full as can be, then off we trudged, but this time CP had a spring in his step.
‘This time, CP, we’re sticking to the roads and we’ll hitch a ride. No more weary fat-stealing walking for you and me. We’ll hitch a ride and be fat as kings.’
Many passed us by, or stopped when they saw I was a kid, but like that evilsonofawhoreticketmaster, wouldn’t take me with CP, not until one kind man who after listening to my story of woe and a litany of CP’s strengths, stopped me mid-sentence. ‘Boy,’ he said, looking as weary as us skinny walkers, ‘I don’t need a story, just get in the car.’
‘Yes, sir! Yes, sir, in the car! C’mon CP, stop that loitering. Quick march, in the car!’
The man sighed and I pushed CP into the back. I climbed in and we were off.
‘Thanks, mister, sir!’
He gave me the side-eye and said, ‘You’re going the wrong way, boy.’
I told him the story of how we were escaping unholy bastards and he listened, not saying a word. I dropped off to sleep, still trying to talk, still trying to tell my story, but me and CP we were weary and off to slumberland we went.
When I woke I didn’t start back on my story. I just watched the clouds, dreaming of London.
London, March 1941
‘This is as far as I go,’ he said, dropping me off on the outskirts of the city. I dragged a snoring CP out of the car.
‘I had pigs when I was your age,’ he said to me. ‘Good animals. You watch out for him, you hear me?’
‘Yes, sir!’ I said, standing to attention and saluting. ‘Me and Corporal Pig, we’re comrades, friends for life.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said, and started up the car. ‘Good luck, comrades.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
He drove off and I had some trouble waking up CP to restart our weary walking. He’d resumed his snoring on the pavement and I pushed and shoved him and flicked his ear.
‘Comrade, CP! You get up! You’ve slept an age in the back of that car. We’re back on our mission. There’s a war on, CP. Look lively!’
With a bit of prodding, ear flicking, tail pulling and a ration of oats, CP was soon on his feet and sleepily shuffling along by my side.
‘We’re almost there, CP. You can sleep all you want when we’re home.’
We wandered through the suburbs of London. It was a glorious day; baby blue sky and gossamer clouds. Not knowing the way through my city I felt like a foreigner, a Martian, a German spy. Street names had been removed or obscured. I asked directions, not a single person suspecting me of being a German spy, everyone saying, ‘You’re going the wrong way, boy.’ The last person I approached, I berated them, ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on? Don’t you know I’m a German spy?’
I could see the familiar landscape in the distance, my heart aching for the silhouettes of my neighbourhood buildings. It was peaceful here. The sun cast long shadows and turned buildings a warm orange. Birds fluttered and sang. I passed open gardens, their fences requisitioned. As the sun set and darkness descended, the distant sky was lit up with searchlights. The sun had melted into the landscape, setting it alight. The East End was on fire.
I felt sick at the thought that our home might not be there anymore. All the time I was travelling home I felt like I was travelling back in time. But I wasn’t. This was the future. The months had gone by, but I thought of London frozen in time. I’d heard reports of the bombs, but it was a fantasy, a story.
I could see the Luftwaffe, but they looked unreal; little slivers of silver circling London, caught in the searchlights. Smoke roiled in the sky, a black mass, blacker than the night sky. Dark clouds billowed, cut through by beams from the ground, illuminated by flames. My home was being obliterated as I returned. Those familiar streets, those familiar silhouettes, razed.
I could hear nothing. It was like watching a silent film.
‘The Martians have come,’ I said to CP, who was hoovering up insects. ‘We’re going home and the Martians have come.’
Edinburgh, 6 August 2011
London is on fire. I pick up the phone.
‘Detective?’ I say, watching the flames flicker across the screen. ‘I’m coming home.’