Trench Rat - 3. Chapter 3

I have no idea how long I'd dozed off when a soft sound woke me. Despite the solid darkness, I sensed someone else in the room and smelled the muddy odour again. I reached a hand for the chain hanging from the wall lamp and switched on the light.

Once again, the young man stood there.

"Où est Patrick?"

Something struck me as odd then, something that had not registered before but had been apparent. This young man pronounced French almost as dreadfully as me and with a regional English accent. Not only that, but he didn't seem threatening in any way. If anything, he appeared frightened.

"I don't know who Patrick is. But I promise you he's not in this room. And I don't think you're supposed to be here, either."

Those handsome dark brown eyes softened a little then, hearing me speak his mother tongue I suppose, although he still searched my face, trying to find something—truth or subterfuge perhaps.

"You speak English?" he asked.

"Of course I do. I am English. And I think you might have the wrong house."

"Ferme Latouche?"

"That’s right."

"Then I’m where I were meant to be. I’m supposed to meet Patrick here. In't attic room, he said. Have you really not seen him?"

"Sorry, no. According to the farmer's wife, I'm the only guest staying under this roof tonight."

Once again, his eyebrows scrunched together in a mix of confusion and dismay. Without consciously thinking, he brought his big arms around his midriff and squeezed, and suddenly, I felt myself filled with compassion.

"My name's Robert," I said, sitting up in bed.

His head swung back towards me then, and he appeared to calm a fraction.

"Alfie." He straightened to attention then, which looked rather endearing. "Private Alfred P. Shackleton. King's Shropshire Light Infantry Regiment."

"Do you want to sit, Alfie," I asked, indicating the chair at the dressing table. "Take the weight off your feet?"

"Aye, don't mind if I do. May I sit on the corner of yon bed?"

"Be my guest."

To give him room, I pulled my knees up towards my chest. After he moved soundlessly forward, he perched so gingerly on the edge that the mattress didn't even budge.

"You're from down south, aren't ya? Back home?"

I felt an odd pleasure seeing how his features had relaxed when he turned his upper body and spoke to me. I grinned and nodded.

"From Banstead in Surrey. And if I'm not mistaken, yours is a Yorkshire accent."

"Pickering, North Yorkshire," he said, a proud smile transforming his face. "How d'you know?"

"I have a pretty keen ear for regional accents."

"All I know is you've got one of them posh southern accents."

I laughed then, and he joined in, chuckling at his remark.

"Must be a Lieutenant or something. Which regiment you with?"

"First of all, I'm not in the slightest bit posh. Heavens. Secondly, I'm not in the military."

"You're not in't army? Then what are you doing in this hellhole?"

I assumed he meant this town in the middle of nowhere. Had I not been so tired, I might have asked him why members of the British Armed Forces were stationed in France. But my brain decided to focus on the town and the farmhouse. Having only just arrived, I did not feel qualified to pass comment on either.

"I've been wondering the same thing. I should have been on my way to Switzerland right now."

"Oh, aye? And what's in Switzerland for you?"

"Friends. From university."

"University?" he said, his eyebrows raised. "Like I said. Posh."

This time, he had a playful glint in his eyes, which I honestly found disarming. Instead, I huffed out a chuckle and shook my head with mock exasperation before changing the subject.

"What do you do?" he asked. "Back home, I mean? Bet you got yourself a nice office job."

"How did you guess? Very boring, though. Gathering data for research. How about you?"

"I work with me dad in't bakery."

I might have guessed, too, that he worked in a customer-facing profession. Alfie's face had that kind of openness. I could imagine his customers loved passing the time of day with him.

"Who's Patrick?" I asked. "In case I run into him. I can let him know I saw you."

"Patrick's me best friend. We're in't same unit. Hair like a windswept haystack and all bone and no meat is Paddy. Thin as a cedar twig."

"Why are you both here at the farmhouse?"

"It's our one night off a month. We stay here together. Paddy brings the Woodbines, Latouche feeds us, and we get to top-and-tail in a real bed. Don't suppose you got any ciggies?"

"I don't smoke."

"Shame."

Involuntarily, I yawned and then made an effort to stifle the reflex with a palm across my mouth.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Alfie, who had been observing me. "Didn't think how late it was. I'll let you sleep."

"No, I'm the one that's sorry, Alfie. I'd really like to stay up and talk, but I'm exhausted. It's been a horribly long day."

"I know exactly what that’s like. Get some sleep. I'll let meself out."

"Goodnight, Alfie. Nice to meet a friendly English face. And sorry I couldn't be of more help."

"Go on, ya daft bugger. Go to sleep."

My eyes felt heavy with tiredness and he left without making a sound. I tried to fight sleep, to listen for the closing of the bedroom door, but a wave of sleep claimed me.