Mr Mac and Me by Esther Freud Read Free Book Online Page A

these men, however smart their uniforms, will never know the land like me. In the afternoon, if I can get away, I look in on my starlings. They chirp and scrap and chatter for me, and when I’ve had my fill, I find my way across the river and climb up on to the station roof to see the soldiers coming in. I watch them, scrubbed and ready for action, their kitbags on their shoulders, and I scan their faces for signs that they are eager as I would be to set off into the unknown.
     
    George Allard isn’t happy about these new rolls of wire, wrapped round with spikes, and made by some infernal machine. They have it in great loose coils along the cliff path beyond Dunwich and already it’s patched with white flags of wool torn from the coats of sheep that stray too near. Mother and Ann go up there and pull it free and they have a pillowcase full already which Mother plans to card and spin and knit into a jumper for me to wear next winter.
    ‘They’re already ordering in their strong rope from elsewhere,’ Mr Allard frets as he teases out the flax, ‘and soon they won’t be needing any kind of rope at all. Nor wooden fencing, or brick walls.’ And he shakes his head and curses the inventions of man that only bring misery to the lives of others. ‘What kind of a land will it be then, full of wire fences, with no cover for the animals or the birds?’ And he trudges backwards, plaiting as he goes, for once, in silence.
    I don’t tell Mr Allard about the wool in case he thinks it’s stealing, and I warn Mother to keep her knitting away from our two Welsh Fusiliers. It may be against Dora, as everyone calls the Defence of the Realm Act now, to take wool that isn’t yours. But there’s no time for our soldiers to notice or not notice the lumpy beginnings of my jumper, because no sooner have they settled in than they are gone. They are needed at the Battle of Belgium, and they set off on their ship while Mother, Ann and I stand at the water’s edge and wave. Two weeks they were with us. That was all. And in all that time Father didn’t have a drink. Now he goes down to the cellar to check supplies and comes up with a cupful of ale for no one but himself. It’s not long before he’s down for another. ‘Ahhh,’ he sighs and a smile flips across his face. ‘That’s better.’ His eyes have brightened, there is colour in his face, and if I didn’t know what is likely to come after I’d think it was for the better too.
    Instead I sit at the table, head down, and work on my boats. I’m drawing a clipper with three masts and a mizzen sail that’s sliced across sideways like a set of sheets. There are square sails too, and a jib sail to catch the wind from behind. I’ve drawn the ship in pencil, and now I must go over it in ink. But the ink smudges against the knuckle of my finger and I’m so disappointed I want to take the nib of the pen and stab it into my arm. But I daren’t draw attention to myself. Not to even give a quick jab at the table. And so I bite my lip hard and I turn my paper over and I start again.
    When Father comes up with his third pint he tips his head back even as he climbs and I feel it in my stomach, the dread knowledge of his thirst. It’s as if he’s lost on a plain, the sap sucked out of him, and now, however much he drinks, he can never get enough. He’s not always bad like this, when he’s on the run, but the first night after he’s been on the water wagon, that’s when it’s best to look out. And true enough, after the fifth pint the raging starts. The few customers we have slip out through the door, but I daren’t move from my seat. I lean low over my paper and let the pen run over the faint lines. This is what it must feel like to be a rabbit, waiting in the corn for a man to club you on the head, and I imagine dropping to the floor, crawling across the tiles and streaking to safety up the ladder. But Father has an imaginary foe. An army of them. He’s conjured them before,