perched on the bonnet of the car, he bent to unlace his shoes.
“Excuse me,” George said.
The man looked up, frowning.
George, smiling nicely, said, “What’s all this, then?”
“Pardon me?”
“I mean, what’s all this going to be? More houses?”
“Er, no. This is the new Millfields Primary School.”
“Ah,” George said.
The man pulled off his left shoe and, surprisingly, sniffed its interior.
“This will be where your children go to school, Mr., er?”
“Ackroyd.”
“Yes. We estimate, on a ten-year projection, a minimum of one hundred and ten children on the estate. You chaps back from the war have already been busy, if you know what I mean. Quite right, too.”
George stood on his cigarette.
“Estate?”
The man looked at him quizzically.
“So these are council houses,” George said.
“Yes, of course. Sorry, I assumed you lived here. You’re not a tenant, then?”
George cycled back into Borstead — the playing fields were silent now — and leaned Ruth’s bike against one of the two trees in front of the town hall. He waited almost an hour before he was ushered into the presence of the housing officer, who was, according to the gold-effect lettering on the little black nameplate on his desk, Mr. G. Roake. He stood up to shake hands when George entered. Even from across the desk, his breath was rank. He had thin colorless hair greased over the top of his head, and he did not convincingly occupy his clothes. His eyes, magnified by his spectacles, took up a disproportionate amount of his face. His hand, in George’s clasp, was bony.
“Take a seat, Mr. . . .”
“Ackroyd. George Ackroyd.”
Roake wrote George’s name on a piece of paper, not checking how it was spelled.
“How can I help you, Mr. Ackroyd?”
Roake’s accent was not Norfolk. George could not identify it.
‘Those new council houses. Up off the Aylsham road.”
“Millfields?”
“Yes. I want to put my name down for one.”
Roake gazed for a moment. “Yes. Well. We can do that for you. Have you applied for council housing before? Here or elsewhere?”
“No.”
“I see.” Roake shifted a knee and opened a drawer. “There’s a form to fill in, of course. Always a form.” He put sheets of stapled paper on the desk but left his hand resting on them. “There’s a waiting list, as you’ll appreciate.”
“Is there?”
“Oh, yes.”
The way he said it started something cooking inside George.
“How long’s this waiting list?”
“Well, that’s hard to say. It’s not so much the length of the list. More a question of when a house becomes vacant and which families on the list have priority. According to the number of children, and so forth. The quality of their present accommodation. Amenities. That sort of thing. There’s an assessment process.”
George clasped his hands together and stared at the linoleum between his feet.
After a moment or two, he said, “D’you mind if I smoke?”
“I’d rather you didn’t, actually.”
George nodded, slowly, and without lifting his head said, “I’ve been in the British army for fifteen years. I came out a month ago. I survived Dunkirk. With seven other blokes and only a Thompson submachine gun and a rifle between us, I marched two thousand Italian prisoners out of Benghazi. I had dysentery and had to stop the whole ruddy column every time I needed a shit. I was at El Alamein, and a German 88 hit the unit next to us and the blood came down on us like rain. In forty-six, when the heroic ruddy conscripts came home to parades and free beer and women, I was sent to Palestine. I was sitting with my mates in a bar a hundred yards from the King David Hotel when the bloody Irgun blew it up. We spent forty-eight hours digging stinking bodies out of the rubble. The flies were unbelievable. I’ve come home to a . . . a hovel I share with the wife and our three-year-old son and her evil mother. It’s got no running water, no light, and stinks of
“Excuse me,” George said.
The man looked up, frowning.
George, smiling nicely, said, “What’s all this, then?”
“Pardon me?”
“I mean, what’s all this going to be? More houses?”
“Er, no. This is the new Millfields Primary School.”
“Ah,” George said.
The man pulled off his left shoe and, surprisingly, sniffed its interior.
“This will be where your children go to school, Mr., er?”
“Ackroyd.”
“Yes. We estimate, on a ten-year projection, a minimum of one hundred and ten children on the estate. You chaps back from the war have already been busy, if you know what I mean. Quite right, too.”
George stood on his cigarette.
“Estate?”
The man looked at him quizzically.
“So these are council houses,” George said.
“Yes, of course. Sorry, I assumed you lived here. You’re not a tenant, then?”
George cycled back into Borstead — the playing fields were silent now — and leaned Ruth’s bike against one of the two trees in front of the town hall. He waited almost an hour before he was ushered into the presence of the housing officer, who was, according to the gold-effect lettering on the little black nameplate on his desk, Mr. G. Roake. He stood up to shake hands when George entered. Even from across the desk, his breath was rank. He had thin colorless hair greased over the top of his head, and he did not convincingly occupy his clothes. His eyes, magnified by his spectacles, took up a disproportionate amount of his face. His hand, in George’s clasp, was bony.
“Take a seat, Mr. . . .”
“Ackroyd. George Ackroyd.”
Roake wrote George’s name on a piece of paper, not checking how it was spelled.
“How can I help you, Mr. Ackroyd?”
Roake’s accent was not Norfolk. George could not identify it.
‘Those new council houses. Up off the Aylsham road.”
“Millfields?”
“Yes. I want to put my name down for one.”
Roake gazed for a moment. “Yes. Well. We can do that for you. Have you applied for council housing before? Here or elsewhere?”
“No.”
“I see.” Roake shifted a knee and opened a drawer. “There’s a form to fill in, of course. Always a form.” He put sheets of stapled paper on the desk but left his hand resting on them. “There’s a waiting list, as you’ll appreciate.”
“Is there?”
“Oh, yes.”
The way he said it started something cooking inside George.
“How long’s this waiting list?”
“Well, that’s hard to say. It’s not so much the length of the list. More a question of when a house becomes vacant and which families on the list have priority. According to the number of children, and so forth. The quality of their present accommodation. Amenities. That sort of thing. There’s an assessment process.”
George clasped his hands together and stared at the linoleum between his feet.
After a moment or two, he said, “D’you mind if I smoke?”
“I’d rather you didn’t, actually.”
George nodded, slowly, and without lifting his head said, “I’ve been in the British army for fifteen years. I came out a month ago. I survived Dunkirk. With seven other blokes and only a Thompson submachine gun and a rifle between us, I marched two thousand Italian prisoners out of Benghazi. I had dysentery and had to stop the whole ruddy column every time I needed a shit. I was at El Alamein, and a German 88 hit the unit next to us and the blood came down on us like rain. In forty-six, when the heroic ruddy conscripts came home to parades and free beer and women, I was sent to Palestine. I was sitting with my mates in a bar a hundred yards from the King David Hotel when the bloody Irgun blew it up. We spent forty-eight hours digging stinking bodies out of the rubble. The flies were unbelievable. I’ve come home to a . . . a hovel I share with the wife and our three-year-old son and her evil mother. It’s got no running water, no light, and stinks of
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