“Afterwards? Oh, father, will there ever be an afterwards? Will it be over by next year, do you think?”
(Next Autumn he would be eighteen....)
The elder Marcus looked doubtful: “Who can tell? Have you seen in to-day’s paper?—there have been peace negotiations——”
“Anything real?”
And again: “Who can tell? You had better see for yourself. Here.”
But Richard only made a pretext of seeing for himself. He dreaded reading the papers; made any sort of excuse not to do so. The papers were always full of allusions, direct or indirect, to naturalized and unnaturalized Germans, to spies in our midst, reproaches to the Government for laxness, incitements to reprisals, leagues for the future exclusion of Germans or semi-Germans, root and branch, from all association with civilized countries. Even if one hunted through the whole paper with ever-growing relief at one day, one issue, free from barbed reproach ... at the last, a small paragraph would surely catch the eye and destroy the momentary security. So Richard read no papers. The posters were bad enough, blatant or mysterious from the kerbstone; you could not avoid those, except by never stirring from the house ... and in the house was Mr Gryce. Besides, there is no escape when the mind is spread like a net to catch all stray matter that has bearing on the one morbid obsession. Even when it is a question of going round the corner to have a pair of Aunt Stella’s boots soled and heeled....
In the little street were rival cobblers; one with the name: Marshall, obviously re-painted over a name possibly less pleasing to his customers; the other displaying a large placard in the window: “No German Taint Here!”
“Yes, but it’s rather mean to make an advertisement out of it!” and Richard, against express orders, carried Aunt Stella’s boots to Mr Marshall. The latter was a lank sad-faced individual with a slight cockney accent; he confided in Richard that he had unfortunately been born in Germany of a German father—— “but p’raps I oughtn’t to be tellin’ you this, sir?” “It’s all right,” gruffly. “Brought up over ’ere with me aunt and uncle who put me in the army—the reg’lar army, that is. Yes, oh yes, I wos a Tommy years before the war, an’ went through all the Gallipoli part of it. ’Ot stuff!—I wos shipped home nearly dead from an explodin’ shell. They discharged me out o’ hospital at last, an’ discharged me from the army; an’ I took over me late uncle’s job ’ere. No, I’m not partial to cobblin’; I tried most other things, but they won’t ’ave me nowhere, being so to speak, a German, sir. They ask very particular, you see, nowadays. And this isn’t payin’, neither ... not by any manner of means. Customers remember the name. Fact is, sir, I’m afraid I shall ’ave to be quick with these ’ere boots—I’m wantin’ to oblige you, since you brought ’em ’ere, but I’m obliged to shut up shop next week.”
“What will you do?”
“Nothing for me to do but ask ’em to intern me, sir. A man can’t starve. Wot I’m fearin’ rather, is that them in the internment camp won’t make me over welcome neither, me havin’ fought against ’em, and bein’ mostly English in my ways.”