Read Homeland for Free Online

evil, and the limits of personal
responsibility. Afterwards, in the blur of a hangover and a rapid advance under gunfire, Billy couldn’t remember every detail of the conversation, only that he’d managed to say quite a
few good things, and say them well. This burst of eloquence had taken him by surprise. Maybe his brain, so doggedly championed by his English teacher Mr Margolis, wasn’t so dead after
all.
    The ration books were in the kitchen, propped behind the Golden Jubilee tea caddy on the mantelshelf. Extracting them, he knocked the caddy off-centre and took a moment to realign it in the
correct position. He found no coupons for coal, however, just for petrol and food, only one or two unused. In London it was commonly believed that country people were living in clover, that,
unconcerned for city dwellers, the farmers were bypassing the rationing system and keeping all the best produce for themselves. If so, there was precious little evidence of it in the larder. He
counted two eggs, a scrag end of lamb, some bacon and cheese, and a few onions and potatoes, while on a side shelf were a couple of tins of Spam, some dried milk, and a small bag of flour.
    There was no sign of Stan. Putting his head outside, Billy finally spotted him by the chicken shed, bent over the open lid of the nesting boxes. It was as good an opportunity as any to see Flor,
though as Billy climbed the stairs and knocked on the door his stomach squirmed with dread.
    The room smelt of lavender and carbolic, the radio was belting out ‘Begin the Beguine’, and the light from the window shone straight on her head, propped high against the pillows.
Her bright eyes fixed on him and she tried to smile in a strange lopsided pull of one cheek, a creasing up of one eye. The effect was of an exaggerated wink.
    He said, ‘Bit of a laugh, eh? Me turning up like a bad penny.’ He turned off the music and, pulling up a chair, sat at the side of the bed. She reached out and grasped his hand. Her
skin was dry and papery and surprisingly hot.
    ‘But I’m not staying long,’ he said. ‘I’m only here for the day.’
    Because he couldn’t think of what else to talk about he told her about his war, or rather the high points – the landing in France, the ride through Belgium and Holland, the civilians
who’d showered them with hoarded treats, the contrast when they reached Germany, the sight of Hamburg virtually flattened – and all the time he was aware of her eyes fastened intently
on his face and the pressure of the hot papery hand in his. Once or twice he tried to slide his hand away, but her fingers tightened instantly and drew him back.
    ‘Before I forget,’ he said at last, ‘I need my mum’s things. The stuff in the shoebox.’
    Letting go of his hand at last, Flor reached across to the side table for a pad and pencil. She wrote left-handed, very slowly, with the occasional letter in block capitals. Following her
directions, Billy found the shoe-box in the back of the wardrobe drawer.
    ‘Thanks,’ he said, holding it up to her. Then, because she was attempting another smile, he added hastily, ‘Anything you want? Anything I can get you?’
    She wrote laboriously on the pad: Is house clean?
    He laughed aloud. ‘Don’t you worry – I’ll make sure it’s up to scratch.’
    She began to write again, a longer message, and Billy sat down again so as not to look impatient. When she finally passed him the message, there was nothing in it to make him laugh. Instead, he
got to his feet and said sharply, ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Then, moderating his voice, ‘Do you want your music back on?’
    Without waiting for an answer he turned the radio up and with a brisk goodbye hurried from the room. What in hell did she want to go and tell him that for? Money behind wardrobe in satchel. I
want you to have some. She might as well have dangled a wad of money in front of his nose and snatched it away again. He could just imagine what would