The Worlds's Last Englishman

The old man with his sleeve pinned was holding out a green apple, offering it, and though it would be clean from the rain, Lloyd shook his head and stared instead at the two old ladies ahead of him in the queue. Perhaps because of the man's missing arm, his half-sleeve swinging flat and rectangular; perhaps because it would seem greedy; perhaps because of Snow White, which he'd seen three years before at the Phoenix with Aunt Gwen. One of the old ladies in front held a large brown suitcase that clanked every time she shifted her weight. It must have been her entire tea service in there for safekeeping. Ahead of that, a spiv took a half-crown from a passing mother with a stroller: "Top bunk or bottom, luv?"—"Bottom, or I can't tend the baby."

Lloyd had brought no umbrella, and by the time the doors opened at four and everyone went down, he knew his drenched school uniform would keep him wet all night unless his mother brought him a change of clothes. Once he'd claimed a top bunk, he took off his shirt and tie and hung them off the side. No one getting off the tube ever looked in any event—not at ladies in their night dresses, nor at maimed servicemen reading newspapers on their bedrolls, nor at shirtless boys, aged eleven, extremely hungry and wishing they had an apple.

Down below, the bottom bed creaked, and Lloyd peered over the edge. It was the same old man, sitting down and opening a cloth sack. "I was saving the bottom for my mother and my aunt," Lloyd called. "That's why I put the notice."

The man bit into his apple and then looked up. "I'll move when the trains stop." His mouth was full, and Lloyd couldn't look. "Going to spread my hammock." Lloyd had heard of people hanging hammocks across the tracks after seven, but he hadn't seen it yet at Russell Square. He wanted to learn how it was done.

Lloyd opened his book and lay back, cold and still wet, on the bare mattress. He'd brought his blanket, but it was useless now except as a wet rag for cleaning his face. He read his book—Smith and the Pharaohs, an old Haggard from the school library—and turned his head each time a train stopped, to watch for his mother getting off. She would bring him a cheese sandwich. The guards came through every few minutes and pushed people back behind the double white line, so there would be room for passengers.

When he wanted a break from his book, Lloyd laid out the things he'd carried in his schoolbag, so they could dry properly: Latin text, pencil set, shrapnel collection, dictionary, electric torch, oil pastels. The paper wrappers around each pastel were wet and peeling off, and the box was nearly ruined, but the colored sticks themselves were fine because water didn't mix with oil. For once Lloyd was glad for the stifling heat of all the bodies; he'd nearly stopped shivering, and though his trousers were still soaked, they were almost warm.

Lloyd heard applauding from the far end of the platform before he heard the station guards: "Ladies, gentlemen, Piccadilly Line will shut off early! All passengers awaiting trains, nearest operating stop is Holborn, on the Central Line! Piccadilly Line now closed!" Groans rose from the lip of the platform, where the women and old men awaiting the train turned and started filing toward the stairs, but there was general jubilation from those sprawled in the bunks and spread on the floor.

Lloyd's mother wouldn't easily be able to get to Holborn from Knightsbridge, and she wouldn't have brought money for a cab; she'd end up staying in Knightsbridge station, or even in Aunt Gwen's flat. He was surprised to find himself fairly untroubled by it. He'd rather not be alone, of course, but he wouldn't miss Aunt Gwen's snoring louder than anyone in...