The Crossroads

I went down to the crossroads,
Tried to flag a ride.
Nobody seemed to know me,
Everybody passed me by.

Robert Johnson

The railway carriages were almost empty and I was able to get a compartment to myself with no trouble. A porter opened the door for me, put my baggage in the overhead rack and smiled broadly as he slid the door to, wishing me an enjoyable journey. Alfie and I waved to him from our window seat.

The train pulled out from the platform in the opposite direction from the one we'd expected, so we got up and sat down on the facing seat. Alfie perched on the little table by the window and watched with me as first the station buildings and then the rows of wagons in the sidings slid backwards before our eyes. A puff of steam looped down from the sky and batted itself against the glass.

As we picked up speed the coal-reeking smoke from the engine's funnel was lifted up by the air and spirited away from us. We knew how it would look from outside - the train speeding through the countryside, its wheels flashing and the smoke billowing and trailing along the roofs of the carriages and becoming part of the landscape. We had seen it in a kino at school.

Alfie left his place by the window and sat in my lap. I ran my hand along his back and sighed with pleasure to feel his fur - his lovely fur - become smooth and soft under my touch. 'Oh Alfie,' I said. 'I'm so looking forward to this.'

'After all we've had to put up with. Oh yes.' And he snuggled down even further than before; even warmer and nicer.

Towns, villages, hamlets sped by - they were all the same to me. Merely waypoints on my journey. Places to make a note of and maybe return to one day. Memories in advance, so to speak, stored away for our future enjoyment. 'Do you think,' I said to Alfie, 'that we might come here again? Soon?'

'Of course. One day we'll be free to go wherever we like, without being told all the time where we can stop or what we must do.'

'Some day.'

After we had been travelling for a couple of hours a steward brought me some lunch on a tray. The food was a little unfamiliar, but I was hungry so I wolfed it down, trying not to get any of the sauce on my clothes or drop crumbs on the floor. When I finished I found that I was feeling quite dozy - I hadn't had very much sleep the night before - so I pulled the blind down, closed my eyes, and drifted off into a shallow sleep that was full of the lights and sounds of the world outside, becoming part of my dreams.

When I awoke and let the blind back up with a reckless flapping of its cord it was to find that the character of the country outside my compartment had changed. Fields and woods and towns had given way to sand-dunes tufted with grass and occasional glimpses of a sea that was alternately green and blue. I looked at my watch. It was late in the afternoon - I had been asleep for over three hours. Even as I realised this the pace of the train slowed. We were coming to a halt.

I recognised the name of the station at once. We were there! We'd arrived! Alfie leapt in my hands in his excitement. 'Careful!' I said. 'We don't want any nasty accidents. Not now.'

With a squawk from its brakes and a banging of its couplings the train stopped. I lost my footing and crashed into the opposite seat.

'No accidents, eh?' said Alfie. 'Next time wait until the train stops before you stand up.'

I struggled to my feet. 'Yes, Aunt Sybil,' I replied, and tweaked his ear.

I started to pull my things down from the rack, but somebody stopped me. 'Hang on,' he said. 'Don't go doing yourself a mischief.' He shouldered my bags with ease and led me down the corridor and out of the train, stacking them up on the platform. 'There you are,' he said with a smile.

I flung myself at him and buried my face in his chest. 'Oh Gerry! Gerry! Gerry! You came! I was so hoping you would.' My brother put his arms around me and hugged me. I breathed in the smell of him and shivered, although the air was warm and the sun still high in the sky.

'It's wonderful to see you, Sunny.' I stood back and looked at him, tall and handsome and browned by sunlight and seaspray. My brother, on leave from the Royal Naval College and come to collect me from the train on the first day of the summer holidays. 'Come on. Everyone's down at the cottage waiting for you.'

'Everyone? Even the Syb-Thing?'

Gerry frowned. 'You can't have everything, you know. Mummy'll keep an eye on her.'

'We'll go places she can't get to, the fat old Thing! Won't we?'

'Of course we will.' Gerry linked his arm in mine and we passed through the ticket barrier to the station yard where a horse and cart were waiting to take us to our holiday cottage. The gilded light flickered between us in a sparkle of airborne dust-motes and we passed out of view and faded into memory.

The supplies wagon dropped me off at the nearest railway station. It was packed with soldiers and civilians - Brytish, Frankish and Doytch - but I was able to find a place on a westbound train with only a little inconvenience, not to mention some eyelash-batting and pushing and shoving. I even managed to get myself a window seat. Alfie and I sat down and waited for the off.

Once we got going - only a little late - the trip soon became smooth and enjoyable, although very slow. Things improved after the first ten miles or so. Clearly the Enemy hadn't wanted to spoil the railways and roads of the country that they thought they would soon be occupying so they hadn't bombarded it to anything like the same extent they had the towns and villages around Geneva. The further we went from the Holy City, the better it got.

The train stopped at every station along the route, whether in a town or the least significant wayside halt. People got on and people got off - civilians, mostly. From time to time the train stood for an hour or two in the middle of the open countryside. I never found out why - nobody told me or the other passengers and I didn't ask. Alfie and I kept ourselves to ourselves. I was tired and still a little sore and my mind wouldn't rest. Smoking did nothing for me. Alfie was no help either:

It's so unfair.

Not really.

Yes it is. We were doing our best to help.

No, we weren't. We were showing off again.

Alfie!

And we were telling lies. That's what it was really. We deserved everything we got.

Everything? Being treated like rubbish by everybody? Especially Nancy and Mabel. I hate them!

Hating them won't do any good. Not everybody let us down.

Sister Moulson was good to us.

Yes, she was. Can you guess why?

Why?

Because we were honest with her.

And we did our bit.

We always do our bit.

It looked as if "doing our bit" meant letting ourselves be sent back to London in disgrace. Alfie and I continued to talk over what had happened to us. Over and over and over. I fell asleep some time around midnight, wedging myself against the side of the carriage. I trusted the other people in the carriage not to steal my things, not because they looked trustworthy but because I had very little choice in the matter.

The next morning I awoke to find the sun streaming through the carriage windows. We were standing in a little country station. To my surprise, the carriage was empty although when I looked out of the window there was nobody to be seen on the platform but a woman with a handcart, selling coffee. I panicked for a moment - what about my kitbag? Had it, after all, been stolen while I slept ? But no; there it was, safely stowed on the luggage rack.

There was no corridor on the train and I'd been asleep for hours. All right, let's not muck about - I was bursting. So I opened the door and jumped down onto the platform. Frankish stations have lower platforms than Brytish ones; did you know that? The lavabos were foul, but I pinched my nose and did what I had to do as speedily as I could. Then I bought a cup of coffee and a nice crisp croissant for my breakfast from the handcart woman.

When I climbed back into the carriage it was to find that the seat across from mine was occupied by a young workman in blue overalls. I nodded to him and he nodded back to me. His daemon glanced at Alfie. I carried on eating my croissant, determined to ignore him from now on.

With a deafening rush of steam from the engine and a shaking of brakes and links the train set off again. The scenery around us was green and prosperous with wide-ranging farms and wooded hills. Overhead the sky was mottled blue-and-white.

Soon the train settled back into its gentle swaying rhythm. I fell into a light sleep with Alfie on my lap - just as he had been in my memories of the day before. As our consciousness rose and fell like the swell of the Inland Sea I began to feel that I was drifting among the ghosts of my thoughts. Faces, voices - some of them mine, some Alfie's, some the people I had known all my life, others new, like Sister Moulson or Lieutenant Deveney. At times I was fully awake and looking out of the window at a river, loaded with barges and sailing boats. And then I was slipping backwards and forwards in time. Time past and time future. Time lost and time yet to be won...

I was a little girl on my first day at nursery school, holding tightly to Mummy's hand, trying to be brave for Daddy and her. I was a grown woman, given birth to my first child in an agony of blood and sweat. I was a bride on my wedding night, and Alfie was encircled in my husband's strong, loving hands. I was playing hockey for Highdean School, and about to score the winning goal. My friends stood on the touchline and cheered me. My pony Regulus moved smoothly and powerfully under me as we cantered happily along the bridleways in the hills above Henley. An old woman now, I held out my arms to welcome the grandchildren who had come to stay with me for the summer. I lay on my death-bed at the end of a long, fulfilled life, saying my last goodbyes to Alfie. I wept for my loss, even while I cried out in joy.

Then I was fully awake, or so I thought. The sun was shining directly through the carriage window, casting a shimmering orange glow around the head and shoulders of the man opposite. A thought struck me and I spoke to Alfie:

Are you doing this?

No. Not me. Look...

The young ouvrier was watching me closely. His mouth wore a slightly crooked smile and his eyes were focussed directly on mine. His eyes... they were as blue as the midday sky, as brilliant as a star held captive at the bottom of a well.

'Are you doing this?' I asked, hardly expecting him to understand my English.

'No. You are,' he replied, leaning forward and holding out his right hand towards me.

He was going to touch me... I shivered with illicit anticipation of that touch, but his hand only brushed against my knee. 'Sorry,' he said. 'You wouldn't happen to have a fag on you, would you?'

'A fag?'

'A cigarette. You know.'

'Yes. Yes, of course.' I pulled a battered packet of Woodbines out of the breast pocket of my tunic. There were only two left in the box, so I offered him one and took the last for myself.

'Thank you. They're terribly bad for you, you know.' He winked at me. 'You shouldn't be smoking; a young girl like you.'

'I know. I can't help it. It helps calm me down.'

'After what happened in Chelsea, you mean.' He struck a match on the sole of his boot and lit my cigarette for me. I took a drag, trying to hide my surprise.

'What do you mean?'

'What I said.'

'How do you know about that?' There was little point in trying to pretend that I didn't know what he was talking about.

'You've been telling me.'

'I have?'

'Yes. All this time, you've been telling me.'

I thought for a moment. 'Who are you?' The young man ignored my question. His magpie-daemon sat on the seat next to him and preened her wings.

'Now listen to me,' he said, leaning forward, 'and listen carefully. This train is going to stop at a level crossing in five minutes or so. I want you to get off at the crossing. Take your kitbag with you. When the train has passed you must walk a mile to the east until you reach a crossroads. There you will find a man who will greet you by name. Go with him. Listen to his story. Do as he says.'

'I can't do that!'

'Why not?'

'Because I don't know who you are. I don't know you from Adam. And besides...'

'Yes?

'I'm under orders. I promised to return to London and report back to Captain Lowther.'

'Do you always obey orders?' The workman's smile was utterly beguiling. Oh, how I wanted him.

'No. But this time I'm going to.'

'What if I were to tell you that the fate of the worlds depends upon your doing as I ask?'

'"Worlds"? Don't you mean "world"? There's only one world, isn't there? And anyway, it's all rubbish. I'm not going to save any worlds. Who do you think I am? I'm Sunny Moon, not some hero.' That idea had been murdered by my treacherous Comrades at the Field Hospital.

'I know who you are, Sunny. I know who you will be, if you get down from this train when it stops. Sunny, look at me.'

I wasn't going to be ordered about like this. I put my hands over my eyes.

'You think that Nancy and Mabel betrayed you. Has it crossed your mind that they might have been trying to rescue you?'

No, it hadn't. Why should it? 'I don't care anyway. I'm going home.'

'Don't pout. It doesn't suit you. Nor does short hair, although it may prove useful some day. Now... Look at me!'

As if I had the choice. I asked my daemon for help. Alfie!

Do what he tells you.

So I did. I looked at him. And I believed.

In a welter of steam and smoke the train disappeared into the distance. The workman leaned out of the carriage window and waved goodbye to me. 'East!' he called out. 'About a mile!' Curious faces looked at us as the train clattered by, but I ignored them. My mind was in confusion, full of disturbing thoughts and images. In particular I was struggling with my desire for the young man. If we had been together in that carriage for very much longer I don't know what I might not have done... It was a physical thing, that yearning; pounding in my breast and shuddering in my loins.

Aren't we only doing this because...

No, Sunny, there's more to it than that.

There is?

Yes. His daemon told me.

You trust her?

Of course.

Of course. Oh well, we were set on our path now and unless we wanted to stand by the trackside for hours on end and try to flag down the next train that passed by we might as well do as we had been told. I bent down, rolled the kitbag onto my shoulder, and with Alfie trotting by my side crossed the railway tracks and walked down the gravel road with the sun high in the sky on my right.

The road led through fields and past the occasional cottage. They were built in different styles - some looked like wooden chalets and others like the stone-built slate-roofed houses of the north of England. I waved to the people I saw working in the fields. They waved back; seeing (as they probably thought) a somewhat undergrown soldier on his way home on leave. Did they have a Bantam Regiment in Frankland? I would have to ask. That is, if I could ever find anybody to ask.

A mile doesn't sound like very far to walk, but it is when it's all uphill and you're carrying a kitbag stuffed full of clothes, various bits and pieces (mess tin, entrenching tool, water bottle, tin cup, prayer book, bible, notepad, pencils, photogram of Gerry, sleeping roll) and an officer's ceremonial sword. Every few yards I stopped, put the bag down for a minute or two and then hoisted it up onto the other shoulder. Still, they were both aching like beggary by the time I reached the top of the slope. My head was itching horribly under my cap. I looked along the road. It zigzagged down the hill like a grey, green-skinned snake. There was the glint of water a little further along. Good - I was starting to feel faint with thirst.

Walking downhill is nearly as hard as walking up. It jars the knees, especially if the surface is hard, as this was. By the time I reached the bottom I was ready to sit down and rest for... for at least half an hour. But where was the crossroads? I was sure I had walked for at least a mile. It felt like twice that distance. I would have to stop soon - I was staggering. I would stop; just as soon as I got to the stream, or wherever the water was that I had seen from the top of the hill.

'Not far now,' said Alfie. I shifted the weight of my kitbag on my aching shoulder and pressed on. And nearly fell into the stretch of water that suddenly opened up in front me.

'You want to look where you're going. You might fall in.'

An English voice! And from somewhere near home... I turned round. Sitting on his knapsack in the shade of a linden tree was a middle-aged man, dressed in a green Norfolk jacket and plus-fours. He was wearing a tweed cap and hiking boots over Argyll patterned socks. He looked for all the world like a grocer on a golfing holiday. He stood up rather unsteadily and held out his right hand. 'Hello, Sonya. Pleased to meet you.'

I put my kitbag down, took his hand in mine and shook it. 'Hello, Goodsir. Are you the person I was told to meet? I was told it would be at a crossroads, but I can't see one. Where is it?'

The man pointed to the water. There is more than one kind of road, young lady. Haven't you heard of the railway? The iron road?'

'Yes, Goodsir.'

'Well, this is the Canal Rhin-Rhône. The Rhine-Rhone canal, and just as much of a road as that track you've just walked down.'

'But how do you cross it?'

'By ferry-boat. Look!'

Oh yes. There was a small flat-bottomed boat moored by the side of the canal. A rope trailed from it into the water. The man looked at my face. 'Do you see? You tug on the rope and that pulls the boat across the canal.'

'Yes, Goodsir. I see. Is that what we are going to do now?'

'No.' He smiled, and suddenly looked much younger. A strand or two of fair hair escaped from under his cap. I was still hot from my trudge and not feeling at all sure of myself.

'What are we going to do, then? Are we going to stand here all day and rot?'

If he was at all bothered by my tone of voice he didn't show it. 'No, Sonya. Soon you will see a barge approach. When it does, ask it to stop. Tell them... that we are friends of Arthur Shire. Can you do that?'

'Yes! Of course I can!'

'Good,' he said mildly and sat down again. A twinge of pain creased his face and he held his squirrel-daemon to his chest for a moment. Alfie looked at me reproachfully. She hurts!

'But...' I said.

'Yes, Sonya?'

'Don't call me that! Nobody calls me that! I'm Sunny, or I'm Driver Moon.'

'What would you prefer me to call you?'

'Sunny will do for now, Goodsir.' I looked at my boots, feeling myself blush. Could I possibly make any more of an idiot of myself than I had already?

'But... who is Arthur Shire? How can I say I'm his friend? I've never met him.'

'That's not what he says. Now, keep an eye open for barges, would you? We need one that's going north. You'll have to speak to the skipper for us. I never learned any Frankish myself. I didn't go to the kind of school that taught it.' He sat back against a tree-trunk and closed his eyes. Birds chattered in the trees that ran up and down the banks of the canal, and mayflies and fish wrinkled its surface from time to time. It was very quiet.

Half an hour later the peace was disturbed by the slow deep thump of a big gas-engine. A barge; painted red and green, over seventy feet long and around fifteen feet broad, with a tarpaulin-covered hold at the front and a large cabin and wheelhouse at the stern, was approaching from our right. I looked at the man by the tree. He opened his eyes. 'Yes, go on,' he said. 'That'll do nicely.' I stood by the waterside and waved my arms at the passing vessel.

'Monsieur? Monsieur?' A man stuck his head out of the wheelhouse window.

'Oui? Que veux-tu?'

'Monsieur, s'il vous plait? Vous arrêteriez-vous, s'il vous plait?'

'Non! Pourquoi? On est pressés!' Why should he stop, after all? He was in a hurry. This was a commercial craft, not a pleasure-cruiser. The skipper put his head back inside the cabin.

'Monsieur, je vous en prie!' He leaned out again ready, no doubt intending to give me a piece of his mind in the most pungent Frankish he knew.

'Capitaine! Nous sommes des amis d'Arthur Shire!'

'Hein? Quoi? Qui?'

'Arthur Shire!' It was pronounced "Sheer". The skipper's head disappeared again. It looked as if perhaps this name wasn't quite the magic spell I'd been told it was. I looked at the man with the squirrel-daemon. There was something funny about his left arm - what, I couldn't say.

'Hold on,' he said. 'It'll be okay.'

'OK? What's that mean?'

'It means "all right". See?' He pointed to the barge. A great surge of water was washing around its stern. Ah - the skipper had put the engine into reverse. It was stopping! Slowly the bow swung across the canal until it nudged against our side of the bank. The skipper left the wheel, walked down the deck and ran a gangplank to the shore. I picked up my kitbag and, with a little help, passed it across to the barge. I was about to follow it when I felt a hand on my arm.

'Could you help me, please? I'm a little unsteady on these things.' I let him rest his right arm across my shoulder and supported him as we crossed the gangplank. His left leg was stiff and ungainly. Then I returned to the shore and fetched his knapsack for him.

'Thank you, Sunny.' That crease across his face again. 'You'd better introduce us to our captain.'

I turned to the skipper. 'Bonjour, monsieur. Je m'appelle Sunny Moon, et mon ami...' I looked at my companion. 'I'm sorry, Goodsir. I don't know your name.'

'How silly of me,' he said. 'How very remiss. I should have told you before. I'm Peter Joyce, and this is Viola.'

'...et mon ami s'appelle Peter Joyce et Viola.'

The captain held out his hand to us both. 'It is good to meet you,' he said. 'I am called Jacques Fourneaux, and this is Jeanne.' He pointed over the far side of the vessel and I realised what he meant. His dolphin-daemon put her head out of the water and waved a friendly flipper to us.

This was turning into a very strange adventure indeed.