Homes Is A Strange Country - Chapter 32

THIRTY TWO
Bolton, 17^th September 1917

   When George awoke the following morning he was cold and shivering. He opened his eyes to see a curtained window to the side of his bed, and against the wall opposite the bed was a large dark brown wooden dresser topped off with a thick marble slab. The old scar on the left side of his face from his days as a plate layer in Sydney was sore, and as he moved in bed the now familiar rheumatic pains in his back made him wince in pain once more. The mirror fixed to the top of the dresser showed that his bed was little more than a large brown heap of bedding. During the night he had got out of bed because of the cold and placed his army greatcoat over what he assumed to have been normally adequate bedding. It seemed to him that the north of England was several degrees colder than he had become accustomed to in northern France and the south of England. What a cold place this was, he thought.

   George was in The Swan Hotel, which stood on a street called Churchgate, and next door to a men's outfitter called Hope Brothers on the corner of the street, which George had seen as his walked into the front door of the hotel. The other thing he noted was a large ornate carving of a white swan above the door which he had entered. 'No mistaking the name of this place' he thought to himself as he found his way to the main bar of the hotel. The barman had eagerly shown George one or two of the rooms in the hotel when he had enquired if he had a room available for a few nights, and George had chosen the one in which he now lay, shivering. 'God', he said out loud, 'How on earth do people live in this climate?' He pulled the greatcoat around his ears then felt the aching in his left knee and ankle, together with the unmistakeable pressure on his bladder. 'No' he muttered vainly to the gods of sleep. 'Not yet, just let me have another few minutes.' But bladders call, and the call must be answered. George gritted his teeth and threw off the bedclothes to swing his feet painfully onto the small rug at the side of his bed. The rheumatic pains in his legs and backside were beginning more and more to impinge on his life. Reaching round he took the greatcoat from his bed and pulled it on around his shoulders and over his pyjamas then limped to the bedroom door, grabbing his towel, soap and shaving gear from the dresser as he passed. The bathroom was at the end of the dark narrow corridor; the barman had been at pains to show George all around the hotel the previous evening. He made his way there and was pleased to find he had it to himself. It seemed to him that there were no other guests staying in the hotel with him. Relief came quickly standing in front of the toilet, and he then completed his ablutions in the plentiful hot water which quickly filled the basin. It was difficult for him to feel any comfort as there was no sign of heating in the bathroom or along the corridor of the hotel. He shuffled quickly back to his bedroom and dressed hurriedly in his warm army uniform. Sitting down on the bed he wound and laced his puttees around his lower legs then jammed his feet into his boots. He stood and deliberated whether or not to wear his greatcoat to the dining room, but felt that there must be some heating in the room, as there had been last night.

   Downstairs in the residents dining room he discovered that he was the only person taking breakfast, and this reinforced his thoughts that he was alone in the hotel, other than the staff and a few daytime and evening bar customers. A few lonely lights set in the ceiling helped to illuminate what was a brown and dark room. The walls were dotted with odd prints of country scenes and a portrait of a man from another age. An attractive young waitress dressed in a black and white dress and apron entered the dining room from the kitchen off to the back of the room and walked across to where George was sat near to a radiator by a window. The heat coming off was meagre, but far better, he thought, than sitting by the door to the kitchen. The young woman smiled a sweet smile at him and he responded, reflecting that she was really quite pretty. She was slim in build with dark hair tucked into a white cap perched on the top and to one side of her head. She stood expectantly before him with pad and pencil in her hand, her dark brown eyes smiling at him.

   'Will you be wantin’ full breakfast sir?' she asked, in a broad Lancashire accent. George had no accurate idea what she said; his accent was as foreign to her ears. He guessed what her question had been and replied 'Yes', hoping that was the right answer.

   'And would you like tea or coffee sir?' she countered. George heard the word coffee and guessed he was being offered a choice of hot drinks.

   'Err, coffee please miss' he responded. She smiled at him once more as she scribbled his order on her pad and turned back to the kitchen to order his food.

   The problem he had with the accent was something he had first encountered in Weymouth, where the Dorset accent had been almost like another foreign tongue compared to the 'Strine' with which George had been brought up. Now he had the broad Lancashire accent and dialect words to contend with. He struggled to understand what the waitress was trying to explain to him. In the end a plate of eggs and bacon with sausage and black pudding arrived along with a pot of coffee, and this, it seemed, was the only real explanation he required. The smell from the kitchen was almost overwhelming him as he had sat waiting for his meal to arrive in the dining room, looking out onto Churchgate, his stomach making loud protesting sounds from beneath his tunic. He tucked into the plate of hot food and was soon enjoying it. Looking out he saw trams occasionally trundling along the street outside the window, and the heads of people walking by looked almost like one of the movies he had seen at the hospital in Weymouth. He grinned at the memory of his first visit there, and then the grin left his face as he also recalled the sick and injured men he had shared his time with. They were still there, but he had managed to get away to the north for a few days. He knew well enough that the reason he had been allowed out of the camp was due to his imminent release from the army when he would return to France in October, due to his worsening health and the fact that now he was forty years old; beyond the normal age required for serving his country. When eventually he returned to Weymouth he was sure he would have to 'hurry up and wait' for a transport ship back to Australia where his formal departure from the army would take place. Then what would he do with his life? A large amount of the answer to that question lay in what happened here in Bolton.

   Breakfast over, George limped slowly back up the stairs to his room where he picked up his greatcoat and walking stick before returning back down the stairs to the small reception desk outside the dining room, carrying the stick in one hand and his coat in the other. There wasn’t anyone at the reception desk, so he placed his room key on the desk and left by the front door of the hotel onto Churchgate. He stood on the pavement near the door for a moment in the chill morning air, looking around him at the people and the shops close by. The sky was a pale blue colour but was almost covered by a layer of elephant grey clouds. There was rain in the air, he could smell it. Glancing at the watch on his wrist he saw that it was almost ten in the morning and the world had been busy for several hours before he had risen. Proof he supposed, of how tired he had really been the previous day from his journey from Weymouth.

   Women, laden with bags of shopping, were struggling along the paved streets with children in tow, whilst across the street he watched a woman who was kneeling down on the pavement in front of a shop doorway, washing the front step into the shop and then rubbing it with what appeared to be a grey oblong stone. She would take the stone and dip it into a bucket by her side on the pavement, then rub it hard from left to right along the step. He could hear the scraping noise the stone made on the step from the opposite side of the road. This was new to George. Quite apart from never having seen this sort of task undertaken by anyone before, he was curious to know why she was doing this. A tram came by and stopped just outside the hotel to allow three people to get off. All of them looked with curiosity at the uniform George was wearing, and then walked off in the direction of the town centre. As the tram moved away from the stop George walked to the edge of the pavement, his stick tapping out a slow rhythm on the stone flags of the pavement. He crossed the road and stood behind and to one side of the women working on the step, watching as she scrubbed the step with the stone, then wetting it again in the bucket. After a few moments she became aware of the man standing behind him and started to shuffle on her knees to one side in order to give him room to gain access to the shop. When he made no effort to move she asked,

   'Are you wantin’ to go in sir?'

   'No thanks, I’m just wondering what you are doing. I’ve never seen anyone doing this sort of thing before,' he replied smiling. The woman grinned, showing more gaps in her mouth than teeth.

   'I’m donkeyin' the doorstep' she said. 'Most of us do it every day unless the weather is really bad, then we get a day off.' She grinned wider at him and held up the grey stone for George to examine. George moved closer and saw that what he had thought was a stone was indeed just that, a stone, but of a material he had not seen before. He lifted it towards his nose and sniffed, it smelled slightly of bleach.

   'What does it do?' he queried.

   'Keeps the place looking smart' she said, and placed the stone in the cold water, then pulled it out and started once more to rub it along the width of the step. As the water from the stone dripped off onto the pavement George could see that what was left behind was not grey, but a dull white colour. The step had been transformed.

   'And you do this every day?' he asked.

   'Well not if it’s pouring down I don’t, but most days. It’s part of my job here. I’m the cleaner.' The woman was probably no older than George, in her late thirties he thought, but from the lines on her face and the redness of her hands he judged she had always done this sort of manual job. George raised his stick to her in a sort of salute.

   'Thanks love', he said, 'You learn something every day don’t you?' He smiled at her and turned back to cross over the road again towards the hotel.

   On the corner of Churchgate and Bradshawgate was a men's outfitters shop, the one which he had seen the previous evening. The shop formed the corner of the two streets and had display windows on both of them. Hope Brothers boasted that it was The Smart Outfitting Company and from its prominent position at the junction of four town centre roads, it was evident that it gained a lot of business because of its position. George stood and gazed through the window at the displays of men's clothing on headless mannequins, and looked closely at the prices. They appeared to be within his price range, so went inside the shop.

   Within less than an hour he came back out having spent rather more than he had anticipated, but was content with what he had bought, especially as the shop assistant had offered to have the parcels of clothing delivered to the Swan for George to peruse in more detail at his leisure later on that evening. George felt that he would at least have a degree of anonymity and disguise for the task he had set himself during the coming days. Though how he was going to get there was probably going to be one of the first problems he would have to overcome. A stranger in a strange town dressed in strange clothing was, he felt, going to make him stand out like a sore thumb. 'Where the hell do I start?' he muttered to himself. An answer to his question seemed to be standing in the middle of the road junction waving its arms around. A Policeman on point duty was almost redundant, George thought. There was so little traffic approaching him from either of the four roads where he was situated. George watched him for a few minutes as the officer turned to face the noise of an oncoming lorry. The lorry, laden with some bulky bales of raw cotton covered in a dark green tarpaulin lashed to the wooden floor of the lorry with ropes, was approaching him slowly from along Deansgate. As the lorry drew closer to the man in blue in the middle of the road, George noticed a small illuminated arm flick out from the left hand side of the drivers cab, like a small semaphore arm. The officer turned so that his back was to Bradshawgate and facing the street opposite down the hill. His left arm stretched out level with his shoulder to indicate to traffic coming from his back that they should stop, and with his right hand he flicked at the lorry driver to drive on down the hill to his left. As it turned the officer swung around to face towards George, still standing on the pavement outside the shop where he had recently bought his clothes. The officer called out to him.

   'You alright. You waiting to cross?' George paused for a moment then called back,

   'Fine thanks officer, I was wondering if you could give me some directions, but you look a bit busy'.

   'I’ll be off here for a break in five minutes if you want to wait for me' he called out.

   'Righto then, I’ll be back in five minutes. Just want to have a look at a shop over the road,' George replied and raised his walking stick in acknowledgement. As he turned towards the entrance to the Swan on Churchgate George remarked to himself that, 'They seem a damn site more human than the coppers in Melbourne and Sydney' and grinned to himself.

   Coming out of the hotel earlier he had seen a shop on the opposite side of the road which interested him. The shop had two double windows with a door in between them, and was three stories high, with the words James Booth – Late on boards above the windows. He was curious about the contents of the windows, which appeared to be full of musical instruments. George had never seen so many in his life before, so felt it was a justifiable way to spend five minutes. He crossed the road behind a horse and cart which was coming along Churchgate and stood for a few moments looking at the array of various instruments and sheet music in both windows. Trombones and bugles, trumpets and violins appeared in a jumble hanging from racks and curved hooks on a frame set inside the shop around the window. He peered through the glass and saw that a man inside was looking back at him with an equal amount of curiosity. George straightened up and grinned at the man who raised his right hand in greeting. The man moved from the window and suddenly appeared in the doorway close to George. 'Can I help you sir,' he asked. The man sported a thick moustache, just like Georges’, 'No thanks mate, 'George replied, 'Just browsing. Never seen so many different instruments before'. The man nodded his head and George felt his eyes fix on the slouch hat and its rising run brass badge.

   'Australian?' He asked quietly, Gallipoli?'

   'Yes and No,' George replied with a quick grin. 'Australian, Yes, but I enlisted too late for that Gallipoli mess thank goodness. A fair number of the blokes from my regiment got it at Lone Pine though and we were sent over to replace them.' He paused then added, 'Not sorry I missed it to tell you the truth. We lost over four hundred men in six days in that battle, my regiment that is.' The man nodded gravely.

   'Sad days' he said. 'Sad days. I believe we lost twenty odd thousand at that battle, and the French about the same, as well as your Australian casualties.' George lifted up his head in order to look the man in the eye.

   'I joined up a month before that lot kicked off,' he said. 'I was still in training in Melbourne at the time.' He paused and looked sideways towards the Police officer who was still standing in the middle of the junction. 'Still had a rough time of it though, and all for stupid bloody reasons.' The man’s head jerked back at the profanity and George apologised, remembering that he was no longer in the barracks or on the troopship which had brought him from France to Portsmouth.

The two men stood in silence for a moment then George said.

   'I got mumps in Egypt. We were near Cairo in a place called Abbasion and I had to stay in the hospital there for two and a half weeks then they moved me up to a place called Serapeum ‘til the middle of February.' He paused and glanced up at the sky. It looked even more like rain. 'A lot of our blokes went down with Mumps and some other stuff as well. Seems strange, to come all this way overseas to get a childhood illness. Some of them never made it to France.'

   There was a silence between the two men broken when the man from the shop remarked quietly,

   'Mumps is fine if you are a child, but not a laughing matter when you are an adult.' George grinned ruefully at him.

   'You’re telling me. A lot of the blokes went down with it in Egypt, hospital was full of them. Some got over it fairly quickly, mainly the young ones, but older men like me, well, just seemed to knock us for six.' The man nodded in sympathy.

   'I’ve not had it myself,' he said, 'So can’t comment, but I know that it does leave some nasty after effects.' George looked at him quizzically.

   'What sort of things' he asked, 'I lost a bit of weight and it was blood... ' he checked himself, 'Really painful with my neck and throat swollen and all, but there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with me now. It was hard to sit up for a lot of the time I was in hospital though. It was really painful and swollen down there as well.' George’s eyes glanced down towards the area of his groin. The man was staring silently down at his feet. Then he grunted and said,

   'Yes, well. It is more than likely you got over it well then.' George was puzzled but decided not to pursue it any further. 'Would you like to come into the shop and have a look around?' asked the man. 'There might be something we have which you could take back to Australia with you, if you can get it back to camp with you.'

   'Oh, I’m not going to camp now,' George said hurriedly. 'Well, I am, but not for long. They’ve decided that what with the mumps and my wound and the fact that I am forty years old, they reckon I have probably used up all my luck, and somebody else’s as well, so when I get back to France they are going to send me straight back home and I’ll get my discharge in Melbourne. So, it looks like it’s all over for me.' He moved his stick to his other hand and leaned hard on it. His back was starting to ache quite badly with standing still and talking with the man, that and the newly acquired rheumatism he had been diagnosed with prior to leaving from Le Havre. The man held out his hand, George took it and they shook.

   'I wish you well then' he said, 'And thank you for coming all this way to fight for England. We don’t see many people from Australia in town and it’s been good to have met you. Have a safe journey back home.' George smiled at the man.

   'Thank you sir,' he said. 'I have a few more days in Bolton before I need to get back to Weymouth. I’m trying to look up somebody who I met a few years ago in Sydney whilst I lived there.'

   'Well, good hunting then' the man grinned and turned to go back up the step into his shop.

   George turned away from the shop and saw that the Policeman who had been on point duty at the road junction near to the hotel was now walking along the pavement of Churchgate towards him. From a hiding place somewhere the officer had obtained a thigh length heavy black cape which he wore around his shoulders and fastened at the neck with a brass chain hung between two lions heads on either side of the collar of the cape. George thought he looked a lot smarter than when he had been on point duty and was wearing just a neck high collared tunic. The officer smiled at George, and like almost everyone else he had met, his eyes were fixed on the slouch hat he wore.

   'Better hat than our lads have to wear' he said, grinning and pointing to George’s head.

   'Yeah, well, have to wear it whilst I am in uniform' he said. The officer stopped alongside George and half turning pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the centre of the junction where he had just come from.

   'If you are not in a hurry then I can answer your questions whilst we have a brew if you want,' he said, looking at another Police officer who had taken over the point duty in the middle of the road.

   'My mate is spelling me for twenty minutes so I don’t have too much time, and I could do with a quick trip to the lavatory as well.' He smiled at George who was a little surprised at the remark by the constable. His only experiences with Australian Police had been in both Sydney and Melbourne, and they were not as human as this man appeared to be. He returned the grin and said,

   'Yes, alright, I’m game'

The officer started to walk off and motioned for George to follow him and together they walked off along Churchgate towards the Swan hotel. The policeman carried on walking past the hotel and then past another pub, the Man and Scythe, which was next door to the Swan Hotel. George walked alongside him trying to keep pace with the officer, who realising that George was having some difficulty with his walking stick, slowed his pace a little and commented,

   'Not far, in fact we are here.' He stopped and shot a quick glance up and down the length of the street before pushing open a narrow wooden door which was set into a wide wooden delivery door at the end wall of Man and Scythe and between the shop next door. The door opened easily onto a long dark narrow passageway between the two premises. The officer stepped through holding open the door with one hand so that George could pass through. The passageway ran the length of the pub on his right hand side until it opened out into a yard which was half covered by a wooden roof. Half the yard was covered by the roof and the other open to the skies. He allowed the constable to get past him in the narrow passage and then followed him to where the roofing started. By the right hand side of the wall stood three upturned wooden crates which had at one time contained bottles of beer, judging from the brewers name on the side, Magee Marshall and Company, Bolton. They were positioned just beyond a door to the back of the pub.

   'Sit yourself in the two and sixes whilst I go to the lavatory and get us a brew,' the officer said with a grin pointing to the crates. Leaving George standing in the yard he opened the door of the pub and went inside, pulling the door closed after him. George was a little concerned, but not much, not only by the very human approach of the officer towards him, but also by the fact that they were going into a pub outside what he knew to be licensing hours, and the officer was on duty.

   Well George thought, If I’m going to get into any trouble he is going to be there alongside me. He picked one of the crates from its’ position leaning against the wall and pulled it forward a few inches then sat down on it to wait for the return of his new acquaintance. George looked around him. Judging from the large quantity of barrels and crates piled high in the yard he realised that this was some sort of storage area for the pub. No doubt deliveries were made here from time to time, probably every day judging by the volume of empties. He sat for a moment or two and then laughed out loud at the incongruity of his position. Here he was, a member of the Australian Sixth Infantry Battalion in full uniform, plus walking stick, sitting on an empty crate of beer in the back yard of a public house in the middle of a town he had never been to in his life before. It was strange to say the least.

   At the sound of the door opening behind him he turned and saw a small elderly man dressed in a soiled open necked collarless shirt and dirty cardigan peer out. He looked George up and down. 'I thought he were pullin’ my leg' he said. He grinned, then withdrew his head inside and closed the door. Almost immediately the door reopened and the officer came out into the yard, flicking the cape off his shoulder so that it fell forward across his body. 'Cup of tea do you?' he asked.

   'Yes please' George said.

   'Two secs and it’ll be with us,' said the officer and withdrew again into the pub. The sound of men's voices came from the pub and again the door opened and the officer came back out into the yard, removing his helmet as he did so. Around his forehead there was a red mark where the helmet had been rubbing. He arched his back to stretch, and rubbed at the red mark on his forehead, then ruffled his hair.

   'Bloody thing makes you sweat no matter what the weather is like' he said. 'Tea shouldn’t be long.' He drew one of the two remaining crates from the wall and sat down on it, placing himself a few feet away from George, and almost facing him. He put the helmet on top of the remaining crate and turned back to George.

   'So, how can I help you?' he asked. George looked him in the eye. There appeared to be no suspicion in his face, the question was a straightforward offer of help. As he was about to ask the question he was interrupted by the door in the pub wall opening inward, and another man appeared carrying two white mugs of tea in his hand by the large handles.

   'Here you go Jack,' he said, offering one of the mugs to the officer, 'And here’s yours mate.' handing George the other one. 'Good to see a Digger in town. Not had any of your chaps here before, you’re most welcome.' George guessed that the man was the landlord of the pub. He was better dressed than the first man he had seen and had an air of authority about him. Before George could say anything the man turned and went back into the pub leaving George alone with the officer, Jack.

   He took a sip from the thick white pot mug of mahogany coloured tea which was giving off a thin vapour of steam in the cold air. His eyes flicked up over the rim of the mug at the officer in front of him and he used the drink to gain a little time to work out how much he could trust him, and how much he should tell him. As he drank the tea he decided to tell him as little as possible, in that way, he felt, there would be fewer questions from the officer.

   'I’m after directions to an address here in Bolton please,' he said. 'I know it is somewhere near a church called the Iron Church but I have no idea where that is.'  

   'The Iron Church? Well I know where that is,' said the officer. 'It’s not all that far from the town centre, but I think with your injuries you’ll be better off getting a tram up there.' He paused to sip from his mug and then asked, 'So, what is the address then?'

   'It’s Latham Street. I was told it was quite close to the church' George replied. The officer leaned over and placed his drink on the floor before reaching into the top left hand pocket of his tunic, withdrawing a small well used book, a street directory, issued to each man on the Bolton Borough Police force. He flicked through it and soon found the name Latham Street. He opened the back flap of the book and a battered and heavily creased printed street map unfolded into his hands. He peered down at it and traced along the streets with his fingers until he found what he was looking for,

   'Oh yes,' he said. 'Latham Street. It’s just before the church and behind it. Looks like it's built along the back of Blackburn Road before the church.' He looked up and into George’s eyes and grinned.                                   

   'Any wiser?' he asked.

   'Not really,' George said.

   'Right then. You need to get the tram from Bridge Street and get off at the church, the tram stops opposite the church and just up the road a bit. Then, walk back to the church and take the first left then first right until you are walking back along the main road. The main road's called Blackburn Road, and the other is Latham Street. It’s only a short street, so the number you are looking for can’t be far from the church. When I’ve finished my brew I’ll tell you how to catch the tram, it’s not all that far from where I was on point.' George nodded his head,

   'Thanks,' he said. The officer folded the map carefully and placed the book back into his pocket. He fished in the bottom right pocket of his tunic for a moment before finally withdrawing a pipe and a small leather tobacco pouch. He offered the pouch to George,                                 

   'Want a fill?' he asked. Despite the fact that he too smoked a pipe George had no wish to prolong his time with the officer any longer than was necessary. He had places to go.  

   'No thanks, 'George replied, 'I don’t'.

   'I will whilst I’ve got the chance then.' Opening the flap on the pouch he took a short thick twist of tobacco and a small knife from it and started to cut a piece. Replacing the knife in the pouch he dropped the small plug of tobacco into the palm of his left hand which also held his pipe, and using the palm of his right hand he started to grind the tobacco into small leaves. He glanced up at George who was again drinking the tea.

   'So what brings you all the way from Australia to Latham Street Bolton in the middle of a war then?' he asked. George swallowed the mouthful of tea and looked across at the officer.

   'I’m looking up somebody I met in Sydney a few years ago,' he said. The officer placed the pipe between his lips and took a match from a box he had taken from his pocket. He struck the match and the sulphurous smoke wafted in George’s direction. Applying the lit match to the bowl of the pipe he drew in his breath and a cloud of smoke rose from the pipe. He pulled on it a couple of times then took the pipe from his mouth.

   'What was her name then?' he asked, not unkindly. George could feel the colour rising in his cheeks so he took another drink from the mug.

   'What makes you think it was a woman?' he replied.

The officer grinned and aimed the pipe at him.

   'If it was a man you were looking for you would have said, ‘I met a bloke, or I met a chap, or met a man, in Sydney’ but you didn’t, you said, ‘I met somebody’ which makes me think you are looking for a woman. Am I right?' George paused and drank again from the mug.

   'It was a young woman I met when she was living in Sydney, but she died, and I buried her as there was nobody else to do it.' He gripped the mug lightly in both hands feeling the warmth of the drink warming his hands. The officer took a long draw on his pipe and looked quietly at George through the smoke.

   'Well, that’s a story and a half' he said quietly. 'Want to tell me more?' George paused for a moment. Nothing which the officer could do would help him further to accomplish the job he had set himself when he had been in France and had realised there was an opportunity for him to visit England.

   'That’s kind of you to offer,' he said. 'But I think I know what needs to be done now.' The two men finished their mugs of tea in silence. The officer tapped out some ash from the bowl of his pipe on the side of the crate opposite him and said,

   'Well, it’s time for me to get back on point. I hope you find who you are looking for and wish you well in the search'. He stood and held out his hand for George’s mug. George handed it over and the officer went to the pub back door and opened it with his free hand. The landlord had been standing just inside the door and took the two mugs from the constable.

   'Thanks Jack' he said, glancing sideways at George who was rising to his feet from the empty beer crate. 'If you do need any help whilst you are here, or run into any problems, well you can find me around here any time this week. I’m starting on nights next week if you’re still around here.' George nodded his head in silent acceptance of the offer, knowing full well that he would not be troubling the officer again.

George followed the Policeman back along the narrow passageway and out onto the street where they walked in silence side by side back to the junction where George stopped and watched as the officer went back into the roadway. For a moment or two he watched as the two Policemen exchanged a few sentences. The second officer looked across Jacks shoulder directly at George and nodded his head slowly. George felt an uneasy chill creeping up his spine at the interaction between the two officers and tuned to walk to the door of the Swan.