The Crocodile Hunter by Gerald Seymour (best summer reads of all time txt) 📕

growled, but his mum would feed him when he reached home. His mum did great food and he could remember each of the favourites she served up for him, and he’d recall those tastes every time he had eaten the dry hard bread that was available to them in the field, or what they called lamb but was goat. Ulrike had cooked well but would only do it if there was a birthday, or a victory, and if a small store had been liberated and she could sweep up an armful of spices . . . A police car went by but the driver did not even glance at him, and . . . Two women arrived.

It was two hours since he had crawled ashore, and might have been a full hour since he had had his face washed by the dog and been given the coat, and had undressed under the esplanade wall. One of them unlocked the door. Both stepped around him, and went through to the back of the shop and the lights were switched on.

He heard one say, “Maude said he was a fine young fellow, but he never spoke to her, not a word. There was a landing this morning . . .”

The other said, “Was on Facebook, they were Iranians, came through that storm – God, lucky to be alive – and he must have come with them . . . but they said he swam away.”

“Don’t know what language he’ll have. What do you think?”

“Wouldn’t know . . . Syrian, Egyptian, or another Iranian. Not a clue.”

“Well, Maude will want her coat back – and he’ll need some clothes, and we’ll not turn him away. Makes me shudder just thinking where he’ll have been and what he must have gone through. Anyway, time to get the show on the road . . .” She spoke to him slowly, loudly and accented each syllable, like he was an idiot, but she was not threatening. She was a tall woman, had green streaks in her hair and wore a floppy necklace of large stones, a tight sweater and a modest skirt, and smiled. “Come on in, friend. Let’s be having you.”

The other was younger, and Cammy noticed the rings near blocking her right nostril. “Don’t be worrying, friend. That’s what you are, a ‘friend’, and we don’t hold with chasing people like you away. In you come.”

Cammy did not have to answer. He shrugged out of the coat. He stood naked except for his trainers, and his underpants that sagged wet on his hips.

One said, “Not a bad start to a morning, but rain forecast. Quite dishy.”

The other said, “And look at his body! All those scars and stitches . . . Excuse me, bloody hell, is that a bullet hole?”

“Not anything else I can think of, pet. In and out, and going through flesh, that’s real luck. A charmed boy . . . What do you reckon?”

He was beckoned, came forward. He set his eyes to hangdog, pretended that he understood nothing, was a harmless fugitive.

The other said, “I’d guess about the size of the stuff that widow from Walmer brought in last week.”

A towel was tossed him. The one with the streaks in her hair made a gesture for him to drop his pants, and to kick off his shoes. They seemed intrigued by his wounds, not by the rest of him . . . The brothers used to see Ulrike in stages of undress, and the boys would not necessarily cover up because of her. He did as he was told and then started to towel himself, did it hard to get the blood flowing. One of them, as an afterthought, went back to the door and lowered the blind and left the sign on Closed. They started to rummage for socks, shoes, underpants, a T-shirt, and a shirt. He started to dress. The shirt was held in front of him, like he was a mannequin.

One said. “A good jacket came in at that time. Sort of tweed. A forty chest be all right?”

“Perfect.”

“What would you say for trousers?”

“I’d say a thirty-two waist and a thirty-one inside leg. Have we got that?”

A giggle. “Shall we give him tae tie?”

A chuckle. “Why not?”

He dressed. Hardly a surprise to be kitted out in the clothes of a pensioner: a checked shirt and a jacket with a fleck in it, a sober tie and brogues. He ate a cheese and lettuce sandwich, and had a swig of coffee from a flask, and was given an anorak. They laughed a bit, shy now. Perhaps they feared they patronised him. He wanted to show his appreciation, but did not speak. An extra pair of socks was stuffed in his jacket pocket, and a small bar of soap, and a little plastic razor.

One said, “We’re not all bigots and racists here. Get to London and try to find some of your own people there. Don’t think he understands a word of what I’m saying.”

The other said, “Like to think we’re all God’s children. You are very welcome.”

Cammy ducked his head, hoped they interpreted it as a gesture of appreciation; the street door was opened for him, and he left them using their toes to manoeuvre his underpants towards a waste-paper bin where his trainers had already been dumped. He went out on to the street, shrugged into the anorak and lifted the hood so that much of his face was covered. He knew the route he would take. He walked back up the High Street. They would return the lady’s coat. They would talk about their pleasure in performing a basic act of kindness. It would have happened in any small Syrian community where hospitality was an obligation and a welcome always given. It did not fit with his view of his home city up the Dover road. Kindness and generosity had twice been shown him. Not that it would deflect him when he reached his target. Then there would be no kindness, no generosity.

“So, that was the Five lot.” Dominic, in their rest room, grimaced.

“Coming up in the world, I’d say,” Babs pouted.

The