Rosie Thomas 4-Book Collection: Strangers, Bad Girls Good Women, A Woman of Our Times, All My Sins Remembered. Rosie Thomas
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straining his neck muscles, as if the hopeless movement could push the wreckage and let the daylight come flooding down.
Was it still snowing? What were they doing up there, so long?
‘I want to stay alive, like you,’ he whispered. He did, and he wouldn’t let himself ask, For what?
‘We will be saved,’ she whispered back to him. ‘I know we will.’
Steve wanted to reach out and take her in his arms. It was the first flicker of her own determination, not cajoled from her by his own will. He felt the warmth of gratitude and it was like weakness because his eyes suddenly filled with tears.
No. Don’t do that. It was important not to be weak. He must keep on holding her hand, listening to her breathing.
‘And you, Annie? Have you got what you want?’
She was vividly aware of the truth that he had offered her. She could feel the intimacy uncoiling between them, incongruous, yet as important as the need to contain the pain, as important as holding on to her wavering consciousness.
She would offer him the truth in return.
Very quietly, so that he had to strain to catch the words, she said, ‘I chose the easy option.’
Martin waited until the kettle boiled and the automatic switch clicked back into the off position. He took the coffee jar out of the cupboard and spooned the granules into a flowered mug, then poured the water in so that the liquid frothed up in black bubbles. He opened the door of the refrigerator and peered in, frowning when he saw that there was no milk. Then it occurred to him that the milkman must have been and gone by now. He went up the steps from the kitchen into the hall and pulled the door open over the scatter of minicab cards and free newsheets that had been pushed in through the letterbox. His frown vanished when he saw that there were four pints of milk beside the doormat in the porch. He was whistling as he scooped them up and carried them back into the kitchen. He left three bottles on the worktop and splashed milk from the fourth into his coffee mug. Then, with his thumb hooked over the end of the spoon still standing in it, he carried his coffee through into the sitting room where the boys were sitting side by side on the rug. They were watching Saturday morning television.
As he came in Thomas jumped up and jabbed the buttons.
‘Nothing on,’ he complained.
Martin saw the news picture of the store with the jagged cleft struck through the middle of it, and he caught the reporter’s words.
‘… this morning just after nine thirty. One body has already been recovered from the wreckage, and the search continues. Police have not yet confirmed …’
The image vanished as Thomas impatiently prodded again. It was replaced by the test card of another channel, then by a commercial for breakfast cereal.
‘I like this one,’ Benjy shouted.
Martin stood for a frozen second, seeing his sons’ heads bobbing up and down, hiding the little square of coloured screen. Then he lunged forward and the hot coffee splashed over his fingers. He stepped between the boys and crouched down in front of the set, fumbling for the channel button.
He heard Thomas protest, ‘Oh, Dad …’ and then the picture flickered and steadied itself again. He saw a reporter standing in a windswept street with a hand microphone held close to his mouth. Behind him Martin could see a corner of the store, its bulk oddly foreshortened. He knew exactly where it was without having to listen to the report. Annie had lived in a poky little flat in one of the little streets behind it in the days before they were married. They had walked past the high façade a hundred times on their way to a pub that they liked, just beyond the tube station. The tube was just opposite the store, away to the news reporter’s right.
‘No survivors have been found as yet, but one body was lifted out a few moments ago …’
What was he saying?
Martin knelt down, pressing closer to the screen as if he could draw a contradiction of the implacable picture from it. He saw the reporter’s cold-pinched face dissolve into its component blips of colour, but the hideously altered shape of the big store never wavered.
‘Hush, Tom,’ he said.
What had Annie told him? He struggled to recall the casual words, seeing her run upstairs towards him as he stood with Benjy in his arms. She hadn’t said exactly where she was going. But it was a direct journey from here by tube. And Annie often shopped there. It was almost ‘her’ store, from the days when she had lived so close to it. As he watched the camera panned away from the newsman to a limited panorama of ambulances and fire engines. There were firemen working in yellow helmets, and policemen hemming them in.
Martin was cold, trembling with it, and the sick certainty that Annie was there. What had the man said?
One body was lifted out a few moments ago …
Martin stood up, almost stumbling, and the coffee splashed again. He put it down on top of the set and in the same moment the report ended. The picture changed to a solemn-faced studio continuity announcer.
‘We will be bringing you more news of that explosion in London’s West End as soon as it reaches us. And now …’
Martin turned away, moving so stiffly that Thomas looked up at him.
‘What’s the matter, Dad?’
He saw Annie’s features printed on the boy’s face and irrational fear gripped him in the stomach.
‘Dad?’
‘I … I’m going out to look for Mummy. I’ll call Audrey and ask her to come and stay with you for a while.’
Even as he said it he knew that he should stay where he was and wait, but he couldn’t suppress his primitive urge to rush to the store and pull at the fallen bricks with his bare hands. He snatched up the telephone and dialled the number. It seemed to take an eternity to explain to Audrey. He stammered over the neutral phrases that wouldn’t frighten the boys yet would bring her, quickly. They stood in front of him, reflecting his anxiety back at him, magnified by their bewilderment.
‘Why?’ Thomas said. ‘She’s only gone shopping, hasn’t she? Why do you have to find her?’
‘I want to bring her home, Tom. I’ll go and get her, you’ll see.’ He had a picture in his mind’s eye of crowded shops with thousands of people milling to and fro, and then the bombed store, silent, as he had seen it on the television. How would he find Annie, in the midst of it all? He made himself smile at the boys. ‘Stay here with Audrey, and we’ll be back soon.’
Benjy’s mouth opened, making a third circle with his round eyes. ‘I want Mummy.’ He was frightened, picking the fear up out of the air. Martin didn’t know how to soothe him while his own anxiety pounded inside him. ‘I want Mummy.’ He began to cry, tears spilling out of his eyes and running down his face.
Martin knelt down and held him. ‘I’m going to get her, Benjy. I told you.’
Through the front window he saw Audrey coming up the path. He straightened up and taking Benjy’s hand he led him to the door. Audrey was wearing an overcoat open over her apron, and Martin saw that she hadn’t stopped to change out of her slippers. They left big, blurred prints in the dusting of powdery snow that lay on the path. Her urgency fanned his fear and he felt his hand tightening over Benjy’s so that the child whimpered and tried to pull away.
Audrey came in, incongruously stamping her slippers on the doormat to knock off the snow.
‘Do you know for sure that she was going down there?’ she asked at once.
‘No. But I think she might have.’
‘You should stay here, you know. Wait