The whistling got louder by the second. Everyone stopped. What was the point of running when the bomb had your name on it?
This one was going to be a direct hit. Cook knew.Everyone knew. The way you knew when you threw a cricket ball from the boundary line, aiming at the stumps in a desperate attempt at a run-out – knowing as soon as the ball left your hand, that it was going to hit its target.
The whistling was deafening now. Frankie was still inside, grabbing his presents. The ball rolled off the bar and Frankie followed it, under a table, chair legs getting in the way.
‘Frankie,’ Cook said. ‘Time to go.’
The boy grabbed the ball and turned back to Cook, looking to him for comfort. Somehow, against all the odds, Cook had become someone the boy trusted. Looked up to. More fool him.
Gracie gathered the day’s takings from the till.
‘No time,’ Cook said.
The whistling sound filled their ears. They were too late. Gracie gathered Frankie in a hug, and grabbed for Cook, the three of them holding each other in the last seconds of their lives.
There was a heavy thud. They braced for the explosion, but it didn’t come.
Gracie met Cook’s eyes. She breathed out, a ragged breath.
‘We should go,’ he said.
Gracie turned off the gas lamps and gave the place a once-over. She fished in her pocket and came up with a piece of chalk, which she used to write on the front door.
GONE TO SHELTER
‘For Ruby,’ she said.
‘Where’s the shelter?’ Cook asked.
Gracie nodded down the passageway.
‘Hundred yards,’ she said.
‘You think we’ll make it?’ Frankie asked.
Cook had learnt something in the last war. The Great War. If you said something calming with confidence, it gave people comfort. It turned out he had a gift for it, sounding calm and confident. Combine that with a bit of common sense and you turned out to be right, more often than not. Worse case, you’d avoided panic.
‘Keep out of sight and we’ll be all right,’ Cook said. ‘Besides, it’ll be dark soon. They can’t aim their bombs when it’s dark. Once we’re in the shelter I reckon we’ll be all right.’
Gracie smiled, as if someone had given her proof that the worst was behind her.
But Cook was wrong. It wouldn’t be all right, and the worst was definitely not behind them.
14
The shelter had been put up in the middle of the public garden, interrupting gravel paths and rose-beds. A small park, enough to give the residents of the island the sensation of standing on a bit of grass, smelling a flower. Better than nothing. Presumably a donation from a well-meaning benefactor. Someone who’d made good, wanting to give back.
Cook stood at the entrance to the shelter, helping the old and infirm navigate the dark, low entrance. Some had shopping bags – a bite of food, a bottle of something to get them through. Not much bedding. A short visit while the bombers passed. A routine they’d all got used to over the past year.
The shelter was a low structure. New brickwork. A freshly painted wooden sign was screwed onto the outside, by the door.
PUBLIC SHELTER
FORTY OCCUPANTS
FURTHER CAPACITY AT ST STEPHEN’S
The signwriter had drawn an arrow pointing to the right, towards the church.
