The World in Winter

by John Christopher

  ‘Better get down and give him a hand, Sandy.’

  Without the reassuring sound of the engines, the silence all about them had a disturbing note. And here, at the confluence of five roads, one had a feeling of being exposed. Andrew mentioned this to Chisholm.

  ‘Yes. Better this way, though, after all. We’re not overlooked.’ He stared at the silent buildings surrounding them. ‘Seems very peaceful, doesn’t it?’

  It continued to look peaceful after figures had begun to appear. There were a few of them at first, inconspicuous in the doorways or standing at corners where it would be an easy matter to dodge away. As the numbers grew, there were more signs of boldness. A man stepped out into the road, some twenty yards from the cars, and shook his fist. He shouted confused angry insults at the watching soldiers. Beside him, Andrew heard Chisholm draw in breath, but he gave no orders.

  Surprisingly, the shouting man was stopped by the others. They called to him to be quiet, and after a short time he went silent, and walked awkwardly away. As though this were a signal, the others began moving in towards the cars. They looked entirely peaceful; in fact, friendly.

  A little man in a ragged overcoat said: ‘Can I give you a hand, guv’nor? I know a fair bit about motor engines – used to work in a garage.’

  Chisholm said, trying to keep the stiffness out of his voice:

  ‘Thank you, but we can manage.’

  There were at least three women in the crowd. One of them, a strapping woman in her late forties, called out cheerfully:

  ‘How about a lift into town, laddie? There hasn’t been a bloody bus along all morning.’

  There was a titter of laughter, in which some of the soldiers joined. She went on:

  ‘You can squeeze me in, then, can’t you? I don’t mind sitting on someone’s knee. Come on, boys – I’m all yours for the price of the bus fare. You don’t want to pass up a chance like that. I won’t be on offer for long.’

  Chisholm stared in front of him, his face blank. For the rest it was still a joke – a conspicuous triumph for the English sense of humour in adversity. It was another woman who caused the atmosphere to change. She was five or ten years older than the first, a grey frozen wisp with staring blue eyes.

  She said: ‘Take me in with you, mister.’

  There was no reply. The laughter died away. She moved closer until she stood only a yard or two from the side of the car.

  ‘I’ll come out again afterwards,’ she said. ‘I’m not asking to stay in there. My girl’s in there. She’s having a baby; it’s about due now. I only want to see she’s all right. I’ll come out again after that.’

  Chisholm still said nothing.

  She said: ‘I promise I’ll come out again and cause no trouble.’

  There were murmurs from the others. A man called: ‘You can take her with you, can’t you?’ The woman moved still closer and others followed suit. In a hard voice, Chisholm said:

  ‘Stand back, all of you. This is a military patrol. Get back.’

  The man who had previously spoken now said: ‘When I was in the Army we fought for our own folks, not against them. What kind of military turns women and kids out to starve? You ought to be protecting them, not turning them back.’

  Chisholm said: ‘We have to obey orders.’

  The compulsion to offer some justification, Andrew thought, must have been almost overwhelming; nevertheless, it was a mistake. It provoked an immediate outcry of anger and protest, and a general surge forward from the crowd. Chisholm shouted to them again to get back, but they paid no attention. He had shown himself as something other than a uniformed figure, and they feared him and respected him less as a result. There was a difference in their attitude; it was harder, more openly self-seeking, and more hopeful. A big man at the back shouted:

  ‘Get those bloody guns off them! We could use those guns.’

  Chisholm ordered them again to stand back, to be greeted this time by a general shout of derision. The little blue-eyed woman clung to the side of the car and tried to haul herself up.

  If the men were ordered to fire, at this close range, it would be a massacre; and it was far from certain how the massacre would end. As it was the troops were outnumbered about three to one, and the other side was still being augmented as more came in from the side streets. But if they were not ordered to fire, the conclusion seemed as certain. Concentrating on this, Andrew did not at first hear the new command Chisholm gave. It was in a different tone, the voice of a man confident of his response:

  ‘Masks on.’

  It was only as he saw those around him slipping theirs on that Andrew took this in, and began to fumble with the mask which he had been given before leaving the Pale, and which had since hung uncomfortably against his chest. He was still struggling with it, as Chisholm’s next command came:

  ‘Bombs away!’

  Vapour wreathed up, grey against the white of snow. Most of the people round the cars turned and ran, stumbling and falling over each other in their urgency. A few came on for a time and then, clutching their eyes, staggered away. Andrew got his mask on at last, but not before the tear gas had reached him. He sat with streaming eyes, staring out at a blurred scene. They were all in retreat; even the blue-eyed woman, doubled up, was crawling away across the snow. In a harsh muffled voice, Chisholm said:

  ‘Fixed that yet, Sandy?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. And I can’t see what I’m doing properly with this damn thing on.’

  It was another ten minutes before they were ready to move. During that time, no one approached the cars. Andrew had thought there might, at least, be insults shouted from a distance, things thrown, perhaps, from the windows of the houses; but nothing happened.

  Taking his mask off as instructed, he said something of this to Chisholm.

  ‘We were lucky,’ Chisholm said dispassionately. ‘Lucky it happened in a wide street. Lucky there’s no one in that little lot with either guts or initiative.’ The engines of both cars were revving, and now theirs began to pull away. ‘All the same, next time I’ll give them the gas a bit sooner.’

  Andrew said: ‘I wonder what will happen to her.’

  There was a moment’s silence before Chisholm replied:

  ‘We know what, don’t we?’ His voice was cold, deliberately ugly. ‘The only question is when. The sooner the better, I should think.’

  They did not speak again until after the cars had turned south at the Angel: they were on the home run now. As they passed a traffic light, blank and dripping icicles, Andrew remembered a run along there in a B. B.C. van more than a year before. They had been doing a hospital programme; they had been late, and at this intersection the lights had been against them for a long time.

  He said, almost to himself: ‘I wonder what’s happened to Bart’s?’

  Chisholm said: ‘Nothing that I know of.’

  ‘Did they evacuate into the Pale?’

  ‘Couldn’t be done. Most of the doctors and nurses stayed on. They had some provisions; I don’t know how much.’

  ‘Can we …?’

  ‘Go round that way? It’s slightly off course.’ He considered briefly. ‘O.K., if you want to.’

  Red Cross flags had been hung from several of the windows of the hospital; the windows themselves had a blank and empty look from a distance – some of them were broken. As the cars approached, though, there were some signs of life; here and there a face looking out, a hand waving. Above the noise of the engines it was possible to hear thin cries, the words indistinguishable. At the main entrance, the door lay smashed and awry. Bodies, some half dozen crooked heaps, dotted the snow. Some of them seemed to have fallen, or been thrown, from the upper windows.

  ‘I wonder how many of them got away,’ Chisholm said. His face was white, angry. ‘Bloody fools. It was bound to happen. And what good has it done?’

  The cars stopped. With the engines idling, the cries, of pathetic greeting or for help, were clearer. There was one more urgent, a piercing i
mmediate cry of agony. It did not come from the hospital but from a side street.

  Chisholm nodded to the driver. ‘Up there, I reckon, on the left. Take it slowly.’

  The car swung round the corner and they saw it: four figures struggling in the snow in the centre of the street. Three of them disengaged and began to run away, awkwardly, slipping and stumbling. The fourth lay there; her hands moved feebly to drag down the nurse’s uniform that was rucked up to her waist.

  ‘All right,’ Chisholm said. ‘Get them.’

  Andrew saw one of the men fall to the volley of fire from the cars; the other two got away, apparently unharmed. Chisholm had vaulted down from the armoured car, and he ran across to the nurse. He helped her to her feet. She came back with him, his right arm supporting her. She looked very small beside him, a little thing not much above five feet with a dainty face and a mass, dishevelled now, of auburn hair. There was some blood on her face, and the beginnings of severe bruises.

  She was helped up into the car, and room was made for her. She drew shallow sobbing breaths, but did not say anything and looked down at her hands, clasped together in her lap. Her skirt was badly torn, specked with frozen snow. She had a fur boot on her left foot, nothing on her right.

  ‘You’ll be all right now,’ Chisholm said. ‘Get you to bed – a warm drink …’

  The cars raced along deserted streets, with St Paul’s dome ahead of them. They halted in front of the tangled barbed wire fence that marked the edge of the Pale. There was a gate here, and a guard post. The driver of Chisholm’s car gave three blasts on his horn. In a little while, an officer appeared with two soldiers. The gate was opened enough for them to get through, and they came out.

  Chisholm called down: ‘North patrol returning. Open up, would you?’

  The officer, a lieutenant, flicked a salute.

  ‘Carrying any civilians, sir?’

  ‘Television personnel. They have passes.’

  The lieutenant said slowly: ‘And the young lady?’

  ‘We picked her up at Bart’s. She was being attacked. She needs attention.’

  It was a moment before the lieutenant spoke. Then he said: ‘New orders this morning, sir. No admissions to the Pale without specific authorization from G.H.Q. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Look,’ Chisholm said, ‘she’s a nurse. We’re going to need people like her. She can pull her weight.’

  The lieutenant was about the same age as Chisholm, but dark, moon-faced, melancholy of expression. He said:

  ‘Orders, sir. Nothing I can do.’

  Chisholm leaned down towards him. ‘She’s a nurse. She stayed behind at Bart’s to look after her patients. The gangs have wrecked the hospital, and we found her being raped in the snow outside. I’ll take the responsibility for admitting her to the Pale.’

  The lieutenant shook his head. ‘You can’t do that, sir. The responsibility is mine.’ There was some anger in the sadness of his face. ‘Good God, what sort of sights do you think we have to see here?’

  Chisholm vaulted down from the car. He took the lieutenant to one side and talked to him earnestly, quietly. They saw the lieutenant shake his head.

  The girl spoke for the first time. She said to Andrew: ‘Could you help me down, please?’ Her voice had the slightest touch of Irish brogue.

  Andrew assumed she wanted to add the weight of her presence to Chisholm’s plea; he did not see how anyone, under any kind of orders, could refuse her entry if she asked. He got down from the car himself, and helped her down. She began to stumble away.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘this way.’

  She paid no attention but walked on, away from the gate leading to the Pale. Chisholm saw her, and called:

  ‘Nurse! Come back. We’re still talking things over.’

  She did not stop. Andrew made a step to follow her but halted, checked by the small figure’s resolution. Had she hesitated at all, or looked back, he would have gone for her; perhaps he would have done so if she had run. But she went with undramatic determination, limping through the snow, and they watched her until she reached a side road, and disappeared.

  Then Chisholm said: ‘I’m going after her.’

  The lieutenant barred his way. ‘No, sir.’

  The two men stared at each other, in anger and self-disgust. Then Chisholm shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘You win.’ He climbed back into the car, and Andrew got up after him. He looked in the direction the nurse had taken, and looked away. To the lieutenant, he said:

  ‘All right. Open up.’

  9

  Ironically, summer time, as far as clocks were concerned at least, had come in the previous week-end. The evenings were an hour longer. Andrew and Madeleine sat muffled up in clothes, drinking weak coffee – she had managed to stock up before coffee disappeared from the shops but even so they only drank it two or three times a week – and talking quietly together. They had both read the evening paper, a single sheet printed both sides, and anyway it was too dark for reading. The use of electric lights in private homes was not permitted before nine o’clock at night.

  Apart from the cold, and the slight nausea of hunger which by now was an almost constant companion, Andrew felt contented and at ease. Here, in this room, with Madeleine, it was possible to forget the agonies beyond the Pale, and the uncertain future within. One had to forget them; they were unbearable to live with.

  David had said he would call round about nine. They sat on in darkness and eventually he came just before ten.

  Madeleine asked: ‘Do you want the light on?’

  ‘Not if it’s going to disturb you,’ David said.

  Andrew got up. ‘We might as well.’

  The arrival was an intrusion, and he wanted it to be marked as such. The light came on, and David blinked his eyes. His face was drawn; he looked tired. Madeleine saw this too.

  She said: ‘Sit down, David, and I’ll get you a drink.’

  ‘How is the situation with the Scotch?’ he asked.

  ‘Simple. There is none. I brought up a bottle of the Cockburn instead. Do you mind?’

  David shook his head. ‘A very sound idea. I put it down the year after we were married – when we came back from Brussels. Two dozen, at 27s. 6d. a bottle. How many are there left?’

  ‘I’m not sure. About a dozen and a half.’

  ‘We’ll kill a couple, then. This is the time to drink them.’

  ‘You look worn out,’ Madeleine said. ‘Are things hectic with you?’

  ‘Tolerably.’ He yawned, and looked at Andrew. ‘Have you had a letter from Carol lately?’

  ‘I had one this morning.’

  ‘She sounds O.K., doesn’t she?’

  Madeleine carefully poured the port into three glasses and brought them over on a tray. David picked his up.

  ‘Well, here’s to summer. The temperature on the Air Ministry roof was three degrees above freezing at midday today.’

  Andrew said: ‘That’s something.’

  ‘Too little, and too late. Do you have any idea how fast we’ve been liquidating our overseas investments? And did you know we’ve been trying to negotiate the sale of B.P. in the Middle East to Iraq? Concessions, equipment, plant – everything.’

  ‘Grim – but we should be able to live for a while on the proceeds.’

  ‘The negotiations broke down. Iraq no longer recognizes the British Government, which it says, with some reason, can no longer exercise sovereignty over its own territory. They’ve taken it all over without compensation; supposedly in self-protection.’

  Madeleine said quietly: ‘What is going to happen?’

  ‘Here?’ He nodded to Andrew. ‘Andy’s going to be out of a job in a few days’ time, for one thing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’re closing television down. It’s a wasteful means of communication for an area the size of the Pale, and as a gesture it’s no longer impressive.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘The idea is to try to hold out.
There are stocks of food – more than one would think. That part’s been well planned. If things pick up, if the sun warms up … there will still be next winter to get through, but after that it may be easier.’

  ‘And if things don’t pick up?’

  David made a gesture of resignation. ‘We go under. It’s a fair chance that we shall anyway. They’re getting very hungry outside and very desperate. I wouldn’t care to guess how long the military will hold them out.’

  There was a silence. David went on:

  ‘I can get you two seats in the outward plane next Wednesday. Lisbon – Timbuktu – Lagos.’

  With gentle firmness, Madeleine said: ‘No. Not for me, anyway.’

  David sipped his port and looked at her. The look was one which excluded Andrew: an appeal, to which his obvious fatigue gave something of desperation.

  ‘Maddie,’ he said, ‘I don’t want you on my conscience. Please go.’

  ‘I don’t want to be on your conscience,’ she said, ‘but I want to stay.’

  David smiled wrily: ‘You’re not often stubborn, but I can never force you when you are, can I? The seats are available now, but I won’t be able to renew the reservation.’

  ‘I know. I shan’t blame you.’

  ‘If things crack up, they’ll crack up fast. There’s an evacuation plan for those who count. I count, because I’m helping to draw it up. I can get on one of those last planes myself, but I couldn’t get anyone else on. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And I couldn’t go and leave you here, Maddie. Could I, now? I don’t know what will happen here eventually, but if you refuse this flight you’re condemning all three of us to it. Whereas, if you go, we can all spend our declining years in the African sun.’

  ‘Carol’s out there already.’

  ‘I know. She seems very far away, doesn’t she?’ He emptied the glass and put it down. ‘I’m not going without you, Maddie. There’s nothing more certain than that. And I can’t go with you. I wouldn’t be allowed to. Being useful is what makes me certain of getting out in time if the worst happens, but it’s equally certain that I can’t get out before that.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s your choice.’