I’m making a list, of people I haven’t heard about yet, dead or alive.
Nick O’Teen.
Mickey Poole. Bert Muldoon. Paul Gillespie.
Billy waddle. Bernadette cares about him. She has to. My teachers.
Little Jimmy.
The Queen. Winston Churchill. Harold Macmillan.
Roger Hunt. Joel’s hero. Plays for Liverpool.
Beatle John.
Mum.
Dad.
*
Tuesday 25th December 1962.
Christmas Day.
A priest tried to hold a Mass in the hospital car park. Hardly anybody went. No one’s got the heart. Half the priest’s face was burned away, and he could hardly say the prayers.
Fred gave me a bit of cake. Who knows where he got it from.
I shared the cake with Bernadette and Joel.
Joel is thinking of joining the army. Well, they’re recruiting. You can never have too many soldiers nowadays. That’s where the food is going to be, he says. That’s where the power will be, in the future. Joel has a brain. He might do well.
“Now we are all ‘hibakusha’,” he says. That’s what they called the survivors of the bombs the Americans dropped on Japan at the end of the war. He isn’t much like the CND-badge kid he was a couple of months ago.
Bern has had a miscarriage.
There’s a lot of that about. My periods have been funny too. Something to do with losing red blood cells because of the radiation.
“The bomb got my baby,” Bern says.
It was a week ago. She kept it to herself. Her face is hard as stone.
Now she’s leaving the city. “We’re all just starving to death. Maybe I can find something to eat out in the country. I’ll skin a sheep.”
Joel laughed. “And then what? Become a farmer? With those nails?”
She’s going, no matter what we say. She always was the hardest of us in some ways, the strongest. She faces things the way they are, then deals with them.
It will be hard, though. It’s been cold since the bomb.
We kissed Bern goodbye. She said that if I ever ran into Billy waddle I should give him a message. I can’t write it down here. I don’t even know if I can spell it.
The three of us are still in our school uniforms, or what’s left of them.
Many of the entries that came after that were fragmentary. Laura’s future self was worried about using up the paper in her diary. And her life became so unfamiliar to Laura that it was hard to work out what was going on.
There was a longer entry from 1966. Laura would have been eighteen.
Saturday 30th July, 1966.
OK. OK.
Two things to write about today.
Another day in the potato fields.
I’m a Land Girl now, working on North-West Protectorate Collective Farm Number Twenty-Seven, otherwise known as Sefton Park. Back-breaking. Sun like a hot iron over your head. You sweat like a wet rag.
There’s no petrol for the combine harvesters, which is why I’m digging in spuds by hand. There’s talk they are doing up a steam-powered tractor, an old Victorian relic out of one of the museums. I’ll believe that when I see it.
The bomb has messed up the weather.
Sometimes I remember how cold it was, that first winter and spring after the bomb. All that smoke and ash in the air. That all cleared in the end. Now there’s hardly a cloud in the sky from April to October, hardly any rain. The sun burns your skin, and it’s doing in everybody’s eyes. Some people are living underground to escape it, in old cellars and basements. All you can do is cover up, even though it’s so hot.
On my day off yesterday Corporal Wesley marched a bunch of us into Liverpool, and back out again, to look for stuff.
We went into the ruins of the old stores, and actually found a cellar full of stock that had only been gone through a few times. C&A Mode. I’m sure I remember this place.
Seems so long ago. I found a coat and men’s trousers and a decent pair of leather boots, even if they are pink.
The whole city is like a huge rubbish tip, with people picking over it like gulls. That’s all that’s left of the old world. Just garbage. I mean, if the fashions hadn’t stopped we wouldn’t be wearing pink leather boots now. It’s as if time stopped in 1962, and everything turned to junk.
Corporal Wesley gave me a big floppy straw hat.
I’ve hated Corporal Wesley since I was put under him, after the National Reorganisation of 1964 when the army took over. He’s about fifty. Got through the Sunday War in a command bunker in the country. Now he’s based in the big Protectorate compound in the crypt of Paddy’s Wigwam. All mod cons down there, they say.
He’s fat, when we’re all half-starved and working to death.
And he likes having power over us workers.
He has this way of looking at you.
Of course he’s in a position to get what he wants. I’ve seen him take girls into the officers’ tent.
Last night the squaddies were in a good mood. They brought back a crate of whiskey from Liverpool. They let Joel bring a gramophone into our hut, and an old car battery to run it. Joel had some records. One of them was “Love Me Do” by the Beatles. “The only proper record they ever made,” Joel said to me.
It was strange to hear music again. We all danced. We had our heavy clothes on and our boots. The mothers with babies dandled them on their knees. “We looked like Russian peasants,” Joel said. Although if there are any peasants left in Russia these days they might as well be on the Moon, for all we hear about them.
Today, at the lunch break, I thought of the Beatles again.
As we queued up for our bread and blind scouse, the loudspeaker over the serving table blared out the news from Radio Free Britain.
“Headlines for today, Saturday July 30th, 1966. President for life General William de Vere, who is touring the South-East Protectorate, announced that the General Survey of Britain he ordered on taking power from the corrupt government of Prime Minister Edward Heath is nearly complete.
“The population of the British Republic is about five million citizens. This compares to fifty million before the Sunday war. This is about the population of Britain in the Middle Ages. President de Vere said this is probably the post-War minimum, and our numbers should rise from here on.
“But he warned that mothers who hide any radiation-damaged infants from Protectorate inspectors could expect a severe penalty.
“In London, the execution was carried out today of a thousand dissidents. The executions were held at the Wembley Stadium Special Provisions Detention Camp. Among those eliminated were the notorious ‘underground’ leader musician John Winston Lennon…”
Poor old Beatle John. Just when I’d heard his record for the first time in years.
And there was something funny about today’s date too. Something from before the war.
Joel said today would have been the date of the football World Cup Final. “It was all scheduled, before the bomb. Roger Hunt might have been playing for England in the Final, in front of the Queen. Instead they’re using Wembley to shoot pop singers.”
He couldn’t say much more. He is in the army himself after all.
In the evening, when I lined up for chow again, Wesley called me over. He had my food, bread and a bit of cheese and a scrag-end of meat. My mouth watered just looking at it.
I knew what he wanted. I’ve seen him do it before. I had to go into the officers’ tent with him. If I did I’d get the food. If I didn’t, I’d go hungry, and I’d get no food tomorrow night either. Until I gave in, or dropped.
I went with him. What else could I do?
He lay on top of me, and grunted and sweated like a pig. I was a virgin. I think that got him more excited. At least it hurried him up.
He’ll do it again tomorrow. But I hope he’ll get bored with me quickly. That’s why I gave in fast. To get it over.
The worst thing about the bomb is that it took
way all the things that are supposed to protect you. The vote. The law. Parents.
Those days before the bomb seem like a dream now. My memories seem to be dissolving. Baked-hard ground to scrape, a sky like an oven, mouldy potatoes that never grow right, hunger all the time. That’s the world. That’s reality. All there will ever be for me, I suppose.
All that and Corporal Wesley.
Laura flicked forward. The next long entry was from the following spring.
Monday 15th May 1967.
In People’s Hospital Number Seven. A cellar in Huyton. They keep us mums-to-be underground to shield the babies from the sun, and the radiation.
Baby due any time.
The food’s good in here. Beds clean. They look after mothers.
General Gresson, the American who kicked out General de Vere, is keen on mothers. One day, he says, we will build an army again, and cross the Channel, march through what’s left of Europe, and dish it to the Russkies once and for all. He needs mothers to produce all those soldiers.
During the Sunday war, they kept on until they’d fired off everything they could, shot off every missile, dropped every bomb. I suppose they’ll keep on now until they’re down to killing each other with rocks and bare fists.
But my baby isn’t going to be a boy. The doctor told me. I think I’ll call her Agatha.
Laura looked at Agatha, who was watching her read. Forty years old, scrawny, her hair patchy, her eyes were bright.
Joel visited. He’s Lance-Corporal Joel, now.
He’s getting into technical projects. He always was bright. He says he’s having a chance to complete the education that was cut short by the bomb.
He says a group of officers have got a secret plan.
When the bomb fell there were military bunkers all over the place. In Britain there were tiny little bunkers, for two or three men each, where men of the Royal Observer Corps holed up with their chemical toilets and their stacks of baked beans, while the Third World War raged over their heads, and made notes.
Some of the bunkers that survived, especially in the states, had advanced technology. Computers, lasers, all that. They were the best the military could buy. And after the bomb, while the rest of us were scratching away on the farms, in the bunkers and citadels, all that technology kicked off new research.
Joel says his officer buddies are talking about a time machine.
The Sunday War was a huge mistake. Probably even General Gresson, our new American emperor, would agree to that. So, suppose you could go back to 1962 and fix it? Stop the Cuba crisis blowing out of control the way it did? Wouldn’t that be worth doing? “You could save forty-five million lives in Britain alone,” Joel said. “At a stroke.”
“What would have happened instead?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how do you know things would have been better?”
“They could hardly be worse, could they?”
Anyhow it’s all a dream. We can’t even grow enough potatoes, and he wants to build a time machine.
He always did like conspiracies, Joel. All his whispering buddies in CND before the bomb. Of course CND turned out to be right.
Also, Joel brought Little Jimmy to see me. Not that he’s so little now. Eleven years old, he grew up on a farm in the Lake District, and he’s as strong as an ox.
Jimmy was a bit wary. Maybe he didn’t remember me. But when he came into the ward I held out my hand. “Shillin’.” Then he grinned.
The three of us got weepy, talking about old times.
I admitted to Joel what Corporal Wesley had done to me.
After that, somebody beat Corporal Wesley to a pulp.
Laura looked up. Her eyes were tired from trying to read by candlelight. And she was tired inside too.
Agatha just watched her.
Laura flicked through the diary, until she came to the last entry of all. The handwriting was big, like a child’s, and it wandered over the page.
Saturday 18th April, 1970.
I can barely see to write. Stupid cataracts.
Joel came to see me, in the ward. He bounced Agatha on his knee. She’s always loved her Uncle Joel.
Joel looked clean, well-fed, healthy. The army lads always do. Not that I can see much of his face but a blur.
He says the Timeline Rectification Project is going well, but it might take another thirty or forty years to complete.
Too late for me. I said he should be looking for a cure for cancer. Like the cancer that’s going to take me away from Agatha before her third birthday. The bomb got me in the end. It gets all of us, said Joel.
We talked about old times. And we talked about what might have happened if not for the bomb.
I’m twenty-two. Might have gone to college, might have kids, might have a job Joel says men would have walked on the Moon by now. England would be getting ready to defend the World Cup they would have won in 1966 (in his dreams). The Beatles would have retired, rich and famous.
And Joel might have married Bernadette. That really is a dream, I said.
The nurse is coming to give me my bed bath. Joel is paying for her. You only get nurses if you pay for them. The National Health, another thing the bomb put an end to.
Joel has taken Agatha for a walk. I’m glad. She’s spent most of her life in holes in the ground, poor kid.
The sun is bright outside. Not harsh like it was a few years ago. There’s a bit of green in the fields, and I can hear a bird singing. When Agatha comes back I’ll tell her how mu
The last entry finished there, an unfinished sentence, an incomplete word.
Agatha was watching.
Laura didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry I left you.”
Agatha looked away.
Joel came out of the dark. “Nick’s still sleeping. So’s Bern.”
Laura passed him the diary. He read bits of it, quickly. Then he passed it back.
“I get to wear a uniform,” he said.
“Looks like it. Joel, will it really be like that?”
“Oh, yes. If the war comes it will be a catastrophe that they will talk about for a thousand years. The way we learn about the Black Death in school. This is what they don’t want you to know.”
“Then we can’t let this happen,” Laura said. She glanced at Agatha. She couldn’t let this happen to her daughter.
Joel laughed, hollow. “Good luck.”
Laura asked Agatha, “Are you part of this ‘Timeline Rectification Project’?”
“Yes. They sent me because they thought there would be a bond between us.”
“And you want my Key,” Laura said.
“Yes.”
“Why? To stop this awful war from happening?”
“Oh, no,” Agatha said. “Not that. Don’t you see? We have to fight it even harder. This time we have to win.”
Chapter 22
The next time Laura wrote in her own copy of the diary, she felt oddly self-conscious, as if a crowd of possible future Lauras might be watching her.
Friday 26th October. 7 a.m.
It’s only forty-eight hours until the Sunday War bombs are supposed to start falling.
Still in this hole in the ground.
We’ve all woken up thirsty and cold. Bern says she could eat a scabby donkey.
Mum has put herself in charge of keeping us fed. She used the little camping stove to make us breakfast, tinned rice and beans. And hot tea. We’ve got no milk and we drank it black. Mum is being a mum, this morning. Well, she is the only adult, if you don’t count Agatha.
Nick is in a bad state. He woke up in a panic because he couldn’t see again. Then he slumped back, out cold. There’s nothing we can do for him. If nuclear war wasn’t breaking out he’d be in a hospital for sure.
Bern is down too. She’s seen some of the diary. Well, that’s enough to get anybody down. Joel is fretting about her she lashes out at him for fun.
I’m worried about Bern. I’m worried about us all.
Joel and I have decided to go outside. Even though we’re risking being found by the Minuteman or Miss Wells or one of their squaddies. We need to know what’s going on.
I need to decide what to do with the Key. I haven’t decided whether to give it to Agatha. I still don’t know what she wants to do with it.
Or I could use it the way Dad told me, calling the authorities. After reading Agatha’s diary, I’m starting to think I shouldn’t do that. Everything’s very tense. I don’t want to disturb things.
Does that make sense? I mean, it is the key for a nuclear bomber. One bomb dropped could kick it all off.
I want to try to call Dad, though.
Mum asked me to fetch back some milk. Fresh bread, if there is any. She gave me a bit of money.
“Yes, Mum,” I said. She still doesn’t get it.
The streets were deserted. No traffic. A smell of burning rubber. They could hear shouting, off in the distance, a crash of glass, and a wail of police sirens. Smoke drifted across the sky.
It was about nine in the morning. Liverpool was waking up to a bad day.
They crept along the pavement, keeping to the shadows. They passed burned-out cars, and there was broken glass all over the road. And yet there were milk bottles set out on the pavement. People trying to continue normal lives.
They came to a parade of shops. The food shops were gutted. Certainly no bread or milk. “Not even any conny onny,” Joel said. Condensed milk.
A hardware store next door to a torched baker’s had been looted. Its big plate-glass window was smashed, and little price tags showed where vacuum cleaners and steam irons had been stolen. Joel rummaged around in the broken glass, but there were no radios.
“No news today.”
“I need to phone my dad,” Laura said.
There was a phone in the shop. It was disconnected.
In the street, they came to a row of three red phone kiosks. Only one was working. A recorded voice repeated, “This telephone is for essential public use only. Make your call brief. You will be cut off in one minute. Normal charge rates apply. Please have your coins ready. This phone is for essential public use only…”
THE H-BOMB GIRL Page 16
