Chapter 13
Cook stood in the doorway, a slow crocodile of people hurrying out.
Every few seconds, a crump heralded another bomb, followed by other sounds – the shower of bricks and crashing of glass. The cries of someone hurt. Cook tuned the sounds out. Focus on the job in hand – getting the crowd out of the pub, into the shelter.
A nearer thud. The air in the pub condensed, suddenly resolving into a thick soup of brown fog.
A liquid sound from above as slates slid from the roof, crashing onto the road.
Now, the door jamb in Cook’s hand lost all solidity, and he took an awkward step to the side, struggling to stay on his feet.
A new sound got everyone’s attention, slowing the crocodile as all eyes were raised to the sky. A whistling sound. Louder than the sirens, louder than the explosions, cutting through all of it. Like hearing your lover calling to you across a crowded room.
‘Keep moving!’ Cook shouted, pushing an elderly man who’d stopped in the doorway, his half-finished pint still in his hand. The man didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to step outside. But the pub was only an illusion of safety.
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.