Chapter 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.
Cook was a tall man, and he had to duck under the lintel. Once inside, his hat scraped against the underside of the rough concrete slab that formed the roof.
The shelter wasn’t the worst Cook had ever seen, but that wasn’t a fair comparison.
On the Western Front, this shelter would have won awards.
But this wasn’t the Western Front. This shelter had been designed by men who had the advantage of every insight gained from the last war.
The effects of blast waves on structures.
The likelihood of being hit in a sustained bombing campaign.
The features and conveniences people needed if they were forced to spend any amount of time huddling for their lives.
With all that knowledge, a design had been commissioned, no doubt.
That design had been through committees, attended by experts.
Engineers would have weighed in. Former soldiers, veterans who’d spent years huddling in ditches, up to their eyes in mud.
Accountants weighed pluses and minuses when it came to costs.
Then the tender had gone out. Builders selected.
Inspections made, to ensure the government got its money’s worth.
Unfortunately, Cook reflected, as he studied the shelter with his expert eye, the accountants had done too fine a job.
Costs had been weighed against benefits, and all the benefits had been found unnecessary.
Perhaps an element of retribution. A generation of men who’d survived the worst, couldn’t bring themselves to make conditions better for the next lot.
The shelter was entirely lacking in creature comforts.
The ground was mud. No chairs. No benches.
No bunks. Worse, no sanitary provisions.
Forty people were to spend the night, but the only concession to bodily functions was a galvanised steel bucket in the corner.
All in all, a badly designed building, thrown up with the minimum amount of effort and money.
A token, meant to give people the feeling that the government had done something for their protection, with precious little protection being provided.
‘Don’t stand there,’ he said to Frankie, who was near the door. ‘Something goes off outside, that door’ll squash you flat against the wall.’
Frankie took a quick step away from the door.
Cook looked up into the darkness, to where the wall met the roof. He pushed his fingers up into the corner.
‘What?’ Gracie asked.
‘This roof slab’s not fastened to the walls,’ Cook said. ‘If anything shifts, it’ll flatten us. Like a house of cards.’
The wall was no better. Cook ran his finger along a seam of mortar between the bricks and a trail of sand came away at his touch.
‘Who built this?’ Cook asked.
‘ARP,’ someone said, from the corner. ‘Beaumont and that lot. They’ve been putting them up all over the borough.’
Beaumont, Cook thought. The smartly dressed gent who’d brought the cricket ball. Great minds, and all that. He looked around to see if he was here.
‘He scarpered,’ the voice from the corner said. ‘Like a frightened rabbit. Disappears at the slightest hint of danger, our Mr Beaumont.’
Gracie set her basket down on the driest patch of ground. She took out a bottle of whisky, cracked the seal, and took a drink. She passed it to Cook. He took a sip, and handed the bottle on.
‘Where’s that sister of yours got to?’ Gracie said, in the direction of Frankie.
‘Where’s she coming from?’ Cook asked.
‘Green Park,’ Gracie said. ‘She works in the Lyons.’
‘Do they run the buses during a raid?’ Cook asked.
‘They have to,’ Gracie said. ‘People have to get home, raid or no raid. Besides, there’s been alarms every night. If all of London ground to a halt every time a plane flew over . . . But even if they did, she’d walk if she had to.’
The ground shook as a bomb landed nearby. There was a shower of dust from the concrete roof.
‘Let’s see if we can find her,’ Cook said. ‘Could use a walk.’