Scorched limbs, voices pleading with him, voices giving out instructions.
‘Help me, help me!’
‘This one’s lost a deal of blood …’
‘This one for Tommy’s …’
He is working on autopilot, going through the routines, but all the time he’s looking, looking. Every face, every limb, searching for what he dreads finding, but looking anyway. His heart is crying, he should not have come; he should have stayed in the hospital. Waited. But he is here now and he will not leave until he knows. One way or another. Perhaps, he thinks, the thought forming into words, springing into life, perhaps she’s in the tunnel. Suddenly all his strength deserts him and he feels the ground heave up towards him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbles, but no one hears him.
Perhaps if he goes back she’ll ring. Perhaps she is still at Brixton Beach. Safe, trying to get hold of him. Wildly he looks around, not knowing what to do, and in this fraction of a second a woman dies in front of him. The colours of death, he thinks. Why is he thinking this now?
‘Who has done this terrible thing?’ a voice cries. ‘Who could want to hurt us this much?’
‘The people of London …’ the BBC journalist says into the microphone. He has been the first of the media presenters to arrive on the scene, the first to file copy; sensitive, sharp, precise.
‘Bastards! What have they done?’
The cry of rage reaching his ears is an ancient one, repeated from time immemorial. Arms rise heavenwards as though in prayer. Humanity’s unanswered question asked on this ghost of a morning in July. Helplessly, Simon turns towards the speaker, a man old enough to have seen the sands of Dunkirk, a man old enough to have witnessed the Battle of Britain. For on this beautiful day, even as Big Ben strikes the hour and swallows fill the summer skies, a lesser God descends. Fraught with terrible intent. Here, in the very heart of London.
ONLY THE YOUNG CAN FEEL THIS WAY. Unaware of time’s passage, only they can be so trusting. It is their good fortune to live without question, storing up memories for that later day when middle age allows them to re-visit the past. Time of course will change things; time will mould and distort, lie and trick them with all its inconsistencies. But in the brief interlude, suspended between dreaming and waking, before the low door of childhood swings shut behind them forever, the young, with luck, can experience complete happiness.
On the night before Alice Fonseka’s ninth birthday her father Stanley brought home two bright red apples. Stanley worked at a factory that imported all the foreign fruit for the rich Cinnamon Gardens Singhalese who could afford to live like the English.
Apples are a luxury,’ Stanley told her. ‘But because it’s your ninth birthday, you must experience the taste of luxury!’
He smiled without joy, being preoccupied with things other than his daughter’s birthday. Tomorrow, Alice’s mother Sita planned to take Alice up the coast after school to stay with her grandparents for the weekend. The baby Sita was expecting was due in a month and Alice’s trip to her parents was partly to give Sita a chance to rest.
‘But you can only stay for two nights,’ she warned Alice, peeling the apple and cutting it into segments.
The flesh was pale and spongy. Alice ate it reluctantly.
‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why can’t I stay longer?’
‘Two nights,’ her mother said firmly. ‘Finish your apple now and get ready for bed. You’ve got school in the morning.’
Alice scowled. She was not the slightest bit sleepy.
‘I want to stay for a week.’
Visiting her grandparents was the best part of any birthday.
‘Will Grandpa Bee meet us at the station?’
‘Yes, he will. Now be good and get ready for bed. It will make your birthday come sooner.’
‘Oh! I can’t wait to see him,’ Alice cried, slipping off her chair and running around the satinwood dining table excitedly.
Sita ate the left-over piece of apple. As a small child, Sita had nicknamed her father Bee. She no longer remembered her reasons for this, but the name had stuck and now everyone called him Bee, even his wife Kamala.
The next day when Sita collected Alice after school she brought the remaining apple with her, packed carefully between her daughter’s overnight clothes in her blue plastic visiting bag.
‘You can share it with Grandpa Bee, if you like,’ she said when she met her.
Alice nodded, her eyes shining. She had been too excited to sleep last night, but although she was tired happiness rose in her like the spray from the sea. It was midday. The church clock was striking the hour. Children swarmed out of the school gates dressed in the starched, immaculate white uniforms of St Clare’s College; the girls had neatly plaited, coconut-oiled hair, the boys wore gleaming shoes. Only her daughter, it seemed to Sita’s critical eye, looked as though she had been rolling in the scrub again.
‘Anay, Alice, how did you become so filthy? Have you been sitting in the dirt again? And just look at your hair!’
The child’s hair, carefully plaited that morning, had come undone. There were bits of twig stuck in it and her uniform was streaked with paint.
‘You’ve been climbing the tree again, haven’t you?’ Sita asked in exasperation. Her daughter’s knees were covered in cuts. Alice hopped from one foot to the other, ignoring her mother.
‘I’ll never be eight again!’ she shouted at some of the children rushing past, waving at them.
She was carrying a paper bag with presents from her classmates.
‘Can we go now, Mama?’ she cried, dancing about and rubbing her already filthy shoes deeper into the red earth.
Sita sighed. The year was 1973 and with every birthday her daughter seemed to become more of a tomboy.
Mrs Perris the teacher came out to talk to them. She stood in the boiling heat just outside the gate, in the road where the beggars were gathered, close to the women selling spiced ambarella and mango sambals, close to the palmist chalking up sherbet-pink marks on the ground. Mrs Perris hardly noticed the noise and the confusion that cartwheeled around her. She was glad to get out of school for a moment, she told Sita. But Alice saw her teacher look nervously over her shoulder as though she expected someone, the headmaster perhaps, to come out and tick her off. Several mothers collecting their children looked curiously in their direction. It was unusual for a member of staff to talk to a parent in this informal way outside the classroom. The tight security since the bomb had gone off made it difficult to be as free and easy as in the old days.
Alice ought to be very tired,’ Mrs Perris said, wagging her finger. ‘I have to tell you she hasn’t stopped talking today. I couldn’t get a single piece of work that was worth
