that?”
“Frankie, the bone counter. Never mind her. She doesn’t like living human beings.”
“The bone counter?”
“I said never mind her!”
Peter Roberts, or “Robbie,” has his nose buried in a Learn French in Two Months book. He is a 60-year-old journalist on Fleet Street. Formal and stiff, he stands up to shake Julian’s hand. He is clean shaven and sharply dressed in a suit and bowtie, which he carefully adjusts as he gets up, even though it’s perfectly straight. After he shakes Julian’s hand, he sits back down and reopens the French reader. His posture is impeccable.
“Here, Robbie, let me fix that for you, it got crooked again,” says Wild, flicking up one end of the bowtie.
“When are you going to stop playing your games, Wild,” Robbie says, calmly rearranging his neckwear.
Robbie’s family is in Sussex, Duncan tells Julian, which is unlucky because recently south England has become “bomb alley.”
“Where is safe?” Julian says to no one in particular, glancing behind him for a glimpse of Maria’s amiable face.
“Here, mate,” Wild says. “Home, sweet home.”
Julian acknowledges the lived-in, semi-permanent appearance of their quarters, the books, the coats, the lamps. It’s like a college dorm. “You live here?”
“Nice, right?” Flanking Julian, Wild grins. “We’re by the emergency stairs, so we have our own private entrance. We have Phil on call, several nurses, who also happen to be his daughters, a chemical toilet at the end of the platform, and even our own warden. True, he’s not especially friendly, but if we throw him five bob, he watches our stuff when we’re gone.”
Julian clears his throat.
“No, no, whatever you do, don’t cough,” Maria says, flanking him on the other side, pointing at Phil Cozens. “Even if you’re choking. Even if you’re sick. Especially if you’re sick. Phil assumes it’s TB and good old Javert throws you out.”
“Maybe it is TB,” Finch says, hovering over Maria. “Also, he doesn’t like to be called Javert, dove.”
“She calls them like she sees them,” Peter Roberts pipes in, his nose in his French lesson.
“Hear, hear, Robbie!” says Wild—and the air raid siren goes off.
Julian’s heart drops. Except for the knitting Lucinda, everyone else stops talking and moving and listens alertly, though no one looks crushed like Julian. “Maybe it’s just a warning?” he asks.
“It’s always the real thing,” Wild replies. “Once or twice a day for some minor shit, and twice a night for the really terrible shit. For the stray bombs, they don’t even bother alerting us anymore. Last week, we had our first all clear day since September. The Krauts couldn’t fly. We were never more grateful for crap British weather than we were that day, weren’t we, Folgate?”
The squad revs into action. Even Frankie leaves her puzzle, gets her coat and goes to stand by Phil’s side. The bone counter goes with the doctor? She has the stony demeanor of a mortician. Duncan grabs the sticks and cricket bats piled in the corner next to the umbrellas. In less than two minutes, eight of them are ready to head out. Peter Roberts, Lucinda, and Liz remain behind. So do Nick and Kate. “I’m working a double tomorrow at the docks,” says Nick.
“I’m working a double tomorrow at Royal London,” says Kate.
Liz says nothing.
“Julian, are you coming?” asks Maria.
“Of course.” Why couldn’t she be one of the ones who stays behind? Why couldn’t she be Liz.
A peevish Finch addresses Julian. “Do you have ID? You can’t go outside without it.”
“I lost my ID.”
“Then you can’t go.”
“Who’s gonna check it, Finch, you?” Wild says, pushing Julian past Finch and toward the stairs. Finch runs around to get in front of them.
“What about your ration card, got that?”
“Lost that, too,” Julian replies calmly, despite the fact that Finch is crowding him in the narrow stairwell. “Do I need my ration card? Are we going out to eat?”
“He’s got you there, Finch,” Wild says.
“He won’t fit in the jeep,” Finch says.
“He will,” Wild says. “We’ll tie Dunk to the roof.”
“Try it,” Duncan says, his huge frame towering over Wild.
“Where’s your gas mask?” Finch demands. He’s being petty and rude and doesn’t care. “Because you can’t be outside if you don’t have one. It’s the law.”
“Pipe down, archbishop!” Wild says to Finch. “Jules gave his to a dying child. That’s why he doesn’t have it. Right, Jules?” Smiling, he adds, “You don’t mind if I call you Jules, do you?”
“I don’t mind,” Julian says, scanning Wild’s open face.
From his trench coat, Wild produces a gas mask. “Here, take mine. We’ll get you another one. Just go to the council tomorrow, say you lost yours.”
“Council won’t give it to him without ID,” Finch says. “You can’t go without yours either, Wild. It’s the law.”
“Blimey, shut up, Finch!” Wild yells. “Folgate, of all the guys out there, why him? You’d be better off with Nick. The man never says a word.”
“Fuck off!” says Nick.
“Or old Robbie.”
“I’m married, thank you,” Peter Roberts says, glancing up from his French book. “Married thirty-five years.”
“Us, too,” Lucinda says, glancing up from her knitting. “Married thirty-five years. But my Phil is clearly intent on making me a widow, the way he keeps going out there in the mobile units, risking not just his life, but our daughters’ lives as well. Why are you going again, Phil? You just went yesterday. You, too, Sheila.”
“I’m a doctor, Luce.”
“I’m a nurse, Mum.”
“They have plenty of other doctors, other nurses.”
“No, they don’t.”
“I told my kids—peace, war, no matter what, we’re staying together,” Lucinda tells Julian. “No one is getting evacuated.”
“And here we all are, Mum,” Sheila says. “Staying together. Going out together on the Mobile Unit. Mum, Kate, want to come? So we can all stay together?”
“Don’t
