Fireweed by Jill Paton Walsh Page A

benign, like all the world’s grandfather.
    â€˜Sufficient unto the day are the evils thereof,’ I said. I never could bear not to show off, when I knew something.
    â€˜Quite right, quite right,’ he said. ‘And if I may say so, it is time you young people were getting home to safety. There are raids at any time of the day, now, you know. And really the young lady looks quite tired.’ He was peering at Julie now, through steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘If you will allow me, I will call a taxi, and put you on it for home. Now what is your address, young man?’
    I didn’t see the danger till he got that far. Then I saw it, in a flash. But not quicker than Julie, who took to her heels at once, and dashed across the road, and into a narrow lane between tall buildings. I followed her, the rucksack bouncing up and down, and slapping me on the back as I ran. He waved his stick, and called after us, and just before I turned the corner, I saw him talking to a policeman and pointing his stick towards me.
    Weaving through narrow streets, we ran and ran. We found ourselves in Blackfriars Bridge Road, and so on the Embankment again. Once there, we wandered along under the plane trees, saying nothing for a while.
    â€˜What would happen if we got found out?’ she said at last.
    â€˜If that old geezer had reported us to someone? I suppose you would be sent to Canada, and I would be sent back to Wales.’
    â€˜Without asking us what we wanted at all?’
    â€˜Well, they didn’t ask us the first time, did they?’
    â€˜We mustn’t get found out,’ she said fiercely. ‘We mustn’t let it happen.’
    â€˜No,’ I said. ‘We won’t.’
    She didn’t say why we mustn’t. I didn’t ask.
    It was getting dark as we walked. The lamp-posts’ empty extinguished cages were outlined against the purple sky. A tug going up-river, a dim smudge of dark on the shiny water, hooted softly. The cars along the Embankment drove slowly, with deeply-hooded lights. The white lines painted along their running boards were all that we could see; they looked like white worms passing us. A tram clattered by, lurching along its faintly-shining rails. Somewhere on the South Bank search-lights opened up, long sweeping fingers groping in the sky. We turned from the river, and went up to the Strand – itself like a river, with two churches for islands – to take cover once more in the Aldwych Underground Station. From all the streets around, in all directions, processions of people were coming too, carrying their bedding, trailing tired children by the hand.
    We looked upwards for a last glance at the sky. The stars were all there, shining in a mercilessly clear darkness, and soon the moon would be up, with no clouds to quench her, pouring clear silver on river, on domes, on spires, lighting every target in the city. We went down into the depths.
    I remember how good it felt not to be on my own. To have someone to talk to, instead of lying as a lonely island outside all the circles of talk around me. We were lucky that night, and got a place on the platform. We lay down with the rucksack acting as a shared pillow, each rolled up in a new soft blanket. Other people came and lay all around us, till we were packed like sardines in a tin. On the curving tiles above us a poster exhorted the men to leave the space for women and children. ‘The trains must run’, it said. But they had stopped all trains on the Aldwych extension now. As the platform filled up people got down between the rails, and spread out their sleeping things there. Then a shelter warden appeared. He had a bundle of hammocks. He looked around, and caught my eye.
    â€˜Give us a hand, son?’ I got up. Julie sat up too.
    â€˜These here ’ammocks is for the kids,’ he said. ‘We gotta string ’em up along there,’ and he pointed to the rails. Down we went, moving people