Fireweed by Jill Paton Walsh Page B

up to make some space. Grumbling a little, they edged along, far into the tunnel at the end of the platform. We tied one end of the short hammocks to the rail nearest the platform, and the other to the high-power rail. The warden and I tied them up, and Julie and a few others lifted kids out of the crush on the platform and tucked them up, swinging between the rails. At last all the hammocks were occupied, and we scrambled back, stepping over prostrate bodies, to our own places.
    Somewhere on the down platform a sing-song had started up. Gusts of laughter boomed down the tunnel at us. Nearby a baby cried, until its mother lifted herself up wearily to sit leaning against the wall, giving it the breast. Beside us a large fat woman in a tight shiny black dress was handing out doughnuts from a paper bag to all her kids. She handed them to us too, without a word.
    â€˜Thank you,’ said Julie. ‘But …’
    â€˜Go on, love, treat yourself,’ said the woman. We did. I remembered I had a book in the rucksack, but by now Julie was asleep on it. I needed the lavatory. There was a row of empty fire buckets at the end of the platform, but I remembered that there were real lavatories in the ticket hall upstairs. Carefully, quietly, I got up, and moved along the sleeping rows towards the exit. All the corridors leading to the platform were as thickly crowded as the platform itself. People who had found no room to stretch out were sitting on their bundles, swaying with sleepiness. A slumped form occupied nearly every step of the frozen escalators, and my trek up to the top would wake at least a hundred sleepers. Groaning, I went back to the fire buckets.
    When I got back to my place, Julie was awake, looking round. ‘It’s O.K. I’m here,’ I said. She laid her head back on the rucksack. When I rested my own head beside her I could feel the patch of warmth she bad made on the canvas. And something in my back trouser pocket jabbed into me. It was the Spitfire.
    â€˜Julie,’ I whispered.
    â€˜Mmm?’
    â€˜I’ve got a present for you. Here.’ As she reached out for it in its twist of tissue paper, I saw that she was wearing a silver chain bracelet, with a disc on it, like the ones you see on dog-collars.
    â€˜For me?’ she said.
    â€˜What sort is it?’ I asked her. ‘Do you remember?’
    â€˜A Spitfire,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Bill.’
    â€˜What’s this?’ I asked, taking the disc on her bracelet into my fingers.
    â€˜My identity disc, with my number on. Haven’t you got one?’
    â€˜I’ve got a number, but I keep it in my head.’ And yet, now, after all these years I can only remember my number with an effort, but I remember hers easily. It was ZKDN/74/8. She slipped off to sleep again with the little plane held in her hand.
    Some while later there was a dull thump. I felt the ground beneath me tremble for a second, and the exit sign, hanging over our heads, rattled briefly on its wires. All around us heads were raised from the platform.
    â€˜Other side of the river,’ said someone.
    â€˜By the Shot Tower,’ another voice agreed. Two more bumps came quickly, one after another. ‘Nearer,’ people murmured, ‘much nearer.’
    â€˜Safe here, though, ducks,’ said the doughnut woman, ‘Not to worry.’ Heads were lowered to rest again.
    Then I too fell asleep.
    In the morning we bought tea from a trolley brought round by the shelter wardens; we waited for the people nearer the exits to go so that the crowd was not too pressing, and then we packed our rucksack, Julie lifted it onto my back, and we made our way up to the open air, and went to have breakfast at Marco’s.
    And that’s how we managed together.
    We decided straight away that we would go on working the street markets, in spite of the wad of notes rolled up in the bottom of the rucksack. After all, when that was gone there