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Authors: Brian Conaghan
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Man.
‘So you’re telling me that people in Old Country don’t like Pav’s family, and people in Little Town don’t like them either?’
‘It’s not a question of like , Charlie,’ Dad said.
‘But they came here in order to feel safe,’ I said.
‘They are safe here,’ Mum said.
‘Try telling them that,’ I said.
‘Well, they’re probably safer here than they were in Old Country, aren’t they?’ Dad said.
‘Not after tonight they won’t be,’ I murmured.
‘You don’t know that, Charlie,’ Mum said. ‘We don’t know what will happen tonight.’
‘They’ll probably launch a few warning shots,’ Dad said. ‘Without much damage, just to remind us that they’re right there over the border, watching. It’s all about control and paranoia.’
‘But what happens if Old Country soldiers find Old Country refugees living in Little Town?’ I said. ‘They’ll definitely know the names of those people who left.’
Mum and Dad shifted their eyes to the floor. Then my mind flashed towards poor Anne Frank and her family. I’d read the book about their hiding exploits at school once.
Surely Pav’s family wouldn’t have to go into hiding from Old Country soldiers? Surely they wouldn’t have to go into hiding from folk here who think they’ve just arrived from Old Country to pinch their land, nick their jobs and dilute their culture? I looked at Dad. I looked at Mum. Surely no Law family member would grass them up. I looked at Mum. I looked at Dad. Surely not.
‘They hate Old Country more than you do,’ I said. In truth I didn’t know this as a fact, but why else would they come here if they didn’t? They had to hate Old Country.
‘Well, I’m not too sure about that,’ Mum said, and sat back in her chair, taking in a big puff.
Dad sat back in his chair as well. Both let out a massive sigh. Me too.
Dad broke the stalemate.
‘Well. I suppose we best do something about these bloody bombs then.’
And it arrived. My chest felt compressed; the reality of it all jolted my emotions into action. I looked at my mum and dad and cried.
We didn’t have a basement or a bunker. We didn’t have a lock-up. The shed was too rickety, and it was mine and Pav’sanyway. We didn’t have a cellar. We didn’t have a shelter. We had nothing big and bomb-resistant. The only thing we had was bed covers. Huge duvets. When the bombs came, just before midnight like the news guy said, I was underneath mine in the foetal position, snug as a bug. Mum and Dad were in it with me.
Then it happened.
They sounded far away, as if they were on the other side of Little Town, somewhere near the station. The bombs didn’t thud the way I’d expected them to thud.
There was no BOOM.
There was no BANG.
There was no ROAR.
They echoed like fireworks going off in the sky; the echo was so fireworky in fact that it teased and tempted me to get up from the foetal position and look out of my window, mouth open in awe at the beauty of Little Town’s sky of many colours. Stay under was the call from Dad so I stayed under. At other times the bombs seemed just like cracks of thunder. Definitely not like bombs in the films I’d seen or in the books I’d read. The sustained attack lasted for six minutes. Under the duvet I counted. Six whole minutes of fireworks and thunder.
After the six minutes of sustained attack a hush came over Little Town. That lasted for seventeen minutes. Under the duvet I counted. Seventeen minutes of Little Town being dead as a dodo. A place fireworked to buggery. I was nowgoing to be living in a desert of rubble and ruin. My new home. Under that duvet I imagined the amount of buildings destroyed, the amount of people missing, the amount of money the clear-up operation would cost and the amount of stress parents would have on their plates. I lost count.
Little Town was then shunted back into life. A life with a severe limp, that is: the sirens started up; even from under my duvet I could see
‘So you’re telling me that people in Old Country don’t like Pav’s family, and people in Little Town don’t like them either?’
‘It’s not a question of like , Charlie,’ Dad said.
‘But they came here in order to feel safe,’ I said.
‘They are safe here,’ Mum said.
‘Try telling them that,’ I said.
‘Well, they’re probably safer here than they were in Old Country, aren’t they?’ Dad said.
‘Not after tonight they won’t be,’ I murmured.
‘You don’t know that, Charlie,’ Mum said. ‘We don’t know what will happen tonight.’
‘They’ll probably launch a few warning shots,’ Dad said. ‘Without much damage, just to remind us that they’re right there over the border, watching. It’s all about control and paranoia.’
‘But what happens if Old Country soldiers find Old Country refugees living in Little Town?’ I said. ‘They’ll definitely know the names of those people who left.’
Mum and Dad shifted their eyes to the floor. Then my mind flashed towards poor Anne Frank and her family. I’d read the book about their hiding exploits at school once.
Surely Pav’s family wouldn’t have to go into hiding from Old Country soldiers? Surely they wouldn’t have to go into hiding from folk here who think they’ve just arrived from Old Country to pinch their land, nick their jobs and dilute their culture? I looked at Dad. I looked at Mum. Surely no Law family member would grass them up. I looked at Mum. I looked at Dad. Surely not.
‘They hate Old Country more than you do,’ I said. In truth I didn’t know this as a fact, but why else would they come here if they didn’t? They had to hate Old Country.
‘Well, I’m not too sure about that,’ Mum said, and sat back in her chair, taking in a big puff.
Dad sat back in his chair as well. Both let out a massive sigh. Me too.
Dad broke the stalemate.
‘Well. I suppose we best do something about these bloody bombs then.’
And it arrived. My chest felt compressed; the reality of it all jolted my emotions into action. I looked at my mum and dad and cried.
We didn’t have a basement or a bunker. We didn’t have a lock-up. The shed was too rickety, and it was mine and Pav’sanyway. We didn’t have a cellar. We didn’t have a shelter. We had nothing big and bomb-resistant. The only thing we had was bed covers. Huge duvets. When the bombs came, just before midnight like the news guy said, I was underneath mine in the foetal position, snug as a bug. Mum and Dad were in it with me.
Then it happened.
They sounded far away, as if they were on the other side of Little Town, somewhere near the station. The bombs didn’t thud the way I’d expected them to thud.
There was no BOOM.
There was no BANG.
There was no ROAR.
They echoed like fireworks going off in the sky; the echo was so fireworky in fact that it teased and tempted me to get up from the foetal position and look out of my window, mouth open in awe at the beauty of Little Town’s sky of many colours. Stay under was the call from Dad so I stayed under. At other times the bombs seemed just like cracks of thunder. Definitely not like bombs in the films I’d seen or in the books I’d read. The sustained attack lasted for six minutes. Under the duvet I counted. Six whole minutes of fireworks and thunder.
After the six minutes of sustained attack a hush came over Little Town. That lasted for seventeen minutes. Under the duvet I counted. Seventeen minutes of Little Town being dead as a dodo. A place fireworked to buggery. I was nowgoing to be living in a desert of rubble and ruin. My new home. Under that duvet I imagined the amount of buildings destroyed, the amount of people missing, the amount of money the clear-up operation would cost and the amount of stress parents would have on their plates. I lost count.
Little Town was then shunted back into life. A life with a severe limp, that is: the sirens started up; even from under my duvet I could see
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