Read Online The Report by Jessica Francis Kane - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jessica Francis Kane
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ridiculous.”
“Where’s Georgina?” He thought he knew but wanted the comfort of saying her name. For two months she’d been working for the Ministry of Information, living with several other girls near Bond Street, but she often came home for a night or two to sew and be under her mother’s care. A series of respiratory illnesses had afflicted her since childhood. “I thought she was staying the night.”
“She is. She’s just gone down to the shops. They have oranges, apparently.”
“Oranges,” Laurie murmured.
Armorel smiled. “If it turns out to be true.”
“I’m very sorry about Toby,” Laurie said.
They looked at each other a moment, both thinking of Andrew.
“He’s going to be fine,” Laurie said. “I believe that.”
“Please find out about the mothers,” Armorel whispered. “And those babies.”
Laurie turned back to his desk. He took out a sheet of writing paper and dashed off a note to the home secretary, agreeing to his request, but on slightly different terms.
Thirteen
Emma’s funeral was at St. John’s, and Rev. McNeely did the best he could. He hadn’t known Emma well, and there was not much to say about the life of a four-year-old, he was discovering, that didn’t fall into the category of innocence lost or adult regret. In his moth-bitten robe he spoke of her smile. He spoke of her devotion to Tilly. He spoke of her likeness to Ada. He did not mean to say how much her father, Robby, had wanted a boy when Emma was born, only how much he had loved his younger daughter, but this was his tenth funeral for a child under five, and, even with Psalm 23 read at each, he was having trouble keeping his mind clear. Anyway, the family was too far gone in grief to find fault with his words.
Ada and Robby stood in the front pew, Tilly between them. On March 3, Robby had made it to the shelter. He’d been waiting for his family on the platform when the accident occurred. Ada had blamed him at first, said that if he’d come back for them instead of heading straight for the shelter from the Plots & Pints, everything might have been different. But Tilly had not agreed. Several times during the service, Ada reached for her shoulder. The girl didn’t complain, but the stillness with which she greeted the pressure worried Ada.
They buried Emma in the churchyard of St. John’s, a privilege granted by parish law to all families within the parish, regardless of religious affiliation. Three small graves, covered with fresh flowers, ended the row just behind Emma’s. The flowers were the same—blue violets and white snowdrops, gathered from bomb sites—although the ceremonies had been quite different, two Jewish and one Catholic. When the service for Emma ended, when Rev. McNeely had said all the words the prayer book required, plus a few more of his own, and Tilly had tossed down the pouch of red checkers pieces she wanted Emma to keep, the rain started. Everyone noted it, the way people always do when nature appears to take an interest in their lives.
At home Robby uncovered the sandwiches, and no one made jokes about that not being a man’s work. The women took the cloths from him, put on the kettle, opened the back window, in spite of the rain, for air. No one had properly tended the flat since the accident. Ada, from a chair in the corner of the kitchen, asked her friends to sit and not worry. Ignoring her, they dampened cloths and went at the rooms with the energy of the lucky. “We’ll put things right,” they said.
In the small flat, Tilly didn’t know where to go. The kitchen made her nervous. The lounge, where her father and his friends were drinking and growing loud, confused her.
“There are more refugees in the neighborhood than ever before, aren’t there.”
“Where was the bloody light?”
“You can bet they have a center handrail at Kensington.”
“They won’t have a public inquiry because they know they’ll be found out.”
“When they say ‘Jewish
“Where’s Georgina?” He thought he knew but wanted the comfort of saying her name. For two months she’d been working for the Ministry of Information, living with several other girls near Bond Street, but she often came home for a night or two to sew and be under her mother’s care. A series of respiratory illnesses had afflicted her since childhood. “I thought she was staying the night.”
“She is. She’s just gone down to the shops. They have oranges, apparently.”
“Oranges,” Laurie murmured.
Armorel smiled. “If it turns out to be true.”
“I’m very sorry about Toby,” Laurie said.
They looked at each other a moment, both thinking of Andrew.
“He’s going to be fine,” Laurie said. “I believe that.”
“Please find out about the mothers,” Armorel whispered. “And those babies.”
Laurie turned back to his desk. He took out a sheet of writing paper and dashed off a note to the home secretary, agreeing to his request, but on slightly different terms.
Thirteen
Emma’s funeral was at St. John’s, and Rev. McNeely did the best he could. He hadn’t known Emma well, and there was not much to say about the life of a four-year-old, he was discovering, that didn’t fall into the category of innocence lost or adult regret. In his moth-bitten robe he spoke of her smile. He spoke of her devotion to Tilly. He spoke of her likeness to Ada. He did not mean to say how much her father, Robby, had wanted a boy when Emma was born, only how much he had loved his younger daughter, but this was his tenth funeral for a child under five, and, even with Psalm 23 read at each, he was having trouble keeping his mind clear. Anyway, the family was too far gone in grief to find fault with his words.
Ada and Robby stood in the front pew, Tilly between them. On March 3, Robby had made it to the shelter. He’d been waiting for his family on the platform when the accident occurred. Ada had blamed him at first, said that if he’d come back for them instead of heading straight for the shelter from the Plots & Pints, everything might have been different. But Tilly had not agreed. Several times during the service, Ada reached for her shoulder. The girl didn’t complain, but the stillness with which she greeted the pressure worried Ada.
They buried Emma in the churchyard of St. John’s, a privilege granted by parish law to all families within the parish, regardless of religious affiliation. Three small graves, covered with fresh flowers, ended the row just behind Emma’s. The flowers were the same—blue violets and white snowdrops, gathered from bomb sites—although the ceremonies had been quite different, two Jewish and one Catholic. When the service for Emma ended, when Rev. McNeely had said all the words the prayer book required, plus a few more of his own, and Tilly had tossed down the pouch of red checkers pieces she wanted Emma to keep, the rain started. Everyone noted it, the way people always do when nature appears to take an interest in their lives.
At home Robby uncovered the sandwiches, and no one made jokes about that not being a man’s work. The women took the cloths from him, put on the kettle, opened the back window, in spite of the rain, for air. No one had properly tended the flat since the accident. Ada, from a chair in the corner of the kitchen, asked her friends to sit and not worry. Ignoring her, they dampened cloths and went at the rooms with the energy of the lucky. “We’ll put things right,” they said.
In the small flat, Tilly didn’t know where to go. The kitchen made her nervous. The lounge, where her father and his friends were drinking and growing loud, confused her.
“There are more refugees in the neighborhood than ever before, aren’t there.”
“Where was the bloody light?”
“You can bet they have a center handrail at Kensington.”
“They won’t have a public inquiry because they know they’ll be found out.”
“When they say ‘Jewish
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