“Don’t wait for me, Mary,” Selina said, “the sooner you get out of the cold the better.” Another figure bumped into her, hurrying up the street, but it was as quiet and shadowy otherwise as if she were walking up a country lane. There was no light showing from any window. The houses stood in flutes of dark stone with no visible entrance. She tried to hurry, for she had a feeling that Mr. Rashleigh was going to be troublesome, but she had to set her suitcase down twice before she reached the door that Mary was holding open.
It was a relief to get into Mr. Dobbie’s hall and to struggle down the twisting staircase to his basement. One end was blocked up with wooden boxes, but a dozen people had already arrived and were making up their beds as usual the length of the two walls. “So this is the twentieth century,” Selina snorted, by way of greeting. Her rubber mattress with its red and green stripes looked incongruous on the concrete floor. Angelina considered herself an unofficial warden, and was already checking names and deck chairs by a pencilled list. “No, Cook, I shouldn’t leave the thermos there, it will be in everybody’s way; stand it in the corner, our ‘refreshment room,’ and are you sure, tonight, you have remembered to bring the biscuits?” She moved a chair rest, picked up a pillow, and came over to Selina, as if there had not been a shadow of disagreement between them. “Welcome to our Lido!” she shouted gaily, waving to someone on the stairs, and the room really was like a bathing pool that had got mixed up with a side show at a fair. There were grey rugs like horse blankets, pale pink quilts and striped sun-bathing pads. “I’ve hidden the barley sugar, dear,” she whispered, “so be sure not to ask for it. You know what people are like, and I will not listen to them sucking it all the evening. It might be the saving of our lives if anything happened.”
“We shouldn’t be able to enjoy it, should we, if we were covered up with rubble?” Candy was a weakness of Selina’s, and just the mention of it made her feel how good a stick would taste at that very moment. It was such a pity that her partner was narrow minded over what she called “nibbling between meals.” Then she remembered the fruit drops in her bag; she would eat one going back. “I’ll leave my things here and go and fetch Mr. Rashleigh; I won’t be five minutes, and then I’ll help you with the chairs.”
“That tiresome old man!”
“I know, dear, but I can’t sleep when he stays there, all alone.”
“Oh, well, hurry then. The chalk is working beautifully; I’m marking numbers all along the floor.”
Angelina had evolved a theory that a line should be drawn between each bed; but as there were too few for the room to be crowded, it seemed unnecessary. She was very happy, however, with her stick of chalk. It gave her the feeling that she was organizing the neighbours into a big, happy community, and she planned, but dared not suggest, a wall newspaper.
“I’m afraid, Mary, you neglected to sweep up this morning,” Selina heard her partner saying, as she started up the stairs again; “greasy paper is not only unsightly but it attracts the flies. All of us,” and Angelina flicked the checked duster reprovingly, “are helping to keep the shelter tidy, but Cleanliness is Essential.” She folded a shawl and straightened a pillow whilst Mary looked on vaguely with her mind on her own affairs.
Outside, the road was ominously calm. Mr. Dobbie must be at the warden’s post; he was a very comforting figure in his tin hat and blue uniform. Walking was easier without bundles, though Selina stumbled over one curbstone; but Mary was right, the door did stick, and she had to use all her force to open it. It would be unpleasant to be trapped inside, and she ventured to leave it ajar. As she entered, the long, familiar moan began that was taken up, second after second, by a dozen other sirens across London.
The Warming Pan, empty as it was, seemed full of rustlings and shadows. How strange, Selina thought, climbing the endless stairs; in a few seconds they might be blown to bits. Still, they said you felt nothing with a direct hit, and though she murmured the words, the meaning slipped away from her. A step creaked and she stopped, listening for footsteps. It was tiresome of Timothy, he always had a new story about looters. As she passed her own bedroom door she had an impulse to dash in and collect the trifles from the shelves; they seemed to reproach her for leaving them. What an irrational fancy to have, she reflected, but it showed how easy it was to become terrified by one’s own imagination, whenever violence upset normal existence.
Horatio was sitting in his chair, staring at the wall.