The all-clear went as Eve got to the Rest Centre door. The sky was quiet, but the streets were noisier as ambulances moved away and fresh fire engines arrived. Angelina was just in front of her, her old scarf hanging from the pocket of her leather jacket, which was now covered with thick powder from the ruins. The group from Dobbie’s shelter were all in one corner of the large room, sipping mugs of tea. Lilian (really, she should be called the undaunted Lilian, Eve felt) had saved her letter case and was showing a lilac piece of paper covered with sooty fingerprints to a large audience. “Won’t my niece be thrilled when she gets this, straight, as you might say, from the jaws of death!”
“They have deep shelters in Moscow,” Angelina proclaimed, in a loud, accusing voice. Nobody took any notice; they were still busy trying to shake the top layer of dust from their clothes.
“I have drafted a letter to the Times by the light of the flares. If we had been killed in that shallow rabbit warren, the Government would have been at fault, equally with the enemy.”
“Yes, dear, but would it have mattered much? To us, I mean, if we had been killed?”
“Selina, my lamb! Have you no feeling for the future? Think of posterity!”
She could not bother about anyone at the moment except herself, Miss Tippett thought, unless it were poor Mr. Rashleigh. Ferguson had gone up the road again to discover how badly the old gentleman had been hurt. The Warming Pan had gone; nobody had told her, but she felt it. It had ended its life in a blaze of glory, but she didn’t want to have to look at the remains. She only wanted to sleep. “Sit down, Angelina,” she suggested, “you must be tired.”
“No, thank you, dear; while you have been resting—of course, I am glad that you could rest, for as far as I am concerned I shall not have a wink for a week—but while you have been resting I have made out a list of the necessary steps to take. I shall go to the Town Hall in the morning …”
“I believe you go first to Citizens’ Advice,” Lilian broke in, “one of my clients was bombed and that was where she went.”
“I shall go, doubtless, to both. We are entitled to every assistance. After all,” Angelina forgot her theories for the moment, “the enemy has destroyed our means of livelihood.”
“It has gone, then—the house?”
“I’m afraid so.” Ferguson tried to speak as gently as possible. He had just returned and stood, sorrowfully, in the doorway.
“Quite gone,” Selina asked in a dazed voice, “or is it … just blitzed?” Now they had told her she could not imagine the street with no Warming Pan there.
“There was a direct hit next door and a fire. You will get compensation, you know, after the war.”
“All of it has gone?” Selina remembered irrationally that square board in the top room that had always creaked. Everything had seemed so solid, so heavy.
“Absolutely, madam,” Dobbie assured her in a hearty voice, his tin helmet wedged buck-fashion on his head, “but don’t you fret now, it’s all right, we’ve saved the dog.”
“The dog!”
“Oh, Selina, it’s a good omen, they’ve saved Beowulf!” Squealing joyfully, Angelina tore out into the street.
People were silent; some knew their homes were safe, others would have to wait till the morning. “Better get her a cup of tea,” Dobbie whispered loudly. It was hard on an old lady like that, he thought, as he hurried back to his work outside. Selina tried to realize what it meant, but all she could see were the thick walls of the restaurant, the heavy blackout curtains. Yesterday rushed over her as if she were actually alive in it, and she started suddenly to laugh. The landlord could not send them a demand for the rent! He could never send them a demand for the rent. He could never give them notice! She laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. She need never be frightened of the postman any more. She would not have to give Timothy or Ruby notice. The group round her looked embarrassed, and a helper tapped Ferguson on the shoulder. “Loony bin,” she muttered, “but it takes some of them that way, she’ll get over it. Though you’d be surprised (try one of the buns, sir, they’re really quite good), some people are quite cheerful, they never say a word.”
“Angelina!” Miss Tippett got up, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief and choking: “Angelina! It’s burnt! They can’t send us any more bills!”
“Yes, dear, now try to be calm. They have found a Union Jack for Beowulf’s collar and set him up by the big crater outside. Would you like to come and see him?”
“No,” she could hardly get the words out, “no, I think I’ll stay where I am.” Several fellow shelterers moved round to comfort her. “Do let me wrap you up in my rug, your hands are frozen. Lilian dear, get Miss Tippett another cup of tea!” Then as she stopped laughing, they drifted away to exclaim over Beowulf. He seemed to be popular.
Ferguson sat down beside her. “I don’t mind them having the bulldog or the flag,” he said, looking round cautiously to see that Angelina was out of earshot, “but why both?”
“Yes, it does seem, well … the tiniest bit vulgar….” They smiled. “Still, I suppose our sense of humour is a protection. You can’t imagine the Germans taking a nasty dog seriously, can you? It would shock them.”
It was comfortable to have
