It was gone eleven by the time Laura and Bernadette left the hospital.
“We’re dirty stop-outs. And on a school day too,” Bernadette said mockingly.
“Yes. And we missed the Beatles.”
Bernadette asked quickly, “Can I come home with you?”
“What? I mean—yes. Of course.”
“If I get home this late my mum will kick off. Better to let her sleep off the mother’s ruin. Anyway, I’d like to see your Mort in his undies.”
“Don’t even joke about it.”
They walked to a bus stop. They picked at the dirt on their clothes, the bruises on their arms.
“Bern, when I met you, I thought there was something between you and Nick.”
“How wrong you were. Nick’s as bent as a nine-bob note. But he’s the only boy I ever met I could trust.”
“What about Joel?”
“Oh, yes, him. But he doesn’t count.”
Laura felt very sad for Joel.
The bus came. It was the last service, and the bus smelled of pee and ciggie smoke.
At home, Mum answered the door. Laura could hear the telly in the background. She expected a chewing-out. But Mum looked troubled.
Mum asked, “Who’s this?”
“Bernadette. From school. I said she could stay.”
“Oh, did you? Well, I suppose you’d better come in.”
In the house, Mort was sitting in the parlour before the telly, which showed a grave talking head.
Bernadette said, “Wow. Nice set.”
“Shut up,” said Mort casually, without looking round. Though it was midnight he was in his uniform shirt and tie.
Laura recognised the man speaking on the telly. It was President Kennedy.
“Uh oh,” she said to Bernadette. “Cuba.”
“What?”
The telephone rang in the hall. Mort got up smartly, and went out to take the call. Then he came back in. “It’s for you,” he said to Laura, irritated.
Laura hurried to the phone. Bernadette followed.
It was Dad. “You’ve been out late, haven’t you? I phoned earlier.”
“What’s going on, Dad?”
“Well, they’re going public. The Americans. Kennedy is speaking to the nation right now about the crisis.”
“I know. Mort’s watching him on telly.”
“How does he look to you?”
“Who, Mort? He’s a git.”
Dad suppressed a laugh. “Not him. The president.”
Laura peered through the door at the pale, ghostly face. Handsome, strained. “He looks ill.”
“I’ve met people, our senior chaps, who’ve met him. He’s only a young man, you know. Mightn’t seem young to you. But he’s got a crippling back injury, and a bad bowel, and glandular problems. He gets through the day with a suite of drugs and painkillers. Now Khrushchev is quite different. A peasant. Fought the Nazis at Stalingrad, a bloody mess that was. Then he had to survive Stalin’s purges, and fight his way to the top. Bit of a shower by all accounts. These things are never about bombs and missiles and submarines and airplanes, you know. It’s always the people.”
“What’s Kennedy saying?”
“He’s told the public something about the Russian missiles on Cuba. He’s sent sixty-odd nuclear bombers off to fly around the North Pole. And he’s announced that he’s blockading any more ships going to Cuba. He’s put the US forces on DefCon 3. That’s a state of alert, a ‘Defence Condition.’ There’s another stage called DefCon 2, and then DefCon 1, which means war.
“He’s speaking to America, but he’s speaking to the Russians too. He’s standing firm, but he’s still trying to find a way to let everybody back down without losing face.”
Laura listened in to a bit of what Kennedy was saying. He talked about the risks of a worldwide nuclear war, “… in which even the fruits of victory would be ashes in our mouth.”
Bernadette was staring at the telly, and at Laura. “You really do have secrets, don’t you, H-Bomb Girl? Did you know about this stuff?”
Cradling the phone handset, Laura admitted, “Sort of.”
Dad began talking about the Key, once more running over her instructions on how she had to use it “if the balloon goes up”: the phone numbers, the enabling code.
There was a high-pitched warble, like a small bird. It was coming from Bernadette’s bag.
“Dad, I’ll talk to you in a minute.”
They crept to the stairs and sat on the bottom step, out of sight of Mort and Mum in the parlour. Bernadette dug into her bag, and pulled out the “phone,” Miss Wells’s little gadget. It was glowing blue, and chiming.
Bernadette stared at it. “It’s vibrating.”
Laura hissed, “Shut it off. They’ll hear.”
“I don’t know how.” She flipped it open, and the noise stopped. There was a message on the little screen. Bernadette looked at Laura, amazed. “This is for you as well.”
Laura stared into the screen.
Text Message
FROM: Miss Wells
TO: Laura
MESSAGE: Don’t be afraid.
Chapter 14
She was woken by the sound of the wireless from downstairs.
“This is the BBC Home Service. Here is the seven o’clock news for today, Tuesday 23rd October. Following President Kennedy’s television address to the American people last night, there has been no lessening of tension in the international waters around Cuba. Urgent negotiations are underway at the United Nations in New York. The Russian Premier Mr Khrushchev has yet to respond to the president’s announcement of a ‘blockade.’ At home, Prime Minister Harold Macmillan is expected to speak to the nation later today. In other developments—”
“Oh, how dull.” That was her mother. Click. Jolly marching music.
Bernadette had slept on Laura’s bedroom floor. But she’d gone before Laura woke.
Laura had to wait ages for a bus. There was a long queue at the stop.
At last a bus came. The queue patiently filed on, but the conductor lowered his arm like a barrier before Laura got to the front.
A woman complained, “What’s going on? Where’s all the buses? This is disgusting.”
“Requisitioned, love. For official purposes. Shipping soldiers about, I shouldn’t wonder. Don’t you know there’s a war on?”
The bus drove off, packed.
There was no point waiting.
