Children of the Dust by Louise Lawrence Page B

river. The queasy churning of her stomach was gone into the stillness where lace-winged flies danced among the sunlight and fish bubbles broke the surface. Brown water whirled and eddied with trails of green weed. A dragonfly flashed turquoise and insects sang, and a small flower crushed by her fingers gave off a sweet elusive scent. The flowers were everywhere under her, a spreading purple mat of sheer fragrance.
    Ophelia gazed in a kind of wonderment. Sense impressions which she had never dreamed of, never imagined, stirred and awoke, and were overwhelmed. This was the world that had been destroyed, the world her father talked of... scents and sights, colours and sounds, the sweet fresh air and the green glory of grass. It was a little strip of paradise beside an English river where life was beginning again. A brown bird warbled on a branch of springing willow, and the dragonflies danced.
    'A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.'
    Those were the words her father had taught her and she had never understood what they meant until now. Back at the bunker there was no beauty like this. Here there was a wallflower growing from the old stones of the bridge, living petals, yellow streaked with scarlet, and the flies above the water were like winged jewels. Ophelia wished she could stay there for ever, but the shadow of Dwight fell darkly on the grass beside her.
    'Feeling better?' he asked.
    'What do you care?' Ophelia said angrily.
    'We've got to move on,' said Dwight.
    'We've only just got here! And why don't we move from the bunker and settle somewhere like this?'
    'The river floods in spring and autumn,' Dwight informed her.
    'Somewhere else then?'
    'It's not easy living outside,' Dwight said.
    He squatted beside her, stared at his hands, calloused and hard with the healed scars of blisters. Even above the smell of petrol Ophelia was aware of the sewery stink which seemed to be ingrained in him. Dwight had been working outside long enough to know the back-breaking labour entailed in trying to make the deserts grow. She understood what drove him. She knew England would never again be what it was, that General MacAllister was blind not to see it, that Erica was stupid to dream. But Ophelia belonged to that dream, an underground city with flowers, and water gardens, trees growing under artificial sunlight, birds and animals and people. It took courage to give up the dream and face reality, and Ophelia knew she would never be brave.
    They crossed the Severn by Telford's bridge, which was the only one left standing, and Dwight took the wheel. Learning to drive the truck meant travelling slowly along roads of dust between dead hedges and abandoned villages as they headed west towards the borders of Wales. A hot summer wind blew through the open windows and on the river's flood plain the grass had dried brown, supporting nothing but a few skinny sheep that roamed across the miles. They saw dogs in the distance but no signs of people, nor any sign of pursuit. But somewhere behind they knew the convoy trucks would be following, qualified army drivers who could make up time and already knew the route.
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    Ophelia slept for a while with her head on her father's shoulder and when she awoke they were driving among rugged hills where gaunt skeletons of dead trees were still standing. Bare branches trailed dark ivy, sucking a little life from the ruined earth. Here and there among the burnt black ash were fronds of green bracken, patches of grass and a few pink foxglove flowers. Rabbits with blind white eyes bolted away, and the village houses were almost intact, black gaps of doors and windows and sagging roofs. Rooms and gardens were choked with stinging nettles and bramble mounds, leaves of elder hanging limp in the heat and grey with dust. All these alien plants Bill recognized and named, but Ophelia was feeling ill again. Waves of sickness washed over her and she sweated inside her white protective suit.
    'I want to get out,' she said