to find anywhere.” It was 1943; London was battered, bloody, brought to its knees. There was rubble, darkness, an exhausted populace. The Faradays had been dismayed by Lorna’s decision: “There could be bombing again.” She had known only that Lucas’s letter had seemed like a beacon, that it offered a haven of some kind, an association with Matt’s world. The Press. Lucas.
The Press was far from being in full production. The paper shortage meant that Lucas had to curtail operations, and limit himself to small editions. With little money coming in, he had taken on work proofreading for various journals; he would sit hunched over the kitchen table, in his out-at-elbow sweater, muttering and exclaiming: “Oh my goodness…Look at this…Illiterate fellows…”
Lorna took Molly to school in the mornings, and after that would set about reestablishing order in the Heron Press office, which was awash with unanswered letters and unpaid invoices. By his own admission, Lucas was hopeless at paperwork; Miss Kelly had been an essential feature of the business. Initially, Lorna was daunted. Then she thought: if I can learn how to clean a chicken, and grow stuff, and trim oil lamps, and mend a puncture, then I can find out how to deal with all this. She mastered Miss Kelly’s typewriter and the filing system; she worked out what money was owed, from where and to whom. In the basement, Lucas set type; she would hear the grind and clunk as the press rolled.
Grief was muted now, a continuous dull pain, as though she had some incurable illness. She still wept; at unwary moments, the realization of what had happened would come surging up and knock everything else aside, so that she was dazed, unable to function.
But she took satisfaction in what she had achieved: a home of sorts for Molly, occupation for herself, a small income—for Lucas insisted on paying her for the office work. And from time to time she would experience a frisson of pleasure—at something Molly said or did, at the sight of a flower, new green leaves, opalescent clouds above the city.
At the cottage there had been hens that ran if you chased them, but you mustn’t, and apples in the grass, with crawly things on them, and the big black kettle that jigged about and hissed when it was getting hot. That was a long time ago; she had pictures in her head. “Do you remember?” Mummy would say, and she would fish for other pictures and sometimes nothing came.
At Grandma’s there had been a bath with feet like dogs’ feet, and a tablecloth with pink roses on it, and a box thing that played music, and Ovaltine when you went to bed. That was quite a long time ago.
Now there was Lucas’s house, which went up and up, and down and down. Right up were their rooms, and right down was the press. Sometimes Lucas let her help him with the press. She had to find letters for him: “Now find me an A. Good. Now an N. Now a D. Good. We’ll make a printer of you yet.” Lucas is a printer, he says. So will she get tall and thin, like Lucas, with a beaky nose, and glasses?
She likes finding letters for Lucas. And at school she likes reading. She can read whole words, whole lines of words, a whole page of words. “Mary runs to her mother. See Mary run. Mary runs to her father.”
Father.
When she is seven, quite soon, they are going to go to the zoo. There are no lions and tigers at the zoo now because of the war, but there are other animals, and a place where you can have tea, and there might be a ride on a camel.
There was a life now, at the tall house in Fulham; a determined, stoical, daily kind of life that defied what had happened, what was happening, in the same way that the life of the city itself ignored the gaping windows, the potholes, the sandbags, the blackout, and got on with what had to be done. It was a life without much by way of comforts or consolations: the occasional lucky strike at the butcher, and liver for supper, an extra sweet ration for
The Press was far from being in full production. The paper shortage meant that Lucas had to curtail operations, and limit himself to small editions. With little money coming in, he had taken on work proofreading for various journals; he would sit hunched over the kitchen table, in his out-at-elbow sweater, muttering and exclaiming: “Oh my goodness…Look at this…Illiterate fellows…”
Lorna took Molly to school in the mornings, and after that would set about reestablishing order in the Heron Press office, which was awash with unanswered letters and unpaid invoices. By his own admission, Lucas was hopeless at paperwork; Miss Kelly had been an essential feature of the business. Initially, Lorna was daunted. Then she thought: if I can learn how to clean a chicken, and grow stuff, and trim oil lamps, and mend a puncture, then I can find out how to deal with all this. She mastered Miss Kelly’s typewriter and the filing system; she worked out what money was owed, from where and to whom. In the basement, Lucas set type; she would hear the grind and clunk as the press rolled.
Grief was muted now, a continuous dull pain, as though she had some incurable illness. She still wept; at unwary moments, the realization of what had happened would come surging up and knock everything else aside, so that she was dazed, unable to function.
But she took satisfaction in what she had achieved: a home of sorts for Molly, occupation for herself, a small income—for Lucas insisted on paying her for the office work. And from time to time she would experience a frisson of pleasure—at something Molly said or did, at the sight of a flower, new green leaves, opalescent clouds above the city.
At the cottage there had been hens that ran if you chased them, but you mustn’t, and apples in the grass, with crawly things on them, and the big black kettle that jigged about and hissed when it was getting hot. That was a long time ago; she had pictures in her head. “Do you remember?” Mummy would say, and she would fish for other pictures and sometimes nothing came.
At Grandma’s there had been a bath with feet like dogs’ feet, and a tablecloth with pink roses on it, and a box thing that played music, and Ovaltine when you went to bed. That was quite a long time ago.
Now there was Lucas’s house, which went up and up, and down and down. Right up were their rooms, and right down was the press. Sometimes Lucas let her help him with the press. She had to find letters for him: “Now find me an A. Good. Now an N. Now a D. Good. We’ll make a printer of you yet.” Lucas is a printer, he says. So will she get tall and thin, like Lucas, with a beaky nose, and glasses?
She likes finding letters for Lucas. And at school she likes reading. She can read whole words, whole lines of words, a whole page of words. “Mary runs to her mother. See Mary run. Mary runs to her father.”
Father.
When she is seven, quite soon, they are going to go to the zoo. There are no lions and tigers at the zoo now because of the war, but there are other animals, and a place where you can have tea, and there might be a ride on a camel.
There was a life now, at the tall house in Fulham; a determined, stoical, daily kind of life that defied what had happened, what was happening, in the same way that the life of the city itself ignored the gaping windows, the potholes, the sandbags, the blackout, and got on with what had to be done. It was a life without much by way of comforts or consolations: the occasional lucky strike at the butcher, and liver for supper, an extra sweet ration for
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