‘Vauxhall only. I’m only going as far as Vauxhall.’ A woman in a red mac was
standing in the road and questioning him. He was shaking his head. ‘You won’t get anything going over the bridge,’ he was telling her. ‘Nothing’s going over the bridge
at the moment. The bridges are all closed.’ Joan turned away. She had walked to work once before, during the bus strike. It took nearly an hour, through Kennington and over Lambeth Bridge.
Anything was better than trying to get a bus.
The same madness held sway all the way up Camberwell New Road; cars stalled, dustbins in the street, clutches of traffic followed by empty stretches where the road was too dangerous to
negotiate. Children were gathered around outside the Sacred Heart secondary school, jumping for joy at the chaos as though it was a trick they had performed on a world of unsuspecting adults. As
she approached Kennington, three fire brigade lorries came steaming and swaying down the Brixton Road, sirens joined in a vicious whine.
Half-way across Lambeth Bridge she paused and looked out over the chopping, frothing Thames. The wind charged about her head, freezing the end of her nose and whistling icily in her ears. The
whole of London paralysed, she thought, by a stiff breeze and a sense of confusion, and cut in two by this – this strip of brown sloshing water. A businessman staggered past, one hand
grabbing furiously at his raincoat and the other clutching a briefcase to his chest. Few pedestrians had braved the bridge and those that had were taking it slowly, stopping now and then to pause
and lean into the wind. Joan caught her breath, put her head down and carried on. She felt like having a good laugh. She wanted to stop on the middle of the bridge, throw her head back and roar
with laughter.
At CTA, there was great excitement. Only half the staff had managed to get in. Annette had made it. Helly was nowhere to be seen. Richard was running around consulting.
Everyone had a story to tell. It was the worst storm since 1987, they all agreed. Even worse than that, perhaps. At noon, Richard stood on a table and announced that, bearing in mind the atrocious
weather, the view of the management – with whom he had consulted – was that staff should be allowed home early. Gentlemen could leave at four thirty p.m., ladies at four.
This was tantamount to declaring a national holiday. For the rest of the day, a party atmosphere prevailed. Joan spent much of it standing at the window with Annette, pointing out bizarre,
detached objects which hurtled around in the street below: a man’s hat, a blanket, a pair of dancing newspapers which, as Annette observed, were obviously in love.
By mid-afternoon the office was nearly deserted as everybody made for home. Those commuting out of London had sloped off one by one. Richard, empowered to say who should leave and when, had been
sidling up to individuals and giving them the nod, enjoying his munificence. At three o’clock he had come round to their desks and said, ‘Not much point in hanging on I don’t
think, girls.’ Annette had jumped to her feet. Joan had said, ‘I’ll just finish up.’ With everyone else gone, she settled down to updating the list of Approved
Contractors.
It was only when she started working on it that she remembered why it was taking her so long; it was boring. After twenty minutes she gave up and wandered over to the window. Perhaps she should
go home too. She didn’t fancy walking. If she was going to try for a bus she ought to leave.
The storm was nearly over and the street below was quieter now. A scattering of office workers was walking swiftly by. An ambulance swayed silently past. A small branch lay in the middle of the
road, blown there from a distant tree. Joan watched it as it suddenly moved a few feet down the street, seemingly of its own accord. Then a van drove past and the branch was flipped over and blown
into a gutter, where it stuck.
The wind is
standing in the road and questioning him. He was shaking his head. ‘You won’t get anything going over the bridge,’ he was telling her. ‘Nothing’s going over the bridge
at the moment. The bridges are all closed.’ Joan turned away. She had walked to work once before, during the bus strike. It took nearly an hour, through Kennington and over Lambeth Bridge.
Anything was better than trying to get a bus.
The same madness held sway all the way up Camberwell New Road; cars stalled, dustbins in the street, clutches of traffic followed by empty stretches where the road was too dangerous to
negotiate. Children were gathered around outside the Sacred Heart secondary school, jumping for joy at the chaos as though it was a trick they had performed on a world of unsuspecting adults. As
she approached Kennington, three fire brigade lorries came steaming and swaying down the Brixton Road, sirens joined in a vicious whine.
Half-way across Lambeth Bridge she paused and looked out over the chopping, frothing Thames. The wind charged about her head, freezing the end of her nose and whistling icily in her ears. The
whole of London paralysed, she thought, by a stiff breeze and a sense of confusion, and cut in two by this – this strip of brown sloshing water. A businessman staggered past, one hand
grabbing furiously at his raincoat and the other clutching a briefcase to his chest. Few pedestrians had braved the bridge and those that had were taking it slowly, stopping now and then to pause
and lean into the wind. Joan caught her breath, put her head down and carried on. She felt like having a good laugh. She wanted to stop on the middle of the bridge, throw her head back and roar
with laughter.
At CTA, there was great excitement. Only half the staff had managed to get in. Annette had made it. Helly was nowhere to be seen. Richard was running around consulting.
Everyone had a story to tell. It was the worst storm since 1987, they all agreed. Even worse than that, perhaps. At noon, Richard stood on a table and announced that, bearing in mind the atrocious
weather, the view of the management – with whom he had consulted – was that staff should be allowed home early. Gentlemen could leave at four thirty p.m., ladies at four.
This was tantamount to declaring a national holiday. For the rest of the day, a party atmosphere prevailed. Joan spent much of it standing at the window with Annette, pointing out bizarre,
detached objects which hurtled around in the street below: a man’s hat, a blanket, a pair of dancing newspapers which, as Annette observed, were obviously in love.
By mid-afternoon the office was nearly deserted as everybody made for home. Those commuting out of London had sloped off one by one. Richard, empowered to say who should leave and when, had been
sidling up to individuals and giving them the nod, enjoying his munificence. At three o’clock he had come round to their desks and said, ‘Not much point in hanging on I don’t
think, girls.’ Annette had jumped to her feet. Joan had said, ‘I’ll just finish up.’ With everyone else gone, she settled down to updating the list of Approved
Contractors.
It was only when she started working on it that she remembered why it was taking her so long; it was boring. After twenty minutes she gave up and wandered over to the window. Perhaps she should
go home too. She didn’t fancy walking. If she was going to try for a bus she ought to leave.
The storm was nearly over and the street below was quieter now. A scattering of office workers was walking swiftly by. An ambulance swayed silently past. A small branch lay in the middle of the
road, blown there from a distant tree. Joan watched it as it suddenly moved a few feet down the street, seemingly of its own accord. Then a van drove past and the branch was flipped over and blown
into a gutter, where it stuck.
The wind is
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