wide mouth in the crumpled face opened. “Step in, step in. Let me get me slippers and tell Mother.” He padded away, towards the cellar door.
Gwen thankfully entered the kitchen and shut the door behind her. By some fluke of the blast, Mr Baker’s kitchen window was still intact. As fear gave way to resentment, she wondered crossly why her windows should always be those to be broken. Why should she get landed with someone wounded? And have to let in five disgusting kids?
Mr Baker came panting up the cellar steps again, his dressing-gown now tightly belted, his misshapen feet encased in carpet slippers.
“Where is she?” he inquired.
“By her front door. It’s open.”
“Coom through then.”
Seething with suppressed vexation at the unfairness of fate, she followed him through his front door, round the tiny bay windows of his home and that of the Donnellys, and up the latter’s front steps. From behind the closed door of the kitchen, Sarge began to bark.
Mr Baker put the lamp down on the floor. Very gently he lifted Ellen’s arm. A piece of shrapnel was deeply embedded in her side. He held her wrist for a moment, but there was no sign of a pulse.
He got laboriously to his feet. “Let’s get her in and shut the door.”
As a postman, he was used to lifting awkward weights and he soon pulled her along the bare wooden floor, by putting his hands under her arms from the back. Then he quietly shut the front door; it cut off a lot of the noise from outside.
He looked carefully at the wound. It had bled little and he toyed with the idea of pulling out the piece of shrapnel. Better to leave her as she was, he decided. With womanly care, he turned her on one side to look at her back. Another sliver protruded for about an inch from under one shoulder-blade.
“I reckon she were hit first in her chest and she half turned into the house, and the second piece hit her in the back,” he said to a shocked Gwen. “She’s dead for sure.” He laid the body flat on its back and gently closed the staring eyes. Then he glanced round him, puzzled. “Where’s all the kids?”
Gwen licked her white lips. “All in my house, with our Mari.”
“That’s proper kind of you, Mrs Thomas.” He took a crumpled handkerchief out of his dressing-gown pocket and, with a grimace of distaste, wiped Ellen’s life-blood from his hands. Gwen stood uncertainly before him, her hands clasped tightly together. Her irritation had faded and she felt numb, unable to make herself think.
“It’s more’n anybody’s life’s worth to go up to the post in this,” Baker went on heavily. “As soon as the All Clear sounds, I’ll get up there and tell him – and get some help to move her.” He rubbed his almost non-existent chin, grey with a day’s beard, and then smelled the dried blood still on his hands. Sickened, he dropped them to his sides. “The kids’ll do fine with you.” He looked down kindly at the small wraith in front of him. “Five of them, isn’t there? Poor little buggers – excuse the language.”
At the remembrance of the repellent collection sitting on her well-scrubbed steps, Gwen felt nauseated again. But she could not, in all conscience, send them back home, while their dead mother lay where she did. “Donnelly’ll have to get a relation to come in and look after them,” she said.
“Aye,” he agreed. “I’ll leave it to you how you tell them.”
Gwen stared up at him, aghast. How could she tell them? Surely it was not her responsibility? But Mr Baker’s mind had gone on to other things, and he said, “I’ll let the dog out in the morning, if Donnelly isn’t back.”
In her own house, she faced the children, as they rose expectantly from their uncomfortable seats on the steps. Ruby held a sleeping Michael; she looked as if she might faint.
Mari was in the kitchen, calmly making cups of cocoa for their guests, while the early morning breeze fluttered her long white nightgown and made the gas jet
Gwen thankfully entered the kitchen and shut the door behind her. By some fluke of the blast, Mr Baker’s kitchen window was still intact. As fear gave way to resentment, she wondered crossly why her windows should always be those to be broken. Why should she get landed with someone wounded? And have to let in five disgusting kids?
Mr Baker came panting up the cellar steps again, his dressing-gown now tightly belted, his misshapen feet encased in carpet slippers.
“Where is she?” he inquired.
“By her front door. It’s open.”
“Coom through then.”
Seething with suppressed vexation at the unfairness of fate, she followed him through his front door, round the tiny bay windows of his home and that of the Donnellys, and up the latter’s front steps. From behind the closed door of the kitchen, Sarge began to bark.
Mr Baker put the lamp down on the floor. Very gently he lifted Ellen’s arm. A piece of shrapnel was deeply embedded in her side. He held her wrist for a moment, but there was no sign of a pulse.
He got laboriously to his feet. “Let’s get her in and shut the door.”
As a postman, he was used to lifting awkward weights and he soon pulled her along the bare wooden floor, by putting his hands under her arms from the back. Then he quietly shut the front door; it cut off a lot of the noise from outside.
He looked carefully at the wound. It had bled little and he toyed with the idea of pulling out the piece of shrapnel. Better to leave her as she was, he decided. With womanly care, he turned her on one side to look at her back. Another sliver protruded for about an inch from under one shoulder-blade.
“I reckon she were hit first in her chest and she half turned into the house, and the second piece hit her in the back,” he said to a shocked Gwen. “She’s dead for sure.” He laid the body flat on its back and gently closed the staring eyes. Then he glanced round him, puzzled. “Where’s all the kids?”
Gwen licked her white lips. “All in my house, with our Mari.”
“That’s proper kind of you, Mrs Thomas.” He took a crumpled handkerchief out of his dressing-gown pocket and, with a grimace of distaste, wiped Ellen’s life-blood from his hands. Gwen stood uncertainly before him, her hands clasped tightly together. Her irritation had faded and she felt numb, unable to make herself think.
“It’s more’n anybody’s life’s worth to go up to the post in this,” Baker went on heavily. “As soon as the All Clear sounds, I’ll get up there and tell him – and get some help to move her.” He rubbed his almost non-existent chin, grey with a day’s beard, and then smelled the dried blood still on his hands. Sickened, he dropped them to his sides. “The kids’ll do fine with you.” He looked down kindly at the small wraith in front of him. “Five of them, isn’t there? Poor little buggers – excuse the language.”
At the remembrance of the repellent collection sitting on her well-scrubbed steps, Gwen felt nauseated again. But she could not, in all conscience, send them back home, while their dead mother lay where she did. “Donnelly’ll have to get a relation to come in and look after them,” she said.
“Aye,” he agreed. “I’ll leave it to you how you tell them.”
Gwen stared up at him, aghast. How could she tell them? Surely it was not her responsibility? But Mr Baker’s mind had gone on to other things, and he said, “I’ll let the dog out in the morning, if Donnelly isn’t back.”
In her own house, she faced the children, as they rose expectantly from their uncomfortable seats on the steps. Ruby held a sleeping Michael; she looked as if she might faint.
Mari was in the kitchen, calmly making cups of cocoa for their guests, while the early morning breeze fluttered her long white nightgown and made the gas jet
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