The Report (9 page)

After the orphanage, mother and daughter suffered a reversal. Tilly lay in bed now, while Ada moved about the flat. She could hear her mother’s knees and ankles popping as she cleaned at night, her dull humming as she started taking care of the kitchen again and preparing the window boxes for vegetables. Her father was busy in the grocery, his work ethic as improved by the fall, her mother said, as his comprehension was diminished. Now and then, Ada came to the bed and pulled Tilly close. She touched her cheek to the top of her head, so that Tilly felt like a baby
bird tucked under a wing—that press of comfort, wordless. When it worked, Tilly fell asleep. When it didn’t, Tilly held her breath so as not to have her mother’s scent in her nose.

Rev. McNeely visited. At first Tilly thought it was a condolence call, but as she listened to their conversation from the bedroom, she realized her mother had asked him to come.

“I think I could endure anything,” she said. “I’m not even scared. If I died I would miss Tilly, but I feel as though I have a child on each side of an abyss now and death would be just crossing over to spend time with the one I haven’t seen in a while.”

When Tilly pulled herself up on the pillow, she could see Rev. McNeely’s face through the doorway and beyond her mother’s shoulder. She startled him, and he spilled some tea on his hand. Her mother said, “Quick, pinch your earlobe.”

He stared at Ada, his burned fingers pressed into the opposite palm.

“It takes the heat and your ear doesn’t feel it.”

He did as he was told. After a moment he said, “About your question.” He spoke softly, but Tilly could make out most of what he said. “According to parish law, anyone residing within the parish is entitled to the sacrament of baptism, regardless of race. Marriage and burial, too.”

“That’s good,” her mother said. “And godparents?”

“Of course. If they agree.”

“Would you?”

There was another silence.

“Do you mean as a matter of principle, or are you—”

“I don’t know who else to ask.”

Now Tilly knew why her mother had set the table with their best cloth. She offered more tea, but McNeely declined.

“I see. Well, yes, it is an interesting question, isn’t it?”

Ada waited.

“If you needed me,” McNeely said, “of course. But perhaps you’ll think of someone else.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It must be very hard, Mrs. Barber.”

“I got Tilly out.”

McNeely nodded vigorously. “Of course. And with time …”

Her mother shook her head and closed her eyes. After a minute she continued as before. “Time has nothing to do here. Two is what I’m used to.”

Rev. McNeely took a last sip of tea. He had to go. He had another funeral at the church.

At the door her mother thanked him for coming.

“I hope I’ve been of service, if perhaps not a comfort.”

“Yes, thank you.”

McNeely stopped in the doorway. He was only a bit taller than her mother, but it seemed to Tilly he looked down on her from a great height with kindness. “Ada,” he said, “you can always come see me privately if there’s something more to discuss.”

Tilly was as surprised as he to see her mother begin to shake.

“Before you headed to the shelter, Mr. Steadman, was there anything you had to finish up in the Bricklayers’ Arms?”

“I was drinking a pint, sir.”

“And you dealt with that, I trust?”

“I drank my pint right up.”

“Good man.”

Bill Steadman, a fifty-year-old pensioner wearing a police-issue vest, explained that he’d been concerned about a heavy flow of people that night and was serving as a volunteer.

“I often did so, sir. My heart, it dislikes the damp. Warden Low was always kind enough to let me stay in the booking hall, so I tried to be of some use.”

“And were you wearing this at the time?” Laurie indicated the vest.

“No, sir. I got this after the accident. I’ve become more official at the shelter since the night in question.”

“I see. Well, you’re fortunate it’s just your heart dislikes the damp. My whole body is rather indisposed to it,” said Laurie. He expected a chuckle.

“Do you often go to the public shelters?” Steadman asked.

Steady man, Laurie thought. Earns his name. “Perhaps not,” Laurie said. He resisted the urge to sit straighter, remained deliberately at ease. “So, what did you see from this less inclement vantage point?”

Steadman hesitated.

“After the rain, the night was clear,” Laurie said, prompting him. “There are rumors of a reprisal; the alert sounds; people begin to go in.”

“There were a lot of children, sir,” Steadman said.

“Yes.”

“And we’d heard there’d be less time if they used some of the new bombs.”

“The crowd was coming down perfectly normally. When did you know there was trouble?”

“The people stopped, sir. Suddenly there was no one at the escalator.”

“Then what?”

“There was a scream.”

“Where from?”

“From the crowd.”

“Where was the crowd?”

“On the nineteen stairs.”

“Anybody on the landing?”

“No one was on the landing.”

Laurie shook his head. How could no one have been on the landing? What were they pressed against, if not the far wall?

“A woman fell, sir. That’s what started it.”

“I’ve read that. What happened to her?”

“I don’t know, sir. I’ve tried everybody down the Tube to find out who she was.”

“Women must have stumbled on the stairs frequently,” Laurie suggested.

“Yes, but the crowd was moving along all right until then.”

Laurie waited.

“She just fell. That’s all. I couldn’t say how, exactly, but that was the beginning of it.”

“Why didn’t she get up?”

“She couldn’t. She was carrying a large bundle. I really couldn’t say how she fell, but there were so many people coming, they tripped right on top of her, one after another. I helped some of them, but …”

“Did you succeed?” asked Laurie.

“It happened so fast. People fell everywhere, and we couldn’t get anyone loose.” His eyes went shiny. He pushed hard at a cheek with the fingertips of one hand, then repeated the gesture on the other side. Tears trailed down. “I’ve never seen anything like it. There was one man who turned around. I wasn’t sure if he’d changed his mind or—no, I think he saw what had happened and wanted to hold back the crowd. He held up his arms, but he was pushed backward and down, too.”

“Was this before or after the blast many heard?”

“I didn’t hear anything, sir.”

“But you were in the stairway.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t hear an unusually loud sound or blast that night?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you see any of these babies? The shelter orphans we’ve heard so much about?”

“Yes,” Steadman said. “I received most of them!” He covered his face with his hands.

“What do you mean?”

“I reached for them. They were just there; I don’t know how. The people were packed in so tight, arms and legs all tangled up. It was the damnedest thing, but some of those babies were passed forward, and I reached for them. God knows how. I put my head under someone to get a baby in very dark clothes. Who the baby belonged to, I don’t know. Possibly it went with that first woman who fell.”

“She was carrying a baby?” Laurie looked at Ross.

“I couldn’t be sure, sir. As I said, I didn’t see how she fell, exactly.”

“Right. Well, what did you do with them?”

“The babies? I laid them down by the escalators.”

“How many were there?”

“More than a dozen.”

“Not seven?”

“By the next morning the families had claimed some of them.”

“And the others?”

“I imagine those are the orphans.”

Laurie, Steadman, and Ross were silent. Then Laurie said, “Good man. It can fairly be said you did succeed.”

“Oh, no,” Steadman protested, his eyes filling again. “It was the mothers’ doing. I just reached for them.”

“You are James Low?”

“Yes.”

“You are chief shelter warden of the Tube-station shelter in this borough?”

“I was. Sir, may I speak first?”

Looking at his hands, he told them that on the night of March 3, he’d replaced the twenty-five-watt bulb above the stairs with one of a significantly higher wattage—an improvement he’d thought necessary, given certain structural problems with the shelter’s entrance and the wet, slippery steps. What had happened, he believed, was that a couple of the first shelterers, approaching the entrance after blackout, noticed the brighter light and smashed it on their way down. They would have done this out of worry that some light would reach the pavement outside during blackout.

When Laurie didn’t respond, Low said, “I’m sorry. I should’ve known they’d do it. I know how they think. We’d always hoped for a better entrance so that we could allow more light on the stairs.”

The room smelled of tea and damp. A light rain fell over the street. Laurie wasn’t sure what to do with Low’s recitation of guilt. Certainly the man before him seemed broken. His eyes looked hot, which belied his outward calm. He might be sick, Laurie thought, or sedated.

“When I saw the shelter this morning,” Laurie said, “the socket was empty.”

Low nodded.

“Some seem to believe there was no light at all, and I did notice there was no broken glass.”

“The cleanup was organized very quickly,” Low said. “The Regional Commissioners had sweepers in before dawn.” He did not sound defensive, only matter-of-fact.

Laurie looked at Ross, who stood and poured Low a cup of tea. Then, instead of returning to his chair, he perched himself on the edge of the stage.

“Regardless,” Laurie said, “I’m not sure of this light’s overall significance.”

Low looked stunned. “Our regular habit at the shelter, sir, is to use a twenty-five-watt bulb. I’m afraid sixty-five watts would have struck many as too bright.”

“Lightbulbs in doorways are always being smashed. It’s practically war work for men of a certain mind-set.”

Laurie asked about shelter size, regulations, staffing, maintenance.

“What was the muster on the third?”

“Myself; the deputy warden, Hastings; and four part-time wardens, Edwards, Bryant, Clarke, and Bagshaw.”

“What were their posts?”

“Clarke and Bryant were at the top of the escalator.”

“Your post, naturally, is in the office?”

“Yes.”

“Where was your deputy, Hastings?”

“He was in the office with me.”

“Bagshaw?”

“Bagshaw was at the bottom of the steps in the booking hall.”

“There is a man called Steadman who apparently is not a warden but was helping?”

“He’s a volunteer. He has been very useful.”

“And he stands in the booking hall?”

“Yes, at the bottom of the stairs with Bagshaw.”

“And who was at the top of the stairs?”

“Edwards.”

“You are satisfied with your wardens? You are satisfied they were at their posts?”

“Yes. They’re good men. They know their jobs and work hard.”

Laurie moved on to possible contributory causes.

“What about Constable Henderson, the police officer who should have been at the entrance?”

“A good man, tired of his job,” Low said.

“What about this idea that it was a Jewish panic?”

“Absolutely not. Not too many Jews were in the habit of using this shelter.”

“Why is that?”

Low looked embarrassed. “We had a bit of trouble in the beginning.”

“Trouble?”

“Just the ordinary sort. Bullying, you know. But it had got much better. When the bunks came in and the walls were painted, it got easier. We haven’t had a problem in some time.”

“What accounts for this rumor, then?”

“My opinion? The large amounts of money found in a few of the handbags. That got into the papers, and people made their own assumptions.”

Laurie nodded. In one case £750 was found. That bag belonged to a shopkeeper taking the day’s till straight to the shelter.

“Was there worry in the borough about future air raids?”

“Yes, but with light on the stairs, we would have been fine.”

“Any gates closed or locked?”

“Not at the entrance.”

“Are there orders issued or instructions about people being allowed to bring in large bundles?”

“No, we have never prevented them from bringing bedding. Some of them do bring enormous bundles with them. Generally speaking, we avoid that as much as possible by allowing people to leave their bedding. People who use the shelter regularly can leave their bedding there, provided they keep it in a clean condition.”

“And the number of babies handed out? The seven so-called shelter orphans?”

“What?” Low shook his head in disbelief. “I haven’t heard about that.”

“Have you read the papers?”

“No, sir.” Low looked out the window, his eyes beginning to fill. “My wife says she smiles more than all the children she sees. She says that proves, if nothing else does, that something is wrong with the world.”

Laurie nodded. “I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Low. Thank you for your help. If we need anything else, you’ll come back and talk to us again?”

“I certainly would.”

After Low withdrew, Ross told Laurie how respected Low and his wife were. “He tried to give the air-raid protection schemes a good name back when they were still a joke. He tries to be, you know, not too officious. Rather than constantly supervising, he establishes responsibilities and assumes his staff will follow through. That’s easy to regret after a tragedy, but it’s not necessarily the wrong approach.” He looked to see if Laurie agreed. He seemed to want to say more, but strong emotion rendered him mute.

“You are the house surgeon at Queen Elizabeth Hospital for Children?”

“Yes.”

“How many casualties did you receive the night of March third?”

“Twenty-six altogether.”

“How many living?”

“Twelve.”

“And fourteen dead.”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me the time of admission?”

“None of us seem to have noticed the exact time. I have the times when we wrote up the morphia for the living, and the first one was at ten past ten.”

“What were the injuries to the living ones?”

“They were mostly bruised and shocked, very shocked. We had several of them x-rayed the next day and found no fractures.”

“Right.”

“It surprised me.”

“I have no doubt. Did the dead bodies show similar injuries?”

“There were very few injuries on the dead ones.”

“What was the cause of death—could you determine?”

“The first ones that came in, we did not know what had happened. We could not think why they were dead; they just seemed to have suffocated for no apparent cause.”

“Blue appearance?”

“Yes. Unconsciousness among the victims on the stairs would have set in quickly, perhaps within twenty seconds, and death fifteen or twenty seconds after that.”

Laurie frowned. This seemed to him reassuringly inaccurate. “Tell me,” he asked, “isn’t it possible for a person to hold his breath that amount of time?”

He decided to test the premise. Holding up his pocket watch, he drew a breath. The room, quiet already, grew quieter, pricking Laurie’s ears. Outside they could hear a few people keeping up the familiar refrain (“The light”); a bird called; then the bells of St. John’s marked noon. When the test was complete, Laurie blew out his breath and put the watch down. He raised his eyebrows.

The surgeon blushed and said that the time to death depended on the particular mechanism of asphyxia. “These victims suffered sudden compressive asphyxia. You may draw a large breath
and hold it for sixty seconds, but the victims would not have had that advantage.”

“No, of course not.”

“Asphyxia causes generalized hypoxia, which is a pathological condition in which the body is deprived of an adequate oxygen supply. I can assure you that in cases of severe hypoxia, or hypoxia of very rapid onset, changes in levels of consciousness—seizures, coma, and death—occur quickly.”

“I see,” Laurie said. She was an intelligent woman. He didn’t know why he’d put her on the spot. “Now, the survivors. How did some survive?”

She touched the curls at her neck. “Uneven weight distribution and oxygen pockets, I imagine.” She was still upset. “Asphyxia is characterized by air hunger. The urge to breathe is actually triggered by rising carbon dioxide levels in the blood, not diminished oxygen levels. Depending on a person’s concentration of red blood cells, air hunger will be more or less pronounced. Some of the victims, sustained by a small supply of oxygen, were able to exist in a state of mild hypoxia until the pressure abated.”

Laurie nodded, hoping to show she’d satisfied the point. “And it surprised you that there were no broken bones.”

“Yes, at first.”

“But not now?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I believe the crowd was never violent.”

“But the pressure was relentless.”

“Yes.”

“And there is nothing else that strikes you, from what you have seen, that you would like to tell me?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Nothing of a peculiar nature?”

“No.”

They called next a Dr. Woon, the doctor who had been one of the first on the scene outside the entrance. He’d been in the papers several times, always the same two details mentioned: that he was black or Asiatic but had done a lot of good. Now Laurie saw that he was a short, unsmiling Asiatic.