The Report by Jessica Francis Kane Read Free Book Online Page A

breakfast three times a week, the Potato Plan advised. Lord help us, Sarah thought. She switched on the wireless so that their neighbors wouldn’t be able to hear whatever it was James had to say. She’d been married to him for thirty-five years, and if he’d done something wrong at the shelter, he was still the best man she knew.
    While she was moving about the kitchen, he began to tell her that he’d replaced the bulb above the stairs in the shelter, the one in the ceiling above the first flight down. It was the first item he’d taken care of after checking in. But he’d replaced the standard twenty-five-watt bulb with a higher-wattage bulb.
    “That shouldn’t matter, should it?”
    “They smashed it, but I knew we needed more light.” He shook his head.
    “Why would they smash it?”
    Low made a sound of disgust in his throat. “They worry about the bit of spill up on the pavement, that it will be seen in the blackout. It terrifies them.”
    “How do they do it—smash the light? With their hands?”
    “I don’t know. It’s happened five times, at least. We’ve replaced the glass covering five times.”
    She tied her robe closed, then scooted her chair around the corner of the table and pulled his glasses off.
    “You’re tired,” she said.
    “Yes.” His eyes, unshielded, were watery and large.
    “I bet they’ll say the bulb was burned out,” James said. “It was the night before, but I replaced it. First thing.” Then he repeated what he’d already said about the rain, the slippery steps. Sarah pushed the brandy closer. He sipped, then mentioned his desk at the shelter, how fond of it he was, how its sturdy Victorian legs, so incongruous in the modern, straight-edged station, pleased him. They seemed a reminder of all they were fighting for.
    “James,” Sarah interrupted. “Please. There’s enough of that on the BBC. Tell me what happened.”
    Her husband blanched a shade whiter and told her about the crush. Afterward they sat in silence, holding hands, Sarah wondering about the dead, who they were; James, how death had come to them.
    “You know,” he started after a time. “Some of the people trapped on the stairs yelled at us to put our light out even while we were trying to help them.” He swallowed and shook his head.
    “Let me see your resignation.”
    “You can’t, Sarah. It’s done, sent.”
    “What will you do?”
    He nodded, expecting the question. “I’m a fire watcher,” he said. “I imagine they’ll still have me.”
    “There are the allotments on Russia Lane,” Sarah said. “You could do good work there with all you know about gardening.”
    “Yes,” James agreed.
    “The light couldn’t have been the only problem.”
    “I’m sure it wasn’t,” he said.
    “If they smashed it, there will be glass on the stairs. They’ll see that it wasn’t your fault.”
    James stared.
    “It wasn’t your fault. James?”
    He hit the table with his fist. “Quiet!” His sudden anger surprised them both. When Sarah stood, she made a pot of coffee.
    At the town hall Bertram was given the job of documenting the dead, recording what was in their pockets, and returning the items to the families. The mayor and deputy mayor, senior clerks and wardens—even some of the more capable members of the Home Guard—were all preoccupied with petitions from the borough council, the Regional Commissioners, the London City Council, the Ministry of Civil Defense, and the Ministry of Information. Even the Ministry of Food was concerned, about the victory gardens and window boxes that might now lie fallow if the number of dead proved to be as high as was thought. A campaign to sustain the gardening effort was suggested, with “Save the Green in Bethnal Green” proposed as a motto. Mr. Wycomb, senior clerk—a friendly man who blinked and swallowed frequently, sending his Adam’s apple up and down—guffawed.
    “Someone’s got us confused with the West End, mate,” he said.
    There