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

were also the editors and reporters, borough engineers, city engineers—all concerned with matters more critical than the contents of pockets. What had gone wrong? What could be done to prevent it from happening again? Would there be a public or a private inquiry? These questions were compelling because still unclear.
    The dead, however, were clear enough. They needed to be counted and identified; their personal items, returned. Mr. Wycomb put his hand on Bertram’s shoulder and handed him a notebook.
    Bertram’s expression must have worried him. “Whatever you want, Bert. It isn’t going to be easy.”
    “Where are they?”
    “All over, I’m afraid. You might start at the hospital. Best I can tell, some are there and some are at the morgue. The maternity ward got a few of the women and children, apparently.”
    “And Regional Commissioners want to know what’s in their pockets?”
    “That’s right. And bags and purses. You know. Whatever they were carrying.”
    “Why?”
    “Not sure, mate.”
    “But what do they expect to find?”
    Wycomb rubbed his eyes. “Who knows.”
    Bertram took the notebook. “Do I have to use this?” The cover was green, reminding him of the girl’s shoes that night. That the job had fallen to him seemed preordained.
    “Of course not. I was just trying to get you started. Do whatever you like. Maybe they want incriminating evidence. Maybe it’s an assignment from those eavesdroppers, Ministry of Information. Maybe they just want to return the belongings to the families, ‘who have already lost so much’ ”—he parodied Herbert Morrison. “I’m sure that’s what we’ll read in the papers. Can Clare go with you?”
    “I might see.”
    “I would.”
    But when Bertram asked the next morning, Clare said she couldn’t. She had an assignment from Mass Observation, for whom she volunteered.
    “They’re sending me into Stepney. They want to know what the Jews are saying about the accident.” She was making him breakfast, and when she saw his face, she helped him gather what he’d need and pack his bag. She even walked with him part of the way to the hospital. “Are you all right?” she asked.
    He nodded, but they both knew it was a lie.
    “Bring everything home tonight, and I’ll help you sort through it.”
    He nodded. “I don’t think I can do this.”
    She kissed his forehead. “I’ll help you tonight.”
    Alone, Clare’s kiss drying on his skin, Bertram could think of nothing but the accident, how he’d been sitting in the park, watching the poplar leaves across the water. Then what? He couldn’t recall, exactly. Did he walk or run? Speak or scream? He did remember the feeling of his hands on someone’s back, someone else’s hands on him. He’d heard a siren, a child’s cry, everything enfeebled by the wind that came up suddenly around them. A shop awning flapped white above the crowd. He remembered thinking that he’d never seen so many people on the Roman Road, all converging on the shelter, streaming out of shops, climbing out of buses. The night was clear—he remembered that—but the pavement damp, amplifying the slap and grind of so many people rushing. The crowd had grown thick fast. The faces Bertram remembered were confused but not frightened. Most people were moving quickly, not talking, he thought, except for one man deep in his pints, belting out the national anthem as he ran.
    And when was that? How close had Bertram been to the entrance then?
    In front of the hospital gates, Bertram could smell a coal fire and damp earth, two seasons in the air on the same day. A gentle rain fell over the street, the raindrops steady enough to set the leaves all around to nodding. He tried to see it as encouragement, but it looked more like shock. He adjusted his umbrella, then crossed the street for the café next to the boarded-up Red Lion.
    The shopkeeper asked how he was feeling; did he need a roll with his tea?
    He shook his head.
    “Are you sure?