mind eating the horse meat—although the yellow fat that rivers through it is disgusting. She has even eaten the new meat product called snook, which is a rather horrifying cross between Spam, corned beef, and rubber. It has a grey appearance and smells like fish gone off.
Harriet endures the talk of raids and bombardments, listens to Wendell Mumby’s endless fantasies of saving the entire nation single-handedly from enemy capture. She has sewn blackout curtains for the flats in her building, painted her bicycle black, helped her neighbours dig a three-foot pit in their back garden for an Anderson bomb shelter. As if that would save them.
But this war, although not equipped to cause emotional pain to Harriet, is more dangerous to her physical well-being. The Germans are intent on flattening London and other major British cities. Having recently conquered Holland, they can use airbases there and in France to fly back and forth across the Channel, carrying their deadly cargo of bombs. Since September 7, there have been bombing raids against London for fifty-seven consecutive nights. Churchill, instead of being persuaded by these attacks to negotiate peace, has appealed to the British public to stand firm against the onslaught. Everyone is trying to be courageous. The most common thing Harriet sees in the boarded-up shop windows is the hastily scrawled sign Business as usual.
The RAF is countering with raids against Berlin and other German cities, but it is no match yet for the steady wave of German bombers. The RAF targets are too far inland. The most it can hope for, at this point, is to engage with the enemy planes over the Channel, when the Luftwaffe is on its way to bomb England.
Harriet admires Churchill’s stubborn refusal to admit defeat, but she also fears privately that the Germans are winning the war, and that it won’t be long until London is completely destroyed, although she dares not say this to anyone. And, if London is destroyed, England will fall.
“Bomb!” yells the boy on the chancel roof.
Harriet hears the drop and sizzle, can see that the object that has fallen from the sky to the roof is too small to be a bomb. It looks no bigger than a rubber ball. She can smell the singe of it from her roof.
“It’s not a bomb,” she says, and the boy turns back toward her voice from where he had skittered off in the direction of the ladder.
“You’re a woman,” he says.
Harriet Marsh coughs and lowers her voice. “No, I’m not,” she says hopelessly. “I’m Wendell Mumby.”
The boy laughs, then he crouches on the chancel roof.
“What is it?” says Harriet.
“It’s a bird, Wendy,” he says. “It’s a bird, and it’s fully cooked. It must have flown through the fire.” He nudges the charred body of the swallow with his foot until it rolls off the edge of the roof.
Perhaps the fire on the horizon is so great that the flames reach right up into the sky, as high as the flight of a bird. This is what Harriet thinks but does not say. She also thinks the glow of the fire is brighter, closer than it was mere minutes ago. All these autumn nights Wendell Mumby has fire-watched on the roof of this cathedral and never had to deal with a fire. He assured Harriet she would have the same experience. She feels angry at Wendell for misleading her; and then she realizes she is feeling angry so she won’t have to feel afraid. But it’s no use. She feels afraid anyway.
As if to give voice to her fear, the air-raid sirens start to wail. The thunder of the German bombers rolls across the sky.
The first incendiary bomb falls on the chancel roof. It is long and cylindrical, like a firecracker, and the moment it makes contact with the roof it blossoms into flame.
“Sand. Use the sand,” yells the fire-watcher on the south chapel roof.
The boy douses the fire with his bucket and kicks the extinguished flare off the roof.
An incendiary drops on the roof of the south aisle, above where the
Harriet endures the talk of raids and bombardments, listens to Wendell Mumby’s endless fantasies of saving the entire nation single-handedly from enemy capture. She has sewn blackout curtains for the flats in her building, painted her bicycle black, helped her neighbours dig a three-foot pit in their back garden for an Anderson bomb shelter. As if that would save them.
But this war, although not equipped to cause emotional pain to Harriet, is more dangerous to her physical well-being. The Germans are intent on flattening London and other major British cities. Having recently conquered Holland, they can use airbases there and in France to fly back and forth across the Channel, carrying their deadly cargo of bombs. Since September 7, there have been bombing raids against London for fifty-seven consecutive nights. Churchill, instead of being persuaded by these attacks to negotiate peace, has appealed to the British public to stand firm against the onslaught. Everyone is trying to be courageous. The most common thing Harriet sees in the boarded-up shop windows is the hastily scrawled sign Business as usual.
The RAF is countering with raids against Berlin and other German cities, but it is no match yet for the steady wave of German bombers. The RAF targets are too far inland. The most it can hope for, at this point, is to engage with the enemy planes over the Channel, when the Luftwaffe is on its way to bomb England.
Harriet admires Churchill’s stubborn refusal to admit defeat, but she also fears privately that the Germans are winning the war, and that it won’t be long until London is completely destroyed, although she dares not say this to anyone. And, if London is destroyed, England will fall.
“Bomb!” yells the boy on the chancel roof.
Harriet hears the drop and sizzle, can see that the object that has fallen from the sky to the roof is too small to be a bomb. It looks no bigger than a rubber ball. She can smell the singe of it from her roof.
“It’s not a bomb,” she says, and the boy turns back toward her voice from where he had skittered off in the direction of the ladder.
“You’re a woman,” he says.
Harriet Marsh coughs and lowers her voice. “No, I’m not,” she says hopelessly. “I’m Wendell Mumby.”
The boy laughs, then he crouches on the chancel roof.
“What is it?” says Harriet.
“It’s a bird, Wendy,” he says. “It’s a bird, and it’s fully cooked. It must have flown through the fire.” He nudges the charred body of the swallow with his foot until it rolls off the edge of the roof.
Perhaps the fire on the horizon is so great that the flames reach right up into the sky, as high as the flight of a bird. This is what Harriet thinks but does not say. She also thinks the glow of the fire is brighter, closer than it was mere minutes ago. All these autumn nights Wendell Mumby has fire-watched on the roof of this cathedral and never had to deal with a fire. He assured Harriet she would have the same experience. She feels angry at Wendell for misleading her; and then she realizes she is feeling angry so she won’t have to feel afraid. But it’s no use. She feels afraid anyway.
As if to give voice to her fear, the air-raid sirens start to wail. The thunder of the German bombers rolls across the sky.
The first incendiary bomb falls on the chancel roof. It is long and cylindrical, like a firecracker, and the moment it makes contact with the roof it blossoms into flame.
“Sand. Use the sand,” yells the fire-watcher on the south chapel roof.
The boy douses the fire with his bucket and kicks the extinguished flare off the roof.
An incendiary drops on the roof of the south aisle, above where the
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