massive pipe organ sits. A firebomb hits the roof above the nave. This one burns through the lead tiles. Men are climbing from the ground, up the ladders, and onto the roof of the cathedral with extra buckets of sand and water. Someone splits the roof with an axe and someone else pours sand onto the burning wooden rafters below. The stirrup pumps are married to the buckets of water. The water falls in veils above the flames.
The fire-watchers know that the cathedral roof is really two roofs. There is an inner ceiling of panelled oak and an outer wooden roof covered in lead tiles. There is a space of eighteen inches between the two roofs, and if a fire catches and burns in this space, there will be no way to extinguish it.
Harriet helps haul the buckets of sand and water up onto her roof. Her tin helmet knocks against her forehead and tips down over her eyes. She pulls it off and lays it on the roof by her feet. A shower of incendiaries falls on the cathedral and Harriet can see smoke pouring from the holes where the axe has split through the tiles.
There are more men on the roof. There is a rush of buckets, a spray of sand. The smoke seems to be diminishing and Harriet thinks that perhaps the fire is under control.
And then another cascade of incendiaries hits the roof.
“Get off. Get down,” the men are yelling to one another.
“Call the police. Call the fire brigade,” they shout to the waiting crowd at the base of the church. “The cathedral’s on fire.”
There is no sound of approaching fire trucks, only the yelling of the fire-watchers and the crackle of the fire on the church roof. And above that, the surge of bomber engines as the planes continue coming.
Harriet has lost sight of the boy from the chancel roof during the fire-fighting, but she finds him on the ground when she scrambles down the ladder. He’s by himself, a little way away from the building, watching the fringe of flame feather along the roofline. He seems frozen, but his hands are trembling.
“What can we do?” he asks. “How can we stop it, Wendy?” He rubs his head nervously.
The job of a fire-watcher is to alert the rescue services to fires and to extinguish any fires in their area. There is no procedure for what happens after the fire is raging out of control.
All around them Coventry is slowly catching fire. The incendiary bombs are falling not just on the cathedral but on all the buildings around the cathedral, all the buildings in the old section of town.
Harriet’s flat is away from the centre of Coventry and she is wondering how she will get back there. She is afraid for Wendell and for her cat, Abigail, whom she left curled up contentedly in the armchair by the airing cupboard. But as to her own safety, she is surprised at how little she cares.
“I’m Harriet,” she says. “Not Wendy.”
“James,” says the boy. “James Fisher. But everyone calls me Jeremy.”
“Jeremy Fisher, like the frog?”
“My mother used to read me that story,” says the boy. “When I was young.”
He still seems like a boy, has the quick, skittish movements of a child, but his voice is the voice of a man, and when Harriet looks at him she sees that he is as tall and broad as any man.
Perhaps if she talks to him he will stop trembling. “I always thought the Jeremy Fisher story was a little sad,” says Harriet. She likes the Beatrix Potter stories herself and is too ashamed to admit that she dips into them regularly. She finds the escapades of the small animals comforting. Jeremy Fisher goes fishing for minnows and then is almost eaten by a trout. But the trout spits him out. He doesn’t like the taste of the frog’s mackintosh.
“There’s that drawing of Jeremy Fisher crawling up the riverbank, his mackintosh in tatters,” says Harriet. “This is the awful moment when he realizes his life is not what he thought. He has been operating in the world as a predator and now he understands that he is really prey.” What a
The fire-watchers know that the cathedral roof is really two roofs. There is an inner ceiling of panelled oak and an outer wooden roof covered in lead tiles. There is a space of eighteen inches between the two roofs, and if a fire catches and burns in this space, there will be no way to extinguish it.
Harriet helps haul the buckets of sand and water up onto her roof. Her tin helmet knocks against her forehead and tips down over her eyes. She pulls it off and lays it on the roof by her feet. A shower of incendiaries falls on the cathedral and Harriet can see smoke pouring from the holes where the axe has split through the tiles.
There are more men on the roof. There is a rush of buckets, a spray of sand. The smoke seems to be diminishing and Harriet thinks that perhaps the fire is under control.
And then another cascade of incendiaries hits the roof.
“Get off. Get down,” the men are yelling to one another.
“Call the police. Call the fire brigade,” they shout to the waiting crowd at the base of the church. “The cathedral’s on fire.”
There is no sound of approaching fire trucks, only the yelling of the fire-watchers and the crackle of the fire on the church roof. And above that, the surge of bomber engines as the planes continue coming.
Harriet has lost sight of the boy from the chancel roof during the fire-fighting, but she finds him on the ground when she scrambles down the ladder. He’s by himself, a little way away from the building, watching the fringe of flame feather along the roofline. He seems frozen, but his hands are trembling.
“What can we do?” he asks. “How can we stop it, Wendy?” He rubs his head nervously.
The job of a fire-watcher is to alert the rescue services to fires and to extinguish any fires in their area. There is no procedure for what happens after the fire is raging out of control.
All around them Coventry is slowly catching fire. The incendiary bombs are falling not just on the cathedral but on all the buildings around the cathedral, all the buildings in the old section of town.
Harriet’s flat is away from the centre of Coventry and she is wondering how she will get back there. She is afraid for Wendell and for her cat, Abigail, whom she left curled up contentedly in the armchair by the airing cupboard. But as to her own safety, she is surprised at how little she cares.
“I’m Harriet,” she says. “Not Wendy.”
“James,” says the boy. “James Fisher. But everyone calls me Jeremy.”
“Jeremy Fisher, like the frog?”
“My mother used to read me that story,” says the boy. “When I was young.”
He still seems like a boy, has the quick, skittish movements of a child, but his voice is the voice of a man, and when Harriet looks at him she sees that he is as tall and broad as any man.
Perhaps if she talks to him he will stop trembling. “I always thought the Jeremy Fisher story was a little sad,” says Harriet. She likes the Beatrix Potter stories herself and is too ashamed to admit that she dips into them regularly. She finds the escapades of the small animals comforting. Jeremy Fisher goes fishing for minnows and then is almost eaten by a trout. But the trout spits him out. He doesn’t like the taste of the frog’s mackintosh.
“There’s that drawing of Jeremy Fisher crawling up the riverbank, his mackintosh in tatters,” says Harriet. “This is the awful moment when he realizes his life is not what he thought. He has been operating in the world as a predator and now he understands that he is really prey.” What a
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