Brother in the Land (10 page)

Branwell showed me how to top up the shower tank from buckets, and I spent the rest of that day chopping wood. There were all these logs, thousands of them, stacked in the angle between the lean-to and the house. Branwell gave me an axe and showed me the stump they did the chopping on.

‘Split 'em good and thin,' he said. ‘So they'll catch easily. We light up with paper and paper's getting scarce. This young man can help me in the house.' He went away, leading Ben by the hand.

I was so busy swinging the heavy axe that I didn't feel the cold. I was so happy I sang this old American work-song my dad had on record: Take This Hammer. It's meant to be sung by people breaking rocks but it fitted in with the chopping. The singing and swinging became automatic, and my mind was free to think.

I thought about what Branwell had said last night – that we'd have to fight eventually. I wondered why people fight. I mean, there was the Commissioner sitting up on Kershaw Farm, and here we were. We weren't bothering each other so far as I could see. Why couldn't they live the way they wanted to live, and let us live our way?

I thought about this for a bit as the pile of sticks grew beside the stump, and I saw that it was just like countries before the nukes. Some lived one way, some another. Only instead of
leaving it like that they argued and threatened and built horrific weapons, and finally they launched these weapons at each other, and now we weren't living like we used to, and it's a fair bet they weren't living like they used to either. Millions of people dead, and everything worse for those who were left. Crazy.

Around midday, the door of one of the long huts opened and a woman came out wearing jeans and a sweater and carrying a tin tray. As she came by she said, ‘Hey, don't you ever stop?'

I stuck my axe into the stump and grinned, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. ‘I'm keeping warm,' I said.

She smiled. ‘Fine. What's your name?'

‘Danny. Danny Lodge.'

‘Mine's Kate. I'm a nurse. Coming for something to eat?'

‘Sure. Is there something?'

She nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Mr Branwell spends most of his time preparing food. There's always something for the patients, and for anybody else that's around.'

I smiled. ‘It's like heaven, this place.' Kate shook her head. ‘We had heaven,' she said. ‘Before. We blew it up. Now we've got what we deserve. Come on.'

I walked with her into the house.

On the fire stood the great pan Branwell had heated water in that morning. Now it held a stew that bubbled and smelled good. Ben stood before it, stirring with a long wooden spoon. He looked round as we came in.

‘Look,' he crowed. ‘I made it.' He scooped a dollop and let it fall back in the pan. Kate raised her eyebrows and nodded. ‘Looks good to me – how old are you?'

He glowed. ‘Seven.'

‘Seven?' cried Kate. ‘My goodness. I couldn't cook like that when I was seven. What's your name?'

‘Ben.'

‘Well, Ben, I hope you're going to let me taste your stew?'

‘Yes.' Pink with pleasure. The nurse looked at me.

‘Did he come in with you?' I nodded.

‘He's my brother. Our parents are dead.'

‘Ah-ha. Well, you'll be all right here.'

Branwell came in. We served ourselves and sat round the table, Kate and I smacking our lips for Ben's benefit. Afterwards, Kate loaded her tray with plates of stew. I got up.

‘Here, let me take it for you.'

‘All right,' she smiled. ‘Thanks.'

I lifted the tray and she led me down the passage and outside. A wind had got up, with snow flurries in it. Kate opened the hut door and turned, holding out her hands for the tray. ‘I'll bring it in,' I said.

‘No.' The smile left her face. ‘No, you won't.'

‘Why not?'

She regarded me gravely. ‘Have you seen a man with a creeping dose?' I shook my head. ‘I've seen 'em dead though, and burned. Can't be worse than that.'

‘Can't it?' Her eyes flashed, then became sad. ‘One of these days I'll show you, Danny, but not today. Give me the food before it freezes in this wind.'

I handed it to her and she turned with it into the doorway. I glimpsed another woman by the door, then it swung to. I shrugged and returned to my axe.

The wind went on rising and the snowflakes whirled round me but I chopped steadily, singing to myself, till it began to get dark. As the dusk deepened, people started coming in in twos and threes. Some came empty-handed, others had bundles or buckets or bulging pockets. The driven snow whitened their clothes and they moved with their heads down and their hands in their pockets. When they heard the axe, they'd peer in my direction, and one or two came to the corner for a closer look. I'd decided to finish this one log and pack it in when I noticed Rhodes. He was standing by the corner of the house, watching me. He came over.

‘It's snowing, Lodge,' he said.

I nodded and swung the axe. ‘I know.' I nearly said sir. Why should he get sir when nobody else did?

‘There's a house behind you, lad.' Sarcasm was his thing. Some of the boys at school used to think he was funny, but I'd always disliked him for it. ‘It doesn't snow in houses,' he continued. ‘Come on in and see.'

‘I'm finishing this log.'

He sniggered. ‘I won't wait then; looks like you're as slow as you ever were.'

Anger flared in me. ‘Nobody asked you to wait.'

‘What?' he said, sharply. I twisted the axe in the split log and looked sideways at him.

‘I said, nobody asked you to wait.'

‘Now you listen.' He took a step towards me. ‘I don't know why Branwell brought you here, but since he has you'd better know where you stand.' He thrust his face at me. ‘I don't like you, Lodge – never did. You're useless at games and not so hot at anything else.

‘I'm second in command around here, which means that if anything happens to that old man, I take over.' He straightened. ‘So you'd better watch yourself, lad. Some might forget how you sat on all that stuff but I shan't. A bit of respect and a lot of hard work; that's what I'll be looking for from you, lad – and if I don't get it you'll be out of here so fast your feet won't touch.'

He spun on his heel and stalked off. I gazed after him, then raised the axe and sent it whistling through the log. If I'd known then what Rhodes was to become, I'd have put it through his head.

That night was easily the best I'd known since the Bomb. The place was full of people. Men and women, padded out in layers of old clothes, talking. There were only about four chairs, so everybody sat on the floor. You couldn't move. There was more of the stew, but plates were short, and we ate in relays. People kept coming in all the time. Every time someone came in, somebody else would shout something to them, and everybody would laugh. One man had a mouth-organ. Tea came round, and we took gulps and passed the mugs along as guys began singing. Old Branwell fussed about over his pots and pans, seeing that everybody got fed. Ben dodged about, collecting empty mugs and passing them to the old man for refills. It was freezing outside, but in that room it was warm and close and steamy. I guess it smelled a bit, but nobody minded that. We were together, and it felt like nothing terrible had happened at all.

I was joining in this song I knew, when I looked towards the door and there was Kim. She had a big can in her hand and was talking to a man. I felt a stab of jealousy and stood up. As soon as she saw me, she beamed and smiled and I knew it was all right. I began threading my way towards her through the singers.

What she'd done was, she'd gone round collecting petrol out of wrecks. There were old cars everywhere. Lorries and buses
too, but it wasn't easy to find any with their tanks intact. Most of them had blown up with the heat when the nukes went off, but here and there you could still find one that hadn't. They had bodies inside, some of them, but Kim didn't care. It was her way of helping Masada.

She'd been asking the man where he wanted the petrol. Last time she'd brought some, it had been stashed in the lean-to where the shower was, but it wasn't there now. He'd told her there was too much to keep it there now. It had to go over to the factory. She let me carry it over for her. We talked, walking with our heads down against the driven snow.

‘When did you get here?' she wanted to know. I told her the whole story. Dad and that. She said she was sorry, which can't have been true really, but it's one of those things people say.

Then I said, ‘Why don't you move in? I mean, if you want to help, why not come and live here like all the others?'

She shrugged. ‘I dunno. There's Maureen, my sister, and Mike. We manage all right at the house. I don't think they'd want to come here really. They haven't been married long. They like to be together, you know – without a lot of others around.'

I laughed, flushing and said, ‘I don't blame Mike, anyway. Not if Maureen looks anything like you.' I hadn't meant to say anything like that, but it felt like an opportunity, if you know what I mean. To let her know how I felt. Not that she didn't know already, surely. Anyway, I'd said it now. I looked sideways to see how she took it.

She was quiet for a minute. We went in the factory gate. She was about to say something when a voice rapped out ‘Halt!' We pulled up sharp. A figure loomed out of the murk. A muffled-up woman with a submachine-gun. She peered at us. ‘Who are you?'

‘Kim Tyson,' said Kim. ‘With petrol for the store. I help sometimes.' The woman nodded.

‘I recognize you now, Who's this?' Pointing with the gun.

‘Danny Lodge,' said Kim. ‘He lives here.' The woman came closer and studied my face.

‘All right,' she said. ‘I'll know you in future. Petrol goes over there, green door in the corner. Don't hang about.'

We put the can in the store. There were hundreds of cans, all shapes and sizes, and some bottles. The woman watched us from the gate. We walked back to her, leaving prints. She nodded as we passed, her fringe flecked with snow. She must have been frozen.

As we neared the house I said, ‘You were going to say something back there. Before the sentry stopped us.' I stopped walking; holding her back by the sleeve. She looked at the ground.

‘Yes,' she murmured. ‘I was going to say I like you too, Danny. A lot. If things were as they used to be, I'd be your girl. I'll be your girl now, if you like, only I don't think we ought to do anything about it. Not now. Not till we see how things work out. D'you know what I mean?'

I nodded. My heart was going like mad and I wanted to take her in my arms and never let go. When I tried to, she pulled away.

‘No.' She stood a little way off, straightening her coat. ‘That's what I mean, Danny. It's easy to get carried away. We don't know what's going to happen: what sort of world it's going to be. We don't even know if we'll be here a month from now. Let's just wait and see how it goes. Okay?'

I inhaled slowly; drawing in sharp, cold air. ‘Okay.' I moved closer and held out my hands to her.

She took them, squeezing briefly. ‘I've got to go now. It'll be all right, Danny. You'll see.' She pulled me suddenly to her. Her lips brushed mine and then she was gone; hurrying away into the whirling flakes, leaving the scent of her hair in my nostrils.

I went into the house. Everybody was back by now, and the place was packed. Ben had disappeared, I guessed Branwell had packed him off to bed. It was hot and smoky and filled with raucous singing. I found a space on the floor and squeezed into it, sitting with my arms wrapped round my knees. I felt happy. Really happy for the first time since the nukes. It was partly Kim, and partly the atmosphere in that tatty, smoke-filled room. It lasted till late, when a lot of people had slipped away to their beds and the guy with the mouth-organ started a sad sounding tune. Suddenly then, everybody went quiet,
except for about three people around the musician. They began singing this song, all about our situation. I can't remember it now. Only the last bit, a couple of lines that brought tears to my eyes and echoed in my skull all night when I went to bed:

‘… echoes will answer the names they will call,
  and ashes will smother the tears as they fall.'

That's how it was. Even when we thought we were happy, we were thinking of what we had lost.