STOPPING THE HOME FIRES BURNING
The noise of it! The heat! Evie could almost feel her eyelashes singeing. The new blue wool uniform easy to wear, loose and practical, stylish, even, with its button pockets at the hip. Better than those skirts! Her tin helmet, stuffed with paper to make it fit.
Concentrate Evie!
Holding the hose under her arm, hand on top, like she’d been shown, Evie felt its weight and girth. It reminded her of the python at the Reptile House she’d seen in 1939. Shifting in her grip, its cool strength waiting, uncoiled and ready.
Unclip the top. A crystal arc of water surged forward, powerful, ready for battle, seeking prey.
Aim at the base of the fire, Evie, remember the training. She glanced over at the other girls, stepping forward in a line, grit and soot washing over their big rubber boots.
The fire breathed out, roaring, monstrous and alive. Hunting the puny humans. Devouring, fierce heat creeping forward, lighting up the sky, cinders falling round them like rain. Distant explosions sucked at the air.
Aim at the base. Keep going. You can do it. We can do it. Pretend it’s Hitler! Push him back with the force of the water, clean and powerful; wash him away, him and all his filthy bombs.
Crikey, she was so tired.
Who’d have thought this would go on so long. All that time waiting for something to happen, everyone in uniform, ready to do their bit. Coming to work in London; so glamorous, even just typing all day, then joining the Auxiliary Fire Service at night, answering the telephones, calling out the crews; the excitement, the camaraderie.
Three years of it now and everyone weary. Too few men left to fight the fires so they’d called on the women. Made a big thing of it, pictures in the papers and everything.
Her first actual fire to fight. The cry of the siren, the ringing telephone, that terrible clutching fear. In the truck, rocking on a wooden bench, staring out at streets of craters and rubble, the sky flashing.
She’d been out with them before, of course, handing out blankets, tea in tin mugs, finding supportive neighbours, somewhere to stay for those emerging from shelters to stare blankly at the remains of home. Trying to make sense of their stairs open to the sky, pictures still on the walls and the other half just rubble; why? Where will I go? What’s to be done, all my things gone. Bloody Hitler. At least you’re safe, love, come on, I’ve got a bit of chocolate left from my rations.
Afterwards, a cigarette, weak gritty tea, sleeves rolled up, red nails lit up by the glow.
“Put that light out! D’you want Hitler to see you?” The ARP officer, grimy face scowling under his helmet.
“Sorry, I didn’t think.” Cigarette crushed under her heel.
Evie’s first and last fire. Exhausted, she slept through the siren the next night. The bomb that flattened half her street killed her instantly.
A BREATH ACROSS THE CENTURIES
It was a bit creepy, Anna acknowledged, being the first into the dark old building, unlocking all the museum’s galleries and unbolting the shutters to let in the dim, early morning light.
Never having seen a ghost, she refused to feel uneasy, even in the Victorian Gallery, where a little boy once mentioned seeing an old man in an armchair (there was no armchair in there), or the Saxon Gallery, with its six foot skeleton of a seventh century warrior, lying in a glass coffin like the one Snow White might have had.
Anna liked to talk to him, greeting him cheerily as if he were a hospital patient, telling him what the day was like outside as she polished away childish fingerprints and breath marks on his glass case, smiling at her own whimsy.
Something else smiled. The dead chieftain, drawn by the disturbance of his bones and their display here with his grave goods.
Soon it would begin; the admiration, the ‘o’ shaped mouths, the excited hullabaloo as the children took in his height, the decorated sword lying the length of his body from chest to toe.
These soft young things knew nothing of waking at dawn for hours of sword practice each day, wielding the weight of a wooden shield aloft, jabbing, running, hurling a spear at a moving target, every day, as he had at their age.
He remembered the nights before battle, the smell of woodsmoke and wet wool in the chill air, velvet darkness alight with sparks and the stars looking close enough to touch. Fear made food hard to swallow so they’d joked and told stories, singing lusty songs and hoping the next day might not be their last. Life was never more precious, each moment slowed, held and savoured.
Sleepless, at dawn: make ready and wait for the shout.
“Now!”
Running towards the enemy, shouting the battle cry, feeling the jarring clang of weapons sliding, slicing, swinging, stabbing, shields clashing, axes and spears hurled, hours and hours of slipping in mud, arms aching, muscles trembling, sweat dripping into his eyes. Close combat, eye to eye with the enemy, over and over and over. A long, high scream ending abruptly. The sheer colossal noisy chaos of it until one side retreats, pursued by the other.
He’d never expected to make such old bones, to have home and hearth, land, gold, the love of a wife, children. Yet he’d reached fifty years before his final battle and burial with honour, near the remains of a Roman temple.
Upstairs, the Romans stirred uneasily. Once his enemies, now prisoners like himself, in their own display case, skulls laid at their feet to stop their souls wandering.
He longed for the soft enveloping darkness of his burial mound, hidden in silent earth.
Anna closed the gallery doors. She didn’t notice a sound like a soft sigh and the faintest of movements of air behind her like a kiss on the back of her neck.
A new writer, Kate Leimer enjoys stories of all kinds. She has a BA degree in History and English Literature. Her work has appeared in ‘Hysteria 7 Anthology 2020’, ‘The Wondrous Real Magazine’, ‘Fudoki’, TL;DR Press ‘Hope’, Bluesdoodles, ‘Idle Ink’, Orange Blush Zine and shortlisted by Cranked Anvil. When not writing, she works in a library.
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Pronoun: She/her