the Day the Bomb Fell.

Granddad was in the wooden greenhouse pottering around with his plants. Gran was in the front parlour sitting in her chair by the fire staring into the flames. Tess was sitting opposite with a book open in her lap, her small finger moving along the page beneath the words. Aunt Dora was in the kitchen making a cake for tea. Gran looked away from the fire, stared at Tess, and asked what the book was. Tess stared, but said nothing. She spoke no words and heard none; her silent world was often terrorized by the demons of her sleep. Gran gazed at the child; sighed deeply; returned her gaze to the flames turning from orange to blue and back again. Tess made a mur sound with her lips; turned over a page. Aunt Dora put her head round the door of the parlour; looked at the table and entered. Gran lifted her head to watch a few moments, then turned back to the flames. Tess pointed her finger along another page; stopped and stared at the picture. Aunt Dora removed the old tablecloth; placed it on the back of a chair. She ran her hand over the table; then took a tablecloth out of a draw of the sideboard; put it over the table. She smoothed it out; made sure it was even all round. Tess lifted her eyes from the book; stared at Aunt Dora; watched the reddened hands fiddle with the tablecloth; saw the finicky fingers move here and there like dancers over a stage. Aunt Dora looked at Tess; looked at the dark locks of hair; the dark eyes gazing; the flowered dress. Gran sighed. Tess turned and stared at Gran; stared at the white hair; at her half-blind eyes; at the wrinkles and double chin. Gran poked at the fire; turned the flames to life; moved the coal into place. Tess watched; her small hands joined as if to pray and her dark eyes peering at the dancing flames. Aunt Dora left the room. Gran settled the poker by the fireplace and stared at Tess. She stared at the tiny hands joined; the small dimpled knuckles; the fresh flesh of youth. Tess closed the book. She climbed down from the chair. She put the book under her arm; trotted out of the room. Gran watched her go; watched the short legs toddle across the room; the small black shoes like those of a doll. The door closed; Gran stared back at the flames; sighed. Granddad turned as the door of the greenhouse opened. Tess stood staring at him; her dark eyes on his white hair thinning; at his blue eyes staring; at the small grey moustache that seemed to move as he spoke. He said to close the door; come in; beckoned Tess with his nicotine-stained finger. She closed the door; entered into the warm room; smelt the scent of flowers and tobacco. Granddad touched her head; offered her a sweet from his pocket; put it before her dark eyes. She took the sweet; unwrapped the paper; put it in her mouth; sucked. She watched Granddad pick up a packet of Woodbine cigarettes; he took one out; put it to his lips; lit it with a silver lighter; inhaled; blew a ring of grey smoke. She moved the sweet around her mouth like a new unspoken word; watched the smoke rise and drift; saw patterns; watched Granddad's hands pick up a pot; sniff the flower. Stared at the brown and yellow fingers; watched the red glow of the cigarette; saw the smoke rise again; sniffed and choked. Granddad tapped her back; brushed away the smoke; sniffed and coughed. He opened a window. She stared at the flowers. He showed her a potted begonia. She stared. He smiled. She sniffed; took in the colours; stroked the leaf. He put down the pot on the bench; lifted her up in his aged arms; kissed her cheek, soft as a peach. She stared at his eyes; empty shells; felt his hands squeeze; his breath of tobacco and death and his bony fingers feeling her ribs. She mouthed sounds, but none came. He put her down gently; rubbed his hand against her cheek; kissed her hair. Time for tea, he said, taking her small hand, leading her out into the warm air; the buzz of bees; the smell of flowers. She turned; stared at his grey moustache twitching as he moved his lips; at the nod of his head; at the dancing feet. They entered the house; smelt the cake, smelt the dog in his box beneath the stairs. Aunt Dora raised an eyebrow; took a plate of sandwiches into the parlour. Granddad frowned. Looked at his hands. Said to wash their hands; must be clean before tea. Tess stared at his fingers; at the brown and yellow and then at her own pink and white. She ran off. Wiped her hands on her dress. Granddad gazed as she disappeared; smiled; sighed. Shrugged his shoulders; entered the parlour to the soft tones of the radio; the sweet smell of cakes and a brewing tea; the vacant chair by the fireplace; Gran's smile soft as butter and warm as toast; her winking eye half blind to their approaching death aloft in the skies.1