The Report Read Free

Part of the scalp was dangling off, but her long blond hair glowed in the sun.
    “Why are you drawing?” Bertram managed.
    She told him that since the bombing had started, people had spent a lot of time saying “It’s unimaginable,” but she thought they meant “I hadn’t imagined it before this.”
    Her blue eyes steady and dry, she said, “I will. I’ll draw and remember and I won’t be surprised again.”
    He nodded and sat down beside her until she finished.
    Now Bertram turned left with everyone else toward the corner and the Bethnal Green Road. He smiled when he saw the petals and loose feathers the evening rain had pinned in the gutters and was happy for the company of the crowd. In spite of the siren, no one seemed rushed or worried.

Two
    The boy on the step had olive skin that blushed copper. When the door opened, he clenched his jaw, which he knew to be square and handsome. He didn’t look English—he knew that too—but he prided himself on his nearly perfect Oxbridge accent.
    “Sir Laurence,” he said. “I’m Paul Barber. I wrote to you about the thirtieth anniversary of the Bethnal Green report?”
    The man in the doorway stood firm.
    “I hope you won’t mind the effrontery. Just showing up on your doorstep.”
    “I believe it can be said I always mind effrontery.”
    Paul knew he was not a particularly good interviewer. His strengths as a filmmaker (if he could be said to have strengths, with only one produced film to his name), were in bringing the right people together and the framing of certain shots and sequences. But when Laurence Dunne had not responded to his letter about making a retrospective for the 1973 anniversary of the tragedy, Paul decided to take a chance and visit him. He feared his letter had not been very compelling, just some obvious points about history, the significance of the Bethnal Green report, the importance of recording the memories of the aging survivors. He’d assumed, actually, that Dunne would be eager to revisit the subject. The report was his best-known achievement, and so Paul had not anticipated having any trouble getting him to participate.
    “Of course. I should have phoned.”
    “Probably.”
    Dunne looked over Paul’s head and waved to someone on the street behind him. The gesture seemed designed to dismiss Paul, but Paul stood fast. He had a three-day leave from his job in London and was staying at a relatively cheap B and B in Stockbridge, where Dunne lived. He told himself he had time. He also had something to tell Dunne that he hadn’t put in the letter. He studied Dunne’s face and decided it would be best to wait until he knew the man better. Dunne had aged well: smooth skin, thick white hair. But the eyes gave him away. They were blurry, somehow older than the rest of him.
    Dunne looked back at Paul and sighed. “Where are you from?”
    “Bethnal Green.”
    He gave Paul an old magistrate’s squint. “How old are you?”
    “Twenty-nine.”
    Dunne considered a moment. “Old enough to make tea.
Come in.”

Three
    Ada passed Constable Henderson and kept on toward the shelter. She wanted the girls to speed up, but they were getting tired. She glanced around, more and more surprised at the number of people. The waistband of her skirt was pinching her side; her bag had slipped off her shoulder and was pulling her coat along with it. She walked faster, and the tiny bones of Emma’s hand moved and cracked in hers. Emma didn’t seem to mind, but Ada tried to hold her hand more loosely.
    She was sure she’d once been a more patient woman. Watching her children grow thin, explaining over and over why there wasn’t more to eat, why there weren’t warmer clothes, that it wasn’t her fault, was exacting a toll. Victory was inevitable, the government promised. Peace and plenty would return. But when? How long would they have to wait?
    At the next corner Tilly bent down to tie her shoe. She hopped as she did so, trying to keep up with her mother