THE H-BOMB GIRL by Stephen Baxter (beach books txt) 📕

Why would a teacher use the word “Mum,” and not “your mother”? And why was she asking all these questions? “It’s not for me to say,” Laura said.

“You’re loyal. Good. I remember that. I mean,” Miss Wells said hastily, “I like that about you. But you can trust me.” She laughed, as if thinking about a private joke. “If you can’t trust me, who can you trust?… Never mind. If there’s anything on your mind, you can tell me. I hope you will, in fact.”

Laura squirmed. “Thank you, Miss.”

“I want you to think of me as a friend. Really. For instance, there are plenty of thieves around this place, what with the workmen running around. Some of the staff are a bit shifty too, let me tell you. If there’s anything valuable that you’re worried about, you can leave it with me. Any time.”

In that moment, even though it didn’t explain all the strange things she was saying, Laura was sure that all Miss Wells wanted out of her was her Key. She felt the Key’s hard edges pressed against her chest, under her blouse. She didn’t look down or touch it, or do anything to give it away.

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

After that she just sat there as the period wore away, and Miss Wells wheedled and probed.

When Miss Wells let her out she hurried to her class. She was the first back. She was pretty sure nobody had been in here since they had all left for PE.

But the strand of hair was gone from the desk lid. Somebody had been through her desk while she was away.

It was ridiculous. What was she thinking, that Miss Wells was a spy, after her Key? Maybe her head was too full of James Bond. But who else would be after a nuclear bomber starter key?

Maybe it would be better if Miss Wells was a spy, rather than something even more weird.

At lunchtime Laura asked Joel about Bernadette.

“Oh, she’s always sagging off. It’s usually Mondays though. Wash days. Her mum can’t cope. Come on, let’s go and see her. It’s only a mile. If we’re lucky with the buses we’ll be back in time for classes.”

Bernadette lived closer to the city centre, in a suburb called Tuebrook. Laura found herself walking through streets of skinny back-to-back terraced houses separated by narrow, rubbish-clogged alleys. Some of the streets were cobbled, and grass and nettles pushed through the stones amid the fag packets and dog muck.

Kids ran around, some barefoot, some too young to be at school, some not. All the kids looked grey to Laura, as if they needed a bit of sunshine. A few women bustled about with shopping trolleys and prams, but there were no men around. A factory hooter cried like a bird.

There weren’t many cars here. “Only the doctors have cars,” Joel said. “Stinks here, doesn’t it? The pong’s enough to knock a buzzard off a bin lorry.”

Bernadette had to drag at her front door to open it. The door frame was bent. She was wearing a shapeless dress of some faded flowery fabric. With her hair tied back, no lippy or mascara on her face, she looked much younger. She seemed shocked to see Laura standing there, then embarrassed. “Come to see how the other half lives, Posh Judy? You want to watch it round here. They play tick with hatchets.”

“Come off it, Bern,” Joel said. “Just seeing if you’re all right.” He pushed his way in and took off his hat. “Is the kettle on? I’m gasping.”

The terraced house was long and thin, like a corridor. Inside it was hot and smoky, and there was a smell of milk and boiled cabbage. Laura glimpsed a lounge, with a settee polished smooth in the places where you’d sit down, and hard-backed chairs with drying nappies hung over the back. There was a telly, even older-looking than the one at Laura’s, and a few worn-out baby toys scattered on the floor. On the window ledge sat a bottle of Hiltone hair dye, and a yellowing News of the World.

In the kitchen a fire was burning in the hearth. Bernadette filled a rusty kettle from the tap and hung it on a hook over the fire. There was washing heaped in the sink and hanging before the fire that made the air smell of steam and soda. There were no mod cons here, no washing machine or tumble dryer, only a scrubbing board and a mangle. Laura saw that Bernadette’s hands were bright red from the scrubbing.

Laura sat down on a hard chair. Cracked lino peeled off the floor under her feet.

“Wash day,” Joel said. “Thought so. Bernadette’s mum always has trouble with wash day.”

“She seemed all right last week,” Bernadette said. “But she’s jiggered today. She’s upstairs with the baby. She might come down later and watch a bit of telly.” She shrugged. “I can do it. If I ever have a bit of money I take it all down to the coin-op. Lots of lads there.”

Laura asked, “What’s wrong with her? Your mum.”

“Nerves.”

“Where’s your dad?”

Bernadette snorted. “Even the scuffers don’t know.”

Laura had to ask. “Scuffer” was Liverpool slang for policeman.

Bernadette handed them mugs of tea, sweet, with sterilised milk. Laura saw that the dress Bernadette was wearing was cut from curtain cloth. No wonder she wore her school uniform the whole time.

Not two feet from where Laura sat, a mushroom was growing out of the wall, the size of a breakfast plate.

“You admiring the decor, Posh Judy?”

Joel poked the mushroom in the wall. “It’s not exactly Ideal Homes, you’ve got to admit.”

“If you cut it off it just grows back. The whole place is manky. Got shook up by a bomb in the war and never got fixed. Now you can’t close the door, and there’s a big hole out back where the rats get in.”

“You ought to get Billy Waddle to help,” Joel said. “He’s a