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

with them, frankly. But we’ve all got our jobs to do, haven’t we? Let’s get on with this. Next. How to construct a fall-out shelter…”

They were trained on what to do if the sirens went up while they were at school. Duck and cover.

“You kneel down under your desk,” Mrs Sweetman said. They all obeyed, with a shuffle of desks.

“I’m too big for my desk.”

“Shut up, Deborah Sweeney. Crouch down. Done that? Next. Put your hands over your head. And kiss your jacksie goodbye.”

Bernadette looked up. “What was that, Miss?”

“You didn’t hear it. Now. Whitewash.”

The school caretaker delivered a wheelbarrow-load of decorating sheets, brushes, and cans of whitewash. They all put on filthy old smocks that they used in art classes. The sheets hadn’t been used since the last time the school was painted, which was evidently a long time ago. They cracked as they were unfolded.

When the desks were covered up the whitewash cans were opened. It wasn’t paint, just a gritty, stinking mixture of quicklime and water. The pupils took their brushes, climbed on the desks, and began to slap this stuff on the classroom windows.

“ ‘The whitewash will reflect the blast of a nearby atomic explosion,’” Mrs Sweetman read gravely. “We will begin with the windows that face west, because the first bombs are likely to fall on Liverpool docks, which are that way.”

“I’ve read about this through CND,” Joel said, as he splashed his brush up and down. “It’s pitiful. I can’t believe I’m actually standing here doing this. It’s beyond satire.”

Laura found this irritating. “You’re a bit smug, you know, Joel. Why do you think you know better than all the experts in the government? They wouldn’t make us do this if it wasn’t going to do some good.”

“It’s all a big lie,” Joel said. “Just to keep us busy and stop us panicking. You could defend yourself against the bombs in the Second World War, with luck. You can’t defend yourself against an atomic blast. That’s the truth. Ouch, my fingers are killing me. The quicklime’s getting in the cuts.”

Bernadette said, “And the smell of it’s making me heave.”

“We’re not going to do very well in an atomic war,” Laura said, “if we can’t survive a night in the Cavern.”

Mrs Sweetman came along the line of windows. “You missed a bit, Mister Christmas. We don’t want those Communist megatons leaking into school because you were lazy with your paintbrush, do we?”

Joel grinned. “No, Miss.”

Bernadette said, “You look as if you’re dying for a ciggie, Miss.”

“Gin and tonic, more like.” She walked on.

Joel filled in the last corner of his window.

At lunchtime they met Nick at the railings. He wore dark glasses and had a black scarf wrapped around his mouth. But his face was still puffed up.

“You look terrible,” Bernadette said.

“You’re the one with whitewash on your nose.” His voice was gravelly and slurred. Maybe his broken teeth were giving him trouble. He seemed worse than the night before.

Bernadette reached up. “Let’s take off your shades and have a look.”

“No.” He pulled away and winced. “My head’s killing me. Probably a hangover, right?” He touched his forehead, gingerly. “I took some aspirins.”

Joel asked, “What did they say at the hospital?”

“I didn’t stick around.”

Bernadette snapped, “You what?”

“Never did like hospitals. Anyway, haven’t you heard? It’s on the wireless. They are clearing out the hospitals. They’re even sticking scuffers in there to kick out all the dockers with bad backs. Getting ready for war casualties,” he said in a graveyard voice.

A car drove through the school gate. It was silver, and it had a Stars and Stripes fluttering from its bonnet. A couple of people got out, white-coated like doctors, and they carried equipment into the school.

“That’s a Jag,” Joel said. “One of those new E-types. Dribble.”

“Americans,” Bernadette said. “Always flash.”

“Just like their wars,” Nick said, “Flash bang wallop! They’re dragging us into this one, and it’s nothing to do with us. I don’t even know where Jamaica is.”

“Cuba,” Laura said.

“Who cares?”

Laura had never known Nick to be quite so sour and aggressive before. Maybe his mood had been affected by the kicking he’d taken.

Nick said now, “Have you noticed how happy some of them are? The old folk. Anybody over about thirty. They complain about Hitler’s war all the time. But now it’s back on the telly, they can chuck all the rules out of the window and be a hero again.”

“The trouble is,” Bernadette said, “we’ll grow old too. And we’ll probably be just as bad, if we’re still around in 1980 or 1990 or the year 2000.”

“You’re old before your time, Bern,” said Nick. “Anyhow I’ll still be around here when you kiddies come out of your afternoon classes.”

“Why?” Bernadette asked.

“Because if the bomb really is going to drop, I want to be close to the only two people I know who might have a way to stay alive. Which means you.” He pointed to Joel. “Mister Junior CND cub scout.”

Joel said, “You always laughed at me before. Nobody’s bothered about that stuff, you said.”

Nick just ignored him. “And you, Laura. You’re the H-Bomb Girl. We worked that out from the moment we met you. But you’ve never told us the whole truth, have you?”

Laura saw the way they all looked at her. This was a crisis that was bound to come, she supposed. A test of loyalties, and their new friendship.

“Did you know about Cuba?” Joel asked.

“For a few days. My dad told me some of it.”

“So why not tell us?”

“He made me promise not to.”

“But we’ve helped you,” Nick said. “We’ve saved your bacon a few times.”

She felt her face redden. “Look, it was impossible for me. Whether I told you or not I’d have let somebody down. I’m glad it’s all out in the open, and there are no more secrets. Anyway I’ve helped you too. I knocked that Ted off you, didn’t I?”

“Fair enough.” Bernadette touched her shoulder. “You’re not bad for a Posh Judy.”

Nick kept up his