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

“Nothing but mysteries about you, is there? The teacher’s your evil sister, your dad’s in the air force. And what’s this you’re wearing?” She reached forward.

The Key had worked its way out of her blouse. Laura tucked it back in. “It’s nothing.”

Joel had been standing quietly. “I think I know what it is.”

Laura was supposed to keep the Key secret. That was what Dad always said. “No, you don’t. How can you know?”

“I read a lot.”

“He’s not kidding.”

Nick shut Bernadette up. “Go on, Joel. What was that thing?”

“I don’t know exactly.” Joel’s Scouse was as strong as anybody else’s, but he spoke thoughtfully. “I think it’s something to do with Vulcan bombers.”

“You what, soft lad? What’s a Vulcan bomber? An upper or a downer?” Bernadette laughed, trying to get the attention back on herself.

“It’s an air force plane,” Joel said, “that will drop hydrogen bombs on Moscow, if we ever go to war with the Russians. A British V-bomber armed with American Thor missiles.”

Nick turned his gaze on Laura, lively, fascinated. “Well, well. You are an exotic specimen. The H-Bomb Girl!”

They all stood there, three pairs of eyes locked on Laura.

Laura’s panic deepened. She had no idea what to say. If Dad found out about this, he’d chew her up.

Then, to her relief, the teacher rang her bell, and break was over.

Nick pushed a grubby newspaper through the railings at Laura. “Come and see us on Sunday. The Woodbines. It’s all in there.”

Bernadette stomped off, fixing her skirt.

Joel walked beside Laura. “Don’t worry about Bernadette. She just doesn’t like anybody to be more interesting than she is.”

Laura remembered what Miss Wells had said about “Black Saturday.” “Joel. If you know all this stuff about bombers, what’s going to happen on Saturday? Not this Saturday. The twenty-seventh.”

He frowned. “Liverpool are away at West Brom. Why?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

As they went into the school, he pulled off his Liverpool FC hat and stuffed it into a blazer pocket.

Chapter 3

Friday 12th October. 5 p.m.

Back from school. Good.

Stuck at home for two days. Bad.

Mum in living room chatting away with our American lodger. A fug of ciggie smoke, bottles of beer on the occasional table (Dad will love that), and Glenn Miller 78s playing on the Dansette (Dad will love that too). It’s always Glenn Miller with Mum. Always the war. I think she’s sorry it ever ended.

They were talking about me. “There were no teenagers in the old days. Just children and adults, and you went straight from being one to the other. Now they swarm everywhere with more money than sense.” And blah blah.

I like the idea that my life is different from theirs. That we’re the first real teenagers. Good.

Mum sounds childish when she speaks to Mort. No, not that. Girlish. More girly than Bernadette, say.

As for Dad—

She couldn’t think what to write about Dad, who was due to drive off back to Wycombe and leave them, thus completing the Separation.

Still in her school uniform, she went downstairs. Mort and Mum were laughing in the living room.

Dad was alone in the poky little parlour, sitting on a footstool before the television. The news was on, and he was making notes about it.

Mum’s furniture, crowded in with the old lady stuff, was too big for the room. But then this was a smaller house than the one they had had in Wycombe, because it stood for Mum’s half of the family savings.

The telly showed a flickering map of North America, highlighting an island south of Florida. Cuba. The Americans were agitated because the Cubans were pally with the Russians.

It was always Americans and Russians in the news, annoying each other around the world, like two gangs in a playground. It was boring. Except that if they went to war Britain would be caught in the middle, and everything would be blown up with nuclear bombs.

“Well, that’s torn it,” Dad murmured. He was so close to the thick, dusty screen that silver light played on his face. Not a handsome face, she thought. Strong, though.

“Dad, can I watch Six-Five Special?”

He snapped, “Can’t you see how important this is?”

She flinched.

He seemed to catch himself. He turned to face her. The muscles in his neck were taut, like ropes. He always had a tension that seemed on the point of breaking. Once he had flown Spitfires in the Battle of Britain. That was probably the trouble, why the Separation had happened. He had always been in love with somebody else—the air force.

“All right, chicken.” He patted the carpet beside his stool, and she went to sit beside him. “So how was school?”

“OK, I guess.”

“Did you make any friends?”

“Dad, I’m fourteen.”

He laughed. “So how’s Miss Wells?”

“I don’t know.” She hesitated. “Dad, do you think she looks a bit like Mum?”

He thought about that. “Maybe.”

“She couldn’t be some kind of cousin, could she? A long-lost auntie.”

“I don’t think so. Your mum’s family are close. Does it matter who she looks like?”

“She’s a bit funny with me.”

“Life’s complicated, isn’t it? I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Well, you won’t be here to see one way or the other, will you?”

“No. Look—I’m sorry if I was a bit brisk with you this morning.”

It was very rare for him to apologise, even if he kept slipping into RAF jargon when he did it. A bit brisk.

“I just want to make sure you understand what’s going on,” he said. “Mum and I still love each other. And you. We just can’t live together, that’s all.”

“But you can’t divorce.” Mum was a Roman Catholic from Liverpool. Roman Catholics from Liverpool didn’t divorce. Even Auntie Eileen hadn’t got divorced, despite her colourful life.

“No. So Mum has come home to be near her family. And I, well—”

“You’ve got your work.”

He pulled a face. Then, astonishingly, even though the news wasn’t finished, he reached over and turned off the telly. The grey image collapsed to a white dot that slowly faded.

If he rarely apologised, he never turned off the news. It made her realise