Broken

1917

The girl and her mother take a long train ride, nearly four hours, across England to get to London. They carry a single carpet bag, a change of clothes folded neatly inside, a wallet of money tucked into a pocket. The girl, of course, carries Maggy and they sit against the window, watch as the landscape falls behind the train. A smile graces their faces unknowingly, a smile of closed lips and rosy cheeks. The girl sits completely still as if afraid to move because it will shatter the dream. She sits and stares out the window with her light blue eyes glittering, and Maggy sits on her lap staring out the window with her deep holes for eyes that glow in the light bouncing around the compartment.

As they travel on, rain begins to drum against the roof, but the girl and her mother disembark at the station with a hop in their step, hands clasped together and swinging through the wet air. They catch a cab, check in to an inn, then head towards the docks. They stroll along the pier, the girl chattering excitedly. Her bonnet blows off her head of curls as she runs ahead, rain splattering across her face. They get close to the port where the man is expected to dock. The girl stands at the edge and peers into the distance down the river. She doesn't see the ship yet, runs back to her mother. The parasol she holds shelters the both of them from the rain, hides them from the outside world, the sky.

The dirigible isn't seen by them and the police don't start blowing their whistles until it's nearly over top the city. The whistles are drowned out by the pounding of the rain as it falls harder and harder. Black bubbles drop from the sky with barely a warning. Those unlucky souls standing under the rain, under an umbrella, with innocent smiles on their faces, barely realize what hits the ground, shakes the world, echoes with a boom like thunder. Then it's too late.

***

Partway up the river, the ship is met by a small schooner. The men, covered in grey dust, shout up, wave their arms. The man moves to the side of the ship, alongside the Dutch captain. Their words filter through his ears, translating into a mumble as they repeat it over and over in alarm. "London was bombed! London was bombed!"

As they slide up to the ship's side, one of the men shout from below, "You have to dock elsewhere, further back along the coast."

The Captain says, "Not too many casualties, I hope?"

The men look up at him with grim faces, lips pressed together in flat lines. "We're still counting the bodies," one says in a low tone, barely heard above the rain.

The Captain wishes them well, and they prepare to turn the boat round, but the man calls breathlessly, "Wait!" He leans over the rail. "My family was in London. I have to come with you."

They pause a moment, look at him with hopeless eyes and nod.

He shimmies down a rope to the smaller boat, mind so focused on what may be ahead that he forgets to thank the Captain. He gets on the boat, stares at the river reaching into the distance and now he notices smoke rising into the grey grey sky. His mouth falls ajar, his heart pounds, rainwater finds its way down the neckline of his shirt, raises goosebumps on his flesh.

The boat sails back along the river, and the man continues to stand by the rail, holding tightly to a rope like it's a lifeline, holding him anchored, upright. They reach shore soon.

The port is littered with rubbish, chunks of stones, splinters of timber, an abandoned parasol, a shoe, a doll.

The doll lies near the shore, as if waiting for someone to arrive. Her head is exposed, red yarn hair tangled around her face. She smiles, but rain drips into her eyes, the sockets overflowing and streaming down her cheeks. The crack runs slantwise across her face and is intersected by another, fresh, from her forehead across the bridge of her nose and curved round her lips to her chin.