To Room Nineteen: Collected Stories Volume One. Doris Lessing

her head and looked around her. In this part of the street all the houses were gone. She pushed her way through the people and stood looking down at the steps to the basement door. The door was hanging loose from the frame, but the glass of the window was whole. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, half-aloud. She took a key from her handbag and slowly descended the steps over a litter of bricks. ‘Miss, miss,’ called the young man, ‘you can’t go down there.’ She made no reply, but fitted the key into the door and tried to turn it. It would not turn, so she pushed the door, it swung in on its one remaining hinge, and she went inside. The place looked as it always did, save that the ornaments on the mantelpiece had been knocked to the floor. It was half-lit from the light of burning houses over the street. She was slowly picking up the ornaments and putting them back when a hand was laid on her arm. ‘Miss,’ said a compassionate voice, ‘you can’t stay down here.’

      ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ she retorted, with a flash of stubbornness.

      She looked upwards. There was a crack across the ceiling and dust was still settling through the air. But a kettle was boiling on the stove. ‘It’s all right,’ she announced. ‘Look, the gas is still working. If the gas is all right then things isn’t too bad, that stands to reason, doesn’t it now?’

      ‘You’ve got the whole weight of the house lying on that ceiling,’ said the man dubiously.

      ‘The house has always stood over the ceiling hasn’t it,’ she said, with a tired humour that surprised him. He could not see what was funny, but she was grinning heavily at the joke. ‘So nothing’s changed,’ she said, airily. But there was a look on her face that worried him, and she was trembling in a hard, locked way, as if her muscles were held rigid against the weakness of her flesh. Sudden spasmodic shudders ran through her, and then she shut her jaw hard to stop them. ‘It’s not safe,’ he protested again, and she obediently gazed around her to see. The kettle and the pans stood as they had ever since she could remember; the cloth on the table was one her mother had embroidered, and through the cracked window she would see the black, solid shape of the dustcan, though beyond it there were no silhouettes of grey houses, only grey sky spurting red flame. ‘I think it’s all right,’ she said, stolidly. And she did. She felt safe. This was her home. She lifted the kettle and began making tea. ‘Have a cup?’ she inquired, politely. He did not know what to do. She took her cup to the table, blew off the thick dust and began stirring in sugar. Her trembling made the spoon tinkle against the cup.

      ‘I’ll be back,’ he announced suddenly, and went out, meaning to fetch someone who would know how to talk to her. But now there was no one outside. They had all gone over to the burning houses; and after a little indecision he thought: I’ll come back later, she’s all right for the moment. He helped with the others over at the houses until very late, and he was on his way home when he remembered: That kid, what’s she doing? Almost, he went straight home. He had not had his clothes off for nights, he was black and grimy, but he made the effort and returned to the basement under the heap of rubble. There was a faint glow beneath the ruin and, peering low, he saw two candles on the table, while a small figure sat sewing beside them. Well I’ll be … he thought, and went in. She was darning socks. He went beside her and said: ‘I’ve come to see if you’re all right.’ Rose worked on her sock and replied calmly: ‘Yes, of course I’m all right, but thanks for dropping in.’ Her eyes were enormous, with a wild look, and her mouth was trembling like that of an old woman. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, at a loss. ‘What do you think?’ she said tartly. Then she looked wonderingly at the sock which was stretched across her palm and shuddered. ‘Your Dad’s sock?’ he said carefully; and she gave him an angry glance and began to cry. That’s better, he thought, and went forward and made her lean against him while he said aloud: ‘Take it easy, take it easy, miss.’ But she did not cry for long. Almost at once she pushed him away and said: ‘Well, there’s no need to let the socks go to waste. They’ll do for someone.’

      ‘That’s right, miss.’ He stood hesitantly beside her and, after a moment, she lifted her head and looked at him. For the first time she saw him. He was a slight man, of middle height, who seemed young because of the open, candid face, though his hair was greying. His pleasant grey eyes rested compassionately on her and his smile was warm. ‘Perhaps you’d like them,’ she suggested. ‘And there’s his clothes, too – he didn’t have anything very special, but he always looked after his things.’ She began to cry again, this time more quietly, with small, shuddering sobs. He sat gently beside her, patting her hand as it lay on the table, repeating. ‘Take it easy, miss, take it easy, it’s all right.’ The sound of his voice soothed her and soon she came to an end, dried her eyes and said in a matter-of-fact voice: ‘There, I’m just silly, what’s the use of crying?’ She got up, adjusted the candles so that they would not gutter over the cloth, and said: ‘Well, we might as well have a cup of tea.’ She brought him one, and they sat drinking in silence. He was watching her curiously; there was something about her that tugged at his imagination. She was such an indomitable little figure sitting there staring out of sad, tired eyes, under the ruins of her home, like a kind of waif. She was not pretty, he decided, looking at the small, thin face, at the tired locks of black hair lying tidily beside it. He felt tender towards her; also he was troubled by her. Like everyone who lived through the big cities during the war, he knew a great deal about nervous strain; about shock; he could not have put words around what he knew, but he felt there was still something very wrong with Rose; outwardly, however, she seemed sensible, and so he suggested: ‘You’d better get yourself some sleep. It’ll be morning soon.’

      ‘I’ve got to be getting to work. I’m working an early shift.’

      He said: ‘If you feel like it,’ thinking it might be better for her to work. And so he left her, and went back home to get some sleep.

      That next evening he came by expecting to find her gone, and saw her sitting at the table, in the yellow glow from the candles, her hands lying idly before her, staring at the wall. Everything was very tidy, and the dust had been removed. But the crack in the ceiling had perceptibly widened. ‘Hasn’t anyone been to see you?’ he asked carefully. She replied evasively: ‘Oh, some old nosy parkers came and said I mustn’t stay.’ ‘What did you tell them?’ She hesitated and then said: ‘I said I wasn’t staying here, I was with some friends.’ He scratched his head, smiling ruefully: he could imagine the scene. ‘Those old nosy parkers,’ she went on resentfully, ‘interfering, telling people what to do.’

      ‘You know, miss, I think they were right, you ought to move out.’

      ‘I’m staying here,’ she announced defiantly, with unmistakable fear. ‘Nothing’s getting me out. Not all the king’s horses.’

      ‘I don’t expect they could spare the king’s horses,’ he said, trying to make her laugh; but she replied seriously, after considering it: ‘Well, even if they could.’ He smiled tenderly at her literal-mindedness, and suggested on an impulse: ‘Come to the pictures with me, doesn’t do any good to sit and mope.’

      ‘I’d like to, but it’s Sunday, see?’

      ‘What’s the matter with a Sunday?’

      ‘Every Sunday I go and see a friend of mine who has a little girl …’ she began to explain; and then she stopped, and went pale. She scrambled to her feet and said: ‘Oh oh, I never thought …’

      ‘What’s wrong, what’s up?’

      ‘Perhaps that bomb got them too, they were along this street – oh dear, oh dear, I never came to think – I’m wicked, that’s what I am …’ She had taken up her bag and was frantically wrapping her scarf around her head.

      ‘Here, miss, don’t go rushing off – I can find out for you, perhaps I know – what was her name?’

      She told him. He hesitated for a moment and then said: ‘You’re having bad luck, and that’s a fact. She was killed the same time.’

      ‘She?’ asked Rose, quickly.

      ‘The mother was killed, the kid’s all right, it was playing in another room.’

      Rose