The Report

by Jessica Francis Kane

  Some in Bethnal Green were eager for the report, sure it would reveal something to help them make sense of the senseless. Others felt only suspicion. The inquiry, they believed, was merely an exercise in distraction, something authorities did in order to avoid accountability. How could someone not present that night tell them what had happened?

  In general, though, tempers were beginning to cool. The influx of money had that effect. So astonishing was it to see improvements being made to the shelter entrance that many people forgot what it meant: if these changes could be authorized now, couldn’t they have been authorized earlier? It was typical of government bureaucracy: repairs proceeded, no one ever admitting that repairs were necessary. New walls for a protective surround, new lighting, new handrails down the sides and center. Everything was shiny, well made, and well installed. The money came from the borough council and several anonymous donors from the West End.

  McNeely’s parish adamantly refused the government’s offer of a mass funeral. But he suspected they’d embrace a memorial service held on the two-week anniversary of the event. He considered an all-night vigil, but memories of the poorly attended overnight watch during Holy Week last year persuaded him against it. “Can you not stay awake with me one hour?”—Christ’s words to his disciples in the garden of Gethsemane—had not compelled his flock as much as he’d hoped. Better to plan a short service, then perhaps a march. He’d get them on their feet, move them through the streets again so that they could regain their confidence. He checked with the air-raid protection officials, who insisted that—the powerful communal grief notwithstanding—he could not walk through the streets at night with candles. If he wanted to distribute candles, he’d have to hold the service earlier. Even then, the officials told him not to exceed one candle per ten demonstrators.

  He made signs and put them up all over the neighborhood. He took out a small ad in the Observer, which by chance appeared the same day the coroner announced his verdict: the final evidence was sufficient to dispel the idea that there had been a stampede. Also, absolutely nothing suggested that a certain section of the populace had been targeted. For better or worse, the coroner said, the names of the victims represented a thorough sampling of the people of the East End.

  Nevertheless, a number of Fascist slogans appeared overnight on walls and doorways. There were a few injuries and arrests and the mood of a demonstration without the chaos of one. McNeely hoped the service would dispel the tension.

  The afternoon arrived overcast and foggy. The ceremony was to begin at four o’clock, and by three-thirty the nave was full. People began to fill the aisles, sides first, then the center. McNeely greeted officers of the local council, two local MPs, and sizable contingents of the St. John Ambulance Brigade, the Red Cross Nursing Association, the local police. Groups sitting together in pews that looked full were asked to squeeze together to fit in two or three people more. At five minutes to four, the vestibule began to fill with the overflow of people, and McNeely worried late arrivals wouldn’t even be able to get in the door, precipitating horrible memories of that night, which he was trying to mend. Still, no one seemed upset or anxious. The crowd easily numbered a thousand, but grief had made them slow and solemn. At ten past four, McNeely squeezed through the back of the crowd and looked outside. No one was waiting. He offered a short prayer of thanks and closed the door.

  The bishop of the diocese spoke first, and the point of his rather simple sermon was to establish a connection between the damaged church they were in—he gestured at the plain glass windows, the splintered organ—and the damaged people in the pews. McNeely watched heads pop up here and there as his congregation looked around at the mended rafters, the taped windows. He hoped the bishop wouldn’t take the idea too far; no one wants to look at the physical evidence of war or imagine it applied to them. Some in the parish might remember when the church had looked worse: walls sheared off, part of the roof gone. McNeely had made repairs himself as much as he could and applied for public money for the rest. But the eye wants to complete a picture, not tear it down. At bomb sites he’d heard people talk about the books that should have been on shelves, or where a certain table had been, while standing before the open shell of a house. The bishop was reminding them of what had been lost.

  A reading from Corinthians followed, then a psalm, and at that point McNeely noticed the congregation beginning to shift in the pews. A few people started whispering. A series of family members of people killed in the accident spoke next, including a woman who’d lost her husband and daughter, a man who’d lost his wife and two sons; and maybe it was because of the bishop’s sermon, but when these poor people stood at the pulpit, all you could see was the damage, what had been lost. This man had had two young sons. The father spoke so softly, the murmuring in the church grew louder. The temperature inside was rising, shoes began to scrape at the floor, and then a man near the back—it’s always near the back; if you’re going to say something incendiary, you want to know what’s behind you—stood up and cried, “Your sons deserve a public inquiry!”

  The interruption startled the grieving father.

  “Some of the dead were the only remaining relatives of soldiers overseas!” someone else yelled, an unbearable detail recently reported in the press. Heads swung back to the pulpit, where the poor father still stood. He looked concerned, unable or unwilling to be the leader the crowd now craved. The congregation grew still, waiting to see what was going to happen.

  “But Morrison won’t tell the soldiers!”

  The suggestion that the government would try to hide the accident from these soldiers at the front proved too much. The idea coursed through the room, a visible wave, a contagion. It brought a number of people to their feet. Those in the aisles pressed forward. McNeely signaled desperately to the violin soloist, next on the program, but she shook her head furiously.

  “It’s the mayor’s fault!”

  McNeely scanned the crowd but didn’t see the mayor.

  “Gowers is an ass!”

  Shouts and yells began to echo through the church. More than half the people were standing now and in an instant crossed a threshold, some notional boundary of how one should behave in church abandoned. McNeely could feel it. A moment ago decorum reigned, even as the crowd grew passionate. Now a cacophony of insults and accusations filled the nave. Some people near the front were fighting, and on the right a group was trying to press toward one of the exits.

  McNeely ran to the pulpit. The father made way for him, and McNeely cried out, “See us!” in a voice so loud and strong, it surprised him.

  The crowd quieted a notch, and he took a breath and did it again.

  “See us!”

  Some of the faces turned toward him showed confusion and anger. But these were not the majority. Most were open, scared, curious about the voice directing them. He felt a jolt run through him.

  “That is what you want! To be seen!”

  More calm, more quiet. A few people in front sat down.

  “To be seen enduring and behaving well, even though your homes are a shambles and your shelters are not safe.”

  They were listening. He had a bit of a sermon prepared on the idea that crowds, while sometimes unruly, can also be moved to heroic extremes, but he saw that it would be too wordy, too rational. He had to appeal directly to their emotions.

  “You have been victims, but you’ve been made to feel like villains!” There was still some movement in the crowd, but they turned toward him now and strained to hear. He lowered his voice.

  “You are victims, not villains! And you can be heroes by standing together and waiting. Wait for the inquiry to finish. Let justice be done.” There was a lone, timid cheer, followed a second later by another one. “It won’t be long. Give the report time. You won’t be forgotten, or asked to endure more without help.”

  Most were sitting again, even the people in the aisles.

  “And your dead will be remembered. That’s why we are here.”r />
  He nodded at the soloist, who, after a moment, pulled her cardigan close, took a gulp of air, and made her way to the front to play. As the beautiful notes filled the church, McNeely was shaking from his knees to his shoulders, but the storm had passed. He could hear the sounds of people settling down, straightening their coats, quieting children. He allowed himself to breathe in relief and caught the eye of Constable Henderson, sitting near the back. The man looked quickly away, thinking perhaps, as McNeely was, of the powerful sedative effect of even just one authoritative voice in a moment of turmoil.

  By the time the pavane ended, McNeely was able to walk steadily to the doors of the church. He led the congregation out of St. John’s and past the shelter entrance. The crowd bulged there, as people paused to look, but it did not stop. McNeely saw Ada Barber with the new baby and took her hand. She started to say something about what had happened inside the church, but he couldn’t hear her. Surrounded by friends and neighbors, families complete and incomplete, they followed the Roman Road to Globe Road and turned left. They took Sugar Loaf Walk through the field and crossed Victoria Park Square. McNeely had intended to bring them out to Cambridge Heath and then turn left back to the church, but the children, giddy from the service and the dancing candles, ran into the Museum Gardens. Within a few moments, the event lost its sense of direction but not its purpose. Many people were smiling.

  Ada had begged Tilly to come with her and the baby. The candlelit march, even in daylight, was something she would have loved, but she refused. She chose to sit in their windowsill and watch the day fade from there. She could just see the tip of the St. John’s steeple.

  She spent most of her time on thresholds now. Doorways, landings, windowsills. From her current perch she could see up and down Jersey Street. The house directly across from them was gone. On their side of the street, the houses three, five, and ten doors down were heaps of dust and broken masonry, piles of rubble not yet cleared that spilled into the street like piers along a beach. Damaged houses showed new pink tile repairs as bright and obvious as scar tissue. The foggy afternoon gave way to a clear evening, a weather reversal Tilly found oddly discomfiting. She did not like the late-day clearing, and it was not just because of the planes. It had to do with getting used to something, only to have it change.

  She put herself to bed, and when Tilly woke in the morning, there was a small white stub of candle next to her pillow.

  Thirty-two

  Laurie recalled Clare Newbury. She had medical training and had helped with the casualties in the booking hall the whole of the night in question, so he thought he would talk to her again.

  “Everything all right?” he asked as she arranged herself in the chair.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Nothing changed since the last time we talked?”

  She hesitated but then shook her head. “No, sir.”

  “I’d like to make sense of one thing, if I could. How did some people survive at the bottom of the crush while others did not? I think it’s the reason the accident is so troubling.”

  “Among many, I’d say.” She spoke sharply.

  “Indeed.”

  “I’m sorry. It has been a bit of a strain to get everything back to normal.”

  “I understand. No apology necessary. For example, these babies that people handed out of the stairway. In your opinion, could it have been a mother’s strength that kept them safe? Something about the architecture of her body?”

  “Not all mothers saved their children that night, Mr. Dunne.”

  “Yes, but …”

  “So why propagate such a story?”

  “Are you a mother?” he asked.

  “I have certainly seen how this tragedy has affected people.”

  He almost asked her how it was possible, then, to not search for a story. The crush had not filled the landing. The people had been crushed only against themselves.

  “Perhaps I can’t explain it,” he said, defeated. “Let me ask you something else. You have a lot of experience in this shelter. Do you have anything to say about the stairs?”

  “They were very dark.”

  “I understand there was a light.”

  “Yes, but it was dim, when it was there.”

  “When it was there?”

  “It got smashed sometimes, and, you know, I think some of the wardens were tired of replacing it.”

  “I see. All right. Thank you very much for coming back.”

  “Sir, before I go. I think you’ve spoken to Bertram Lodge, one of the town hall clerks?”

  “I remember him.”

  “He’s having a great deal of trouble.”

  “Is he?”

  “He feels awful about being in the crowd that night.”

  “I seem to remember he had some difficult work to do after the accident, as well.”

  “Yes. Is there anything else he could do? Is there some way you could use him?”

  “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “Did you have difficulty breathing where you were?” Laurie asked.

  “No.”

  “Try and think back. When the rocket gun or whatever it was went off—”

  “Yes.”

  “—were you pushed forward?”

  “I was pushed into a mass of people; it was something solid.”

  “In other words, it seems to you that the block in front that caused the people to stop had occurred before the rocket gun went off?”

  “It’s hard to say, sir.”

  Thirty-three

  After the memorial service, which cheered her, Sarah Low invited Clare and Bertram to come round for tea. She planned a cold-weather menu, pork chops and potatoes. She also tried scones with potato flour, but they came out of the oven heavy and small. Nevertheless, she put them on a rack to cool and hoped they might taste sweeter than they looked. She didn’t mind. She had lots of energy, now that James had agreed to her plan.

  She plumped the sofa and folded up the rug so that the chairs would sit evenly around the table. She lifted the drop leaves and secured them with two pieces of lumber James had cut for the purpose. She took out her lace cloth. Bertram and Clare would sit at the ends, she decided; she and James would sit side by side, facing the wall. That was best. It would give their guests a view of the room.

  Sarah was setting out the candles when James came in from the garden. He looked tired. “Isn’t it a little early for vegetables?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She’d hoped for a denial. She thought he might tell her something about gardening she didn’t know, and it worried her that this was not the case.

  “I think a late frost is the least of our problems,” he said.

  She shook her head. She would not acknowledge that everything was as bad as he said. “Go and get changed.”

  He turned to go but then stopped. “It looks nice, Sarah. You’re a fine hostess.”

  She smiled and waved him into the bedroom.

  Clare and Bertram arrived on time with a small bouquet. Clare was wearing a fashionable green dress tied at the waist. She’d heard Sarah’s news at the canteen and gave her a meaningful hug. James breathed, “Bertram,” and clapped the sad and pale boy to him. As they turned into the room, Sarah tried to make a joke about the trouble they must have been put to in carrying the flowers any distance, Morrison likely to expand his ban any day to all forms of flower transport, even walking.

  They all smiled, but not as widely as they might have. Nothing seemed out of the realm of possibility.

  The pork chops were good, the potatoes bland. Bertram and Clare refused seconds. Sarah told them not to worry—this was a special occasion, the Potato Plan be damned—but they declined again. Conversation veered from food to flowers to the recent rally at Trafalgar Square for a new European front. They’d all gone to see the Lancaster bomber there, which was drawing the biggest crowds since the coronation.

  After the meal, Sarah cleared the table and put on the kettle. Clare
stacked the scones on a plate. There was nowhere to withdraw to, so when everyone was once again seated around the table, chairs pulled up, laps and napkins smoothed, Clare cleared her throat and said, “James? Have you and Bertram had a chance to talk about the shelter?”

  Both men shook their heads. Then Bertram said, “I had to do an inventory.” Outside, a woman called and another woman answered. Sarah poured more tea.

  “Of all the items in the victims’ pockets,” Clare explained. “Do you think they were looking for something?”

  James shook his head. He didn’t know.

  “Have you been back to the shelter?” Bertram asked him.

  “No,” he said slowly, not adding that he was pretty sure he’d never walk to the shelter again. Tragedy pockmarked the neighborhood as badly as the bombs: the corner where he’d seen a woman step in front of a car driven without headlights in the blackout; the garden where a man was impaled on a fence by a bomb; the pile of rubble where he and Sarah had heard the baby crying. And now the shelter. But every person in war had an archive like this. You just left people alone with it. There was nothing else to do.

  Bertram said he had not been back, either. “What happened?” he asked, and the room went still.

  “I changed the lightbulb, if that’s what you mean,” James said.

  “You did?”

  “Yes, God damn it!”

  “James!” Sarah said. She turned to Bertram. “I’m sorry.”

  The two women’s voices outside settled beneath the front window, and their conversation, about kitchen paint, suddenly filled the room. When they’d moved on, Sarah said, “I don’t think Bertram means anything, James. He’s as confused as the rest of us.”

  “I wasn’t very close to the entrance,” Bertram said. “I mean, I was back in the crowd. I don’t know how far back. I think about it a lot, actually, where I was.” He looked down.