The Citadel and the Wolves

by Peter Goodman

  I laughed and leapt to my feet, pulling the covers away playfully. I froze in the middle of the room holding the bedding foolishly in my arms. Wendy lay in the centre of the bed curled up in a ball clutching her favourite teddy. She looked so small and vulnerable there in my big bed. Then I noticed a tear running down her cheek. I felt a sudden rush of guilt. I covered her quickly. She was safe once more. Why do I do things sometimes without thinking?

  As I vanished out of the bedroom door, regretting my own actions, I almost fell arse-over-tit over the plastic tipper lorry that had been ‘parked’ right outside my room.

  “Tommy Robinson, I’ll brain you one of these days,” I breathed, rubbing my bruised shin. I suspected that he was hiding somewhere out there, watching me with a big grin on his cheeky face.

  As I wandered into the bathroom, stifling yet another yawn, I glanced at the large water tub in the corner. Daddy filled it every morning at dawn. It had replaced the shower that had become a luxury of another age not so long ago. Wendy and I had mourned its passing. I let out another little sigh. I caught myself. I seemed to be doing a lot of that this morning. Snap out of it, Jade Robinson. Be happy. I am happy.

  I scooped out the water from the tub with an old saucepan, which had been provided for this purpose, and filled the wash basin. I splashed the water into my face. I gasped, for it was freezing. I’d forgotten. It was a shock to my system. It cleared the cobwebs out of my head instantly. A hot bath is a weekly luxury now. I slipped off my dressing gown, standing in my briefs. I sponged myself down quickly. After a moment, I became aware of an alien presence in my bathroom. When I looked down, I saw it with a big grin on its face. I squeezed out my sponge on its head. It giggled.

  Afterwards, I rubbed down with a dry towel. I never felt entirely clean.

  I opened the bathroom window as I dried my face. The tall, deep wall that protected us in our little Citadel, our fortress home of the 21st century, hugged the garden reassuringly. The new, red brick had aged a little and had been blackened by the rains of past times. She stood firm and defiant against nature, our manmade structure.

  I smiled when I saw him. Daddy was already up working on the plot in our big garden. He has turned our beautiful garden into a smallholding, digging up the lawn, our rose bushes and the flower beds not so long ago. Every square centimetre of space is used for our vegetables and the fruit that daddy had the foresight to plant before food rationing was introduced by the government, for he saw it as inevitable as crops failed throughout the world. We couldn’t rely upon the government food warehouses, he said. We had to become self-sufficient, though our plot doesn’t supply us with all of our needs. We have to manage without some things. Oranges and bananas are now a luxury. But we do have apples. The apple tree in our garden was there before all this madness started. It was planted by my grandfather who bought our beautiful house when he first married my beautiful grandmother in the middle of the last century. He was a teacher too, so it does run in our family. I fell out of the apple tree once when I was little. The apple tree yields an abundant crop each autumn. The apples are small and sweet. Daddy had thought of making cider in the past. The fruit crops are new. Mother plans to turn them into preserves for the long winter ahead and pickling some of the vegetables, the small onions and beetroot. Father also keeps bees for honey. I hate bees because they sting. I was stung once when I was small. I blamed myself. I got careless. Daddy has fenced off one area of the old garden for wheat, so mum can make bread, biscuits and cakes from the flour. The golden wheat swayed in a light breeze from the west, I thought. He’s growing tomatoes in the greenhouse. We’re luckier than most in town because we have plenty of useful land behind our big house. The land area is over three quarters of an acre. That’s almost four thousand square yards, daddy said in old measure. I still miss the old lawn and the beautiful colours of the flowers in spring; however, daddy said that we couldn’t be sentimental about such things now. They belonged to another time that had past. We’re simply grateful that our crops are coming up. The soil in our smallholding is rich. Father explained that it has something to do with the black rain which surprised me. It contains lots of rich minerals. Winter storage of our crops isn’t a problem since we built a brick outhouse in the back where our old conservatory used to be. What happened to it? We knocked it down. We found the bricks for the outhouse on old building sites around town. The scientist has turned farmer. He hasn’t been in the attic for many months. If he did look through his telescope at night, he wouldn’t see any stars through the thick, permanent clouds.

  I pulled the plug, draining the wash basin, but I wasn’t flushing the dirty water down the drain. It was piped back into the water barrels and recycled. Water was a precious resource that we couldn’t afford to waste. Although we collected rainwater in the barrels, we still needed drinking water. A water tanker comes around to our street once a week. We go out with our plastic bottles and containers. Father fears that it will stop coming one day. What will we do then? We could drink the rainwater, couldn’t we?

  As I dressed in my room, putting on a pair of old jeans with holes in them and a sweater top, I looked on the open window. The VPF vehicle stood at the top of the road. It was a reassuring sight because it kept the Roamers and the other street gangs away from our street…at a price. Each household in the street pays a weekly contribution towards the cost of maintaining a 24/7 VPF presence here in the Close. How much does it cost? My parents are rather coy about the sums involved. I suspect that it’s a lot. Mum’s jewellery box is almost empty. Daddy never wears his gold watch anymore. Mum gave it to him on his fortieth birthday.

  I sat with the lump under the blankets. I stroked her tousle of untidy blonde lovingly before I kissed her cheek. She smiled in her sleep. I let her be.

  I wandered into the kitchen. I looked around curiously. Some things had changed here too. When the gas company turned off the supplies forever, mum was forced to swap her old cooker for a wood burning iron range. The black monster looked impressive in the corner of our kitchen. It reminded me of a living, breathing creature with a warm heart, a new kind of alien life form that only lived in our kitchen. Mum didn’t mourn the passing of her old cooker. She loves her range now.

  As Wendy came down to breakfast last, ignoring the dark look on father’s face, I noticed it almost immediately. She had left her bra upstairs in her dresser again. I think mum noticed it too. Wendy sat next to me. I got a weak smile from her when I gently squeezed her hand reassuringly. I remained concerned for her.

  “Harvest Day,” announced father brightly.

  Wendy and I murmured.

  “I think it’s going to be a good one too,” he enthused. “Despite the black rains and the clouds which give us less sunlight some days, the weather has been kind to us this season.”

  I was right. My father is a farmer.

  After breakfast, we put on wellies and joined father outside. Tommy, who insisted upon helping, came out in his little, green wellies. A light breeze from the east touched our faces. It was pleasant.

  “Spuds first, girls,” instructed daddy.

  “Me too?” asked Tommy, wearing a perplexed expression on his face.

  “You as well, young man,” said daddy in a kindly voice.

  Tommy looked pleased.

  We took a garden fork each and started digging up the spuds. Dad wanted to get everything out of the ground before the early winter frosts. Tommy made himself useful. He shook off the dirt before he dropped them into the buckets. It was hard but satisfying work. (Although I sometimes think about it, I don’t miss sixth form college anymore. I still read my books to keep my mind active.) After the spuds, we dug up the carrots. We lopped off the tops as we emptied them into hessian sacks.

  “There will be surpluses,” revealed daddy. “We can use them to barter.”

  “Barter?”

  “Fresh milk and other dairy produce from the farms,” illuminated daddy.

  “Eggs
?” I asked.

  He murmured, relighting his pipe with a match.

  Wendy and I liked the sound of that because we hadn’t had fresh milk or eggs in a long time. It was powdered egg and tinned milk, which wasn’t the same.

  Daddy added, “It will mean a trip out of town, perhaps staying overnight somewhere.”

  Wendy and I looked at each other. We hadn’t been beyond the big gates in awhile. Despite the possible dangers, we liked to get out once in awhile, and this did look like an opportunity to get out once in awhile. Wendy nudged me.

  “Daddy, when-when do you plan to make the trip out?” I inquired nervously.

  “Jade?”

  “The farms,” said Wendy.

  He shook his head, frowning. “No, I’m sorry, girls. It might be too dangerous, and besides, your mother wouldn’t agree to it.”

  “But, Daddy-”

  He remained adamant. “No.”

  Wendy and I were disappointed, though I understood his fears. The world was a very dangerous place beyond the big gates of The Citadel.

  We picked the fruit next.

  We stored the vegetables and the fruit in the outhouse. We laughed as Tommy dragged a heavy sack of spuds across the floor all by himself. He puffed out his red cheeks, putting the sack of spuds with the others. He gave me a toothy grin when I ruffled his hair playfully, but he frowned when Wendy and I rewarded him with a wet kiss each. Father put two sacks aside. We stood in the door, gazing at our bountiful harvest, our first one. We were proud.

  Dad, who looked pleased, nodded. “Good?”

  Wendy and I smiled.

  Mother came out with a jug of homemade apple juice and four, tall tumblers on a tray. We needed it, for it was thirsty work. She set it down on the preparation table.

  “How’s it going?” asked mum.

  “Fine,” answered father, wiping the sweat off his brow.

  I picked up the jug and poured the apple juice into the four tumblers. I handed them out to the others including Tommy who thanked me with another huge, cheeky grin. We slaked our thirst. The apple juice was cool and refreshing.

  “Mum, dad reckons that there will be surpluses we can barter with for fresh milk and eggs and that sort of thing,” I mentioned slyly.

  “Oh?”

  I noticed the amused look on my father’s face, for he knew what I was up to. I’m stubborn like him.

  “I’ve put two sacks of spuds aside,” explained daddy. “We can afford it.”

  “Fresh milk and eggs would be nice, Frank, but without the fridge, there’s no place to keep it,” admitted mother.

  “What we could do with is a generator, though they do burn up a lot of fuel,” sighed father.

  “A generator would be the ideal solution to quite a lot of our problems, Frank. But where do you find one? They’re not just lying around all over the place.”

  Father disagreed, “That’s where you’re wrong, love. There are quite a few lying around all over the place in derelict factories and hospitals.”

  He had something in mind.

  When he patted his pockets, I beat him to it. I struck a match and lit his pipe, which had gone out. He smiled. I was wearing him down. He’d have to give in to me sooner rather than later. It was just a matter of time. When Wendy and I put our arms around him, he let out a small sigh. I grinned inwardly. He was weakening.

  “St. Joseph’s Hospital on Roman Rise has been derelict for awhile,” said father. “If thieves haven’t stripped out the equipment, we might just be lucky and find our generator there.”

  “Generators are heavy, aren’t they, Daddy?” I hinted.

  He agreed.

  “Then you’ll need someone to help you shift it, won’t you, Dad?” suggested Wendy.

  “Of course…”

  “Wendy and I have just volunteered, Daddy,” I said.

  I saw the look on his face. He had walked straight into that one, and it was painless.

  As father opened the big, heavy gates that protected our fortress home, Wendy and I sat in the newly armoured Land-Rover. Daddy had also fitted grilles over the windows to protect us from missiles (bricks, stones or petrol bombs) or worse. It made us feel safer when we were on one of our outings beyond the protective walls of our little Citadel. Wendy and I glanced at each other. We grinned when we remembered. Mother was a surprise. She offered no objections to our going out with him on a trip. She told him that they couldn’t wrap their children in cotton wool forever. Father retorted light-heartedly that it was unfair. It was three females against one. We all laughed at that point. We were going on an outing. Daddy preferred to call it foraging.

  We rode past the white, VPF vehicle on the corner of the Close. The driver, who had stepped out of his armoured vehicle for a moment, was talking with a blonde girl. They shared a cigarette. Some girls flirt with them. The young girl laughed.

  “Not my type,” commented Wendy airily.

  We giggled.

  Father shook his head as we turned the corner.

  The deserted streets were littered with abandoned, burnt-out vehicles. An old, empty diesel bus, a No. 68, (the old route from West Norwood to Euston Station) which was unmarked, surprising me, stood at a set of dead traffic lights, not far from the abandoned bus garage. London had been without power for some months. It was like driving through a ghost town. It was. Many had fled to the countryside. Those who stayed rarely ventured outdoors unless they had to. The streets belonged to the roaming gangs, the VPF in their armoured vehicles, and us.

  We drove through the crumbling gates of the derelict hospital on Roman Rise. Most of the windows were broken, and an abandoned ambulance with flat tyres stood forlornly outside the hospital entrance. When I fell out of the apple tree, breaking my arm, I was treated at this hospital. The doctors and nurses were all very kind and understanding. It was all rather sad to see it like this.

  We parked out of sight.

  When we broke into the generator room, we found it. The thing was a colossus. We couldn’t move it. That was out of the question. We were all a little disappointed.

  “Where do we go from here?” asked Wendy, thinking out loud.

  Father scratched his head. “I don’t know, sweetheart.”

  As we pulled out of the hospital forecourt, continuing our search for a generator, we heard the sound of sporadic gunfire in the distance. It no longer troubled us.

  When I suggested that we looked in the Yellow Pages for our generator, the others laughed till they realised what I’d meant. Daddy kept an old copy of the phone book in the back of our Land-Rover. We looked under the heading: ‘Plant and Machinery Hire’ and found an address in nearby Chapel Road, which was just off the dead Norwood High Street.

  The faded sign on the tall, closed gates said:

  G. E. BATES & SONS

  PLANT HIRE

  We were in luck; the rusted padlock on the gates was intact. Daddy broke it with a crowbar. We entered the deserted yard, driving off the road.

  We discovered a mobile generator that seemed ideal for our purposes, so we hitched it up to the trailer.

  I was suddenly worried. “Dad, this isn’t stealing, is it?”

  Wendy rolled her eyes.

  “I’ll leave an I.O.U. if you like, Jade,” he said amused.

  I laughed. “No.”

  He started the engine.

  “Well, girls, we’ve got our generator,” said father, “but the problem still remains; our petrol ration won’t cover it when we need both. Transport, so we can forage for things like the generator, and diesel for said item. We need to solve it and fast before winter sets in.” He glanced at the fuel gauge troubled. “Or sooner.”

  I stared curiously at the abandoned trucks and vans that we passed. Something continued to puzzle me. “Diesel…”

  Father overheard me. “Pardon, darling?”

  “There, Daddy!” I exclaimed excitedly when I realised what my own mind had been sub-
consciously telling me for the last fifteen or so minutes.

  He slammed on the brakes concerned. “What is it, sweetheart?”

  Wendy looked around anxiously. “Roamers?”

  I shook my head. “The abandoned trucks and vans, they all use diesel, don’t they, Daddy?”

  “What are you getting at, Jade?”

  “Siphon off whatever is left in their tanks.”

  The first few vehicles that we checked were empty, disappointing us, but I remained optimistic.

  We drove on.

  “Jade, your idea was a sound one; however, I don’t think that we’re likely to find many abandoned vehicles with fuel in their tanks,” said father, “and we need to return home very soon before we run out of fuel ourselves.”

  “Stop!” I cried suddenly.

  He braked. He sighed wearily, “Jade-”

  I didn’t have time for arguments with my well-meaning father as I jumped out of the Land-Rover. I ran across the deserted road to the abandoned bus at the dead traffic lights near the bottom of Knight’s Hill by the old church in West Norwood. When I looked in the cab, checking the fuel gauge on the dash, I grinned. I waved to the others who climbed out of the Land-Rover and hurried over the road to me.

  “Dad, the tanks are almost full,” I announced breathlessly.

  “But how did you know?” asked father intrigued.

  “I figured it out,” I replied, trying not to sound too big-headed. “The bus garage is just around the corner from here. He was starting out on his route.”

  “Jade, you could have stumbled upon something here,” said father. “There could be many more vehicles like this one that have been abandoned. There may be an oil field out there that we could tap into at any time.”

  I couldn’t disagree with that.

  He added a note of caution: “However, the fewer trips that we need to make out the better. We should store up the fuel.”

  Remaining wary of the VPF and the street gangs, we siphoned off the fuel tanks on the bus, filling the fuel tank on the Land-Rover, our newly-acquired diesel generator, and the empty fuel drums on the trailer.