The Citadel and the Wolves

by Peter Goodman

  I couldn’t answer her question. I ate a biscuit with my hot drink.

  Wendy thought that she had the answer: “Daddy, we could go out and look for the water, couldn’t we?”

  “Where?” wondered mum.

  “The lakes in Crystal Palace Park for a start,” answered Wendy. “There’s plenty of water there.”

  Daddy sighed. “It’s not a solution, Wendy, and transporting it in bulk would be a big headache. No, we need a constant, unbroken supply much closer to home.”

  Wendy looked disappointed.

  “A well?” said Mark Taylor who was an invited guest at the breakfast table family conference.

  He wasn’t a member of our family…yet.

  “And where do we find this well?” I asked sceptically. “We aren’t living on a farm here, you know.”

  Mark Taylor inquired, “Mr Robinson, how old is this house?”

  “It dates back to around the middle of the nineteenth century,” answered daddy who knew the history of the house well. “It’s a former vicarage.”

  “So, this area of London would have been in the countryside then, fields, meadows and country lanes?” ventured Mark Taylor.

  “It was,” I said. I was annoyed. I hate being ignored. “This area wasn’t part of London before the great urban sprawl of the late nineteenth century. It was in the heart of the Surrey countryside. London was miles away on the other side of the river.” I was looking back to a time that I never knew. I wish I had.

  “What are you getting at, Mark?” quizzed mum.

  My question exactly. Things were as clear as mud. What was he up to?

  “Most houses then relied upon a well at the bottom of their property for their water supplies, Mrs Robinson.”

  “Yes.”

  “How does this help us?” I probed.

  “There must be a well somewhere at the bottom of this property,” elucidated Mark Taylor. “We could get our water supplies from it.”

  Mark Taylor waited for a pat on the back for coming up with this astounding idea. He didn’t get it, except perhaps from Wendy who made eyes at him. She was playing footsie with him under the table. It’s rather sickly when someone is in love, especially your older sister.

  Father expressed doubt: “If there was a well at the bottom of this property, it was probably filled in long ago when the house was connected to the mains.”

  Wendy suggested, “But we could search for it, couldn’t we?”

  And that’s what we found ourselves doing at the bottom of our garden on the other side of the vegetable plot near the west wall in the freezing cold. Although we had dressed up warmly, a sharp wind cut right through my layers of heavy clothing. I could brain my sister and Mark Taylor. He had put the idea of finding a well at the bottom of our property into the minds of the others, and they believed in it now. I did not.

  We stood around the dried-up pond. We kept goldfish in it in the old days. The water shortages put paid to that.

  “Mr Robinson, what was here before the pond?” wondered Mark Taylor.

  “An old, crumbling summerhouse,” replied father. “My father built it when he first bought this property in the middle of the last century.”

  I was too small to remember it.

  “I think we should start here,” said Mark Taylor.

  “There might be tons of concrete under here,” I warned.

  Mark Taylor smiled irritatingly. “There won’t be, believe me, Jade.”

  I didn’t. I glared at the back of his head. I’d figured out what his little game was. Mark Taylor was trying to ingratiate himself with daddy and the others. Well, it wouldn’t wash with me.

  Father and Mark Taylor started work immediately, breaking through the dried-up pond with pickaxes. They wouldn’t find anything down there, except more concrete or dirt. When they broke through the pond, they found old brickwork from the foundations of the summerhouse. I was right. It was more concrete. Mark Taylor had raised the others’ expectations, only to have them dashed. I remained the sceptic because I didn’t believe, so there were no hopes to be dashed.

  “The old summerhouse foundations,” remarked father, sounding disappointed. He wiped the sweat from his brow despite the cold, for it was hard, physical work.

  “Don’t look so smug, Jade. You don’t want us to find a well, do you?” accused Wendy.

  Her hurtful remarks stung me. How could she say that? It-It wasn’t true. I snatched the pickaxe from Mark Taylor, who looked startled.

  “You want a well? Then you shall have a well.” I smashed into the hard concrete with a look of grim determination set in my face.

  “Darling, is this fit of pique really necessary?” sighed mum, looking on helplessly.

  “Yes, Mum,” I grunted breathlessly as I swung the pickaxe once more, smashing into the stubborn, unyielding concrete. Then something odd happened. A small hole appeared in the ground.

  “Jade has found something,” said Mark Taylor excitedly as he examined the small hole.

  Oh, DROKK! I thought.

  The others took over, making the hole bigger.

  Wendy smirked. “Well done, Jade.”

  I remained unconvinced however. “It might not be anything.”

  “We’ll soon find out, Jade.” Mark Taylor picked up a stone and dropped it down the hole.

  We heard a splash a moment or two later.

  “Jade has found our well for us,” announced Mark Taylor with a grin on his face.

  The others laughed. Although I pouted and folded my arms petulantly, I was secretly pleased because it meant that we didn’t have to leave our London home, The Citadel, and move up to the wilds of Wales with Uncle Mike.

  Father tied a length of rope to a galvanised bucket and lowered it down into the hole. We waited expectantly. When he hauled the bucket back up, it was filled to the brim with muddy water. He tipped it out. The second wasn’t. It was crystal clear. It was water. It was more than that. It was fresh drinking water flowing under our property. It was the most beautiful sight in the world. Mother brought out some glasses, and we celebrated with a toast to our new discovery, drinking the nectar from the bottom of our well that tasted sweeter than wine.

  Mark Taylor started to bore us silly, going on and on about there being a network of old underground streams and rivers that still existed beneath the streets of London, especially in the suburbs. We weren’t aware of this till Mark Taylor told us. I wanted to gag him with a piece of old rope.

  It was evening.

  The others were downstairs. I checked, looking over the banisters at the top of the stairs, before I silently pulled down the steps, biting my lip. I climbed up into the attic.

  I stood in the middle of the attic, looking around. It wasn’t as I knew it in the old days when it was dad’s observatory before the coming of the comet. Mark Taylor had changed it. He had made it into his own room. I turned my attention to other things. I was up here for a reason. I was looking for something, but I didn’t know what it was yet. I’d know it when I’d found it. I started by searching through his hold-all that he had with him when he had first arrived here. I found old, smelly clothes. I discovered his single suit in the wardrobe. I went through his pockets. I came up empty. He was hiding something up here. What was it? When I looked under his pillow, I found a photo of a young, dark-haired girl, quite pretty, holding a baby. Who was she? I looked on the back of the photograph.

  She had written:

  “To Mark, love always, Kim.”

  My eyes narrowed darkly. Was Kim his wife? Was the infant his? I was determined to find out for my sister’s sake.

  I sat in the armchair in the living room later reading an old magazine that I’d read one hundred times before. I glanced at Wendy and Mark Taylor occasionally. They sat on the settee together, touching each other intimately. When he caught me, I stared him out till he looked away. I grinned behind my magazine. It was a small victory.

  As
I was going up to bed later, feeling tired after a long day, I was startled by Wendy, who pulled me into the bathroom, locking the door.

  “You nearly pulled my arm out of the socket,” I complained, rubbing my bruised arm.

  She stood in front of me aggressively with her hands on her hips. I could tell by her eyes that she was upset about something. I think I knew.

  I giggled nervously. “What’s up, Sis?”

  “You know what’s up, Jade Robinson. I want you to be nice to Mark,” answered Wendy.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I am.”

  “You’re trying to drive him away because you’re jealous,” said Wendy with a little tremble in her voice.

  I was astonished. “Don’t be ridiculous, Wendy. I have no designs on Mark Taylor whatsoever.” It was just an absurd idea. I wondered if I should tell Wendy about the picture that I’d found in the attic. I didn’t. I was loath to hurt her. She’d find out soon enough what a love rat Mark Taylor was. It would all end in tears. “We shouldn’t be fighting, Sis. I promise to be nice and sweet to Mark Taylor in future.” I said it with my fingers crossed behind my back.

  It was late.

  The Robinson family are great survivors. When the local sub-station crashed forever, we hooked up a salvaged generator to give us light and power. When we lost the gas later too, we salvaged an old iron range and a boiler to give mum heating for her cooking and our weekly hot baths. Wood fuel isn’t a real problem either with the woods nearby on the common and elsewhere. Then today we rediscovered the old well at the bottom of our garden. I grudgingly thank Mark Taylor for that. It was his idea after all, though I did in fact find it. The Robinson family have become great salvagers. That’s how we’ve managed to survive after the comet while others have perished along the way. Having a scientist for a father with a big brain also helps.

  I looked up from my diary when I heard something outside my door, puzzling me. I shut my diary and laid my pen on it. I carefully put them away into the drawer by my bed. I rose silently after a moment, taking the rifle down from the top of the wardrobe. I slipped some cartridges into my dressing gown pocket before I cautiously opened my bedroom door.

  Glancing up at the attic, I stepped across the landing with my rifle under my arm. When I looked over the banisters, I heard a noise downstairs.

  I crept down the stairs. I hesitated when I noticed a light coming from the kitchen. Someone was moving about in there. The door was ajar. I was unafraid. I was curious. I peered through the gap.

  Mark Taylor, who had dressed, opened the refrigerator and took out the fresh milk in the large, plastic container. He uncapped it and filled a bottle on the table, spilling a little. He wiped the spill with a cloth before he returned the milk to the refrigerator. He closed the plastic bottle. He took it with him. As he picked up an oil lamp, he unlocked the back door. He stepped outside, carefully closing the back door behind him.

  I waited a moment or two, throwing on my old anorak and boots, before I followed Mark Taylor. I remained a little baffled. What was he up to?

  I glanced at the black, starless night, frowning. The outhouse door was wide open. I saw a light moving inside the outhouse window. He was being too bloody obvious.

  Mark Taylor stood the oil lamp on the floor. He looked around slyly before he put some potatoes and other vegetables from our winter stores into a sack. He added a few apples. He then slipped the bottle of milk in with the rest of the stuff before he tied the sack with a length of rope. I’d seen enough.

  “Caught in the act.”

  He twisted around startled.

  “You stinking thief,” I spat viciously. “I should shoot you right between the eyes right now.”

  “J-Jade?”

  He looked aghast when I pointed my rifle at his head.

  “What do you have to say for yourself before I shoot you, thief?”

  “L-Let me explain, Jade,” he spluttered as the colour drained from his cheeks.

  “Explanations aren’t necessary, thief,” I snarled furiously. “We saved your neck from the Roamers, gave you shelter and food, and this is how you repay my father’s kindness; you steal our food. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you?”

  “P-Please, Jade.”

  I curled my finger around the trigger.

  Father and the others appeared at that point in winter coats over their dressing gowns and boots, spoiling things again when I’m having fun. Wendy wore a confused expression on her face.

  “Father, Mark Taylor is a common thief,” I said angrily. “We should shoot him.”

  Daddy frowned. “That’s enough, Jade.”

  I sighed and lowered my rifle. The other, who looked as if he would be sick, puffed out his white cheeks with relief.

  Father took the rifle and checked it. “Unloaded?” He shook his head.

  I giggled nervously.

  “I think you owe us an explanation, Mark,” demanded father sternly.

  “I-I wasn’t stealing the food for me, Sir. I feel bad enough as it is doing this to you, but you see, I was desperate, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Who was the food for, Mark?” asked mum in a quiet voice.

  But I could tell by her eyes that she felt betrayed nevertheless. We all were, including Wendy, who once loved him but not anymore.

  “My sister Kim and her little girl Jenny,” answered Mark Taylor.

  Kim! I thought astonished.

  Mark Taylor told his story: “Kim and her little girl have been living in an abandoned house not far from here. When my sister’s boyfriend was killed in the Oxford food riots, she and Jenny came down to London with me. We hid in the house for some days to avoid the Roamers and the other street gangs. We were getting desperate, and I had to take a risk, so I went out to find food. It was a mistake, a foolish thing to do. The Roamers found me first. Luckily you came along when you did.”

  Mum looked concerned. “Mark, where are they now?”

  “They wait outside,” revealed Mark Taylor. “I usually pass the food over the gate to them.”

  Daddy opened the big, heavy gates. A young, pretty, dark-haired girl, who looked scared, stood outside. A little girl with huge, black eyes hid behind her. Although they wore heavy coats, they were shivering with the cold or fear, or both. I’d seen them before in a photograph when I’d drawn the wrong conclusions. They were both older now.

  Mark Taylor stepped outside and spoke with his sister, reassuring her. He gently coaxed her and the small girl inside after a moment or two, although they remained wary of us.

  Daddy closed the big, heavy gates behind them. We all went inside out of the cold.

  When I saw Kim, Mark Taylor’s sister, in the hallway light, I thought that she looked very young. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen, yet Jenny was at least four years old. They seemed fascinated by the electric light.

  Wendy dashed upstairs and brought down some blankets while mother made some hot drinks and warmed up some milk for Jenny in the kitchen. Yes, we all wanted to help.

  We sat together in the living room while daddy stoked up the dying fire, throwing some logs on it. It spluttered into life after a moment or two, giving us instant warmth.

  Mark Taylor still had some more explaining to do. He wasn’t entirely off the hook yet.

  “Mark, why didn’t you tell us about your sister and her little girl earlier?” quizzed mum sternly.

  A very good question, I thought.

  “I was afraid of what you might say, Mrs Robinson,” replied Mark Taylor limply. “We didn’t want to impose.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Daddy’s eyes darkened. “Stealing food was the wrong way, Son.”

  “I know, Sir,” admitted Mark Taylor feebly. He was unable to meet father’s eyes.

  Although I’d forgiven Mark Taylor now that I knew the truth, I was still angry with him.

  Daddy stirred. “But we mustn’t dwell on the recen
t past. We’ve got to sort out some sleeping arrangements for your sister and her little girl.”

  “Kim and Jenny can sleep in my room,” I offered, surprising the others and myself.

  Kim smiled at me weakly.

  “Well, that’s settled then,” said father, rubbing his hands, when he had recovered from the shock.

  While father stoked up the boiler downstairs, I ran a hot bath upstairs for Kim and Jenny. When Kim slipped off her clothes, I was mildly shocked by her appearance. She was very thin and in need of lots of nourishment; whereas, Jenny, who was a little plump, had pink, healthy-looking skin. The milk and food had obviously been for Kim’s young daughter. There was a certain vulnerability about Kim. She was like a fragile china doll, and I resisted the temptation to take her into my arms and hold her tightly for a long moment for fear of breaking her. She was in need of some TLC. When Kim caught me, she lowered her eyes shyly.

  I stayed and shampooed Kim’s dirty, matted hair. Jenny splashed the water excitedly getting me all wet. It had been a long time for both of them.

  Kim spoke, “You’ve got power here, Jade. That surprised me.”

  “We salvaged an old generator,” I explained. “We’re rather good at that sort of thing now.” I laughed. “Today your brother discovered an old well at the bottom of our garden, so we’ve also got our own water supplies.”

  “Hot water?”

  “Coke boiler which burns wood. My father fitted it in after we lost the gas. He’s a scientist,” I said proudly.

  “Oh?”

  “He was the first person to predict that a large comet would hit the earth, but no one took him very seriously then till it was too late,” I revealed. I was no longer bitter with the rest of the world. It was unimportant. You cannot undo what has been done.

  After the bath, I wrapped a large towel around them both, giving them a little reassuring hug that lasted longer than a moment.

  I lent Kim my old pyjamas. Tommy gave Jenny his old pyjamas which fitted her almost perfectly.

  Another surprise awaited Kim and Jenny downstairs. Their eyes almost popped out of their heads when they saw the spread that mum and Wendy had laid out for them as I guided them into the kitchen. We sat them down and let them tuck in. Kim stopped eating after a moment or two, puzzling me. Large tears started to roll down her cheeks.