Scarlet Traces: An Anthology Based on H. G. Wells' War of the Worlds

by Edited by Ian Edginton

  Wilf tuned out the voice from the radio, concentrating instead on pouring a mug of hapa tea and moving to the small table in the cramped kitchen. He sat down and began to dig into his bowl of cereal, eyes studiously focused on the back of the Cornflakes packet in front of him on the table. He munched on the soggy flakes, spooning them almost unconsciously into his mouth, oblivious to the fat drips that fell, splashing his school tie.

  “Gods offer my wife relief in her travails,” the gentle voice of one of Wilf’s fathers, Dalfron, intoned as he bustled into the kitchen, the bright fabrics of his clothes a jaunty counterpoint to his washed-out blue face. Wilf had a vague memory of his Popa Dalfo being full of fun and energy when he was a young boy, brimming with endless enthusiasm and delight at the antics of his sons, but now his golden eyes only looked tired, the sparkle of vim evaporated. Looking after Wilf’s mother was taking its toll on Dalfron, and as the youngest husband in the marriage, the responsibility for the matriarch’s care fell to him. “Make sure you clear your breakfast things away, Wilfron.”

  “Yes, Popa,” Wilf replied, rising from his place at the table and clearing his nearly empty bowl. He placed the bowl in the sink, returning to the table to drink his hapa.

  “At least you will have finished your schooling soon and you can help the family. Your poor mother, gods bless her, needs all our support. She isn’t getting any better,” said Dalforn, fussing with the contents of a shelf, lifting and inspecting each of the small jars and bottles in turn, inspecting their labels and content. They contained traditional medicines from the home planet, Venusian cures—difficult and eye-wateringly expensive to obtain on their adopted world—mixed with supposedly efficacious Earth medicines. It was true; Wilf’s mother had been sick for as long as he could recall. He had been told countless times about the toll the family’s flight from occupied Venus had taken upon her health, how the family had been much reduced in wealth and status to the point where they were struggling refugees in a crumbling council house in Birmingham.

  Wilf felt his shoulders tense at his father’s words, conscious of the silence that now hung in the room. It was true, Venusian tradition had it that the youngest son would stay at home upon reaching adulthood and help in the home, learning the skills that would make him a prized match when it was time for him to marry into his own polygamous matriarchy.

  But Wilf, raised in the second city of the world’s greatest empire, had absorbed too much of the independent will of the British. He wanted more than to tend house and see to the needs of some faded Venusian clan-mother. He wanted to break out of the narrow confines of his immigrant traditions. Here the future had opened out before him: there were opportunities at every turn. Living on Earth, knowing the history of this country and its Wars of the Worlds, he wished to choose his own path and not the one dictated by the redundant expectations of a now lost home world or those of his family.

  But right now he couldn’t face another of the inevitable arguments that would grow out of the revelation of his rejection of Venusian cultural heritage. He would continue to bury it, hide it, almost hoping that once a decision had to be made, it would be too late—and he would be free. So all he said in response was, “Yes, Popa Dalfo.”

  “You’re a good boy, Wilfron. Your Moma and Popas know you won’t let us down.”

  He fled the home for school, the weight of an entire world upon his shoulders.

  The door closed behind Wilf as he stepped out onto the street. Out of many front doors all along the terrace of orange-bricked houses people were emerging to start their days of work or school.

  A few younger kids punted a heavy leather football to each other across the road, attracting the ire of passing motorists who had to stop abruptly to avoid hitting a child. Men in practical clothes stalked along the path to catch a bus or a tram, many sporting lit cigarettes they would puff on their way to one of the many factories in the city. They were of all races—white, black, Asian. And even a smattering of newer arrivals from Venus, their blue skin pale as cornflowers in the sullen overcast autumnal sky.

  The door of a house further down the street opened and a peal of laughter added to the morning symphony. A tall man in a rough woollen suit, his head capped with a shock of brylcreamed white hair, was pursued by a young woman in a blue nylon housecoat.

  “I’ve got to go to work, love,” the man pleaded as the woman put her arms around his neck and pulled his grinning face toward hers.

  “Wouldn’t you rather stay ’ere?” said the woman, her mouth close to his.

  “‘Allo Alfron,” said Wilf, greeting his older brother with an amused tone. “Aren’t you going to be late for work?”

  Alfron and the woman—Norma, Wilf thought she was called—separated. Norma’s face was pale, her lips coloured an electric blue that matched her eyeshadow, her hair an actinic platinum blonde. Her annoyance faded quickly as she focused on Wilf, her hands resting on her hips, and a leering smile came to her face. “Who’s this, Alfie? ’E’s never your little bruvver is ’e? Where you been ’idin’ then, bab?”

  “Now come on, Norma, leave the kid alone,” said Alfron, his hands grasping Norma’s shoulders. “Look, I’ve got to go to work, so I will see you later, love.” He planted a kiss on her forehead.

  “You bloody well better see me later!” Norma replied, her right hand curling around to squeeze Afron’s buttock with a wink. “Ta-ra a bit, bab.”

  “Ta-ra, love,” replied Alfron. “Come on, squirt, I need a bit of grub before I go to the bladder factory.” This was the name everyone used to call the Wright, Layman and Umney spacesuit factory Alfron worked at. Like many trades that supported Britain’s Empire in the stars, they had a plant in Birmingham, City of a Million Trades. With the bulk manufacturing done in the North on the mechanised works, it fell to the venerable cities of the Midlands with their history of precision engineering to produce much of the high-specification technology such as spacesuits. The boost received by the temporary relocation of the capital in the thirties after the Bombardment had also cemented its formidable place in the Empire’s machinery of interplanetary conquest.

  “Good night then, ‘Alfie’?” Wilf said sarcastically, digging his elbow into his brother’s side. “Like a bit of Venusian sausage, does she?” He started to giggle.

  “Sod off, you cheeky little bugger.” He said this around a cigarette he had retrieved from his jacket pocket. His hands fished around for something to light it, eventually doing so with a match which he then casually flicked away. He drew on the rather crumpled cylinder, pinching it tightly between thumb and forefinger as he exhaled a cloud of grey smoke that dissipated quickly. “’Ow’s herself today?” he asked, face turning serious for a second.

  “Dunno. Another rough night, I think,” Wilf replied.

  “Best off out of it then, I reckon,” replied Alfie around his cigarette. “Few pints down the Woodbine, chat up a bit of skirt, fish’n’chip supper and a cosy bed for the night. Sounds better to me.” They turned onto a busier street, the noise of the road a mixture of electric buzzing and the ‘tick-tick-tick’ of older vehicles with their Martian-style articulated legs. Vans unloaded their goods to shopkeepers who in turn laid out their goods for customers—the multifarious exoticism of multiple cultures from not just one but two worlds. Venusian fruits sat beside cloth from the far-flung outposts of the British Empire, cheap Chinese gadgets next to LPs of American pop music. Britain of the 1960s was a veritable cornucopia in the grip of the ‘white heat of modernity’ as some government minister had said.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit weird, these human women who…you know?” Wilf raised his eyebrows knowingly.

  “Why should I judge? It’s not like it’s a chore or nothing,” responded Alfie, slightly defensively, “And if it gets me out of the house, what do I care?”

  “But don’t you care what our Popas think? Or Moma? What about when you get bonded to your wife? What are you going to do then?” Wilf could feel his jealousy at his br
other’s apparent disregard for Venusian traditions making his voice rise.

  Alfie took a long drag on his dwindling cigarette and flicked it away into the road. He shrugged his shoulders and let out a cloud of smoke with a sigh. “Dunno. Don’t care. It’s my life, I’ll do what I want. I’m not going to be ruled by the ways of the old world that we won’t ever see again.” He paused, evidently warming to the subject. “The oldies think that one day we’ll go back, the Martians will be kicked off Venus by the brave humans and their armies, but it ain’t ever going to happen.” He seemed to shrink slightly, his tirade robbing him of his usual bravado. “I’m going to make the best of it here, now. And as long as I have a few bob in my pocket and a bird to shag on Friday night that’s enough for me, and family tradition can sod off.”

  Wilf was shocked by the candour of his brother’s words. He clearly too felt the burden of tradition upon him, but he had embraced the new possibilities that life on Earth offered him. But he wasn’t the youngest. He had some power to determine his own path. The wayward middle son. “It’s fine for you, Alfie, you’re not the youngest, you don’t have to stay at home.”

  The silence of a bald truth hung between the brothers who had stopped in front of the steamy windows of a café. ‘Figgy’s’ it proclaimed above the door, a common sight on the streets of most towns and cities of Britain, a place for a brew and a natter. “You’ve got to do what’s best for you Wilf. It’s a new world, a new way of life.” Alfie paused, the honesty in his earnest expression quickly dissipating to be replaced by his usual insouciance. “You want anything, or have you got to scuttle off to school?” Alfie asked, a softness entering his voice.

  “Better go. Don’t want to bring the family into disrepute by getting the cane for being late,” replied Wilf, rolling his eyes in mock disgust. But it quickly changed into something all too real. The expectation of his family, his people, tightening his throat and making it hard to swallow.

  “All right then, mate. Ta-ra,” Alfie said and watched as his brother turned away and walked off down the bustling street to school. He understood the pressure Wilf was under. He felt it himself. But rather than face it, he ducked and dived and ran away from it, choosing instead the oblivion of booze and casual sex. He turned and pushed the door to the café open, “Oi, Gino, cup of that fancy frothy coffee mate!” he called to the proprietor. Another day.

  THE BOYS OF Handsworth Grove Grammar School shuffled into the hall and arranged themselves in ranks before the stage at the front of the space. From his vantage point on the balcony at the rear of what was known as ‘Big School’, Wilf looked down upon his fellow schoolboys. Only the sixth form were granted access to the balcony for assemblies to physically embody their status as the top of the school. The light came in through the tall church-like windows of the hall, and it also made the large stained-glass memorial to Old Boys who had fallen in the Wars of the Worlds glow with vibrant detail. The window depicted various English heroes of the past, kings and commoners alike—Alfred the Great, Henry the Fifth, Drake, Nelson, Captain Chambers of the Thunder Child—embodiments of the values of the Empire. It meant little to Wilf beyond what he had learnt in his history lessons.

  The hall was flanked by panels of dark wood with the names of those Old Boys who had attained the highest academic honours from both within the school and beyond in the lofty heights of academia. These memorials to past glories held more sway over Wilf’s imagination than the depictions of heroism and conflict. The exotic language of learning, the litany of places beyond the teeming industrial vistas of Birmingham and the Black Country, spoke to Wilf, tugged at his imagination.

  Gave him hope of a different life.

  The susurrus of whispering schoolboys ceased as the headmaster and his retinue swept toward the stage, gowned and be-mortared in academic dress. The headteacher took his place behind the lectern and cleared his throat. “Good morning, boys,” he began.

  Very quickly Wilf lost interest in the dry words of the headmaster with his usual intonements of displeasure and appeals to good scholarly effort. Like probably many in the room, Wilf allowed the clipped words to form a background to his own thoughts. That was until a sharp dig in the ribs brought him back to the there and then. The elbow came from the boy next to him, his friend Harshdeep Dhillon. Like Wilf, he was a child bound by the expectations and traditions of his family and culture and somebody whose ethnicity made him stand out amongst the rest of the school. As a result, Wilf and Harshdeep had become firm friends, their difference drawing them together.

  “Old Hilly is going off on one again today, eh Wilf?” whispered Harshdeep as he tipped his head toward Wilf.

  “Chapter and verse, chapter and verse,” he replied through a closed mouth, a slight nod of his head underlining his agreement with his friend.

  Eventually the assembly concluded and the boys began to shuffle back to their lessons. The sixth-formers exited the balcony with more chatter and jostling than the younger students, not being under the watchful eyes of the teaching staff. Wilf and Harshdeep too were chatting enthusiastically when an imposing figure stepped into their path.

  “You two need to be more respectful when the headmaster addresses the school.” The rebuke was loaded with menace and was uttered by Conrad Turner, the Head Boy. He stood before the pair, tall and broad-shouldered, jet black hair capping a contemptuous face with cruel, piercing eyes. He was flanked by two prefects, heavy set and intimidating gazes. His blazer sported the school badge of Full Colours and his cuffs bore three stripes of golden piping. Everything in his manner was one of imperiousness and superiority.

  Harshdeep was unperturbed by Turner’s words and responded dismissively, “Very good, sir!” he mockingly came to attention and saluted, eliciting a guffaw from Wilf. It was well known that Turner was heading for Sandhurst and he happily adopted the manner of the sneering officer class from his position as Head Boy.

  Turner stepped toward Harshdeep, his finger stabbing into his chest. “Watch it, you little brown shit, don’t think you’re special just because you’re the only one with a towel on your head.” His head jerked, indicating Harshdeep’s blue turban. “We may have let darkies like you in, but you still need to show respect to your superiors.”

  Wilf stood by his friend as Turner’s abuse took place, his face a carefully composed neutral. It was the best way to deal with these kinds of confrontations with the likes of Turner—remain passive, don’t give them a reason to spend any more time than necessary focusing on you. It was a lesson Wilf, like all the non-white pupils of the school, learnt very early on, frequently after a sound beating in the school quad. Bloody noses, but lesson learnt.

  But sometimes even passivity failed as a defence. Turner rounded on Wilf, warming to his false sense of offended school honour. “And you, you blue space wog, remember what we do to invaders from another world.” He cuffed Wilf around the head, just hard enough to send him stumbling slightly.

  “Bloody hell, Turner, there’s no need for that!” Harshdeep cried out indignantly.

  “Shut it, darkie!” was Turner’s response. His eyes narrowed as he looked Wilf up and down, clearly disliking what he saw. “You blue goblin bastard! I will never understand why we let you lot land. Should have let you rot in outer-space. Is it true you all have a gang-bang every night and your mum watches your dads shag each other?”

  “Lucky for us that there are nicer people than you running the place,” countered Wilf, not rising to the ignorant interpretation of the Venusian matriarchy.

  Turner started abruptly forward, as did his wingmen. He pushed his face toward Wilf, spraying his face with spittle as he snapped his words. “But I am as far as you are concerned, you cheeky little sod. You and your darkie bumboy here need to watch your step. This world belongs to us.” He jabbed his thumb toward his own chest. “We kicked the Martians off and we’re wise to you blue Venusian bastards trying to destroy us from the inside with your weird food and queer families.”

  “Pus
h off, you freaks,” chipped in one of Turner’s chums.

  They stood facing each other for a few more seconds, Harshdeep wide-eyed with intimidation and Wilf impassive. “Come on, mate,” said Wilf stepping forward toward the unmoving Turner and his henchmen. He shouldered his way between Turner and one of the prefects and Harshdeep followed sheepishly.

  “Sod off back where you came from,” was Turner’s parting shot as the pair joined the thronging corridor. “If it was down to me, I’d go to where they came from and shoot the bloody lot of them,” he added to his appreciative audience.

  “I’m from bloomin’ West Bromwich!” muttered Harshdeep, regaining a little of his courage again. Wilf smiled in response to his friend’s minor defiance, and the pair headed toward their first lesson of the day.

  Later that day, over steaming bowls of some stodgy school pudding, Wilf listened to his friend lament the weight of expectation upon him. “You will go to medical school and become a doctor!” Harshdeep recounted with his best Panjabi accent, his finger wagging admonishingly. “You will not bring shame upon this family by becoming a journalist concerned only with the gossip of idiots!” He spooned more dessert into his mouth, smiling around it.

  Wilf chuckled in response to his friend’s impression, but it quickly faded as he considered his own circumstances. “At least you will get out, do something. I finish here and I’m straight home, never to leave until I’m married off to some fat or wrinkly old matriarch to improve the status of the family in the community.” Stating his fate so plainly only made the feeling of being trapped by his future stronger.

  “Why can’t you apply to university?” Harshdeep asked.

  “Same reason you can’t not do Medicine—my family have expectations of me,” Wilf replied despondently. There was indeed no academic barrier to Wilf’s progression to university. He was an excellent student. Certainly the school expected and were prepared to support him in his application.