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The Day of the Bombardment
I was in the gardens behind the pool house when it happened.
You know that story “Chicken Little” and how he talked about “the sky falling”. It’s such a stupid statement that you don’t blame people when nobody believed him.
But when it happened, it was exactly like the sky fell.
It was a shadow on the ground that grew larger and larger and by the time you look up, it was already too late.
When I woke up later, it felt as if my entire body has just been slammed against a mountain wall and dragged a hundred feet sideways for good measure. Something heavy was pressing down on me. My face hurt and my eyes felt like needles were stabbing my eyeballs. I scrabbled around me, my fingers digging into soft grassy earth for a moment, before I pulled them out to tentatively touch whatever was on top of me. It felt like wood slats. I pushed at it, grateful when it shifted, then pushed at it even more so that it slid to my right with a sharp whack as it landed on another wooden piece.
I levered myself up to a sitting position, dirt clinging. I moved like an old man, feeling a general ache all over me. I kept my eyes closed, just that bit too scared to open them. I wiped my hands on my clothes before I began to tentatively wipe at my face, hissing as my fingers brushed against tender spots that felt like burns and scratches. The pain in my eyes were such that I was actually crying, which ironically help flush out the grit and dirt. I blinked rapidly, grateful that I could see, even if it was blurry and wavery. I don’t know how long it took before my eyes cleared enough to look around.
The pool house, with its neat white wooden walls and glass roof, lay as if a giant had stepped on it. Parts of the structure still stood erect, but there were shattered wood and glass all over. A small piece of the wall had actually fallen on top of me and I think that was what saved me in the end.
From beyond the pool house was a massive crater that was at least ten feet in diameter. I couldn’t see how deep it went from where I was sitting. But that didn’t matter, not when I realized exactly what I was looking at.
Just beyond the poolhouse had been one of the garden pavilions, white and pretty, with rose bushes all around. It was a short walk from the house’s east wing and was my grandmother’s favorite place to have tea or take family pictures.
My grandparents had been sitting in that pavilion, enjoying an afternoon tea. We had all been planning on going to the theatre in the early evening. It was Les Miserables, a favorite of my grandfather, who fondly remembers the time when he had been poor and miserable but hardworking and gutsy (according to him, anyway - this description always made my grandmother smile wryly in response). It was something we did every December. It was tradition.
Now that pretty little pavilion was gone.
Just gone.
My chest hitched and my breathing grew ragged. My eyes blurred again even as I fisted my hands on my clothes.
I don’t know how many minutes passed before that first crippling wave of grief washed over me. I may still be sitting there, paralysed, if it wasn’t for the fact that I could hear voices.
Rough voices calling out, words unintelligible.
I had to get on my hands and feet first before I could find the strength to get on my feet. Once on my feet, I took several deep breaths and patted my eyes dry with the collar of my shirt. I began to jog lightly around the ruins of the pool house and skirted the crater’s edge, not looking at it. Instead, I looked up and to my right.
Archer House, my grandmother’s family home for four generations, looked like Cookie Monster took a bite of the eastern wing. It was macabre, how I could actually see the interior of the house, with its squared off rooms and furnishings and décor, like a dollhouse that’s been split open. I saw chairs tumbled over, paintings fallen over, pieces of the ceiling hanging in ghastly strips. There were shattered pieces of metal, wiring, wood, and glass everywhere. I tried not to look to closely.
I did not want to see too much.
I didn’t realize I was crying again until the tears ran down my scalded cheeks and the burn bit into me. I didn’t stop to wipe them away. I didn’t think I would ever really stop spontaneously crying. Fucking stupid shit.
I reached the turn of the house which led to what remained of the original U-shaped building. Three people, all clutching and helping each other forward, were stumbling out of the house. I recognized Titus Anders, our old butler, helping Jonas ‘call me Gormy’, his son and our assistant chef, walk forward. It was Titus who periodically lifted his head to call out: “Sir!”, “Madam!”, and even “Young Sir!” He stopped as he caught sight of me jogging towards them. “Young Sir!” His face, ghastly white, lit up with a relieved smile that strained at the edges as he realized I was alone.
Cluthing at Gormy’s shirt were two girls that I didn’t know, both older than me and quite pretty. One was a tall, slim black girl with shoulder-length dreadlocks held back by a red scarf in dusty jeans and a dirty white shirt. The other was also tall, but slightly curvier, a blonde with a pixie cut and pale eyes, also in dirty jeans and white shirt. All of them had the look of shellshock victims.
Gormy didn’t look badly hurt, but there was something in his face that seemed strange, almost fragile.
I stopped by them, taking several deep breaths. Titus, as if my coming had cut off some marionette’s strings, fell to his knees, followed by Gormy. Tears were running down his bony cheeks. Gormy buried his face in his hands, shivering. The two girls had let go of Gormy and remained standing, but they huddled together, clutching hands, violent shudders beginning to wrack their forms. We were all crying, but few sounds escaped. It was as if we were all worried that anything too loud would start off another bombardment.
“Young Sir, are you alright?” Titus asked, reaching out to me. We didn’t usually touch, being servant and master in a very old fashioned sense, but I reached out to grip his bony, large-knuckled fingers tightly. The sudden shock of human warmth made me shiver again, made me realize how cold the rest of my body was compared to the warmth around my hands.
“I’m fine,” I said. I was midly surprised at how steady my voice was. I didn’t fall on my knees. With the way my legs felt, I knew that I would never be able to stand up again and I just can’t. We don’t have the time for that.
My grandparents were gone.
I blinked rapidly, the familiar moisture seeping away. I wiped at my eyes with my collar again. “Is it just the four of you from the house?”
Titus took out a handkerchief and wiped at his face, clearing away the tears and the dirt streaks. “Yes, sir. These girls are Adelaide and Joanna from the events company. They came with the supplies to set up the ballroom. There were four of them . . .”
It was the black girl who spoke, her dark pupils enormous against the whites of her eyes. “Michael and Andrew . . . they’re . . . they’re . . .” She couldn’t continue, just hiccupped and buried her face against the other girl’s shoulder.
Titus scrubbed at his face again, and took a long, shuddering breath. “I was in the opposite wing with Adelaide, she was asking about where we kept our own Christmas decorations. Miles and Amanda were with the people from the events company – Miles was supposed to be talking to them about the proposed menu and Amanda was there to help supervise the work. Jonas . . . Jonas was in the kitchen with Joanna, they were unpacking the sample trays. They passed by us to go to the other wing . . .”
Amanda Whiting had been my grandparents’ housekeeper for as long as I could remember. She was a friendly, motherly woman who was dedicated at organizing and made sure the house was well-maintained and that parties happened on schedule. Miles Timothy was our family chef, hired straight from culinary school by my grandfather upon a friend’s recommendation, and had since then travelled to learn from other restaurants before returning. Gormy had been his sous chef in training, having recently just finished culinary school.
Before I could say anything, three people ran towards us from another direction. It was our gardeners, Henry Douglas, and his two sons, Donny and Mac. They also looked unscathed, but then, it looked as if they were coming from the old carriage house, far to the western side of the estate. All of them looked clean with worried expressions, which argued that the western side hadn’t been bombarded.
Actually, out of all of us, I was probably the only one who looked like he was in need of disaster relief aid.
They stopped and bent double, gasping for breath. Donovan had to help brace his father, who was less robust than his sons. It was Mac, regaining his breath first, who said rapidly, overexcited, “We were all watching TV when we heard the blast, must have been a sonic boom! It rattled the carriage house so bad, it shattered the windows and the cabinets actually flew open and our china fell out onto the floor!” Mac was jittering, shakily tapping his feet, even as he gaped at the remains of the house behind them.
“Sir, what about . . .” Henry fell silent. All heads suddenly turned to look at me, then down. I don’t know what expression was on my face but I could see the horror and grief dawning on their faces. We had no time for that, not now.
Not when we have no idea what’s going to happen next.
“Is anyone among you injured? Speak up!” My tone was harsh as I let go of Titus’ hands. I slid my hands into my jeans pockets and narrowed my eyes at all of them. They all looked up at me, even Gormy, and shook their heads.
“For all we know, there might be another bomb coming.” Gasps and shudders all around. “But we can’t just all run off like our heads have been cut off.”
I took a deep breath, my mind racing. I dabbed at my face with my collar again, not caring at the smears that had muddied the once pristine white silk. My face felt alternately warm and hot, prickling in the areas where I was pretty sure I had minor burns and scratches. It was like ice was prickling at my nape and spreading down and up my spinal cord and into every part of me. I felt numb, deadened, but this is good – I had no time right now for grief and misery and more useless tears. “Mac, run to the garage, and get all three of the Land Rovers running. We’ll need them so make sure they’re all topped up and that we have spares and extra gas. Empty out the back – we’ll need all the room we can spare. The garage should be on our side, so it should have been safe from the blast. If not,” I hardened my tone, “see if you can find any other vehicles that we can use.”
Mac nodded and ran to the garage.
Everyone was staring at me, their eyes like holes in their faces. I felt naked under their stares, under their hidden and not so hidden demands. I refused to let myself flinch.
“Gormy, get yourself together and take Joanna with you to the kitchen. Pack up everything we have that’s canned, preserved, dried, etc. Make sure to pack them in three separate sections – we’ll put some in each car. Joanna, make sure that you pack towels, knives, can openers, plastic containers, Ziplocs – anything and everything in the kitchen that we might be able to use if we have to go camping. There should also be two fire extinguishers there and an emergency hatchet by the kitchen hallway – bring those to the garage as well.
“Titus, take Adelaide with you and pack everything else in the house that could be useful. The library survived – Titus, you should know where everything is – see if you can grab any books on wildlife, forest, survival, anything that may help us survive if we do have to stay away from the city for a time or even have to drive across state on our own.”
The old man got to his feet with the blonde girl’s help. Both of them nodded and hurried, stumbling, back inside the house. Neither looked to the right, where the gaping ruin of the eastern wing still stood. It took the black girl, Joanna, pulling at Gormy persistently with soft encouraging whispers to get the younger man on his feet but they were soon following after the other two.
I turned to the others. “Henry, bring a spade and some of your smaller gardening tools. I don’t know if we’ll need them – but I’d rather have them than not. Donny, come with me.”
Henry nodded and turned back to where he came from. Donny came up to my side, following me as I jogged inside.