This kind of physical work didn’t come naturally to Caron anymore, but she bit her tongue and smiled when she needed to so as not to offend anyone. There were worse jobs to be had around here. She left the museum/storeroom and looked out across the courtyard as she walked. Elsewhere, Jackson had a group of people gathered around him, all trying to assemble some kind of bizarre construction out of wood and ropes close to where, according to some plans she’d been looking at, the kitchens had once been Elsewhere, people were chopping wooden pallets for firewood, making an industry out of something which probably didn’t require such large amounts of effort, grading wood into large, medium, and small pieces and storing them in a dry shelter. Others were cleaning the caravans. Someone else was burning rubbish …
Too busy watching what was happening elsewhere and not concentrating on where she was going, she literally walked into Hollis. He jumped with surprise.
“Sorry, Greg.”
“My fault,” he mumbled apologetically. “I wasn’t looking. You okay?”
“Fine.”
“Been working hard?” he asked with a grin. He knew she hadn’t.
“To all intents and purposes.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She glanced around before putting down a bucketful of cleaning equipment. She moved a pair of unused yellow rubber gloves to reveal a well-thumbed paperback, half a bottle of wine, and some chocolate wrappers.
“Between you and me,” she said secretively, “I’ve been taking it easy.”
“I’m surprised at you,” Hollis said, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “What would our Mr. Jackson say if he found out?”
“You’re not going to rat on me, are you?” she asked, knowing full well that he wasn’t. “Honestly, Greg, I know we didn’t know each other before all this madness, but you know me well enough by now. Dirty, hard, physical work … it’s just not my style.”
“Caron,” he said, grinning, “I know you well enough to understand that you’re probably the person least suited to dirty, physical work I’ve ever met. Just keep your head down and get it done though, eh? A few more months and we’ll be able to stop hiding away like this and you can go wherever you want then. Let your new house get as dirty as you damn well please. Spend your life doing whatever you like. You could live like a pig in shit if it’d make you happy.”
“Quite,” she said, not sure how she was supposed to respond to that.
“Anyway,” Hollis said, excusing himself, “speaking of shit, I’d best get to work myself.”
“Oh, Greg, you’re not?”
“And you thought you’d got it bad, eh?”
Caron laughed and picked up her stuff and walked on, leaving Hollis to head in the opposite direction. He’d have gladly swapped duties with Caron, but he knew she’d have balked at the very idea of slopping out. Someone had to do it, though, and at least working around the chemical toilets kept him away from everyone else. Right now, that was how he liked it.
14
Jackson was standing at the edge of the courtyard, near to where a number of interior walls had once stood. They were just crumbled ruins now, as dilapidated as everything else, but a single feature remained which still interested him—a well. They’d not yet managed to ascertain whether the water source was still there and accessible, but Jackson intended to find out. They had enough bottled water to see them through for a while longer, but having a steady supply on tap would make things immeasurably easier for everyone. Bob Wilkins had some engineering experience, and Charlie Moorehouse had been a Scout leader for a while. Between them they thought they’d be able to improvise a basic rope and pulley system to lower a bucket deep enough down and find out whether or not the well was dry.
A number of other people had been conscripted to help. Lorna, Mark Ainsworth, Paul Field, and Harte were busy digging a series of four holes around the well. Bob and Charlie were constructing two A-frames out of wood they’d taken from a working model of a catapult they’d found stored around the back of the museum, the feet of which were to be sunk into the four holes before the two frames were connected to make something that would hopefully resemble a child’s swing. That was the plan, anyway.
“Want a hand?” Ainsworth asked Lorna.
“You’ve got your own hole to dig,” she said. “No thanks.”
“I’m almost done. You’ve barely started.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“We could swap sides if the ground’s too hard over there. I don’t mind.”
“Did you not hear her?” Field sighed. “Fucking moron.”
“I said I’m fine,” Lorna snapped, panting with the effort of the dig.
“Just trying to help, that’s all,” Ainsworth said.
“Well, I don’t need any help. Jesus Christ, this isn’t the 1970s. Women are able to dig holes, you know.”
“Bloody hell, you’re touchy today, aren’t you?”
“Leave her alone, Mark,” Harte said.
“And what are you, her boyfriend?” Ainsworth sneered.
“Get a grip,” Harte said and he carried on digging. Lorna dropped her shovel. “You okay?”
“Going to get a drink,” she said. “Back in a minute.”
The three men watched her disappear. Ainsworth caught Harte’s eye and grinned at him.
“She’s great, isn’t she? Cracking pair of tits.”
“Damn right,” Field sniggered.
“For fuck’s sake,” Harte sighed, “is that all you’ve got to say about her? Lorna’s got me out of more scrapes than I can remember. She’s a fucking diamond. Bloody hell, the whole world’s fallen apart and all you can say about her is she’s got nice tits. There are better ways of assessing a person’s worth, you know.”
Jackson watched Harte and Ainsworth from a short distance away, feeling unexpectedly uneasy. Their conversation sounded alien and out of place. Ainsworth was talking the way people used to talk, back in the days when trivialities and appearances seemed to be all that mattered. The stakes were much higher now. There was no room here for petty arguments and superficial romances. Maybe in the future things would be different, but not yet. Not for a long time yet.
“Hold it steady,” Charlie grumbled.
“Sorry.”
Jackson had been supporting the top of one of the A-frames, trying to keep it steady as Charlie attempted to drill through a wooden post with a hand-drill which looked so old it could have come from the museum. They’d had to cannibalize and improvise to find enough materials, lashing the sections of wood together with tow ropes they’d found in the back of a truck.
Charlie grunted with effort, changed his grip and his stance, then began drilling again. His round, childlike face was an uncharacteristically flustered red, and sweat poured from him. He was almost through, though, and he kept working. Another few minutes’ effort and the tip of the drill bit finally poked through the other side.
“Bloody hell,” he said, wiping his brow. “Half an hour, that took.”
“I know,” said Jackson.
“Used to be able to cut a hole like that in seconds.”
“I know,” he said again. “We need to source some generators when we next get out of here. Try and get a decent power supply.”