THE DEVIL’S CHILDREN
by
PETER DICKINSON
An Atlantic Monthly Press Book boston Little, Brown and Company
TORONTO
THE DEVIL’S CHILDREN
I
BECOMING A CANARY
NICOLA GORE,” said Nicky. “I am Nicola Gore.”
She turned on her right heel, kicking herself around and around with her left foot, until the leather of the heel began to drill a neat, satisfying hole among the roots of the six-inch grass.
“Nicola Gore,” she said as she spun. “Nicola Gore. Nicola Gore. Nicola Gore.”
She was talking to herself, of course, because there was no one else to talk to. The last living person she’d seen had been the one-legged old man who sat on his doorstep in the sun, waiting to die and talking about his boyhood in Hammersmith sixty years ago, when the noise of London traffic had been the rattle and grate of iron wheels on cobbles.
Now the only noise was birdsong, and Nicky say-
ing her own name to herself, aloud in the enormous loneliness.
The old man had gone from his doorstep twelve days ago. She had promised not to try and look for him, because he had said his going would be the sign.
And it was nineteen days before that since she’d last talked to anyone she really knew, anyone who loved her. She turned and turned. It was taking longer to get dizzy now than it had when she'd first discovered the trick.
They weren’t going to come and find her now, were they? She’d done what she’d always been told to, if ever she was lost —waited where she’d last seen Mummy and Daddy, waited for a day and a night and another day, watching the dull-eyed ranks of refugees straggle towards Dover. Then she had set her chin and walked the other way, back to the drained city, looking at all the faces of the people who were leaving but not answering any questions, no matter how kindly. If she went home, someone would come and look for her, surely.
But they hadn’t.
Just in time, before the tears came, the long wave of dizziness began to wash over her. Nicky had discovered this trick quite early. If you could get yourself dizzy enough, you stopped being Nicola Gore, alone and frightened and miserable in great empty London, and you became a sort of daze without a name, a blurred bit of a blurred world. She went on turning as long as she could still stand. Then she fell.
When the blurs began to settle into shapes again they were the tops of trees. She lay on her back in the spider-peopled grass and looked at the blue, unmottled sky. It had been like that every day, except for the hideous thunderstorm on the road to Dover. Would it last forever? No, it was July now, but one day it would be winter. She’d have to go before then. She ought to go now, before she caught the sickness down the road, or another sickness from living on lemonade and crisps and nuts looted out of empty pubs. She must set her chin again, become hard and uncaring, endure a world of strangers.
She knew that when it came to leaving she would need something to make her do it, but the impulse to action levered her out of the grass. Listlessly she looked around the place which five weeks ago had been called Shepherd’s Bush Green, London, W.14. A four-acre triangle of turf, crisscrossed with paths and dotted with trees; around it ran a wide road; blank shops lined the northern side, and unfinished towers of flats .and offices rose to the south. Nasty engines squatted in the road, silent and useless; they were all dead, since the people who had once made them work and move had left, but even so Nicky preferred not to go near them. Luckily there were gaps between them, where Nicky could tiptoe through, then scamper along the pavement of Shepherd’s Bush Road, around the corner and home.
That’s where she ought to be now, waiting in case they came after all, but it was better here among the trees. This was where you could get furthest from the dead machines and the black unnatural roads that stank strangely under the downright sun. And she had pinned her notice to the door, saying where she was, just as she’d done for the last twenty-eight days. Still, perhaps she’d better go and see.
She turned listlessly on her heel again, knowing it was useless to go back home and that she would have to make the effort not to cry when she got there and found the notice untouched. Dully she kept turning, like a slow top, and felt her heel beginning to bite yet another neat round hole into the earth below the squashed grass.
About the ninth time she went around she saw a movement up at the east end of the Green.
At first she thought that it was just the dizziness, coming sooner than usual and making the world tilt about, but next time around she stopped being a top and stood swaying and peering. The movement was people.
For no reason she slid toward the nearest tree trunk and hid.
There were quite a lot of them, and the colors were wrong. It was like a procession in fancy dress. All the men had beards, and they wore mauve and pink and purple hats. No, not hats. There was a word for them . . . and there was a word for the women’s bright, slim dresses, which reached right down to their ankles . . . and another word for these people with their strange clothes and beards and brown skins ... or was it all something she had once dreamed she knew about? There were blank bits in her mind nowadays. Perhaps it was the loneliness.
Four of the men came in front, carrying heavy sticks; behind them marched a big group pushing carts and prams or carrying bright-colored bundles; several children walked among the prams; one cart was covered with cushions, on which an old lady was propped up; at the back came another four men, also armed with heavy sticks. They moved very slowly, like a funeral, along the north side of the Green. They were quite silent, apart from the iron wheels of the handcarts grating on the tarmac, until they were nearly opposite where Nicky was hiding.
Then a high voice shrieked an incomprehensible sentence from amid the group of prams and the whole procession halted. They all began talking together as they spread themselves out on the grass, sat down and started to eat the food which the women passed among them.
They looked very strange, very different from anyone Nicky had ever known.
But they were people, and they were going somewhere.
Her mind made itself up without being asked. She slipped away along the tree trunks, across the road at the gap between the bad machines, along the pavement to where the old traffic lights stood blind as stone, left down Shepherd’s Bush Road — walking now, and panting with the heat, and her neck sore from where the collar of her filthy shirt stuck to the sweaty skin — and along her home street.
Not home any more. The street was dead, and buzzing with flies in the stinking, tarry heat.
Yes, her note was pinned to the pink door, untouched; but this time she didn’t feel her throat narrowing and her eyes peppery with useless tears. She pushed the door open and ran up the stairs to her own room. Even this, with its brown carpet and the pictures of ships on the walls, didn’t feel like home now. She took her satchel from the shelf, wiped the dust off it with her sleeve, undid the straps and tilted the meaningless books out onto the floor. Into the bottom of the satchel she stuffed a jersey, a spare skirt, her party blouse, the socks she’d managed to wash in soda water, and her gym shoes.
Anything else which she needed or wanted? Not Teddy, comfort though he’d been. None of the school uniform. Nothing to make her remember home or Mummy or Daddy. That was all over now — it had happened to somebody else, a girl with parents to love her and look after her. But Nicola Gore was going to look after herself, and not let anybody love her again, ever. It wasn't worth the loss.