Despite the Angels - By Madeline A Stringer Page 0,84

It was not too bad for Dorothy, giving birth to Dawn, so maybe we can have many more. We will have to give the next one an ordinary name, or they will all think we are mad. But she was a beautiful new baby, who cried to greet the dawn. So what else could we call her?

“What indeed? Why break a habit of millennia? Even though it was actually the moon the baby was looking at, not the dawn” said Trynor, smiling indulgently at his old friend.

There was a crash in the street and Lewis went to the window and looked down. It was too dark to see, but he could hear the wind howling. The clock chimed seven, so he began to put on his coat. It could take longer, in this wind, to get down the hill to the station. He banked down the fire, to hold its heat for their return. Bitterly cold draughts sneaked in around the window frame and under the door from the stairwell, defying even Dorothy’s rag snake, which was pushed against the bottom of it. It would have been cold on the train too. Maybe the tearoom at the station would be open and they could warm themselves before setting off on the walk back home. Lewis went quickly over to the shelves and took a few coins out of the jar behind the saucepan, locked the door of their room and clattered down the stairs to the front door. As he opened it, it flew inwards with the force of the wind and he saw a large hoarding bowling along the street. He dragged the door shut, gathered his coat tightly around him and strode as fast as he could towards the station. It was a wild night and chimney pots flew through the air, one crashing at his feet. Lewis turned up his collar and broke into a trot. He always felt uneasy walking through the dark and this was particularly unpleasant, with a disembodied enemy throwing missiles.

At last he reached the station and ran down the steps. It was a little less windy on the platform, as it was below the level of the street, but the crashing noises had not stopped. As he watched, a tile fell from the roof onto the platform.

“All into the waiting rooms, please!” The stationmaster was raising his voice to be heard over the wind. “It is dangerous to stay on the platform. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” Lewis did as he was told and joined a large crowd who were waiting for friends and relatives. There were no seats left, but he squeezed into a corner and leant against the wall, closing his eyes and allowing himself to daydream again.

It had been a Saturday night, so they were going to the music hall down near Greenmarket, hoping for a good show, with some of the new songs the lads at the foundry had been whistling. It was a mild night and Dorothy suggested they set out early, to have time to walk down to the harbour and look at the boats.

“I thought you did not like to see the sea?” said Lewis, as he put on his jacket.

“I do not like the real sea, it is too big. But the harbours do not worry me, when there is a wall around the water. It makes it look safer. But it is thrilling to look at those boats and think of how far they have been, how brave they are to go. All the way to the South Pole!” Dorothy’s eyes glowed.

“I do not think you can get to the South Pole in a boat. I agree, though, they are brave to go so far. I am uneasy on the ferry. It is good there is the bridge now, it does not wobble like that little boat.” Lewis stopped and looked at Dorothy in alarm. “But do not say so to Neil, or I will never hear the last of it. He is a terrible tease.”

“I will say nothing. My sister always grumbles about how she had to do all my share of the work looking after the fire when we were young, even though I did all the washing. I could never manage the ironing; the irons get so hot in the fire and you have to get so close and spit on them to test them. It’s worse now, that we do not have a range like mother’s. Heating the irons