our first anniversary of having power,’ announced Jenny proudly. Some of the audience around her cheered and whooped.
Jenny stood on the main deck of the drilling platform, lit by the faint amber glow of several plain bulbs in wire safety cages from the walkway leading across to the production platform. The deck was filled with expectant faces standing amidst the stacked Portakabins, sitting on them, hanging out of open windows, squatting in rows on those gantries not cluttered with growbags and foliage, and all of them waiting, full of excitement, for Jenny to get on with proceedings.
The middle of the deck was open to the sea sixty feet below. When the rig had been active the drill core had descended through that opening to the cellar deck and down to the sea. Thick support struts ran across the open space now and sheets of metal grille were welded on top of them to fill the gap and create sturdy additional floor space. They’d done that a couple of years after settling here, after they realised this platform was the most practical outdoor space on which the entire community could assemble together. It was their public forum, their civic space, a place for announcements, celebrations and, so far occasional, burials at sea. According to Walter the metal-grilled floor was secure and utterly safe, however, Jenny found it disconcerting standing on the mesh and seeing the water, a long way down, churning menacingly beneath her feet.
‘A special day for us,’ she added her voice croaking already as she did her best to be heard by everyone congregated around her. ‘A celebration of our ability to make our own electricity. And, you know, it’s also a reminder that things will get better; get easier for us. We’ll get better at the business of survival . . . and maybe one day soon, when we know for certain it’s safe enough, we’ll all return to the mainland.’
She heard several voices amongst the crowd muttering. She’d like to think, just for once, that sour-faced cow Alice wasn’t sticking her oar in.
‘So, that’s why we’re having this anniversary bash, to remind ourselves that these rigs are just a temporary home . . . that things will improve. I promise you.’
Several voices called out in agreement. Another good-natured voice heckled her from the back to get on with throwing the switch.
Jenny laughed. ‘All right.’ She gestured towards Walter, standing beside her.
‘As always, Walter’s been working tirelessly for us. We have some homebrew booze that he’s managed to distil.’
‘Not from chicken shit I hope!’ cried someone.
A peel of laughter rippled across the crowd. Jenny smiled. ‘Potato peelings . . . so he tells me.’
Several people groaned at the thought.
‘I’m sure it tastes better than it looks.’
Walter strode forward to stand beside her. ‘That’s right, ladies and gents! Several gallons of the highest quality Spudka. So you’d better bloody appreciate it!’ he chipped in gruffly. The crowd rippled dutiful laughter.
‘And, of course, we have our wonderful Christmas lights. Shall we get them on now?’ She smiled at the gathered rows of faces in front of her; pale ovals fading out into the dark night.
The chorus was deafening.
God help me if this trip switch doesn’t flippin’ work.
She turned to Walter. ‘Walt, would you like to do the honours?’
He grinned as he reached down to his feet and picked up a length of yellow flex with a junction box attached to it.
‘Ladies, gentlemen and children,’ he pronounced grandly. ‘Happy anniversary!’
Around the edge of the drilling deck hundreds of tiny coloured bulbs, strung across from one side to the other, suddenly winked on, lighting the platform like a Christmas tree.
The night was filled with a collective gasp.
Jenny found herself joining them. Even though she’d done her bit threading the power cables and strings of lights around the metal spars this afternoon, and took turns standing guard, banning anyone else from coming down on to the deck so that it would be a big surprise for them all; even though she had a rough idea where all the lights were strung and how many of those twenty-five watt bulbs were going to come to life, her breath was as much taken away as anyone else’s.
Oh, God . . . it’s beautiful.
Impulsively, she reached out and hugged Walter, looking over his rounded shoulder for her kids in the crowd.
Leona’s gaze drifted along the strings of bulbs; red, blue, green, orange; beautiful carnival pinpoints of light that fogged and blurred with her tears. Hannah was