THE H-BOMB GIRL, Stephen Baxter [ereader for android txt] 📗

It was a consequence of the Separation. Dad wouldn’t have needed a family car any more.

“No need.” Dad flashed her a grin, then turned his eyes back to the road.

Laura didn’t want to get her hopes up. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been busy,” Dad said. “All that fuss about Cuba took some sorting out even after the crisis was over. Well, the Russians have packed up their missiles and subs and planes and gone home. And the Americans have come out of Turkey. I have a feeling Kennedy and Khrushchev might handle their next problem a bit more sensibly. And then there was all that other funny business to sort out.”

“The invasion from the future,” Joel said.

“If that’s what it was.” Dad had always been sceptical. “All we actually found, when the dust settled, was a global conspiracy within the military. People plotting to topple governments and take over the world.”

“People like Mort,” Laura said.

“Yes. The usual idiots. Well, it took us some time to root them all out, but we’ve got them all now, the whole shower.” He said with satisfaction, “We’ve seen the last of Lieutenant-Colonel Giuseppe Mortinelli the Third. Got him for treason, among other things. Banged up for forty-four years, and good riddance.”

Laura did the sums in her head. 1963 plus forty-four years came to 2007. The year Miss Wells claimed to have come from. She felt a flicker of unease. But it was just a coincidence of dates. She put aside her worry.

“Time travel’s perfectly sensible,” Joel said. “The BBC are making a show about it, that will be on telly in the autumn.” Joel always knew about that kind of thing. “Called Dr Who. There will be this old man and his granddaughter, and a time machine.”

Dad cut him off. “I’m not interested in all that nonsense. Never was, never will be.”

Which was why, Laura thought, nobody was ever going to be told the full story of what had happened, during those few days in October. Because officially it had never happened at all.

Laura had helped save the world, but nobody was ever going to know about it. She grinned. She quite liked the idea.

“Anyway,” Dad said, “now all that ruddy business is done and dusted, I can think about what to do next.”

“Dad, your career is in the air force.”

“Yes, but look here, I’ve fought in one world war and helped put a stop to another one. I rather think I’ve done my duty, don’t you? Quite enough nights away from home for one lifetime. Now I’m planning to buy my way out.”

Joel asked, “So what will you do?”

“Well, old chap, I rather fancy getting back in the air again. Those shiny new VC-10 airliners won’t fly themselves, you know.”

Laura said carefully, “So you’re staying in Liverpool.”

“Looks like it.”

“Will you move in with us?”

Dad glanced at Mum. Mum just sat silently. Dad said, “That’s the current plan. Now look here, chicken, you’re old enough to understand how, umm—”

“Complicated,” Mum said.

“Complicated, yes, that’s the word. How bally complicated these things are. Compared with sorting out a marriage, debunking a global conspiracy is a piece of cake, believe me! But we’re going to give it a go. Aren’t we, Veronica? That’s the plan.”

“That’s the plan,” Mum said.

Laura left it there. You could never fix a family, at best it just sort of limped along like an old banger. At least there was a chance.

Joel, silent, was grinning at her.

The car pulled up. They were outside a big old building with bleak, grimy stone walls. There were bars over the narrow windows, and high railings around the grounds.

“Ugh,” Laura said. “It’s like a prison.”

Dad switched off the engine and turned to face them. “Now, listen to me, you two. We know how attached you were to Bernadette O’Brien. So we did a little digging at the school. After Miss Wells and all that nonsense, they owed me a few favours. I spoke to your Mrs Sweetman. Nice woman. She said Bernadette had been sent here. Couldn’t cope at home, it seems. We thought you’d like to see her before—”

“Before what?”

“Well, before the baby gets taken away for adoption.”

Joel’s face went slack.

“It’s for the best,” Mum said. “I know it’s hard. But a girl of fifteen with a baby! Bernadette’s whole life would be ruined before it even started. And what about looking after the kiddie? With no support, how would she pay the bills? They find good homes, you know. People who’ll love the baby.”

“But it won’t be with its mother,” Joel said.

Dad said, “Go on, you two. Half an hour. That’s all you’ve got, I’m afraid. We’ll wait for you.”

They got out of the car.

The baby was a boy.

He was called Patrick, after Bernadette’s granddad. He was wrapped up in a blanket that smelled of carbolic soap.

“He looks like Winston Churchill,” Laura said.

“Better than looking like Billy Waddle,” Joel said.

“Don’t knock Billy,” Bernadette said. “He actually showed up, once. The nuns made him say a confession. He said he’d send me money.”

Joel snorted. “Do you believe him?”

“He’s had the stuffing knocked out of him, has Billy. We’re not getting married. We’re not even stepping out. But he’ll help, I think.”

Joel stared at the baby with longing.

Bernadette handed him the baby. “Here. You’re worse than my aunties.”

A grin spread over Joel’s face, like the sun coming up.

They were in a sort of lounge, with a cold wooden floor, high walls, and narrow windows that barely let in the light. There was no telly, but there was a huge crucifix on the wall from which hung a very realistic dead Jesus. In one corner a Catholic nun in a long black habit brushed the floor.

“The whole place is like this,” Bernadette whispered. “Worse than a church. Mass every morning at seven. Confession twice a week. The nuns have you washing the floors.”

“I bet you fit in well,” Joel said dryly.

“On my first day I chucked a cup of tea over the Mother Superior. Had