"Connie Willis - Jack" - читать интересную книгу автора (Willis Connie)

Halfway there the door opened, and Mrs Lucy and the new man came out. He
was scarcely a replacement for the burly Olmwood. He was not much older than I
was, slightly built, hardly the sort to lift house beams. His face was thin and rather
pale, and I wondered if he was a student.
"This is our new part-timer, Mr Settle," Mrs Lucy said. She pointed to each of us
in turn. "Mr Morris, Mr Twickenham, Mr Swales, Mr Harker." She smiled at the
part-timer and then at me. "Mr Harker's name is Jack, too," she said. "I shall have to
work at keeping you straight."
"A pair of jacks," Swales said. "Not a bad hand."
The part-timer smiled.
"Cots are in there if you'd like to have a lie-down," Mrs Lucy said, "and if the
raids are close, the coal cellar's reinforced. I'm afraid the rest of the basement isn't,
but I'm attempting to rectify that." She waved the papers in her hand. "I've applied to
the district warden for reinforcing beams. Gas masks are in there," she said, pointing
at a wooden chest, "batteries for the torches are in here" тАФ she pulled a drawer
open тАФ "and the duty roster's posted on this wall." She pointed at the neat columns.
"Patrols here and watches here. As you can see, Miss Western has the first watch
for tonight."
"She's still not here," Twickenham said, not even pausing in his typing.
"I couldn't find her," I said.
"Oh, dear," she said. "I do hope she's all right. Mr Twickenham, would you mind
terribly taking Vi's watch?"
"I'll take it," Jack said. "Where do I go?"
"I'll show him," I said, starting for the stairs.
"No, wait," Mrs Lucy said. "Mr Settle, I hate to put you to work before you've
even had a chance to become acquainted with everyone, and there really isn't any
need to go up till after the sirens have gone. Come and sit down, both of you." She
took the flowered cozy off the teapot. "Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Settle?"
"No, thank you," he said.
She put the cozy back on and smiled at him. "You're from Yorkshire, Mr Settle,"
she said as if we were all at a tea party. "Whereabouts?"
"Whitby," he said politely.
"What brings you to London?" Morris said.
"The war," he said, still politely.
"Wanted to do your bit, eh?"
"Yes."
"That's what my son Quincy said. 'Dad,' he says. 'I want to do my bit for
England. I'm going to be a pilot.' Downed twenty-one planes, he has, my Quincy,"
Morris told Jack, "and been shot down twice himself. Oh, he's had some scrapes, I
could tell you, but it's all top secret."
Jack nodded.
There were times I wondered whether Morris, like Violet with her RAF pilots, had
invented his son's exploits. Sometimes I even wondered if he had invented the son,
though if that were the case he might surely have made up a better name than
Quincy.
" 'Dad,' he says to me out of the blue, 'I've got to do my bit,' and he shows me
his enlistment papers. You could've knocked me over with a feather. Not that he's
not patriotic, you understand, but he'd had his little difficulties at school, sowed his
wild oats, so to speak, and here he was, saying, 'Dad, I want to do my bit.'"
The sirens went, taking up one after the other. Mrs Lucy said, "Ah, well, here they