King Rat

Maisie was half buried under broken bricks and twisted pipes and desecrated furniture. There was a freezing wind blowing, cutting as only an English wind can cut. But Maisie was glad of the cold for it deadened the hurt that surrounded her. She tried to move, but there was a hugeness of weight on her and she knew that death was near. Then she felt the icy rain on her face and that puzzled her for there should not be rain on her face. Hadn’t her flat been on the second floor? And hadn’t there been, therefore, floors and ceilings above her? But now there were no floors or ceilings, there was only sky and overcast and rain.

Around her there were screams and pain and the crackle of flames and afar off, the screech of approaching sirens.

I hope I don’t burn, she thought. I don’t want to burn. I don’t mind dying, but I don’t want to burn first. What’s today? Oh, my, it’s Sunday. Of course, I’d just got back from Church. You’re getting quite silly Maisie. Well, Sunday’s a good day to die, and the little thought comforted her.

Later, she tried to move but could not. She could not feel her legs at all. Then she tried her arms, first the right and then the left. The right was almost as though it had never been, but the left moved free and she watched it as it lifted itself and moved above her, and the rain ran down her fingers touching the little gold band and dropped onto her face. The fingers, beyond herself it seemed, touched her face then moved a little of the rubble away and dust and moved a strand of gray hair from her eyes. Then at length, she let her hand and arm rest once more, exhausted.

After a vastness of time she began to wonder about herself and the other tenants. I wonder if they got out, before it hit. And what about Felix, dear little Felix, the kitten, the joy of her solitude? Maisie remembered that she had him in her arms in the kitchen pouring him some milk, just before.

She tried to move again, seeking the kitten, but she could not.

“Kitty, kitty, kitty, here kitty,” she called. “Here kitty.”

She waited but there was no sound other than the crackle of fire somewhere near.

“Ah, well,” she said aloud, for now that she had been alone so long she often talked to herself, “kittens have nine lives so there’s no need to worry. They’re luckier than humans, much luckier. Or perhaps they’re unluckier. Perhaps it is better to have only one life.”

Dimly she tried to remember the “before.” She had been standing in the kitchen. Yes, Felix was in her arms and she was pouring out the milk. What else? There was something that she had to remember. Something important. Now what could that be? Oh yes. She’d left the fire on, the gas. Now that’s a silly thing to do. Dangerous. And, oh yes! Now she remembered. The rations! Her week’s rations were on the table and now they were under the rubble. What a waste!

Such a lovely, lovely chop that she’d saved her whole week’s ration for. Thick and juicy. Lamb. Maisie always liked lamb, and the butcher, old Mister Soames, such a nice gentleman—always a little extra from under the counter, why last week a whole half pound of sausages—he had cut it specially for her and taken her coupons and had given her a bone to make some gravy with. And now the lamb chop was ruined. Disgusting! And with the chop her egg and her week’s butter and the bacon she’d treasured. Blast it, I saved that miserable egg for a whole week. Maisie, you’re an old fool. That’ll teach you a lesson. Eat your rations while you’ve got them, don’t hold on to them, for now, well, now you won’t need rations much longer.

That thought pleased her. And another thought pleased her.

No more queues.

Queues, queues, queues. Maisie had always, always hated queues. But England was queues. Well, no more queues or ration books or being cold. She hated the cold and loved India.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”

Ah those were good days, in the Indian army. Quetta, Lahore, Poona, all those lovely places and nice, nice, brown people. All the servants, and warmth and enough food and such lovely dances.

Shafts of agony screamed pain from her lips, but the hugeness of the scream was merely of the mind and the real sound was only a whimper. In time the pain passed. But its coming and going took more of her ebbing strength away.

The rain fell harder now and she had to close her eyes. Somewhere there were sirens over the patter of rain. And the icy wind whipped across her face.

What a silly way to die—after all this time. “How silly,” she said. Then the terror of dying engulfed her and she began to shout, “Help, help, HELPPPPPPPP!” but the sound she made was merely a whisper, as the sound of a butterfly in a rainbowed breeze.

Get hold of yourself Maisie. Hold on, and don’t be a foolish old woman. There’s no need to be afraid. There’s a God in Heaven and, all in all, you’ve been as good as a human can be, so there is nothing to fear. So she settled to wait and as she waited she prayed.