Growing up in post-Blackout London
By: Abbey Heffer
Tags: Writing, London, World, Fiction, Books

It was very pretty and very green. Grass went all the way from the wall right up to the edges of the big, glass building in the middle. It must have been seventy stories high and it sat on top of an old red-brick building, a little bit like the ones near the market, but far bigger. The houses near the market were long and tall, squatting next to each other in rows. This one was much wider, almost as wide as our entire block, but it wouldn’t have been tall without the skyscraper. Grandma once tried to explain to me the difference between a high-rise and a skyscraper, but I hadn’t fully understood what she was saying until that moment. It looked like it could really cut the sky open with its pointed tip. I bet you could see the whole world from the top.

I wondered if perhaps this was the world outside of the city that grandma had told me about. It was difficult to say. The grass did stretch pretty far, but the wall and the city were still on all sides. Maybe this was a bit of the outside but inside the city. I made a mental note to ask her when I got back.

Steps climbed up towards the red-brick house. Steps not stairs, I decided. Each single stair would be much higher than these steps. These steps seemed more decorative than functional. I wondered why the builders even bothered to put them in. It’s not like the families who lived in this house needed to be a little bit higher, they had a skyscraper; and it didn’t look like this road was likely to overflow with toilet water like ours did sometimes. My nose wrinkled instinctively at the memory.

Staring up at the house and the skyscraper on top of it, I felt suddenly uncertain. There didn’t seem to be any papers flying around here. I got the feeling that I shouldn’t just walk into someone’s house without knowing anyone inside. What if they thought I was trying to steal something?

And so, like this, I froze, staring up at the house, one foot stretched out ready to climb the steps into it.

While I had been busy wrestling with my own conscience and the morality of entering a house unannounced, an old lady emerged from between the open doors. She must have been my grandmother’s age, perhaps a little bit older — her hair was whiter but thicker, arranged nicely in a ropey coil around her head, her skin was more wrinkled but also a little lighter, a pale woody beige — as she got closer, her eyes glinted from beneath heavy lids, just like my grandma’s. She smiled and I smiled back.

“Hello,” She said. Her English sounded a little bit like mine, but softer, like someone had rubbed the edges from her words. I pondered this for a moment before hurriedly returning her greeting.

“Hello.”

“What are you doing out here, all alone?” She asked, looking around as though trying to locate someone who might claim me.

“I’m looking for words.” I said, letting my eyes slip away from hers to look at the house once more.

“Words? What kind of words?”

“Hmm, I like long ones best, but it doesn’t really matter.” I admitted, “My grandma can’t write anymore, so I have to find words that we can use to tell stories, otherwise — ” I choked a little, surprised by my own emotion. I swallowed it, annoyed. “Otherwise there will be no stories and that would be sad.” I concluded with a little nod of my head.

“I see…” The old lady looked thoughtful. “Would you mind waiting here one moment? Perhaps I can help you.”

I nodded several times in quick succession to show her I meant it and planted my feet firmly at the base of the steps. I would not be going anywhere.

By the time the old lady returned, I had sat down. The walk had tired me more than I’d thought, my stomach ached with emptiness. I almost hoped that she’d conveniently forgotten my quest for words and had come back instead with something for me to eat. She hadn’t.

“Oh, good.” She said. “You’re still here.”

I stood up hastily, brushing the back of my trousers with one hand.

“Now, I don’t know exactly which kind of words you like, but this — ” My heart almost stopped as she spoke. “Has lots of stories.”

It was a book.

A whole book.

Thick, but not heavy, I held it in my hands as though to judge how many stories might be inside. The outside was shiny black with a blue moon peeking out from behind three big mountains — one tall and two small, just like the big door. Its name was emblazoned in thick silver letters across the top. I sounded them out: S-I-L-M-A-R-I-L-L-I-O-N.

My mouth had fallen open as my finger traced the letters.

The woman gazed down at me with a strange look on her face.

“Is it…” I started, but swallowed the words before they made it out. I tried again. “Is it for… Me?”

“Of course. I read it more than a hundred times, I don’t really need the book anymore.” She smiled, clasping her hands in front of her. “Words are powerful.”

I glanced up sharply.

“The words in this book saved me from many things.”

I looked down again in awe. This book, a real book, was mine.

I opened the first page. Someone had written a message on the inside cover.

Anna… A little piece of home to carry with you wherever you go.

The old lady had already turned and was making her way back up the steps.

“Missus… Are you Anna?” I called up after her.

She turned, smiling. “Yes, that’s me.”

I didn’t want her to go, but I didn’t know how to make her stay. “My name’s Wren, I’m Wren. That’s me.”