Free Choice 

By Janet Baldey 

As Betty opened her front door, she saw her usual half pint hadn’t been delivered.  Sighing, she looked up and saw the sun was already burning off wisps of high cloud. It was going to be a hot day.  A glance at the thin gold Rotary on her wrist confirmed there no time to ask, she could only hope that her neighbour would notice and take it in for her.

         Hurrying down the street towards the bus stop, she saw the gleam of headlights.  Milkman was late, bus was early what else would go wrong she thought as she started to run.  Jumping on the bus, she flopped down on the nearest vacant seat, adjusted her hat, smoothed her gloves and sat looking out of the window until the bulky outline of her Ministry building appeared.   She stared at its rigid exterior; something was up at work, she’d realised that for the past few weeks. Its usually quiet corridors were teeming with harried-looking men, carrying document cases and disappearing into conference rooms.  Her own immediate superior, Mr Goodwin, normally so laid back as to be almost comatose, was scurrying around, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead.  Her girls noticed it too.  “Blimey”, one said.  “Old Goody looks as though he’s got a rocket up his jacksie.”  The other girls craned their heads and giggled.

“That’s enough,” she called. “You’ve all got work to do. Face the front and get your heads down.”

         Gratified, she heard the clacking of typewriter keys as the girls complied.  They were a good lot.  It seemed a shame to keep them all but chained to their desks in this grim building. Like keeping a cloud of butterflies in a cellar. Never mind, they had their whole lives in front of them, soon they’d meet their young men, marry and disappear from the work-place.  She often wondered what it would have been like if Graham had survived the war. She’d be married by now with two or three children clinging to her skirts.

         Lost in her own thoughts, she jumped as a hand touched her shoulder.

         “Miss Henderson, your presence is required in Boardroom One. Immediately, please.”

         She looked up to see Mr Goodwin looming over her, and her throat clenched as she smelled his sweat.  His face looked pinker than ever and what remained of his hair was awry.  This was unthinkable, he was normally so dapper.  Her heartbeat quickened as she cast her mind over the past few weeks.  Had she made some terrible mistake? Was this the end of her career?

         With an effort, she kept her voice steady. “Of course, Mr. Goodwin. I’ll be along right away”.  Rising she addressed the sea of faces she knew were staring at her.

         “Finish what you’re doing girls and then you can take your break.  Half an hour and no longer.”

         Boardroom One was the biggest of the conference rooms and as she entered, she saw it was crammed with men in suits, together with a meagre scattering of women.  She shot a quick glance around the room, recognising several familiar figures, but nobody looked at her, their attention was fully fixed on a man with close-cropped dark hair and rather prominent ears, sitting at the far end of the highly polished table.  Astonished, she realised it was the Minister himself, Manny Shinwell.

         Seconds later, the Minister leaned forward and tapped his pen on his water glass and waited until silence was complete. “Is everyone here?”  He glanced at his aide, who gave a brief nod. “Right. Could somebody stand against the door please. As from this moment, no one will be allowed to enter or leave.”  He paused, drew his fingers through his thinning hair and took a sip of water.

“You will all be wondering why you’re here and I’m afraid I have some disturbing news.  However, firstly I want to remind everyone that you’ve all signed the official secrets act.  Under no circumstances, should anything you hear this morning, leave this room.”

The hairs on the back of Betty’s neck rose as his words began to fill the silence.  Her jaw dropped open as she learned reliable sources had alerted the government to the fact that Russia was planning a nuclear attack on London.

         “We believe it will be three-pronged.  Croydon to the south, Uxbridge to the west and Romford to the east.  Massive casualties are inevitable with the resulting firestorm causing catastrophic damage to buildings and, it is feared the rest of Britain will be affected by radioactive fallout.

         This is truly a disastrous scenario and we can only pray it can be averted.  Our Prime Minister is, at this very moment, pressing for urgent talks with Mr Kruschev. 

All of you here have been invited for a special purpose and I will now hand you over to your various heads of departments, to explain.  Remember everybody, panic is to be averted at all costs so ‘Mums the word.”

         Nobody spoke as the Minister gathered together his papers and left the room. Through the stunned silence, Betty could clearly hear the chirp of sparrows and their cheerful innocence made her want to cry.

         In the anteroom, coffee was being served and Betty gratefully sipped at the bitter liquid, hoping it would clear her head. She looked around for Mr Goodwin and saw him beckoning her towards the door.

         Once seated in his office, he leaned towards her, his face grave.

         “These are dark days, Betty.  As the Minister implied, Britain is in a desperate situation but the government have made certain contingency plans.  A building, especially constructed to withstand a nuclear attack, has been built in a secret location in the Essex countryside.  This is intended to house senior members of the government and others especially equipped to re-build society once the attack is over.  We believe you can help with this.”

         “Me? What can I do?”

“Most of the occupants of the bunker will be fully trained military personnel but certain civilians will be necessary in order to acquaint such individuals with other duties and as a longstanding member of staff, your expertise will be of value. Think carefully about it, Betty.  We are well aware you have no immediate family so this is your free choice, albeit a difficult one.  But, before you make up your mind, we have arranged for you to visit the bunker and transport has been booked for you tomorrow morning.  Arrange for one of your girls to stand in for your absence.”

He stood up and Betty understood that she was being dismissed.

***

Betty’s eyes felt sore and gritty as she stared out of the window of the car, part of an irregular convoy of nondescript Fords, Austin’s and Hillmans.   Last night, she hadn’t slept a wink, feeling every spring in her bed as her mind refused to shut down. To think, the only thing she’d been worried about that morning was whether her milk would spoil.  In the event, it had and its silver foil top had been peppered with tiny holes where the cream had tempted the blue tits.  They were welcome to it, she thought. If what was feared, happened, there would be no blue tits.  She couldn’t stop herself going over the events of the day obsessively and looking at the haggard faces of her companions, she guessed they’d been through the same sort of ordeal.  Beyond superficial greetings, none of them spoke. Nobody was in the mood for small talk. 

Just after they passed through the village of Kelvedon Hatch, their driver made a quick right turn down a track leading towards a wood and as they bumped along the rutted ground, Betty clung on for dear life.  They seemed miles from anywhere, yet she realised they must be in easy reach of London. Small birds were flitting in and out of the trees and Betty couldn’t bear to think that this lush Essex countryside might soon disappear under layers of noxious ash.  It was the worst of nightmares.

At last, the car stopped in front of an odd- looking building tucked into  the side of a hill.

“Here we are ladies and gents – a bureaucrat’s idea of a country cottage. Just the place to spend your ‘olidays.”

The driver’s words were met by a nervous titter.

Inside, it was even odder, the outside being merely a façade, as their guide took pains to explain.

“This bunker has been designed to withstand all but a direct hit from a nuclear missile.  We have tunnelled under the hill to a depth of 125 feet and its walls are ten feet thick and made of reinforced concrete.”

They followed him through massive steel doors and one hundred yards down a long bare corridor to where the bunker itself was located. The guide walked fast and Betty had trouble keeping up, while trying to take in what he was saying.

“We have enough tinned and dried food, plus our own water supply, to enable 600 people to survive for a bare minimum of three months. You will notice the Geiger counters stacked by the entrance. After three months, the air will be tested daily before the doors are opened.

  Until then, we have a canteen, a sick bay, dormitories and the hub of it all is the information centre, where we can plot which way the wind is blowing the clouds of radiation.”

Betty shivered, and misunderstanding, the guide looked at her.

“You may find it cold now but with 600 living bodies packed inside a relatively small space, our main problem will be the heat.”

His voice continued relentlessly as they followed him through a honeycomb of chambers.  One room was packed with typewriters, teleprinters and switchboards. Betty guessed she would be based there but before she had chance to have a real look round, they were off again. 

‘These are the dormitories.  We will operate a system of hot bedding – I take it you know what that means?  But you will also be issued with your own sheet so it should be relatively hygienic.”

As they followed him around, Betty began to feel more and more claustrophobic.  She couldn’t imagine spending at least three months in this overcrowded space.  There were washing facilities, eating facilities, medical facilities but what facilities had been provided for leisure?  Almost immediately she felt an overwhelming feeling of shame.  She was one of the privileged, she was being offered the chance of life when millions would be annihilated.  She had no right to quibble about non-essentials.

On the return journey, once more the silence was deafening.  Betty felt as if she was inside a glass bubble as she mulled over her choice.  The guide had said public information broadcasts would alert the general public on steps they should take to protect themselves.  They should retreat to basements, or other enclosed spaces, with enough food and water to last them out.   In truth, she realised, that was all hot air. Most had no hope of survival. They would either be blown to pieces by the blast or die from radiation sickness.

And what of the people who did survive?  What life could they expect?  Poisoned earth, no wildlife, plummeting temperatures as a nuclear winter gripped.  Britain would become a dead zone. Her brain felt numb; were those held prisoner in the various nuclear bunkers to be envied or pitied?  She had no idea.  

As they entered London, she suddenly saw a swirl of bright skirts; there was a group of girls laughing in the sunshine.  They should have the chance of life, she thought, not a dried-up old maid like herself.  It was at that moment, she made up her mind.

Copyright Janet Baldey