The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Chapter Thirty: Picking Up Lives

Edinburgh, United Kingdom

7^th April 2007
Of all of the major cities in the United Kingdom, Edinburgh had probably suffered the least from the Posleen, even though it was playing host to thousands of refugees. The castle, famous for holding off invaders, hadn’t been targeted from orbit before the Posleen landed, and the city was almost as it had been before First Contact.
Anisa found it relaxing. The city might have thousands of refugees, but arrangements had been made – for once – well in advance; the Lothian Council had handled the matter fairly well. There had been a lot of grumbling about interference from something called the Scottish Parliament – the first she’d heard about it – but by and large the city had everything well in hand.
“More tea, love?” Mrs Doris asked. Mrs Doris, an aunt of Brad, had been delighted to take her in, along with three smaller children who’d lost their parents. The council had asked for people to take in refugees and many of them had; she had been very relieved when a Scottish couple had taken her in. Many of the Asian families had only been willing to take in people from their own subgroup – and had not had the best of intentions for doing that.
To be fair, of course, everyone had done that. The older boys, those that had not been recruited into the army at once, had often been left in the refugee camps, supervised by the police and a handful of famous sports stars. They’d all trooped out to see Manchester United playing Hearts at Murreyfield, before enjoying a picnic on the green. The rations weren’t as much as she would have preferred, but as a pregnant mother she was entitled to more than she could reasonably eat.
“Thank you,” she said gratefully. Minding the adopted children – the Doris children had all left the nest long since, apart from one girl who was training to be a nurse – was what she did while she was there, helping the family as much as she could. Mrs Doris had been more than willing to teach her some Scottish foodstuffs; Asian spices were in short supply after the Posleen had had their Indian takeaway.
She shook her head sadly. She was worried about Sarfraz, more than she dared say. His last email had referred to them leaving Liverpool, where several radiation weapons had detonated. She’d been very relieved when she realised that she could have gone there; the police had insisted that all refugees be checked for radiation poisoning, hosing down the refugees in the streets.
“Don’t do that, Nancy,” she said suddenly, as the seven-year-old played with her food. The Doris family got an increased ration as a host family, one that kept them alive and healthy.
“Ah, you’re going to be a bonnie mother,” Mrs Doris said. “Are you going to be cooking something with me for the street eating party?
Anisa didn’t make the obvious joke. It had been funny the first couple of times, but like a normal joke, it had lost its humour through repetition. “It’s harder to cook anything unique,” she said, running her mind through the list of ingredients doled out to the Asian population, the handful of remaining spices and Halal meat.
“All that matters is that people have food,” Mrs Doris said. She smiled at her; the street parties were an attempt to make a small food supply stretch further. Someone who coordinated such a system could make a feast from the combined rations, and as it was officially encouraged, the council helped out, normally by encouraging the police to provide some assistance and some of their rations.
“A shame that alcohol is prohibited,” Mr Doris said. Anisa, who knew perfectly well that several people had been running illegal stills to supply people who couldn’t live without their drink, didn’t answer. “How about a nice curry?”
There was no malice in his words. Mr Doris seemed to forget that the world was there half the time, concentrating on his gardening. “There’s no coconut milk,” Anisa said thoughtfully, “but we could just leave that out, perhaps making some basic Nan bread or even a little rice.”
“Hardly any rice,” Mrs Doris said. “I was thinking a basic cake myself, a nice sponge cake that would go a long way.”
“The flowers are dying,” Mr Doris said suddenly. “Hitler’s forces have killed the flowers.”
They waited to see if he would say anything else, but he didn’t. “I’m sorry about him,” Mrs Doris said, and Anisa could see the agony in her voice. It was supposed to be summer, but the effects of the bombardment left the skies cloudy and dark. “He’s not right any longer.”
“It’s not a problem,” Anisa said, reaching out to comfort the old woman. “It’s ok.”
She’d faced racism, overt and covert, and nearly been raped. She could cope with a man who was slowly slipping into senility. She would live, until Allah called her home.
“We’ll get started this afternoon,” Mrs Doris said. “Let me know if you want anything, then go email your husband and exchange loving messages.”
Anisa blushed slightly. “Thanks,” she said, and meant it. “Thank you for everything.”
***

Rupert Fisher had not been called back to service to fight in the war. As a former police officer, he had been recruited back into the police force, but then he’d been assigned as a community leader and assistant. The kind of person who helps people to help themselves.

He sipped his mug of tea – more accurately a tea substitute since India and China had been overwhelmed by the Posleen – and watched as several dozen people milled around the street, eating from a number of dishes. The food was a mix, as always, from bacon rashers to vegetable curry. Potatoes, at least, were not in short supply; nor, to the horror of the children, was broccoli.
He grinned. The children, at least, were being entertained by a local magician. Even as he watched, a rabbit came out of a hat, much to the delight of the children. The magician clearly decided to make the best of it, claiming – of course – that he’d meant to do that all along. Fisher winked at him as the cheering grew louder; the magician took a bow.
“Put that away, Alf,” he said, spying Alf Garden drinking from a flask. The fumes of the home-brewed alcohol could be smelt at long distance. The senior – often very senior in age – policemen might take a blind eye to private drinking, but drinking in public was something else.
“Spoilsport,” Alf said, and quickly hid his flask. Fisher watched as he took some curry from an Asian girl and scampered off to one of the tables to eat. He smiled at the girl, noticing her for the first time, and chattered to her for a while. Their own people had taken in most Asian refugees, so he was curious.
“They didn’t want a married girl,” she explained, as she served him some chicken – at least, he hoped it was chicken. “Too independent; too unreliable.”
“I thought that you people were reliable,” he said. “I’m Rupert, by the way.”
“Anisa,” she said, holding out a hand. He shook it gravely. “They wanted people who could help out, and as a married women my duty is to my husband, and so…”
“They couldn’t marry you off to their sons,” Fisher guessed.
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way,” Anisa said. Fisher laughed. “Do you like the curry?”
“Very nice,” Fisher said. The curry was spicy; the Nan was warm. “Why no sauce?”
“Couldn’t find the coconut milk,” Anisa said. Fisher, who knew that many items could only be found on the black market, nodded grimly. “The people who said that they had it wanted payment in carnal ways.”
“Bastards,” Fisher said. He made a mental note to hunt up the black marketer who’d tried that trick. He paused. “What does a Posleen look like in real life?”
Anisa shook her head. “I never saw one in real life,” she said. She shuddered. “All I remember is the fear and terror of running from them, seeing the explosions that marked where they were.”
“I understand,” Fisher said. “Good luck. Where is your husband?”
“The 1^st Armoured Combat Suit regiment,” Anisa said. “Beyond that…I really don’t want to know. I worry enough about him as it is.”
Fisher nodded as a singer struck up a version of Rule Britannia. The crowd showed their appreciation by hurling bits of food and drink at him. “Stop that,” Fisher bellowed. “Excuse me.”
He barrelled his way through the crowd. The last thing they could afford to do was waste food. “Jack, stop throwing that food,” he snapped, regaining control. “Don’t you know there’s a war on?”