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336 pages, Paperback
First published March 28, 2023
The RAF will be up there, harrying the raiders, and the gunners can’t risk hitting our boys; maybe falling shells are considered too much of a danger to the population below. But if that’s the case, they should have thought of it already; why bother setting up all these guns if they can’t risk firing them? Was it just to reassure us? To make us think we are defended? So we don’t all run away from London? So we don’t all huddle in the Underground and refuse ever to come out again?
But then a siren, distant, winds itself up into a wail, and another joins it, and another, and another, the fear tightening on her with each step closer to where she stands, leaning out her roof window, staring at the sky.
Later still, they pull out the thin mattresses Belsie has sewn from old blankets and ticking, from where they’re kept in the cupboard underneath the stairs. They make up beds in the hallway. This is the safest spot in the house, a good solid structure; not much glass to fly around, the warden said. Fred has cut a piece of board to fit the fanlight. It doesn’t feel like much, against bombs that can throw a bus into the air or reduce a building to dust.
Years ago, I completed a PhD on the work of the Anglo-Irish writer Elizabeth Bowen. It was really more about the hyphen than anything else; the see-saw gap she inhabited between the Anglo and the Irish. Bowen was also a writer of the war years, and I was fascinated then, as now, by her exploration of the strange states that war generates, whether psychological, physiological, or psycho-geographical. The Midnight News owes a great deal to the years I spent absorbing this extraordinary, not-entirely-placeable woman’s work.