Free The Fire-Eaters by David Almond Page A

was lined with concrete blocks.
    “It is important that the walls are at least ten inches thick,” he said. “The roof, of course, should also be of concrete. And this roof should ideally be at least four feet underground.”
    He pointed downward with his pipe.
    “This, then,” he said, “is the basic construction of your family fallout shelter. The shelves are for storing food and water supplies. The cabinet here is for your chemical lavatory. A radio will be essential for keepingup to date with what's going on outside. Beyond the basics, though, let your invention run riot. TV sets, hi-fi systems … the possibilities are endless!”
    He puffed on his pipe.
    “We have estimated that it would take two men three weeks to build. Give or take a day or so, depending on fitness, strength, age, availability of materials, nature of the ground to be dug, weather conditions, et cetera, et cetera. Helpful leaflets with detailed plans are available. With good materials and proper construction, the shelter will be able to withstand an attack of several megatons.” He smiled and stroked his dog. “Beyond this, we're in need of a lady's touch.”
    And a woman in a flowery dress walked on, smiling.
    “Now then,” she said. “Move aside, John. What can we do to make this more like home? And how are we going to occupy those kiddies for all that time? Well, here's a few suggestions, girls.”
    “Hell's teeth,” said Dad.
    “The world's gone mad,” said Mam.
    She clicked it off. We said nothing for a while.
    “He wasn't there,” said Mam eventually.
    “Who?” said Dad.
    “McNulty.”
    “That's a shame.”
    “Hope he's OK, eh?”
    “Aye.”
    Dad looked at me.
    “D'you think we count as two men?” he said. “A scrawny brat like you and an old wheezer like me?”
    I shook my head.
    “It'd take us more than three weeks, then, eh?”
    “Aye,” I said.
    “We'd better get started this afternoon, then?”
    “Better had.” “Have you got a shovel?”
    I shook my head.
    “Or some concrete?” he said.
    I shook my head.
    “Pity,” he said. “Mebbes we'll leave it awhile, then.”
    “Aye,” I said.
    “Aye.”

L ater, I went to see Ailsa. Yak was in the yard, heaving coal from the cart to the pickup truck.
    “Allreet, Bobby lad?” he called.
    “Aye,” I said.
    “She's in the kitchen.” He winked. “Nae lovey-dovey stuff, mind. She's got our tea to make. OK?”
    I just looked at him.
    “How's that new school ganning?” he said.
    “Fine.”
    “You'll soon be too posh to gan on the cart, I s'pose?”
    “No, I won't.”
    “That's allreet, then. But you'll be learning tons, eh?”
    “Aye.”
    “Top of the class, are ye?”
    “No, I'm not.”
    “Course ye are, kidder. I kna ye. Head stuffed full ofbrains. So answer us this. What d'you call a bloke with nae lugs?”
    “I don't know. What do you call a bloke with no lugs?”
    “Do they teach you nowt in that place? You call him owt you like ‘cos he cannot hear you.”
    I found Ailsa in the kitchen with an apron on. She was rolling pastry.
    “Rabbit pie,” she said. “Losh shot it. You could stay if you like.” It smelt delicious. “Go on. Your mam wouldn't mind.”
    “Mebbe,” I said. “Do you not get sick of it?”
    “Of what?”
    “Looking after them.”
    “No,” she said. “I love them. And since me mam died…”
    “How's the fawn?”
    “Grand. Getting stronger.”
    She took a bowl out of the oven. A dark bubbling stew. She laid the pastry over the top of it. She trimmed the edges. She quickly made the shape of a rabbit from spare pastry and put it at the center. Then she put the whole thing back in the oven and rubbed the flour from her hands. I thought of what Mam said: It isn't right. The girl's too young for such a life. What can her dad be thinking of?
    “Isn't it weird?” she said. “I cook the rabbit but I look after the fawn. Do you understand it?”
    “Not really.”
    “Me neither, and they'll not teach you that at