Free The Explosionist by Jenny Davidson

this for you in the kitchen, and you can have it again after tea.”
    Sophie begged shamelessly, but Peggy wouldn’t relent,though she did give Sophie a shilling before shooing her away from the house.
    “And stay out of crowds!” Peggy called after Sophie, who waved to show she’d heard. Peggy was sure that as long as one was sensible, one would never find oneself on the spot when a bomb went off.
    Sophie didn’t actively dislike spending time outdoors, but it was hard to know what to do once she was there. In the end she wandered along Heriot Row toward Broughton Street Lane, where she gravitated to the used bookseller in the appealingly seedy row of shops that included a secondhand wig retailer and a little photography studio whose windows advertised the services of Daguerreotype Mediums and Photographic Sitters. She browsed for a while in the bookshop and finally exchanged her shilling for two novels by Ibsen and Strindberg.
    On her way out, Sophie stopped to give her last penny to the Veteran, whose injury didn’t stop him from wheeling himself all over town on his little cart. Sophie often saw him away from his usual post in front of the school, though she didn’t remember ever seeing him so close to her house before.
    With no particular destination in mind, she crossed Leith Walk into London Road and entered the Terrace Gardens through the north gate, formerly wrought iron but now naked wood because the government had stripped the parks of metalfor the war-preparedness effort.
    Sophie strolled along the yellow gravel path in search of a suitable bench, one colonized by neither the terrifying uniformed nannies with their grand perambulators nor the vagrants who slept in the park during the daytime and hung around the main railway station at night.
    A sharp piece of stone lodged between Sophie’s heel and the inside of her shoe, and at the next bench she propped her foot on the seat and unbuckled the strap of her sandal. As she shook it out over the walk, she heard someone calling her name.
    She looked up and saw Jean. It wasn’t surprising that Jean should be here—the gardens were only ten minutes’ walk from school, and fifth-and sixth-form girls often spent their free afternoons in the park when the weather was fine. The only surprise was to see her without Priscilla. Sophie said as much, and Jean flushed.
    “Priscilla was supposed to come with me,” she admitted, “but we had a falling-out last night and she’s still furious.”
    Though Sophie nodded, Jean seemed to feel further explanation was needed.
    “It was all my fault,” she said, sounding guilty and miserable. “Priscilla had a letter from a boy she met over the Easter holidays, and I got upset when she said she wouldn’t show it to me. And then I said lots of awful things, and then she toldme I’d better find a new best friend if I couldn’t stop being such a jealous monster.”
    Sophie reached across and patted the other girl’s hand. It was impossible not to feel for Jean; the unhappiness in her voice was palpable.
    “I expect she didn’t mean it,” she told Jean. Priscilla wasn’t the type to bear a grudge.
    “Yes, I know,” Jean said, gulping and swallowing, “but meanwhile I’m completely wretched, and the worst is knowing I’ve got no one to blame but myself.”
    They sat in silence for a minute, Sophie wishing she were brave enough to invite Jean to do something with her instead. Something about the bond between Jean and Priscilla was so strong as to repel outsiders.
    She sneaked a look at Jean and was intimidated afresh by the scowl on her face. Then she told herself not to be such a coward.
    “What had you planned to do this afternoon?” she asked, trying to sound noncommittal.
    Jean’s face lit up.
    “We were going to go and look at the electric kitchen in Princes Street,” she said.
    Sophie felt hopeful. Perhaps Jean would ask her to come along!
    Then Jean slumped back down on the park bench.
    “It won’t be