The cacophony of the city took on a new chorus when the construction of a new corporate imprint on the London skyline began. The whining of earth chewing machines carving out the footing for the new monolith metres into the historic soil, and soon argentine rods sprouted the intention of new growth. It was only the unexpected discovery of \u2018them\u2019 that slowed the anthem of progress.<\/p>\n
It started with the desperate crackle of a two-way radio in the site construction office. \u2018Base, this is Pit One. We got a situation here, guv.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018What is it this time, Baldwin? Tell me it\u2019s not another bloody medieval gravesite,\u2019 was the annoyed reply of the construction site supervisor, standing, moving the blinds to peer out the window toward the source of the annoyance.<\/p>\n
\u2018It\u2019s worse than that, Guv,\u2019 came the reply. \u2018They\u2019re alive!\u2019<\/p>\n
In the pit all worked had stopped and a cluster of several dozen men provided a constant hum of speculation directed toward a foreboding five-foot high tunnel off the main pit. The site supervisor, half-running toward his foreman, had to shout over the din of the mumblecrust. \u2018What the bloody hell do you mean \u2018alive\u2019? If this is some sort of\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n
The collective gasp from the assembled workers was enough to interrupt him, and, there in the middle of the city, all sound seemingly stopped. The toots, screeches and constant combustion muffled into nothing and all available eyes stared at the tunnel opening.<\/p>\n
From deep inside the blackness, on the edge of available light, a shuffling sound preceded an old pair of worn leather shoes, the toe caps popped up from the soles to reveal tattered grey-black socks. In the full sunlight, the shoes stopped. Dozens of quiet eyes followed the stooped figure\u2019s rise from looking at his feet to meeting their intense stares full frontal.<\/p>\n
The figure stood erect. It was a vision of greyness, from long, scrambled hair and twisted full beard, to the heavy double breasted greatcoat wrapped around a frame supported by patchworked trouser legs. Instead of a face there were two large flat glasses for eyes, surrounded by a mask of rubber, all of which was flecked with dried mud. Diagonally bisecting the greatcoat was a wide khaki belt leading to a bag at his waist. On the head was a cheese cutter hat. It was of indeterminate age, save for possible carbon dating.<\/p>\n
The crowd of construction workers leans in the opposite direction as the figure\u2019s arm moves up to the face and slowly peels off the rubber and glass revealing the grey face of an elderly man. Squinting through eye-slits against the sunlight, the man puts his mask under one arm, pinning it in place with his elbow and raises his hand horizontally across his forehead to better see the people before him with his sun-blinded eyes.<\/p>\n
Like a giant basking shark, the collective mouths of the workers are agape at what they are witnessing. One man in the front, perceiving the tunnel figure\u2019s gesture wrongly, slowly raises his hand in a return salute and keeps it in place until he realises the error and tries to pretend he was only wiping his brow, lowering his head to help his hand slowly return to his side.<\/p>\n
The figure looks around the construction pit at the sea of yellow protective helmets and day-glo vests, then upwards eight storeys, taking in the huge crane branded \u2018Schmitt\u2019 along its working beak, and musters a crackled voice to ask: \u2018Are you Germans?\u2019 As the man scans faces under his hand to forehead for some sign of recognition of his words, there is no answer, no voice from the crowd courageous enough to reply. \u2018Sprechen zie Deutsche?\u2019 the figure tries in a louder voice. Still the reply is silence.<\/p>\n
The workers lean back in unison, mouths still catching the wind, as the silence is broken by a muffled, incomprehensible voice from inside the tunnel. The man turns, bends and re-enters the tunnel head first, speaking to someone inside. Slowly he backs out holding the hand of that someone else, stooped by the constrictions of the passage. Into the sunlight the crowd sees another figure led out, bathed in the same grey cast, same tattered clothing and gnarled hair as the man. Her face too is gas masked and covered with what once was a brightly coloured babushka. Her trailing arm reveals that she is holding the hand of a third, much taller figure, this one covered in what appears to be an undersea diver\u2019s helmet, a bell-shaped metallic contraption with a circle of glass the size of a dinner plate. Inside the spectators can clearly see the face of a younger bearded man, with long dark hair filling the sides of the container on his head.<\/p>\n
Now the assemblage adopts a collective puzzled look as the crowd on one side faces the three shabby figures opposite with a five-metre buffer of mud and construction debris between them. The stare-down continues beyond polite levels until the construction site manager, safely three rows behind his charges, pushes his way to the front and steps into no-man\u2019s land.<\/p>\n
\u2018All right, that\u2019s it!\u2019 he says angrily, pointing a solitary finger at the bedraggled three, but talking to his foreman. \u2018Now we\u2019ve got bloody illegal immigrants tunnelling into the country. Call the Old Bill, Baldwin.\u2019<\/p>\n
Across the divide, the old man quietly speaks to his group. \u2018They don\u2019t sound German. Sound like us.\u2019 The woman agrees with a series of nods, so the man tries again, this time to the site supervisor.<\/p>\n
\u2018Ello there. I\u2019m Barry. An this is me other half, Sylvia. And me boy, Winston. There\u2019s no need for the Old Bill, we\u2019re just the Andersons.\u2019<\/p>\n
The site supervisor is not moved from his original opinion of the situation and stabs his finger at the offenders to underline his words.<\/p>\n
\u2018We\u2019ll see. You\u2019ll find we\u2019re not the soft touch country you think we are.\u2019<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t until later, inside the police station interview room, that the group was allowed a word, and then the Old Bill didn\u2019t like those words.<\/p>\n
\u2018Stone the crows! You\u2019re makin\u2019 a big mistake \u2018ere. We\u2019re Brits. Hell, named me boy \u2018ere after our prime minister. Now if we can just go on our way.\u2019 The tattered group was sitting on one side of table, facing a uniformed officer and a detective.<\/p>\n
\u2018Not until we sort this out,\u2019 the uniformed officer said.<\/p>\n
The detective, a middle aged man named Horth, was dressed in his new catalogue black leather reefer jacket (50 weeks, \u00a31.98 week!) which glistened in the fluorescent light. \u2018And you don\u2019t have any sort of identification? Driving licence? Passport? National Insurance card? Something that can prove you are who you say you are?\u2019<\/p>\n
Barry is quizzical at first, then, like a man who has lost a wallet, searches through the grimy layers surrounding him, patting pockets present and absent. Coming up empty he turns to Sylvia who also goes through the pat-pat routine until she hits something. She turns sideways for modesty and sticks a dirty hand down into her cleavage, retrieving a worn leather wallet and hands it silently to Barry. Cautiously, Barry offers it to the man in the shiny black leather coat. The detective thumbs through the yellowed papers, placing some on the desk before them, cautiously at first, as though he were handling a rare manuscript, but, upon reading each piece of paper, increasingly slaps them to the table.<\/p>\n
\u2018Ration books? Food coupons?\u2019 The leather wallet follows the papers to the table. \u2018Are you takin\u2019 the mick? I want to know who you are and where you came from. If you want to claim political asylum, you must declare it now.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018No. I keep tellin\u2019 ya, we\u2019re from London. We\u2019re not political at all. We\u2019ve been underground since the bomb hit. You know \u2013 Hitler? The Nazis?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018You expect us to believe that you\u2019ve been in a hole in the ground since World War Two?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Oh my giddy aunt! It weren\u2019t a hole in the ground when we was there. It were our Anderson shelter. Course, at first I didn\u2019t believe it would do us any good…just more government trying to make us feel better. But I\u2019ve come to be a believer,\u2019 Barry says with emphasis.<\/p>\n
Sylvia nods in agreement. Winston watches their performance with no expression on his face.<\/p>\n
\u2018What about you son?\u2019 the detective enquires. \u2018You got anything on you that proves who you are?\u2019 Winston moves his upper torso back, afraid of the question, then looks for Barry and Sylvia for support. \u2018He don\u2019t have nothin\u2019 more than what we\u2019ve got,\u2019 Barry interjects. \u2018We\u2019ve never even got him a birth certificate.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Right. This isn\u2019t going anywhere,\u2019 the detective said leaning down across the table to confront the trio. \u2018I\u2019ll say it again: do you expect us to believe that you\u2019ve been underground for 63 years?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Do you think we\u2019d stay in there? We\u2019ve been waiting for someone to rescue us.\u2019 Barry turns to his wife and son for affirmative and they nod in agreement. \u2018By the way, did we win?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Win what?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018The war, of course.\u2019<\/p>\n
Horth looks at the officer in frustration, rolling his eyes upward and withholding an answer just like you would from naughty children demanding answers to the obvious. The detective waves to the uniformed officer to join him outside the room.<\/p>\n
As the door closes behind the departing men Winston ventures an opinion in a whispered tone. \u2018Guess not. Gawd \u2018elp us. Now we\u2019re in for it.\u2019<\/p>\n
The group of four men in fluorescent jackets and health and safety helmet crawled their way through the crude dirt tunnel, their light-sabres of battery-powered illumination showing the way into the earth tube. Ahead lay the answers to the origin of the sub-species that had just escaped. Outside, in the innards of the construction site, police hierarchy and immigration stood guard, waiting for answers. They were complemented by a score of underlings ready serve their every whim. Their radio crackled: \u2018Awright, base. This is Echo Charlie 2. Nothing but dirt and more dirt, so far, Guv and we\u2019re at about 150 meters now. How much farther you want us? Over.\u2019 \u2018Keep going until you\u2019ve got something to talk about,\u2019 was the command.<\/p>\n
And so they continued to crawl. \u2018Me Dad was a miner,\u2019 one crawler, the one bringing up the rear ventured mostly to hear the sound of his own voice. There was no answer.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u2018Watch it!,\u2019 the lead crawler warned. \u2018There\u2019s a drop-off just ahead. It\u2019s\u2026\u2019 He inched forward. \u2018It\u2019s an entrance of some sort with corrugated around it like an igloo.\u2019 He reached for his walkie. \u2018Awright, base. This is Echo Charlie 2 and now I\u2019ve got something to talk about.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018What\u2019s that then?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018We come up to some sort of entrance. It\u2019s got a half-round sheet of that corrugated steel over it, and right in the middle is a door. I\u2019m opening it now\u2026\u2019 He pushed hard on the wood and it swung back to give up its secrets to the sweep of his torch. \u2018Oh my gawd!\u2019<\/p>\n
Barry was sitting at the police interview table surrounded by two PCs and three other high-ranking police \u2013 enough big brass to build a tuba with.<\/p>\n
\u2018We was blasted early one morning. 1945 it were. 27 March. I figure it were one of those rocket thingies because we never heard any bombers or anything\u2026just a big whoosh and then it went all dark. Course me and her was in our Anderson. We always slept there, just in case. It were dark, but then I\u2019m used to seeing dark after all them years.\u2019<\/p>\n
One of the brass, the one with the whitest hair, stepped forward. \u2018Mr Anderson\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Oh, it\u2019s just Barry m\u2019lud.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Barry. If we are to believe that you\u2019ve been buried inside your Anderson shelter for the past 60 some years, can you tell us how you managed to survive? What did you eat? How did you get enough exercise in one of those shelters? I mean, it beggars belief.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Oh that\u2019s easy m\u2019lud. I was a trader y\u2019see and I had access to all sorts during the war. Well, not the military essentials, y\u2019understand. At one time I had five Andersons hooked up. But it weren\u2019t just the Andersons as I told the other coppers, no sir. It were where those shelters led us. We found us an even better shelter after we figured there weren\u2019t nobody coming to rescue us. And I had, let\u2019s say, enough for us to live on. I told you, I had access.\u2019<\/p>\n
There was a whispered conference among the brass after this declaration, with the whitest hair man asking: \u2018How could you find a better shelter Mr Anderson?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Barry. Well, when we sussed there weren\u2019t nobody coming for us we started digging, figuring we\u2019d find a way out. But it seems we just found a bigger room. It were some sort of old Victorian sewer system, all high brick walls and a river running right through it. It had everything we needed.\u2019 Barry looked at the whitest hair man and noticed a bulge in one of his pockets. \u2018You don\u2019t suppose I could cadge one of them fags?\u2019<\/p>\n
An exasperated high-ranking police official in the construction site pit grabbed the walkie and screamed: \u2018Oh my god, what? What have you found?\u2019 The answer came back immediately.<\/p>\n
\u2018Sir, it\u2019s like an underground cavern here. From the back of the shelter we found a short tunnel that led to this huge brick vault, like some sort of ancient sewer. There\u2019s stuff everywhere. Like a rubbish tip. And some patchy furniture, even a bed. Somebody\u2019s been living here alright sir.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Alright. Take some photos and return. We\u2019ll sort this out at HQ.\u2019<\/p>\n
Barry was now exhaling a long stream of white smoke from the confines of his beard. \u2018If you don\u2019t mind me asking m\u2019lud, what\u2019s this little brown bit at the end?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018It\u2019s a filter. Helps keep the bad stuff out,\u2019 replied one of the PCs before the whitest hair man could answer. \u2018Nothing bad about this. I ran out about 50 years back. Never thought I\u2019d see a fag again.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018You\u2019re saying you had a 60 year supply of food underground with you Mr Anderson? That\u2019s somehow hard to believe. Like what for example?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Well, no I didn\u2019t have 60 years\u2019 worth. But like I told you I had access as a trader. We had the basics and then there was the food that we could catch.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Catch?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Well, yes, m\u2019lud. Sylvia there is pretty good with fixing up meals.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018There\u2019s more than one way to skin a rat, if you know what I mean sir,\u2019 Sylvia added with a laugh at her own pun. Winston showed her support by reaching over and patting her back several times with his wide smile.<\/p>\n
After the shocked looks at the very idea of main course rat there was another whispered conference with the brass assessing the information they had. But it was Barry who kept the conversation going.<\/p>\n
\u2018Pardon me m\u2019lud, but we\u2019re all still confused about this. We ain\u2019t getting any straight answers: Did we win the war, or are you just working for the Germans?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Yeah,\u2019 Sylvia piped up, \u2018We\u2019d just like to know who we\u2019re dealing with here. I mean there weren\u2019t much news coming through our home.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018If I am to believe your story Mrs Anderson,\u2019 the whitest hair man said, \u2018then I suppose the question is cogent. Actually, we won the war.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Who\u2019s we?\u2019 Sylvia shot back. \u2018You sound like an Englishman, but how do we know you\u2019re not on their side?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018We. The English, won the war,\u2019 was the reply.<\/p>\n
Barrie and Sylvia embraced and Winston, who had been sensibly quiet throughout the interrogation, made it a threesome, embracing both Mum and Dad from behind, his gangly arms enveloping them shoulder to shoulder. \u2018I told you!\u2019 Winston shouted. They all jumped up and down and Barry even reached over to throw some papers in the air as substitute confetti.<\/p>\n
The assembled law enforcement contingent watched this microcosmic VE Day celebration with a mixture of annoyance and awe. Detective Horth walked through the door in the middle of this celebration and stands and watches for a few seconds until the whitest hair man beckons him over to the corner of sanity. \u2018Don\u2019t ask,\u2019 he says referring to the dancing threesome. \u2018Something new for me?\u2019 Horth leans over and whispers several sentences in his ear. \u2018Mr Anderson? Mr Anderson, if you will?\u2019 The celebration dies down and all eyes turn to the man with the whitest hair.<\/p>\n
\u2018Mr Anderson, you are free to go. And there\u2019s someone waiting for you out at the front desk. We will need to speak to you again, so make sure you leave us some contact details. Detective Horth here will show you the way and introduce you to someone who will ensure you have accommodation for the night.\u2019<\/p>\n
The long camel-haired overcoat shouted upper class expensive exposed as it was now in the interior of a police station. It was draped over the frame of a silver-haired, perma-tanned man standing at the sergeant\u2019s desk in a way that suggested a 30\u2019s black and white film \u2013 the arms of the coat hanging empty-handed, and the man gesturing independent of the cashmere appendages.<\/p>\n
\u2018Something big is happening here,\u2019 a passing PC stage-whispered to his companion. They stop a respectable distance away within sight of the man.<\/p>\n
\u2018Whatcha mean?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018That\u2019s Alex Whitford. Recognise him?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Not really. Big man is he? Gangster type?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018No…he\u2019s the guy what\u2019s made a living out of getting publicity and shed-loads of money for people who want to make the most of their 15 minutes of fame. So either some pop star\u2019s been nicked for drugs, or\u2026hold on a minute\u2026\u2019 The PC hears a conversation start with the sergeant and hopes his super-hearing can pick up some of it.<\/p>\n
\u2018Three people, a man a woman and a child, sergeant. I\u2019m their\u2026guardian, if you will. They were brought in from a construction site I believe,\u2019 Alex said to the sergeant.<\/p>\n
\u2018Yes sir. I believe they are about to be released, Mr Whitford,\u2019 the sergeant says. \u2018Can you let them know I\u2019m waiting please? I\u2019ve arranged accommodation and it\u2019s getting late.\u2019 He looks at his Girard-Perregaux, then around the room noticing the two PCs hovering.<\/p>\n
The remote listeners immediately mimic looking at a clip board, and decide on an exit strategy \u2013 closest door and out.<\/p>\n
\u2018I told you it was something big,\u2019 the PC said on the other side of the door.<\/p>\n
So, when a paparazzo called him with a tip that the police were holding three people buried in a bomb shelter since world war two, he didn\u2019t flinch or question, but instead started the publicity machine rolling.<\/p>\n
It was he who was waiting for the Andersons at the police station. It was he who arranged a hotel suite for them. It was he who had arranged new clothes and toiletries for them. It was he who would arrange the orgy of media that lie ahead. He and his son Jefferson, the apprentice PR man. Jefferson is a photocopy of his father, immaculately groomed, but in a younger style.<\/p>\n
\u2018We\u2019ll take full responsibility for them sergeant. Not to worry,\u2019 Jefferson said. The introductions were done while walking down a darkened corridor toward a side exit Alex knew would throw off the scent to the troop of press waiting outside. His tipster would get exclusive access later.<\/p>\n
\u2018What has the world come to?\u2019 Barry asked as they wandered around the \u00a31,250 a night suite. Barry and Syvia, still in their underground clothes, look over the luxurious amenities of the various rooms while Winston sits on the foot of a bed, TV remote control in hand. Oblivious to the function of what he holds, he\u2019s not even facing the large flat screen mounted on the wall, but intuitively begins to push the buttons. Meanwhile, so many famous label shopping bags litter the floor that Barry and Syvia are drawn to wade through the tissue wrapped contents.<\/p>\n
Barry holds up a pair of Y fronts, \u2018These are the whitest smalls I\u2019ve seen since we got married.\u2019 Sylvia nods in agreement and holding up a pair of thigh-revealing underwear.<\/p>\n
\u2018These knickers look like they\u2019ve been through the war, Barry. Had a hip shot off.\u2019 She opens them and holds them against her waist. \u2018Both hips!\u2019<\/p>\n
Barry reads from the tag sewn inside, \u2018Gordon Bennett! I thought they was meant to be getting us NEW clothes. What else they got in here?\u2019 As they rummage in the bags.<\/p>\n
Outside posh hotel suite Alex Whitford and son Jefferson conferred before knocking.<\/p>\n
Alex conspired to his son, \u2018Now, just so we\u2019re clear: Whilst I talk to the Andersons, you\u2019ll take young Winston under your wing. This whole retro family will be a mega-event, but the boy is the key. Show him the ropes of whatever it is young people do.\u2019<\/p>\n
Jefferson complied \u2018For the agreed price, yes Father.\u2019<\/p>\n
Loud rap music startled Alex who looking to Jefferson knocked urgently on the door.<\/p>\n
\u2018I wanna touch you, feel you, know your sex. You know you wanna mama, \u2018cause I\u2019m da best. Put yousef against me, feel da rise. It what\u2019s you want baby, my secret surprise.\u2019<\/p>\n
In the hotel room Barry and Sylvia look around, then react quickly. Leaping on the bed, they wrestle the remote away from Winston\u2019s tight grip. As Barry gains control, all slowly turn in wide-eyed horror at the image on the wide-screen television. With late 20th century instinct, Winston co-holds the remote while they all watch. On the television, the rap song continues with scantily clad women dancing and backing up the singer. \u2018Sex me up, sex me down. Turn me around. Sex me up, sex me down. Turn me around. Put yousef against me, feel da rise. It what\u2019s you want baby, my secret surprise.\u2019<\/p>\n
Louder is a knock on the door and Sylvia scrambles off the bed shaking her head in the interminable din. She opens the door with a helpless look on her face to Alex and Jefferson who instantly realise what is occurring. Jefferson strides over to the bed, and seizing the remote from a still struggling Barry and Winston, casually mutes the television.<\/p>\n
Barry, relieved, shouts, \u2018Bloody hell! That\u2019ll clear out yer earwax. What the bloody\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n
Alex answers, \u2018Television. The media. Your ticket to fame and fortune Mr Anderson.\u2019<\/p>\n
Barry insists \u2018You ain\u2019t getting me up in no striptease film.\u2019 And nodding towards Sylvia, \u2018Her neither. And Winston, he don\u2019t know about such things.\u2019<\/p>\n
Jefferson reassures them, \u2018It\u2019s only MTV, a music show. The best selling music of the week on television.\u2019<\/p>\n
Barry is now drowning in deep disbelief, \u2018You mean Vera Lynn\u2019s dead?\u2019<\/p>\n
Alex diplomatically proffers, \u2018In a musical sense, yes. We have much to do Mr Anderson, everybody wants your story, and we have to make sure we make the most out of it. I wanted to get you settled. We need to look at how we\u2019re going to handle this. Jefferson. Look after young Winston.\u2019<\/p>\n
Jefferson shows Winston the bedroom door and it closes behind them leaving the adults alone in the living room. Barry is all ears, \u2018Well you can start by telling us what we missed.\u2019<\/p>\n
Alex opens his mouth to answer and what exits is a speedy montage of news events from 1945-present. At the end, Barry and Sylvia are legs akimbo on a sofa, exhausted by the march of time. A timid Barry can\u2019t quite contain himself, \u2018So Elizabeth\u2019s the Queen, and the Queen has a band, and the Germans are our friends? Plus we have a cinema in every home, electronic post, \u00a390-thousand a week footballers, a man on the moon, and fish \u2018n chips ain\u2019t our favourite food no more?\u2019<\/p>\n
That night in the posh hotel suite bedroom, Winston and Jefferson are seated at a table.<\/p>\n
Winston whines, \u2018I don\u2019t know much about what\u2019s happened since we was under, \u2018n Dad says you\u2019re to tell me.\u2019<\/p>\n
Jefferson begins gently, \u2018Right young Winston\u2026it all started about twenty years ago\u2026\u2019 and a young person\u2019s oral history of everything missed comes out quickly in an uncut montage including bands, drugs, fashion and electronic gadgets.<\/p>\n
Winston wants to know, \u2018So, I can chain me trousers front to back, wear a bead necklace and \u2018f-c-u-k\u2019 on me shirt, and girls can dress in their smalls so\u2019s you can see their protuberances. And they bounce to really loud music like what we just saw. I can drink and smoke lots of whatever I want, Lord luv a duck! I\u2019m glad we won the war.\u2019<\/p>\n
In the ultra posh men\u2019s clothing store, an army of solicitous sales people scurry about carrying armloads of trendy men\u2019s clothing for Jefferson to veto or accept on behalf of his new prodigy. Winston is now cleaned and polished to an outwardly sharp young man but uncomfortable in his new clothes, he fingers the jumper embroidered \u2018BEN SHERMAN.\u2019<\/p>\n
Winston needs to know, \u2018Why I\u2019ve got to wear Mr Sherman\u2019s clothes? Doesn\u2019t he want them anymore?\u2019<\/p>\n
Jefferson explains, \u2018Because it\u2019s a brand. And you wear so people will respect you. It\u2019s the way things are here, my dear boy.\u2019<\/p>\n
Winston is now eager to confirm, \u2018Tell me again about those girls who show their sparkly stomachs. Will they respect me? Why do some have sparkly stomachs and some don\u2019t?\u2019<\/p>\n
Jefferson realizes, \u2018Oh yes. But we must do a lot more towards your education. What do you know about girls anyway?\u2019<\/p>\n
The next day a knot of trendy, pierced navel, barely dressed teenage girls chatter excitedly and point toward Winston.<\/p>\n
One girl whispers \u2018It is! That\u2019s Leonardo. I think I\u2019d know him when I saw him.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018That\u2019s Sweet Barry,\u2019 Cargill says. \u2018He\u2019s alive!\u2019<\/p>\n
The news was flickering on the small TV set hanging off the wall in the sitting room of the care home. Barely half a dozen of the residents were there and only one was watching, the rest involved in their own worlds.<\/p>\n
\u2018Who\u2019s that who\u2019s alive?\u2019 said Parbinger from his wheelchair, the only one who heard the exclamation. \u2018Sweet Barry from Stepney. Had a gimp leg what kept him out of the war. We all heard one of them Vee-twos got him and his missus back in \u201945. But that sure is the Sweet Barry I knew. He was a right old magpie.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018And he\u2019s \u2018sweet\u2019 why?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018\u2019Cause Barry once had nearly two tonnes of sugar during the war. Never did hear where it came from, but folks didn\u2019t much ask questions back then. Made him a fortune, he did, and the name Sweet Barry stuck. Now they\u2019ve dug him up, didn\u2019t they?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Thought you said he was alive?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018He was. He is. Claims he\u2019s been buried in his Anderson shelter since \u201945 and some builders just dug him and his missus up. And their kid and all. Sweet Jesus that man has all the luck.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018I thought you said his name was Sweet Barry?\u2019<\/p>\n
We\u2019ll meet again<\/p>\n
Don\u2019t know where<\/p>\n
Don\u2019t know when<\/p>\n
But I know we\u2019ll meet again some sunny day\u2026<\/p>\n