No Shelter from Darkness Read Online Free

her pretty face bore no fear or anger or sorrow; it was a plain canvas, albeit a dirty one. It was in that moment that Beth realized Mary had become like her: an orphan. The rift between them seemed to close slightly as Beth offered a small sympathetic smile.
    By the time the early light of dawn seeped through the gap around the door, the rumbling of destruction had been replaced with that of the aftermath. The all clear sounded and woke all four of them from various stages of slumber. Outside, Sunday morning awaited them, but that was all they could be sure of.
    With a stretch and a groan, Beth was the first out of the flimsy metal door and up the steps. The sun was still rising, the dull blue sky seeming to brighten with every passing minute. She had been sure their house was still standing, but it was always a relief to confirm it with her own eyes. Remarkably, after such a close blast, only a couple of windows had shattered, but all around her was the all-too-familiar smell that always came after an air raid. It was nosingle thing, but a mixture, of smoke, dust, dirt and earth; of bricks and wood; of burnt belongings and dead things.
    It was the smell of destruction.
    Standing in the thin ribbon of backyard between the shelter and the house, Beth turned slowly to survey the rest of the damage within their enclosed triangular block of terraced housing. It appeared that the Connell's house, along with their neighbor's house, were the only ones hit. A trickle of smoke still spiraled up from the rubble that used to be a pair of kitchens. Beth looked away to prevent her eyes wandering down to the ground, to the dead body she knew lay there. Around her, others began to emerge from the huge tin cans that had been planted in half the yards. The other half either didn't want or couldn't afford an Anderson—one of the most common styles of shelter along with the indoor metal cage of a Morrison. Then there were the poor sods in the corners who simply didn't have the yard space. Front yards were rare, and most of the houses around here opened out onto the street.
    Looking back at the mess in their own small yard, Beth found Oliver scurrying around while her mother led Mary into the kitchen, careful to block her view from her dead guardian.
    â€œLooks like we're on cleaning duty then,” said Beth to her brother.
    â€œWait till Dave sees this. Bet he doesn't have anything like it!” Oliver excitedly held up a piece of shrapnel as if it were the Holy Grail before scampering into the house.
    â€œLooks like I'm on cleaning duty then,” she murmured to herself, rubbing her neck.
    Regardless of what the scriptures said, Sunday hadn't been a day of rest for a very long time. After putting together a meager breakfast with what was left before ration day, Beth's mother left for what would surely be a busy nurse's shift at The London Hospital. While Mary sat quietly, occasionally putting the past aside to silently help Beth, Oliver spent most of the day out of her way and out of sight. He was probably playing on bomb sites instead of attending the Sunday school that Beth didn't have time for. Whatever he was doing, he sure wasn't helping.
    Her morning was spent sweeping floors of glass and broken ornaments, washing vegetables and putting up blankets over glasslesswindows. She was thankful when it was time to drag in the bathtub. All three of them needed a good scrub, especially Mary, and it provided Beth with a blissful reprieve from a laborious day. As common as hard work had become, she couldn't ignore her aching bones and muscles, or the sleepiness that made her eyelids heavy.
    Her mother arrived home later from her own day of hard labor, the victims of last night's bombing having clearly taken its toll. By then, the blackout blinds and curtains had been drawn. Despite the remnants of daylight outside, within the dimly lit house it may as well have been midnight.
    With a sigh, Lynne dropped the familiar brown bag that