The Fireweed

The all-clear sounded just before dawn. Bill climbed from the cellar, brushing dust from his coat. The street he had known was broken and strangely quiet. A wall had fallen across the road; glass glittered among the bricks. Julie stood beside the remains of a garden gate, clutching a small suitcase. She had left home after an argument with her parents and had expected London to feel exciting. Now the empty street made her wish she had stayed. Bill, who had been sleeping wherever he could, offered to help her find a safe place. He did not tell her his true age. He was afraid that an adult would send him away before he could prove he was capable of looking after himself. They shared a crust of bread and searched for a shelter. Julie knew how to speak confidently to officials, but she had never had to find food or keep warm outdoors. Bill knew which streets were safer and how to make a little food last. Each began to understand that the other had something to offer. When Julie stumbled over loose bricks, Bill reached out his hand. She took it without pretending she was not frightened. In the weeks that followed, they learnt to trust each other. They argued sometimes, especially when Bill took risks to find supplies, but Julie began to see that his bravado hid worry. Bill learnt that Julie's confident manner could help them get attention when they needed it. Neither was as helpless as the other had first thought. One morning, Julie noticed bright pink flowers pushing up between the cracked stones. Bill recognised them as fireweed. The plants had appeared where the ground had been disturbed. Their small flowers did not repair the ruined street, but they made it look less empty. Julie smiled. They still had a great deal to face, yet the flowers seemed to say that life could begin again, even here.

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