Marmalade Skies
They say there’s nothing new under the sun but there are new suns and days to bring new dawn.
Buying the high rise flat in Paddington had been a mistake, yet how was Janice to know that disaster was about to strike. She’d made the purchase just months before Grenfell, in a block that had the same lethal cladding. Now, three years later, needing to sell, the flat was worthless, at least until the offending material had been removed. She was angry and felt trapped about the situation
Janice lived in fear of fear; the panic attacks arriving soon after the devastating fire. Taken over by a sense of unease, her heart would race, she’d feel faint and struggle for breath. Coping techniques were offered by the GP counsellor, breathing slowly, in through the nose and out through the mouth, counting and touching her fingers in turn, but she feared the attacks would not leave her while she remained in that flat.
Perched on the twenty third floor, part of her was always on guard, imagining endless scenarios of what to do if fire broke out; would she climb up to the roof or descend smoke filled stairwells with flames licking at her heels. She practiced holding her breath, as if rehearsing for the inevitable, when she’d be trying to avoid taking in a lungful of toxic fumes.
It was Saturday morning and as usual, sleep had been hard to come by, tossing and turning under the duvet. Then finally managing to drift off she’d overslept, waking in a breathless sweat, her sheets tangled like her confused thoughts. Janice hauled herself out of bed feeling more tired than when she’d climbed into it the night before.
It came to her slowly, a faint smell of smoke. The panic rising inside, Janice checked through the flat but everything was in order. Telling herself, “keep calm,” she inched her way to the window and tentatively drew back the curtains. ‘Why is it half dark at midday?’ she thought, and the very next moment, ‘just look at those marmalade skies.’ Flowers of copper, coloured clouds shrouded the sun, till it was but a sad purple coin, suspended in the London gloom.
Unnerved by the eerie sight, Janice reached for the mobile to check the news and find out what was going on, but it was out of charge. She quickly slipped on her jogging bottoms and trainers, taking the elevator to the ground floor, desperate for information and just managing to keep the panic under control.
People gathered like lost souls, littering the darkened streets, gazing up to the heavens as if not believing their eyes. Birds flew up in confused flight, trying to escape some unknown threat, only to fall again, their wings flapping uselessly. Waiters cleared pavements of tables and chairs, fearing a freak storm or worse. Time slipped and the day turned to dusk like an eclipse, a trick of the light, a dimming of the day.
There was an old man wearing a mask, with tears in his eyes shouting, “it’s not safe, get back indoors.” Janice called out to him, “do you know what’s happened?”
“There’s been a nuclear accident, everybody must go indoors,” he replied in grim tones.
Shocked at what he was hearing, Janice became aware of a flurry of something in the air. ‘Impossible,’ she thought, though noticing a drop in temperature, ‘it can’t be snowing in September.’ Then, holding out her hand she realised it was ash, drifting down as innocent as autumn leaves.
Janice raced back to the tower block, terrified but surprisingly not going into full panic. She knew it was mad but unable to bear to queue for the lift she took the stairs, all four hundred and eighty of them.
Staggering through the door, having checked the windows were all closed, she once again reached for the mobile which now possessed some charge, to find out the extent of the accident. The headline jumped off the screen.
Storm Athena Blots out the Sun
A spiral wind bringing dust and sand from the Sahara and ash and smoke from wild fires in Portugal had filtered the sun. Apparently quite common but usually a night time event.
Collapsing on the bed, Janice heaved a sigh of relief. Though there were some who, steeped in superstition, refused to accept the explanation. To them it was a bad omen, a harbinger to the dying of the days.
When tomorrow came, the new sun, dressed in its golden robe, hung in the sky as if wondering what all the fuss had been about.