The Andersons
A Comedy From Time
Chapter One The Discovery
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 'them' that slowed the anthem of progress.
It started with the desperate crackle of a two-way radio in the site construction office. Base, this is Pit One. We got a situation here, guv.
What is it this time, Baldwin? Tell me it's not another bloody medieval gravesite, was the annoyed reply of the construction site supervisor, standing, moving the blinds to peer out the window toward the source of the annoyance.
It's worse than that, guv, came the reply. They're alive!
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. What the bloody hell do you mean 'alive'? If this is some sort of
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.
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's rise from looking at his feet to meeting their intense stares full frontal.
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.
The crowd of construction workers leans in the opposite direction as the figure's 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.
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's 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.
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 Schmitt along its working beak, and musters a crackled voice to ask: Are you Germans? 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. Sprechen zie Deutsche? the figure tries in a louder voice. Still the reply is silence.
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's 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.
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's land.
All right, that's it! he says angrily, pointing a solitary finger at the bedraggled three, but talking to his foreman. Now we've got bloody illegal immigrants tunnelling into the country. Call the Old Bill, Baldwin.
Across the divide, the old man quietly speaks to his group. They don't sound German. Sound like us.
The woman agrees with a series of nods, so the man tries again, this time to the site supervisor.
Ello there. I'm Barry. An this is me other half, Sylvia. And me boy, Winston. There's no need for the Old Bill, we're just the Andersons.
The site supervisor is not moved from his original opinion of the situation and
stabs his finger at the offenders to underline his words.
We'll see. You'll find we're not the soft touch country you think we are.
It wasn't until later, inside the police station interview room, that the group was allowed a word, and then the Old Bill didn't like those words.
Stone the crows! You're makin' a big mistake 'ere. We're Brits. Hell, named me boy 'ere after our prime minister. Now if we can just go on our way. The tattered group was sitting on one side of table, facing a uniformed officer and a detective.
Not until we sort this out, the uniformed officer said.
The detective, a middle aged man named Horth, was dressed in his new catalogue black leather reefer jacket (50 weeks, 1.98 week!) which glistened in the fluorescent light. And you don't have any sort of identification? Driving licence? Passport? National Insurance card? Something that can prove you are who you say you are?
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.
Ration books? Food coupons? The leather wallet follows the papers to the table. Are you takin' 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.
No. I keep tellin' ya, we're from London. We're not political at all. We've been underground since the bomb hit. You know Hitler? The Nazis?
You expect us to believe that you've been in a hole in the ground since World War Two?
"Oh my giddy aunt! It weren't a hole in the ground when we was there. It were our Anderson shelter. Course, at first I didn't believe it would do us any good...just more government trying to make us feel better. But I've come to be a believer, Barry says with emphasis.
Sylvia nods in agreement. Winston watches their performance with no expression on his face.
What about you son? the detective enquires. You got anything on you that proves who you are?
Winston moves his upper torso back, afraid of the question, then looks for Barry and Sylvia for support. He don't have nothin' more than what we've got, Barry interjects. We've never even got him a birth certificate.
Right. This isn't going anywhere, the detective said leaning down across the table to confront the trio. I'll say it again: do you expect us to believe that you've been underground for 63 years?
Do you think we'd stay in there? We've been waiting for someone to rescue us. Barry turns to his wife and son for affirmative and they nod in agreement. By the way, did we win?
Win what?
The war, course.