What Fell on Us

Edie Tyson works in the counting room at Windscale, on the Cumberland coast, and she is the first person in England to know that the milk has failed. She has the number at twenty to eight on the Friday evening.

Four miles up the valley, at six o’clock that Friday morning, her sister Joan gave her nine-year-old son a glass of milk, because that is what you do. Fourteen hours before anybody in England knew there was a reason not to.

Nobody wastes a minute of what follows. Every man in the chain does his job exactly as he was trained to do it, and every one of them is right, and it is twenty-eight hours before anybody knocks on a farm door.

On the Saturday evening Edie borrows a van and drives inland. She passes Skellgarth, and Low Cragg, and Beckhow, and Ponsonby Mill, and Hollins Yeat, and Winder Ho, and she does not stop at any of them.

Thirty-one years later a file is unsealed at Kew, and Joan’s daughter, a radiographer who administers measured radiation to children for a living and tells their parents the truth about it, goes to London to read what her family was never told.

What she finds is not an answer. It is a chronology: accurate, in order, every figure set down by somebody standing in front of the thing at the moment it existed. And there is not one line in it that gets anybody from what happened to why.

A novel about the moment a public decision arrives in a private kitchen, and about two sisters who did not speak for twenty-six years over a number neither of them could prove.