by Lisa Bingham
Although she knew England was at war—and she’d followed the updates in newsreels and papers left behind at the diner where she’d found a job—she was still shocked by what she saw. Tape crisscrossed the windows of the passing shops and sand bags had been stacked up against foundations and doorways. Trenches and anti-aircraft guns scarred the public parks, and placards proclaimed the location of underground air raid shelters, while overhead, the lumbering shapes of barrage balloons hung like bloated whales. But most disturbing was the aura of efficient urgency that lay over the city like a layer of fine gray dust.
Dear God, what had she done? RueAnn asked herself for the hundredth time since leaving New York. But even as the question popped into her head, she already knew the answer. She’d received only sporadic letters from Charlie since that rainy morning when she’d said goodbye to him at the station. He’d let her know where to contact him, his unit, the address where he’d lived with his mother Edna. But other than that, he’d allowed her no other glimpses into his personal life.
“Here we are, Miss.”
The cab slid to a stop at the curb. Squinting, RueAnn stared through the window, then couldn’t entirely squelch her disappointment. In the year since she’d last seen Charlie, she’d imagined a thousand scenarios—from his living in a castle next to the king, to a manor house in the country. What she hadn’t envisioned was something so…
Ordinary.
The structure in front of her was boxlike and tall, with brick on the bottom floor, stucco and timber above—as if the architect had made a weak attempt at a Tudor design. She supposed the steeply pitched roof might look more authentic if it were thatched, but clay tiles gleamed dully in the setting sun.
Perhaps the most remarkable feature was that the dwelling shared a communal wall with another house. The arrangement was unsettling, as if RueAnn were staring into a mirror hung askew since one half of the domicile had been painted with bright green trim, the other in white.
The cabbie retrieved her luggage, then opened her door. “Would you like me to carry your case?”
She shook her head. “No. Thank you. I’ll do it.”
Come what may, she intended to face the next few minutes on her own, whether it was Charlie who met her at the door or his mother, Edna Tolliver.
She handed the man her fare, knowing that she had very little left in her pocketbook after this final expense. She had truly burned her bridges behind her in coming to England. If worse came to worst, it would take some time before she would earn enough to return to the States.
So she waited, loath for the driver to witness the next few minutes. The taxi hiccupped, gears grinding, then jolted forward, its tires crunching in the loose gravel of the gutter before the black car veered around the corner like a beetle scurrying for shelter from the beating sun.
RueAnn took a compact from the inner pocket of her handbag. Before her departure, Glory Bee had visited from Washington D.C. She’d given her a few tips for her hair and makeup, but the sight of carefully tweezed brows and eyeliner still gave her a bit of a shock. RueAnn had touched up her powder and lipstick at the station before leaving, but she couldn’t resist a final peek. She needed to look her best, regardless of who might answer the door.
After infinitesimally adjusting the tilt of her hat, RueAnn reinserted the bead-tipped hatpin. Taking a handkerchief from her sleeve, she dabbed at the perspiration on her brow, damning the way her best crepe dress was smudged and creased. But it couldn’t be helped. She could only pray no one would see the damp patches forming under her breasts and arms.
Steeling herself for what was to come, she replaced the mirror, smoothed her palms over the wrinkles at her waist and lap, and picked up her valise.
As she moved forward, the fierce August sun simmered low on the horizon, heating the concrete so that it seared the soles of her feet through her shoes. The past few weeks had been unaccountably hot, she’d been told time and time again since debarking from the steamer. But heat was something she was used to bearing. Nothing was worse than standing over a griddle at the Fifth Street Diner in mid-July.
Juggling her case and her pocketbook, she negotiated her way through the narrow gate and down the walkway to the front door. Setting her bag on the ground, she vainly smoothed her skirt and dabbed again at her face. Then, after squaring her shoulders, she pushed the bell.
The door opened so suddenly that RueAnn took an involuntary step back. Scarlet streaks of sunset revealed a tall woman of about sixty. Iron gray hair had been pulled away from her face in a series of rigid Marcel waves before being pinned in a knot at her nape. Heavy powdering highlighted a fine map of wrinkles, while the rouge of her cheeks was too bright and too perfectly round to appear natural.
“Yes?”
Edna Tolliver—for this had to be Charlie’s mother—was what RueAnn’s ma would have described as a “handsome” woman. Grim and angular, she was a study in gray. Gray sensible shoes, a gray faille skirt, gray silk blouse with a crisp organdy collar, and severely tamed silver hair that hugged the curve of her scalp so rigidly her head appeared too small above the fullness of her girdled bosom.
“I wish to speak with Charles Tolliver.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible. Good day.”
Mrs. Tolliver hurried to shut the door, but RueAnn had come too far to be rejected so summarily, so she pushed her foot into the space next to the jam.
“Please,” RueAnn said firmly, the word emerging more as a command than a pleasantry.
“My son isn’t here.”
RueAnn inwardly withered as she met Edna Tolliver’s drilling gaze. Lord help her and Charlie if this woman decided to meddle. The intractable glint in her eyes warned that she would prove to be a formidable opponent.
When it became clear that Edna would offer no further explanation, RueAnn said pointed, “Then I’ll wait.”
Mrs. Tolliver didn’t move.
“I’ll wait.” RueAnn added again, frustration and nervousness and thwarted expectation all swirling together deep in her chest like a roiling thundercloud. Having no other outlet, her emotions zeroed in on the woman who presented the last obstacle to her journey’s conclusion. “I’ll wait. All evening. On the front stoop, if necessary. However, I cannot promise that I will wait quietly.”
Edna Tolliver’s mouth thinned, a flush blooming beneath her too-rosy cheeks. “I don’t know who—”
“I’m Charlie’s wife.” RueAnn held up her hand, revealing the ring that Charlie had mailed along with a set of documents which had allowed her to enter the country with a minimum of fuss. She wondered if he’d bought the band second hand, since it was scratched and worn in spots. But the slight widening of her motherin-law’s eyes made it clear that Edna recognized the ring. A family piece, perhaps? If so, Edna couldn’t possibly understand that the ring held less sentimental value to RueAnn than the cheap metal Cracker Jack prize suspended on a long chain around her neck.
Reluctantly, the older woman opened the door wide.
“Come in, then.”
Before someone sees you, RueAnn could almost hear the woman add.
Once RueAnn had stepped inside, Edna frowned, her gaze raking over the younger woman’s rumpled form from the brim of her straw hat to her uncomfortable open-toed shoes.
Feeling much like a horse at auction, RueAnn kept her chin at a defiant angle. RueAnn’s mother would have recognized the look and scolded her for “having her dander up.” But Edna Tolliver remained unfazed.
“So you’re the girl.”
Girl. The word was said with such disdain that RueAnn felt she’d been verbally slapped. The implied criticism merely added to the indignities she’d already suffered.
Tears stung the backs of her eyes, but she willed the weakness away. She wouldn’t think about that now. Just as she wouldn’t allow herself to remember the way she’d clung to her mother and sisters during that final secret farewell, all the while knowing that if her father discovered her presence in Defiance,
there’d be hell to pay.
But he had seen her. He’d found her saying goodbye to Astra—and for long moments, he’d stared at her, his eyes growing blue-black with flecks of green. Like the deep waters of the quarry, but cold, cold as a grave…
“I suppose if you’ve nowhere else to go, you’ll have to stay here until other arrangements can be made.”
RueAnn inwardly sagged in relief. She wasn’t sure what she would have done if Mrs. Tolliver had sent her away.
But Edna hadn’t finished. “Mind you, I expect you to wipe your feet well on the mat and take off your shoes. I won’t have you marring the finish on the floors.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
RueAnn quickly toed her shoes off, then seeing nowhere to store them, she scooped them into her free hand, still clutching her suitcase with the other.
As she closed the door, Edna’s displeasure rolled from her in tangible waves. The woman’s starched figure made RueAnn even more conscious of her own limp dress. A run in her hose had begun to work its way toward her shoe, creeping down, down, prickling her skin like the progress of a phantom spider.
“Your telegram indicated that you wouldn’t be here for another week.”
So the woman had known RueAnn was about to arrive. Though the woman remained impassive, there was a glint of a bully in her eyes.
Just like her father’s had been when RueAnn had brought him a report card bristling with A’s. She’d been so proud of her efforts. That report card was proof that—even though she might not be a boy—she was clever. Valuable. But Jacob Boggs hadn’t even bothered to look at it. He’d tossed it onto his workbench where it had fluttered like a wounded butterfly to the sawdust-covered floor, becoming trapped beneath the hobnail sole of his work boot.
“You could have sent word informing us of the change in plans,” Edna stated the words pricked RueAnn’s skin like bits of chipped ice.
“Yes, ma’am,” RueAnn said, refusing to be baited. “But the weather held, allowing the steamer to make better time than expected.”
The white lie slid from her tongue with only a faint taint of bitterness. In truth, RueAnn had changed her travel plans at the last minute in order to leave for England as soon as possible after her visit to Defiance.
The weight of her suitcase tugged at her arm and her flesh prickled at the remembered panic of her hasty retreat. There had been countless times she could have warned the Tollivers of her revised itinerary, but she’d been afraid. Afraid that if she’d sent word too early, Charlie might try to avoid her. Or worse, he’d prevent her from coming at all.
But that was between RueAnn and her husband.
Edna’s lips pursed. “I’ll show you to one of the rooms upstairs. You may wash there and change into something more…suitable. Dinner is at seven-thirty. I couldn’t possibly hold the meal at this late notice.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Feeling more like a newly hired maid than a daughter-in-law, RueAnn obediently trudged up a steep set of stairs. They passed a closed door, a second, a third, then took another narrower flight of stairs to a part of the house where the air was stuffy and thick, then up again to the garret portion of the home where a room had been carved out under the eaves.
“This will have to do for now,” Edna said, throwing open the door to reveal an attic space with a narrow window, an iron bedstead with a rolled up mattress, and a corner sink with a single tap. There was no closet or wardrobe, just a small bureau and a trio of hooks bolted to the wall. Heavy blackout fabric had been tacked over the only window.
“I suppose you’ll want a few minutes to pull yourself together.” The way Edna’s eyes raked over RueAnn from tip to toe, it was obvious that Edna expected miracles to be performed before the younger woman reappeared. “We will eat in twenty minutes. Do not be late.”
The last thing on earth that RueAnn wanted from this woman were favors, but she blurted, “Excuse me, Mrs. Tolliver?”
The woman turned, her hand still on the doorknob.
“Can you tell me how I can get in touch with Charlie? I need to let him know that I’ve arrived safely.”
She kept her tone level, even though it galled her that she was forced to ask her motherin-law for the information.
For an instant, RueAnn thought she saw a brief flicker of something vulnerable crack the older woman’s icy façade. But Edna quickly recovered.
“I would have thought they would have sent you notice.”
“Notice?”
“Charles’ unit was not one of those evacuated from Dunkirk. He’s been listed as missing since June.”
• • •
Susan Blunt wearily twisted a key in the front lock and let herself into the front vestibule just as the last feeble rays of sunshine began to dim and fail. Once the door had closed behind her, she set her pocketbook on the side table and removed the pin from her hat. As she gazed at her sorry reflection in the mirror, she didn’t even bother to smooth her hair.
In one short year, times had changed—the world had changed. England was at war and most of the men her age had gone, so she no longer had the will or energy to fuss about her appearance. Nor did she have time to dwell on her loneliness now that her fledgling career as a stenographer was underway. Her work wasn’t nearly as satisfying as she’d thought it would be. Instead, she was left feeling as if a part of her was missing.
No. Not now. Not tonight. She wouldn’t wallow in her maudlin thoughts. She was exhausted, that was all. All she needed was a long cool bath. Once she’d scrubbed herself clean of the dirt and stickiness of the day, washed and combed her hair, she would feel right as rain again.
“Oh, you poor dear,” her mother exclaimed as she burst into the hall wearing an apron over a faded cotton dress. “You must be famished.”
“Mmm.”
Indeed, Susan had passed “famished” hours earlier. In the fortnight since she’d obtained a position as private secretary to Mr. Meade at Meade Ironworks near the docks, she’d come to accept that the hours she’d been quoted at her interview were more a suggestion than actual fact. Soon after England had declared war, the Ironworks had been converted from a modest business that crafted artistic wrought iron gates and banister railings to a war plant that now welded submarine and aircraft parts.
“You need to start taking an extra sandwich with you in the morning.”
“It would only dry out, Mum.”
“Then at least take something from the garden.”
“Too hot. The docks were positively seething today.”
Millicent Blunt made a tsking noise. “Poor thing, I’ve saved a plate for you in the larder. Eat first, then you can lie down for a bit.”
“I just want to take a nice cool bath.”
“Sara’s up there getting ready for one of her gentleman friends. Eat while you’re waiting.”
It wasn’t the first time that Susan had been forced to wait for her turn in the loo while her twin sister primped and preened, and she supposed it wouldn’t be the last. But tonight she felt a prickling of irritation. Sara had already had most of the day at her disposal to pretty herself.
With men enlisting or being called up, there were jobs aplenty for a woman who could keep a level head and work long hours. While Susan contributed to the war effort at the Ironworks, Sara had found a position as a clippie on the Green Line bus route. It was a job she enjoyed immensely since it allowed her to be “out and about” as Sara called it. She loved chatting with the passengers and offering suggestions for connections. But today she’d had the day off. So why was she still in the bathroom?
Sinking into one of the chairs at the gleaming kitchen table, Susan sighed when her mother placed the plate in front of her. A sliver of roast beef and a single potato lay next to a mountain of boiled vegetable tops.
“The garden is bursting at the seams with greens.”
Which meant that each day, the meager portion of meat and butter allowed by the rationing system was generously augmented by whatev
er the Blunts could grow.
“Dig for Victory!” had become the command to anyone with a plot of land large enough for planting that spring. And Mrs. Blunt had watched with tears in her eyes as her husband had torn up most of the rose garden to sow a variety of seeds.
In June, they’d feasted on strawberries, radishes, and carrots. In July it had been baby cucumbers, peas, and snap beans. But the unaccustomed heat of the summer had stunted some of the plants, leaving the Blunts with tomatoes and peppers withering on the vine…and an abundance of greens—kale, dandelion, turnip tops, and spinach.
Susan loathed them all.
“Couldn’t I just have bread and butter?”
Her mother offered her a plate with what was left of a loaf of bread wrapped in a dishtowel. “We’ve used the butter ration.” Millicent said as she cut a thin slice. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “But I managed to save you a bit of the jam I put up last summer. It’s the last of it, I’m afraid.”
After setting the pot next to Susan’s plate, her mother disappeared from the kitchen again—probably to arrange the blackout curtains and check on the younger children. Michael and Margaret were sent to bed precisely at eight, regardless of the irregular hours of the rest of the family. Phillip, at sixteen, was permitted to stay up until ten.
Susan’s stomach growled and she immediately forgot her pique over Sara’s monopoly of the water closet. The dense bread and sweet jam brought her hunger rushing back and Susan quickly devoured the slice, then moved on to the beef, the potato, and yes, the greens. When she’d finished, she longed for a rich gooey dessert, but knew there was no sense in asking for pudding. Her mother had been saving sugar rations since the system was imposed that winter. Millicent was determined to have scones and cake available if Susan’s older brother Matthew should ever be given leave from the RAF.
Susan felt a shiver of unease at the thought of her brother. The Germans had ended the “Phony War” with a vengeance weeks ago, ferociously targeting military bases in Southern England. She couldn’t say for sure that Matthew had been stationed there, but she couldn’t help worrying that he was in the thick of things.