Into the Storm

by Lisa Bingham

  As he shouted directions to his helper, RueAnn asked Louise, “What exactly is an…Anderson?”

  Louise’s eyes sparkled in delight. “Our own personal bomb shelter.”

  RueAnn’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Really. Edna ordered it months ago. Thank heavens it’s come at last.”

  The sight of the delivery truck gathered the attention of the twins from next door as well as their brother Phillip.

  “New furniture?” Sara asked.

  “No, an Anderson shelter.”

  Like children following an organ grinder, they traipsed into the back garden to watch the deliverymen unload sheets of corrugated metal and boxes of hardware. Then, after handing them a bulky envelope, he tugged at the brim of his cap and he and his assistant disappeared.

  As RueAnn ripped open the envelope, Louise and the Blunts gathered around her to peer over her shoulder as she rifled through the pages of instructions and schematic drawings.

  “Oh, dear,” Susan sighed.

  RueAnn’s gaze skipped from the pieces of metal lying on the grass to the papers she held in her hands. “How on earth are we supposed to put the thing together?”

  Even Louise’s enthusiasm grew dim. But she tucked the dishcloth into the pocket of her apron and began rolling up the sleeves to her dress. “I suppose it’s much like eating an elephant.”

  RueAnn’s brows rose questioningly.

  “One bite at a time.” Louise disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, then returned with her hands full—a dressmaker’s tape measure, a spool of string, and a handful of broken lathe strips which they used to brace plants in the garden.

  “First things first. We’ve got to decide exactly where to put the Anderson, then measure the proper dimensions and mark it on the grass.

  Plotting out the location for the shelter proved to be the easiest portion of their task. When they discovered that the building would have to be sunk into the ground, they realized that the shelter would involve a good deal more work than they had originally anticipated.

  With only two shovels between the pair of families, work moved slowly. Phillip, of course, was equal to the task. But since the ground was wet and thick with clay, their progress slowed considerably.

  Soon, their enthusiasm dimmed and their faces grew flushed, streaked with sweat and grime. Leaning wearily against a crate, they greedily drank tea and wolfed down sandwiches Louise had prepared for their lunch.

  “At this rate we’ll be lucky if we finish the thing before the war’s over,” Sara said morosely. In the hours they’d been working, they’d managed to carve out a respectable square, and haul away the sod, but the instructions stated that the shelter should ideally be placed four feet below the surface. They’d barely managed to dig down six inches.

  “I could get some of my mates to come ‘round sometime,” Phillip said from where he’d sprawled on his back in the grass. “But right now, they’re busy with the Home Guard.”

  “The Home Guard!” Susan exclaimed. “There isn’t a one of them old enough to be in the Home Guard.”

  Phillip cut his sister a quelling glance. “They aren’t so particular about a person’s age now that bombs are dropping on London. I’ve been thinking of joining up myself.”

  Sara grimaced. “You’ll do no such thing. A right lot of good any of them will do if the Germans do invade. A bunch of old men and boys armed with broomstick handles and billy-clubs won’t have much effect against rifles and tanks.”

  “You’d be surprised what the Home Guard has got up its sleeve should they need it.”

  “I’m not discounting them completely. They’re well intended. But what we really need are a couple of platoons of…” Sara stopped in mid-sentence. “What time is it?”

  RueAnn glanced at her watch. “Nearly six.”

  With a squeal, Sara jumped to her feet. “I’ve got a scathing idea!”

  She rushed to the garden hose where she quickly washed her hands and face, then smoothed her hair.

  “Hurry! Lipstick. Does anyone have lipstick!”

  Startled, Louise drew a small tube from the pocket of her apron.

  “Fabulous!” Sara used the reflection of the windows in the back door to apply the make-up, then handed it back to Louise. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Where are you going?” Susan demanded.

  “Just to the bus stop. There’s a new group of Royal Engineers training in the city and a half dozen of them are billeted down the block. They usually meet at the Duck and Dandy Pub about this time. If I can intercept them…”

  She hurried toward the garden gate, unfastening the top two buttons to her blouse as she went.

  “What on earth?” RueAnn breathed as Sara disappeared in a whirlwind.

  “There’s no sense even asking,” Susan said as she stood and wearily picked up the shovel again. “Sara’s brain works in its own convoluted fashion and there’s no telling what scheme she’s devised. But I long ago learned that if she announces she has a ‘scathing idea,’ it’s best to stay out of her way.”

  The words were said with such a depth of feeling that RueAnn’s brows rose questioningly. But Susan flicked a glance at her brother and imperceptibly shook her head.

  “Let’s just say, that as children, such a pronouncement usually led to trouble.”

  They didn’t have long to wait the outcome of Sara’s most recent scheme, because, within minutes, she returned, a half dozen off-duty soldiers trailing behind her. She’d already explained their predicament and outlined the proposed shelter. Before RueAnn quite knew what had happened, the boisterous men had stripped down to their shirtsleeves, rounded up more shovels and tools from the neighbors, and were hard at work building the bomb shelter in the back garden.

  Suddenly displaced, RueAnn and the other women moved to the kitchen where they gathered together their meager foodstuffs for refreshments. As she made her way among the men, offering them tea and fresh vegetable sandwiches, the men passed around the hat, but she refused to take their money after all they were doing for her.

  But as they returned to their tasks, she was struck with her own “scathing” idea.

  London was teeming with military personnel and families displaced by the air raids, while she and Edna rattled around in a house too big for them both.

  As if her thoughts were a grass fire doused with fresh fuel, the idea began to grow in size and intensity. She could move her own bed into the dining room with Edna. That would free up the maid’s room in the attic, Charlie’s room and Edna’s—and who knew what lay behind the locked doors of the upper rooms? Space would be at a premium, but with a little planning, it could work. The garden was large enough for now, and come spring she could plant more. They would even have the Anderson, which could only improve her chances of finding boarders, couldn’t it?

  For the first time in days, RueAnn began to feel a faint glimmer of hope. So much so, that when the air raid siren began and the Blunts and the engineers disappeared for the public shelters, RueAnn sat on the floor beside Edna’s cot. Hunched over a piece of cardboard she used a pen and ink set she’d found in Charlie’s room to carefully print a placard for the window.

  Rooms To Let.

  • • •

  “You’re sure you want to take lodgers?” Susan asked, leaning her hips against the counter.

  “It’s the only real answer I’ve got. If I provide room and board, I can stay home with Edna and still meet the challenge of paying the bills.”

  “How many rooms do you have?”

  “There’s two on the floor above us,” RueAnn said. “Charlie’s could take two small beds if a couple of people wanted to share it. Edna’s is a little larger, with the tester bed.”

  “And the floor above that? You should have three rooms there if the house is identical to our own.”

  “There are three doors, but they’re locked. I haven’t been able to find a key anywhere.”

  Susan’s eyes suddenly
twinkled. “Ahh. In that respect, I can help you.”

  She withdrew a hairpin from the braids she’d looped around the crown of her head. “Let’s go look.”

  They tramped up the stairs together until they reached the floor just below RueAnn’s original garret room. Grinning, Susan deftly slid the hairpin into the keyhole and twisted. In mere seconds, the lock clicked.

  “Good gracious. How’d you learn to do that?”

  Susan laughed. “I have five siblings.” Twisting the knob, she swung the door wide. “Voilà!”

  They both stepped into what must have once been a nursery. A disassembled cot leaned against the far wall and carefully labeled boxes containing clothing and Christmas decorations had been stacked around the edges.

  “This will make a nice room,” Susan said thoughtfully. “It shouldn’t be too hard to scrounge up a bed and mattress. We might even have one tucked under the rafters next door.”

  They moved to the next room where Susan again employed her unique talent for picking locks. This room was smaller, little more than a closet, really.

  “I suppose you could squeeze a cot and a dresser in here, but not much more,” Susan said. “But you’d still be able to rent it out provided your guests are allowed to use the sitting room downstairs.”

  They moved to the last room. This time, the latch proved to be more recalcitrant than the others. It took several more minutes before Susan managed to unlock it.

  As the door swung wide, the girls were suddenly speechless. The bedroom was pristine. No dust, no cobwebs, no chaos. Frilly white Pricilla curtains hung at the windows, delicate birds-eye maple furniture was graced with ruffled pillows, while a flounced canopy bed dominated the room. Everything was pink and white—from the scatter rugs to the wallpaper. A baby doll lay in the place of honor next to the pillows while a huge antique dollhouse waited just below the window.

  “Charlie has a sister?” RueAnn breathed.

  “No, I…” Susan shook her head. “Charlie and his mother have lived next to us for as long as I can remember. I always assumed he was an only child.”

  RueAnn moved to the bureau to the single framed photo. She recognized a younger Edna, her hair piled onto the top of her head with an elaborate upsweep. In her arms sat a little girl with a head full of curls held back by a large bow. There was a brightness to her eyes, a ready smile on her lips. And there…down in the lower corner, beneath the glass, was a lock of blonde hair held together with a faded pink ribbon. Scrawled faintly in pencil was the name Francine.

  “Edna had a daughter,” RueAnn said, her thumb stroking the line of the little girl’s cheek. Then she looked around the room which had been so lovingly maintained all these years later. The fact that it awaited the arrival of a little girl who would obviously never return bespoke a tenderness and longing in Edna that RueAnn never would have imagined.

  Susan peered at the image over RueAnn’s shoulder. “Edna was always so protective of Charlie when he was little. I remember that her constant hovering used to drive him mad. She would tell him when to wear his overshoes, how to fasten his scarf, what to eat, when to breathe.” She turned to study the room yet again.

  So cautious that when an unknown woman from America stole her son and married him after a mere day’s acquaintance, Edna must have been on her guard even more.

  Setting the frame back on the bureau, RueAnn followed Susan into the hall, closing the door behind her.

  “Will you rent out that bedroom?” Susan asked, her voice hushed.

  RueAnn shook her head. “I don’t know.” She stared at the closed panels. “I wish I knew what had happened.”

  But even as the words crossed her lips, she wasn’t sure if they were true. To know Edna’s secrets felt too much like a betrayal of her privacy.

  Just as Charlie had betrayed hers.

  Again, her stomach gnawed at her, but this time the anger she’d felt since realizing Charlie had taken her letters was duller. So much had happened since she’d first arrived in England. The self-righteous indignation had eased to an ever-present ache. And she realized now, that as much as she’d feared Charlie might read her letters and thereby be given a glimpse into her hungry soul, what had hurt her most had been the fact that, having read them, he hadn’t bothered to contact her. Her pain had not even been worthy of a response.

  Unless he hadn’t read them.

  But he must have read them. She’d searched his room. They weren’t there. The only evidence of her presence in his life had been the Cracker Jack compass he’d placed in a box of cufflinks. The closest thing she’d found to an envelope had been stranger still, one holding a list of names and sheaves of legal documents—most of them written in French. The papers had been hidden, taped to the back of his bureau mirror. She wouldn’t have found them at all if her comb hadn’t fallen behind the dresser and she’d been forced to move the piece of furniture to retrieve it.

  So he must have taken her letters with him.

  Or thrown them away.

  No. He wouldn’t have done that. He couldn’t.

  Because the only thing worse than Charlie’s having read them, would be his having read them and thrown them away with utter disregard.

  • • •

  Rouen, France

  Charlie woke to utter stillness. Lifting a hand to his shoulder, he hissed when he touched a thick bandage.

  A noise alerted him, and he tipped his head just as a woman with coppery braids coiled at her nape made her way down a narrow staircase from a trap door overhead. She carried a tray which she set on an overturned crate next to his bed, then settled onto the packed earthen floor. Seeing the way he probed gingerly at the bandages, she said, “It is healing nicely.”

  “I don’t remember…”

  “Good. Because it took some time to get the bullet out of your shoulder.”

  He grimaced, grateful that he’d passed out.

  “I’ve brought you some broth.”

  Charlie eased into a sitting position, bracing his back against the rough wall. As he did so, he became acutely aware of the fact that he was naked beneath the sheets. Self-conscious, he pulled the sheet more tightly against his waist.

  She must have sensed the gist of his thoughts because she said, “Your clothes were beyond repair, I fear.” She gestured to a neat pile on a nearby chair. “I managed to find you new ones. With luck, they’ll fit.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “I stole them,” she said matter-of-factly. Lifting a bowl and spoon, she scooped up a portion of soup and held it in front of his mouth. “Eat.”

  Charlie automatically obeyed, his stomach growling. The broth was simple, rich with vegetables and herbs. He honestly couldn’t remember anything tasting so good.

  “How long…”

  “You’ve been with me nearly two weeks now.”

  He took another swallow of soup, his brow furrowing as he tried to remember.

  “Where…”

  “I found you along the side of the road.”

  “Rex?”

  Her dark eyes grew sad. “The man who was running?”

  He nodded.

  “The Germans killed him. He made the mistake of stumbling into the same area where they’d had skirmishes with the Resistance earlier in the day. I believe he was mistaken for one of them.”

  Charlie closed his eyes, suddenly remembering—the darting shape, the sound of gunfire, the laughter as the Germans threw Rex’s body into a truck.

  The soup heaved in his stomach before he was finally able to swallow against the nausea.

  The woman waited patiently until he looked at her again. Then she resumed feeding him.

  “Why—” He couldn’t utter more than single syllables. His voice emerged like the squeak of a rusty hinge.

  She studied him, gauging his character with that long, piercing look.

  “When I found you, there was something…not quite right about your uniform.” She needlessly stirred the soup. “When you bega
n to mutter in English, I knew you were British.”

  Charlie leaned his head back against the wall, trying to remember more details from that night, what he’d said to betray himself.

  “What…did I say?”

  This time, it was her turn to look away. “You called out a name. RueAnn.”

  He swore softly under his breath.

  “In my experience, the dying call out one of two names. Either that of their mothers…or their sweethearts.”

  She waited until he finally satisfied her curiosity. “My wife.”

  “Ahh. It is as I suspected.” She held out the spoon to him again. “You have been parted for a long time?”

  Charlie wondered what she would say if he told her the truth. That he’d married his wife after a single day of knowing her, that the ceremony had been attended by her father and his shotgun…

  And that Charlie had all but abandoned her.

  “More than a year,” he said gruffly.

  She nodded, her eyes brimming with a wealth of understanding, but when she didn’t explain herself, he didn’t press.

  “You miss her?” she asked softly, staring down into the bowl of broth.

  “Yes.”

  “Then it is fortunate that you were not found by the Germans,” she said with sudden brightness. But her cheerfulness was forced around the aching chord of loneliness he saw in her own eyes. Instantly, he sensed that he wasn’t the only one to have been parted from loved ones by the war.

  When she would have scooped another bit of soup into his mouth, he shook his head, turning away.

  “You are making great progress,” she said as she set the tray on a nearby table. “At first, I feared the infection, but things have begun to heal.”

  He moved gingerly, testing the soreness at his hip.

  “When you are feeling a little stronger, you might want to come upstairs when I am home. As long as you make no noises that might arouse my neighbor’s suspicions. While I am at work, you will need to stay down here. It will be safer.”

  Charlie sobered when he realized he might have endangered the woman’s job as well. “How have you managed—”

  “The first week you were too far gone to make any noises, so I was able to make my shifts. For the last two days, I’ve feigned illness, but I need to get back to my duties as soon as possible.”