by Julia Kelly
“And French literature,” Andrew pointed out.
“That was a fluke of my A levels. Anyone who says they like L’Etranger is just being pretentious,” she said, her lips loosened by a third pint Andrew had insisted on buying her.
Sydney pointed to her husband. “That’s Andrew’s favorite book.”
“Not everyone,” she said quickly. “What I meant to say was people who brag about reading it in the original. Like Proust.”
“He just finished reading the final volume of Remembrance of Things Past. In French,” Sydney added.
There was a beat when Emma vowed to whichever saint protected gardeners when Sydney, Andrew, and Henry all burst out laughing.
“Oh, you should see the look on your face!” said Sydney, buckling over.
“The way you said it,” Henry howled.
“I’m so sorry, Andrew,” Emma said.
“It’s all true, and I do brag about it, even though it’s pretentious,” said Andrew graciously.
She pressed her palm to her forehead. “I feel like an idiot.”
“We all say things we don’t mean from time to time,” said Sydney, slinging an arm over Emma’s shoulder.
Even though she knew she should shift out from under Sydney’s arm for a number of reasons, ranging from boundaries to professionalism, she didn’t. A long dormant part of her craved the platonic touch of friendship.
“Anyway, you’re not getting off the pub quiz team that easily. We’ll need you next week,” said Sydney.
“Jaya’s husband will be back,” Emma pointed out.
“Which will only be helpful if we get an entire round of cricket questions,” Henry countered.
“The last time that happened, half the teams registered complaints,” said Andrew.
When Emma glanced at Henry, he explained, “We heckled the quiz master.”
Sydney slowed to a stop at a fork in the road. “This is us. Henry?”
“I’m going to walk Emma home,” Henry said.
“That’s not necessary,” said Emma. “It makes more sense for you to go with Sydney and Andrew.”
“I insist. Indulge me as I pretend to be a gentleman,” he said with a smile.
She thought about protesting but let him have his way.
After Sydney and Andrew waved them off, she and Henry turned in the direction of Bow Cottage.
“You really didn’t have to do this,” she said, breaking the silence.
“Actually, I had some news for you. I’ve finally had some time to go through Nan’s old papers. I found some of those sketchbooks you were looking for.”
“Are there sketches of the garden?” she asked hopefully.
The corners of his mouth tipped up. “Sketches of the garden. Some details of plants. Some of the soldiers as well.”
“I’d love to see them.”
“I could drop them by your place,” he said.
She hesitated, but then nodded. “I’d like that.”
“All right, then,” he said. “I’ll do that.”
“This is me,” she said when they reached Bow Cottage.
She shifted her groceries higher on her shoulder so she could reach into her handbag for her keys, but as she pulled them out she fumbled them and they fell to the pavement. She stooped to pick them up, but Henry was faster. His hand had already grasped the keys as her own hand covered his. Their eyes met, and for a moment all she could process was the sound of his breath and the slight wave of his dark hair in the nighttime breeze.
“I’m glad you came in tonight,” he said softly.
“Even if it was accidental?” she asked.
“Sometimes the best occasions are accidents.”
He straightened then, giving her the keys. Her hand trembled a little as she took them.
“Good night, Henry,” she said.
She walked up the short garden path to her front door and managed to get it open in one go. She flicked the light on, and when she turned to close the door behind her, she saw he was still waiting, watching that she got in safely. When their eyes met, he gave her a small smile, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and turned to make his way down the lane.
• STELLA •
Thin, cheap paper crinkled in Stella’s hands as she read Joan’s letter again. The kind postmaster, Mr. Jeffries, had brought it straight to the kitchen door when he delivered the afternoon post.
20 April 1944
Dear Estrella,
Writing doesn’t come easy to me and paper’s harder to come by now than ever. With the new string of air raids over London, I can’t risk having Bobby back here in Bristol. The entire city is still a bomb site from earlier raids.
I need you to take him a little while longer. There’s no one to look after him here. I’m working long hours at the munitions factory, and I can hardly get away before dark. Tell him that his mummy misses him very much, and I’ll get up to see him quick as I can. And before you ask, no, I don’t know when that will be exactly.
You asked in your last letter about money for his things. Didn’t you get the money I sent you two weeks ago? Maybe there are light fingers at your post office. I’ve heard of employees stealing envelopes that look like they might have cash in them. You really should be more careful, Estrella.
I’ve been bursting to tell you, a few of us girls were invited up to a dance with some American soldiers the other night. The GIs all looked like movie stars with close-cut hair and the best teeth I’ve ever seen on a man. I danced the jitterbug and…
Stella let the letter fall to the counter. She didn’t know what she’d expected from Joan, but she’d hoped not this.
It’s a wonder Joan’s stayed a widow for so long. The thought should have made her cringe with disloyalty to her sister, but it was the truth. Joan wouldn’t end this war alone. Stella was certain of that.
But what about Bobby? Joan hadn’t sent money two weeks ago, just as there’d been nothing in this letter. Each time her nephew needed something, Stella dipped into her hard-earned savings; the money she’d dreamed of using for a new life dwindled. Books? Gone was train fare to London. He lost his hat on the way to school? There went a week’s dinners at a boardinghouse. A new shirt when he’d torn one climbing trees with Robin? Another correspondence course and more precious clothing coupons.
She was trying so hard to do the right thing by her nephew. He was clothed and had food. She made sure he washed up after she and Dorothy cleaned Mrs. Symonds’s dinner. She could help him with his schoolwork, although she felt woefully under-equipped to keep up with the steady stream of questions that seemed to bubble out of him these days. She went through all of the motions of motherhood, but motions were all she could muster.
The slap of little shoes down the tiled corridor to the kitchen signaled the approach of her nephew. Stella quickly folded the letter and stuffed it into her pocket.
“Hello, Bobby,” Mrs. George called out from the stove.
Beaming, Bobby ran to the other cook and threw his arms around her leg, so different from the frightened little boy who’d arrived at Highbury two months ago.
“Hello, Mrs. George. I saw a hedgehog today,” he announced.
“Did you? In the daytime?” asked the cook, ruffling his hair and then gently pushing him away so she could go back to stirring a muddy-looking soup.
“He was walking across the lane.”
“And how do you know that it wasn’t a lady hedgehog?” Mrs. George asked.
The little boy looked serious. “I know.”
“Hello, Bobby,” Stella called across the kitchen. When he wandered over but didn’t hug her as he had Mrs. George, she busied herself peeking under a tea towel at two loaves of brown bread.
“I had a letter from your mother today. She says that she misses you very much,” she continued. Satisfied with the bread, she reached for the end of an old loaf and cut off a thin slice. Onto it went a scrape of margarine. She set the bread and margarine in front of Bobby, who took a huge bi
te.
“That’s all you’ll get before tea,” she reminded him.
His next bite was slightly smaller. “Where is Mummy?” he asked around a mouthful of bread.
“She has to stay at home because she has a job at the factory,” Stella said, feeling the weight of all of her sister’s blasé words in her pocket.
“But why can’t she work here?” he asked.
“She has a very important job for the war,” she said. Joan would love hearing her say that.
“I want to help.”
“It’s too dangerous even for big boys like you,” she said.
His eyes went wide, brimming with tears.
“Will Mummy be hurt?” he asked in a tiny voice.
Oh Lord, she’d put her foot in it now. She reached her arms around him awkwardly. “She’s not in danger.”
“I want her here!” he wailed.
“She can’t be, Bobby,” she said.
“But there are bombs!”
She pulled back, shocked. “Why do you think there would be bombs?”
She could sense that Miss Grant and Miss Parker across the room were doing their very best to appear that they weren’t paying attention. At least Mrs. George had the grace to watch this exchange openly, her arms crossed under her bosom.
“One of the boys at school said that the Germans blew up London and they blew up Covertee.” Bobby sobbed into her chest.
“Coventry,” she corrected. When she caught Mrs. George’s look of disapproval, she added, “What a horrid thing for that boy to say.”
“He said Mummy’s going to be bombed.” He continued to cry.
Mrs. George shook her head in disgust at the other boy’s cruelty, and Stella took comfort in knowing that at least on this front they were united.
“Bobby.” She laid a soft hand on his head. “I promise you that nothing bad is going to happen to your mother.” Joan’s far too lucky for that. “In the meantime, you get to live here. Don’t you like it at Highbury House?”
His tears soaked her shirtfront as he moved his tiny head in a nod.
“You get to play with Master Robin and all his nice toys.” When he peeled himself away from her chest, she nearly winced at the river of tears and snot on her clothes. She wanted to run straight upstairs to change, but instead she pulled out a much-laundered handkerchief and wiped his face.
“He’s nice,” said her nephew in a whisper.
“I think your mum wants you to have the best time at Highbury House so that when you go back home, you have all of these wonderful memories. Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
She leaned down so they were eye level. “So there will be no more crying today?”
He nodded.
“Good. Now, would you like another slice of bread?” she asked, although she could hardly imagine that the mealy bread would ever tempt anyone except for a five-year-old who’d never known soft white flour and well-risen loaves.
“Can I have jam, too?” He looked up at her through his lashes.
Despite herself, she snorted a laugh. “Cheeky monkey, yes you can. But just this once.”
She went to fetch the jam jar from the high shelf of the pantry—far away from little hands. Bobby knew how rare jam on his bread was. She hadn’t had more than a taste of it herself in nearly two years. The sugar was far too dear, and twice she’d found that the small Symonds family’s ration coupons didn’t add up to enough for the harvest’s canning, let alone other needs.
When she came back, she found Bobby quizzing Miss Parker about hedgehogs, befuddling the young woman from Leeds who’d likely never seen one of the creatures before coming to Warwickshire.
Stella cut another thin slice of bread and twisted off the top of the jam jar. She was just looking around for a butter knife when one slid across the worktable to her. She looked up to see Mrs. George, who was… smiling.
“That was very well done, Miss Adderton,” said the other woman.
I don’t know what I’m doing! Stella wanted to shout. Tell me what to do!
“It will get easier with time,” Mrs. George continued.
“I’m not his mother,” she said.
Mrs. George shook her head. “You’re the closest thing that boy has right now.”
Stella accepted the knife without a word.
* * *
As soon as Bobby was finished with his second snack, she shooed him out of the kitchen to go play and set about putting together Mrs. Symonds’s tea tray. Although there were fresh tea leaves for the pot, there hadn’t been much flour, so Stella had had to resort to oatmeal scones made with drippings. The last time she’d baked scones with butter had been Christmas Day.
Stella carefully carried the tray up the servants’ stairs. Really, Dorothy or Mrs. Dibble should bring it, but both were preoccupied with the laundry, which had become impossible to send out with so many washerwomen conscripted and the hospital overwhelming those who remained.
Delicately putting one foot in front of the other, she navigated the corridor past what had once been the double drawing room and the dining room until she stopped at the morning room door. She knocked and then pushed open the door, as Mrs. Dibble had taught her.
“Is that tea, Miss Adderton?” Mrs. Symonds asked from the cluster of chairs where she sat with Miss Cynthia, Matron McPherson, and a priest who was also a patient.
“Yes, Mrs. Symonds,” she said.
“You may set the tray there,” said Mrs. Symonds, waving a hand to the sideboard next to her. “Would any of you care for tea?”
“I would love a cup.” The priest smiled at Stella as she carefully made her way around the breakfast table now serving as the family’s main dining set. “What have you baked for us today, Miss Adderton?”
“Oatmeal scones,” she said, thankful she’d piled the small plate high.
“How delightful,” said the priest.
“Father Devlin, perhaps you’d like to start,” said Mrs. Symonds, shooting him a bemused look.
At an almost invisible nod from her employer, Stella bobbed an approximation of a curtsy, feeling painfully old-fashioned and resenting every moment.
Before she reached the door, however, Miss Cynthia stopped her by calling out in her thin voice, “Perhaps you could help us, Mrs.… ?”
“Miss Adderton,” Mrs. Symonds supplied, in a tone that implied her sister-in-law should know by now who cooked her meals every evening.
“Miss Adderton,” said Miss Cynthia.
“If you wish,” said Stella, folding her hands behind her back.
“We have rather a dilemma. Some of the nurses have asked for a dance to be held at Highbury House,” said Father Devlin.
“I will not have the nurses dancing with the patients in their care,” said Miss Cynthia, her tone severe.
“I believe you’ll find that it’s my responsibility to make that sort of decision on behalf of my nurses,” said Matron.
“Surely you wouldn’t begrudge the few men who are fit enough the chance to shuffle around the floor,” said Father Devlin with a smile.
“It is not the shuffling I’m concerned with.” Miss Cynthia crossed her hands primly over her knee. “It would be wholly inappropriate for a nurse to dance with a man under her care. Why, it could create chaos in the wards.”
“There is a time and a place for a little fun. Besides, one nurse to every ten patients won’t make for a good ratio,” said Matron.
“But that is where Miss Adderton might come in handy. Where would we procure some young people to make up a crowd?” asked Father Devlin.
“I would like to point out that I have not yet agreed to host a dance in my home,” said Mrs. Symonds.
Stella looked among the four of them, not knowing the right answer.
“You can speak your mind,” said Father Devlin gently. “It’s only a friendly question.”
“Well, there are the land girls,” Stella started. “I have a friend who says that they organize dances, and girls
come from across the county for it.”
The priest clapped his hands together. “Excellent idea!”
“You could also invite the men from the air base. And the WAAFs,” Stella added, remembering the women serving in the Royal Air Force’s auxiliary branch who worked in support roles at the base.
“If the officers from the base came as well, it would keep the men in line,” said Matron.
“It could be a tea dance. There’s nothing more innocent than a tea dance,” said Father Devlin.
Miss Cynthia squinted at him. “I didn’t think the church would approve.”
“I know enough about men to understand that they are never so mischievous as when they are restless.”
“Women, too,” muttered Matron into the edge of her cup.
“A well-chaperoned dance will lift their spirits, and I dare say it will do much the same for your nurses, Matron McPherson,” said Father Devlin.
Miss Cynthia shook her head. “No. I don’t think it would be proper. I really can’t have my nurses cavorting with pilots, either.”
“My nurses,” Matron reminded the commandant.
“I can understand why the Voluntary Aid Detachment would not want to be seen as endorsing such an activity, Cynthia,” said Mrs. Symonds.
Father Devlin sighed.
“Thank you, Diana. I appreciate when someone is able to see reason,” said Miss Cynthia.
Stella, who had not yet been dismissed, saw something flicker in her employer’s eye when Mrs. Symonds turned to her.
“Now, if I invite the land girls to a dance at Highbury House, would your friend Miss Pedley be able to spread the word?” Mrs. Symonds asked.
Miss Cynthia’s cup clattered against its saucer as she jolted. “But you just said…”
“I never said there wouldn’t be a dance. I said that you, as the head of this convalescent hospital, might not want to endorse it. However, Highbury House is still my home, and I may still choose to organize a dance here,” said Mrs. Symonds.
Miss Cynthia sucked in a breath. “I will remind you that the ballroom currently houses Ward C. I cannot authorize the removal of beds for such frivolity.”