by Kate Albus
Mr. Engersoll took this moment to offer a reminder. “You’ll take care, then, children,” he said, “to be circumspect in divulging the particulars of your situation?”
By now, Anna had given up trying to understand the solicitor. Circumspect sounded like circumference, but that made no sense. It was enough for her to hear William say that they understood and would be circumspect.
At this, Miss Carr reappeared and produced labels for the children. Each had a large black number at the center, and the children’s names had been penciled in below. “You’re to wear these. Attach them to one of your shirt buttons, please. It’s unlikely any of us will be separated, but you’re not to remove these, in any case. We can’t have anyone going missing, can we?” She thumbed through the papers on her clipboard. “Young lady,” she said to Anna, “you will be with the group that is on that side of the yard.” She turned to Edmund. “And I assume you, young man, are the eleven-year-old? Your group is in the rear corner.”
Edmund looked up at her. “We’re staying together.” He didn’t mean to be defiant, but it came out that way nonetheless.
Miss Carr lowered her clipboard and stared hard at him. “Children,” she replied, “are to be grouped by age. Your group”—she gestured to William—“is at the back of the yard there.”
Edmund crossed his arms. “We’re staying together,” he repeated. This time, he did mean to be defiant.
To the children’s relief, Mr. Engersoll stepped in. “Miss Carr, I understand the importance of organization; however, I did speak with my colleague regarding special considerations for the Pearce children. Given that they are unknown to your school, I should think it in everyone’s best interest that they remain together.”
Miss Carr’s eyes darted from Edmund to the solicitor. A commotion from the other side of the schoolyard drew her attention. “Right,” she said. “Then we shall have to make…accommodations, won’t we?” She pursed her lips. “If you’ll wait here, I need to attend to other students.” She went to manage a group of smaller children, two of whom were crying.
Mr. Engersoll let out a long breath. “I suppose that’s that.”
“Thank you, sir,” William said.
Mr. Engersoll’s cheeks flushed. He removed his spectacles and rubbed at them with a handkerchief. “I wish you the very best, all three of you,” he said. “Rest assured that you can contact me, should there be any matters with which you require assistance. Remember our discussion…and do take care of yourselves.” He extended a hand to William, who shook it firmly. “Best foot forward, now.”
With that, he was gone.
William turned to his siblings. Edmund was looking hard at the ground, pushing a toe between the wide stones paving the schoolyard. Anna gripped her lower lip in her teeth in a determined effort not to cry. William took her hands in his.
“This is going to be a great adventure, right?” He forced lightness into his voice, but anyone could tell that he viewed their situation as neither great nor adventurous.
“That woman is horrible,” Anna said, her voice cracking.
William knew there was nothing but truth in this. “She is,” he conceded. “Perhaps we should just think of her as some sort of villain that we’ll need to vanquish on our adventure, right?”
“Right,” Edmund said. He didn’t really mean it.
William, Edmund, and Anna knew the evacuation of London’s schoolchildren was referred to by some as Operation Pied Piper. No doubt, whoever coined the phrase pictured children skipping over verdant hills in time to the music of the beloved piper. Those who read like our threesome, however, may recall that the piper in the original tale was, in fact, leading the youngsters of Hamelin away from their home as a punishment to the townspeople, who had failed to pay for his services as the town’s rat catcher. This knowledge did little to settle the children’s stomachs as they joined the end of the long line trudging toward Kings Cross train station.
They walked in silence for a good many blocks, past unfamiliar storefronts and through a tiny park dotted with flowering shrubs. The morning sun gave a brilliant flash through the stained glass of St. Pancras Church.
Just then, William felt someone’s eyes on him. Ahead was a gangly girl with long braids. She had stopped walking, apparently waiting for the Pearces to catch up to her.
The girl addressed William. “You’re not from St. Michael’s, are you?”
“No,” William said.
The girl smiled and shifted her suitcase to her left hand. “I’m Frances.”
I think she wants me to shake her hand, William thought. For some reason he couldn’t quite name, his cheeks felt hot.
Edmund grinned, rather delighted by his brother’s evident discomfort with the attention. “I’m Edmund Pearce,” he said, extending his hand. “This is my sister, Anna, and that’s my brother, William.”
Frances shook Edmund’s hand and glanced at Anna for the briefest of moments before turning her gaze again to William. “Pleased to meet you, William.”
Edmund stifled a giggle. “My brother’s a bit shy, Frances. Don’t take it personally.”
William wanted to stomp on Edmund’s foot.
“Why are you being evacuated with St. Michael’s?” Frances asked.
“Our grandmother—ehm—arranged it,” Edmund said.
Frances nodded as if this explained everything. “Oh.” Her eyes lingered on William. “Well,” she said, “I’m awfully glad to meet you.”
“You as well,” William said. His voice was higher than usual.
“Yes, very glad to meet you, Frances,” Edmund chimed in.
Frances saw Miss Carr checking the lines and said goodbye, hurrying to rejoin her group.
William knocked his suitcase into the back of Edmund’s leg and took no small pleasure in watching his brother’s knee buckle a bit.
The group arrived at the busy station a little the worse for wear. The morning was unusually warm for June, and most of the children were dressed in layers in an effort to bring as much clothing as possible. William, having carried both his suitcase and Anna’s, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe perspiration from his neck.
Edmund set his suitcase down and stretched his fingers. “My feet hurt.”
William had little sympathy. “Everyone’s feet hurt, Ed. Don’t complain.”
“Right, then,” Miss Carr trilled, herding the children toward platform three. “Follow your groups,” she called, walking down the line of evacuees, glancing at her clipboard every few moments and directing children to the waiting train.
Her eyes landed on William, Edmund, and Anna and she marched toward them, her low heels a staccato. “You’ll be expecting your own car, Your Highnesses?”
William swallowed. “No, ma’am. I mean, we’ll be fine wherever there’s room. And thanks—I mean, thank you for—for accommodating us.”
Miss Carr glanced at her roster, at the train, then at the children. “Last car, last compartment, you lot.”
The children did have a compartment to themselves, as it turned out, and whether this was accidental or not, they were glad to travel in the familiarity of their own bedraggled family. They took off their winter coats with a sigh of relief and surveyed their accommodations.
“Sit on that side, Edmund,” William said. “The train’ll be going this way and if you’re traveling backward you’ll be sick.”
“I won’t,” Edmund said, collapsing onto the rear-facing seat.
William shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He retrieved his book from his suitcase, then Edmund’s and Anna’s from theirs, before stowing their things in the rack above the compartment’s window. None of the children opened their books just yet, however. It is often the case that, at times of great anxiety, when the diversion of a good story should seem most welcome, one is least equipped to focus one’s mind on reading. This was so for our threesome, who now sat in tense silence, waiting for the train to move.
A brisk knock from the corridor a
nnounced the arrival of Mrs. Warren. She slid open the compartment door. “Hello, children. I wanted to make sure you got your postcard. To send home to your family once we’ve arrived…to let them know the address of your billet.”
“What’s a billet?” Anna asked.
“It’s another name for a place to stay,” Mrs. Warren explained. “A temporary home for you, until the war’s over.”
William took the outstretched card. “Thanks very much.”
“Certainly.” Mrs. Warren smiled at the children as the train suddenly gave a lurch. “Oh! We’re off! I’m just two compartments down the corridor, at the other end of this car. In case you need anything.” She heaved the door closed behind her.
The children went to the window, where Anna sat on William’s lap, pressing her forehead to the glass. The brightly lit platform soon gave way to the starless midnight of a tunnel. The darkness didn’t last long, though, for presently they emerged into the helter-skelter jumble of tracks and spare train cars just outside Kings Cross. The train gathered speed, and the children were whisked past the backsides of the rather shabby establishments usually found near railway stations.
In twenty minutes’ time, the pewter of London began to give way. Patches of green emerged like rabbits venturing from their warrens, quick and few at first, then mustering courage and appearing in greater numbers. England’s rain, infamous though it may be, begets the most extraordinary array of greens. The yellow greens of new grass met the purple greens of heather, and these tumbled toward the emerald hills beyond. The children took all this in somewhat absently, their minds occupied with the vast unknown that lay beyond that shifting green.
Anna moved from William’s lap and picked up A Little Princess, ready to leave dark thoughts for the time being. She opened it with reverence, careful not to crack the spine. The first words of a new book are so delicious—like the first taste of a cookie fresh from the oven and not yet properly cooled. Anna settled in.
Once, on a dark winter’s day, when the yellow fog hung so thick and heavy in the streets of London that the lamps were lighted and the shop windows blazed with gas as they do at night, an odd-looking little girl sat in a cab with her father…
Yes, Anna thought. I like odd-looking little girls better than pretty ones. They’re generally far more interesting.
William, still too distracted to read, closed his eyes and let his mind drift. As the makeshift guardian of our threesome, his thoughts inevitably flew to the darkest of questions. What if we get split up? What if we’re taken in by someone awful? What if we’re taken in by someone lovely but Edmund misbehaves and ruins things? With time, though, the rocking of the train got the better of him, and he drifted into fitful sleep.
Edmund felt rather queasy, but he wasn’t about to admit it. Like Anna, he picked up his book. He had read The Count before, and he welcomed Edmond Dantès, hero of downtrodden boys, taking pleasure in their similar names. Riding backward on a train is—as William suggested—ill-advised for those prone to motion sickness, but Edmund tucked into the story, unwilling to prove his brother right by succumbing to a touchy stomach.
He was able to manage this for thirty minutes or so but closed the book around page fifteen, his stomach churning. He closed his eyes and swallowed. He tried to sleep but couldn’t. At no point did he consider changing seats.
Stubbornness can serve one well at times. This was not one of those times.
Nearly two hours outside of London, the train began to slow. Anna looked up from her book to peer out the window. She shook William awake.
“Are we there?” he asked.
Anna shrugged. “This doesn’t seem far enough from London to be worth the trouble.”
The compartment door opened, bringing Mrs. Warren’s welcome face. “Not there yet, children. Just a moment to stretch your legs and use the facilities, if you need to.”
Edmund’s stomach gave a bilious lurch. He very much needed the facilities. However, as the evacuees were ushered off the train to a single, cramped privy at the far end of the platform, he eyed the line and could see he was in for a wait. His stomach roiled alarmingly. The thought of being sick in front of everyone, but most especially his brother, filled him with dread. Now gone quite pale, he gulped at the fresh air, hoping to stop himself from making a scene. Within a few minutes, though, it became quite clear that his stomach was determined to do just that. He stepped off the platform to the rock-studded hillside adjoining the railway station, seeking a spot to be sick without an audience.
William watched in dismay. “Edmund! Where are you going?”
Intent on his mission, Edmund didn’t respond. The trees nearest the station were too scrawny to provide adequate cover, and none of the rocks were large enough to hide behind. He pressed on, up the hill. The sour tang was now at the very top of his throat, and his forehead was cold and damp. His eyes watering, he didn’t notice a bulging root and was suddenly brought to his knees.
He could hold out no longer and was luridly sick.
Being luridly sick is never enjoyable, but it does bring a certain measure of relief. Edmund remained kneeling on the slope, heaving deep breaths. When he was sure the scourge was over, he swiped at his mouth, then rose slowly. He brushed the dirt from his trouser legs, one of which was now torn, the frayed hole rimmed with a growing red stain from the skinned knee within. Edmund sighed and made his way back down to the platform.
None of the children appeared to have noticed the show on the hillside, except, of course, for Anna and William, who had watched it all with alarm. William took in Edmund’s shirtsleeves, soiled with sick, and his torn trousers. He felt the heat of his brother’s shame. “Are you all right?”
Edmund didn’t have time to answer. His return had apparently not escaped the attention of Miss Carr, who approached them at a clip. There was fire in her eyes.
“Who gave you permission to leave this platform?”
Edmund neither looked at her nor answered. A charged silence followed, ultimately broken by a welcome voice.
“I did, Judith,” Mrs. Warren said. “Just needed a bit of a stretch, the boy did.” She smiled at Edmund, who could have hugged her, had he approved of such things.
Miss Carr leaned over Edmund, taking in his torn trousers and the unmistakable stench of sick, and wrinkled her nose. “In a few hours’ time, the lot of you will be lined up in front of a hall full of people who will choose which of you they are willing to take into their homes.” She fixed her gaze on the top of Edmund’s downturned head. “You would do well to remember that a billet for three is a challenge, even for evacuees not in such states of disrepair.”
Edmund’s knee stung, and hot tears threatened, but he blinked them back and willed the moment to end.
At last it did. Miss Carr turned with a huff to shepherd all the children back to the train.
Edmund looked at Mrs. Warren. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“Glad to be of help,” Mrs. Warren replied. “She can be a bit grim, Miss Carr. Best to toe the line with her, if you know what I mean?”
Edmund nodded.
“And best to ride forward-facing, don’t you think?” She winked at Edmund, who returned to the train with Anna and William, seating himself on the sensible side of the compartment without another word.
CHAPTER FOUR
The remainder of the journey passed without incident, save for the children’s mounting anxiety. They slept—ten minutes here, twenty minutes there—heads tipped at uncomfortable angles. Anna and William ate the lunches Miss Collins had packed. Edmund thought it best to leave his stomach alone.
It was midafternoon by the time the train began to slow again. The children peered out the window, where the steeple of a church pierced the sky in the distance. A few cottages could be seen, then more, and now the train was well and truly stopping. The three looked at one another in wordless acknowledgment. This must be their destination.
Miss Carr, Mrs. Warren, and two other teachers led the
evacuees from the train to a grassy area outside the station. Some of the smaller children were asleep on the shoulders of older brothers and sisters. A few more looked as if they would like to be.
Edmund, on steady ground at last and recovered now from the episode on the hillside, was hungry. He rooted out the chocolate Miss Collins had packed. As he did, he noticed a smallish boy looking up at him, wide-eyed. Edmund took in the boy’s mended jacket, the eyes underlined in shadows, the skin above his upper lip chapped raw from a dripping nose gone unattended, and saw the sort of hunger whose endlessness digs a pit in a person. Being eleven, Edmund wouldn’t have put it in quite those words, but he recognized it nonetheless. He looked from the boy to the chocolate now slightly melted in his palm. It was so awfully tempting to simply pop it into his mouth and have done with it. Instead, Edmund extended the precious ration to the boy, who snatched it and swallowed it, seemingly without chewing. Edmund felt uncomfortable, suddenly, and began to study the hole in his trousers.
Miss Carr stood on the steps of the station. “Children!” She clapped her hands for attention. “Let me commend you on your management of the journey thus far. We will now proceed to the village hall, where you will be served refreshments while you wait for your new foster families. Stay in your lines and follow me, please!” She set off, glancing back now and again to ensure there were no stragglers.
This last leg of the journey proved challenging. Sweaty hands lost their grips on heavy suitcases. One poor child held up the whole procession when her case—in truth, a sofa cushion cover held together with twine—split and spilled its contents into the road. One of the teachers scurried to help her gather her things and retie her bundle.
Bringing up the rear of the parade were Anna, Edmund, and William.
“How’s this going to work?” Edmund asked his brother.
William shrugged. “Dunno. Tuck in your shirt before we get there.”
Ahead of them, they could see the first children in the line walking through the double front doors of a large building bearing a hand-lettered banner: WELCOME, EVACUEES. As they reached the doors themselves, the children could see their companions gathering around a long table laden with cookies, fruit, and milk. The boy who had accepted Edmund’s chocolate was filling his pockets. One of the teachers put a stop to this with a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder.