A Place to Hang the Moon

by Kate Albus

  Mr. Forrester shut off the radio. He shook his head. “Very bad news indeed.”

  “What do you mean, Uncle Peter?” Edmund asked.

  “That leaves just the Channel between us and the Jerries, my boy. That’s only thirty miles or thereabouts, if you’re in Dover.”

  Anna grabbed William’s hand. “How far is Dover from here?” she whispered.

  “Far,” William said.

  Edmund looked at Mr. Forrester. “Do you think the Germans will attack us?”

  He shook his head. “Likely not here, Edmund. They’d have little interest in the countryside, is my bet. But the big cities…London…I suppose evacuation was a good idea, isn’t that right, you lot?”

  The children swallowed at the sudden realness of it all.

  Mrs. Forrester sighed. “I wonder if we’ll still be able to get French perfume.”

  Anna, Edmund, and William chose a rainy Monday to return their books to the lending library on their way home from school. Mrs. Müller was at the desk when they arrived. She put down her knitting when she saw them.

  “Hello, children…lovely to have you back! Did The Yellow Fairy Book meet with your approval, Anna?”

  Anna was pleased that the librarian remembered both her name and the book she had borrowed. “Yes, Ma’am. Thank you very much.”

  “Which was your favorite of the fairy stories?”

  Anna thought for a moment. She wanted her answer to be the right one. “I loved them all—well, nearly all—‘The Steadfast Tin Soldier’ was awfully sad. I suppose I loved ‘The Tinder Box’ best.”

  The librarian nodded. “I loved that one as well. Especially the part about the dog with eyes as big as saucers.”

  Anna thumbed eagerly through the book and produced a picture of the dog. The librarian ran a finger over the page and smiled, then turned to William, took the Agatha Christie from him, and marked it as returned.

  “Well?” she asked.

  William grinned. “Just what I was looking for.”

  “I’m glad,” she said. “She’s got loads more.”

  Edmund placed his book on the desk next. “And Edmund,” the librarian said, “how was it?”

  “Excellent,” Edmund said. “Anna wants to read it next.”

  The librarian deftly rechecked the book for Anna. “I’ve just got a new one in this week, Edmund. I wonder if you might like to be first reader with it?”

  Edmund liked the role of “first reader”—of first anything, come to that.

  “It’s called The Enchanted Wood,” Mrs. Müller continued, producing a book from a cart behind her. “It appears to be about three children who move from the city to the country.” She smiled.

  “Just like us,” Anna said, beaming.

  “Just like you,” the librarian whispered. “And if the title is to be believed, I’m assuming they must happen upon some sort of enchanted wood.” She winked. “Are you game for the assignment, Edmund?”

  He smiled broadly and nodded.

  The librarian marked the book as borrowed and handed it over the desk. “Would you like to borrow another as well, William?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Please.”

  “Excellent. Let me know if you’re in need of suggestions.” With that, William set off to begin the hunt. Edmund followed him. Anna lingered by the lending desk.

  “How is our Little Princess faring?” Mrs. Müller asked.

  Anna wondered whether the librarian remembered what everyone was reading, or whether she was a special case. She hoped she was a special case. “She’s quite well, only I think Miss Minchin is just being nice to her because she’s got gobs of money.”

  “She is dreadful, isn’t she?”

  “Mmmm,” Anna murmured. “Well, I don’t want to keep you from your work.” Really, in her secret heart, Anna wanted very much to keep Mrs. Müller from her work.

  The librarian smiled. “The delightful thing is that talking about books actually is my work.” She folded her hands. “So I’m glad of the company of such an astute reader.”

  Anna squinted. “What’s astute?”

  “It means clever.”

  “Oh.” A blush of pride bloomed on Anna’s cheeks. “Thank you.”

  It was at this moment that a white-haired woman pushed open the creaky old door. Shaking out her umbrella and depositing it in the stand by the entry, she looked toward the lending desk.

  “Hello, Nora,” she said. “I was hoping to chat with you.”

  Anna retreated to the chairs by the fireplace and opened her book, rather put out that the old woman had interrupted her astute conversation with the librarian.

  “It’s lovely to see you, Florence,” Mrs. Müller said. “Are you here for a book?”

  “I’m not, Nora—though I wouldn’t mind perusing some cookbooks. So much food is unavailable these days, I’m in need of some suggestions as to how to get dinner on the table.”

  “You’re here about dinner?”

  The woman chuckled. “I suppose I am, in a way.” She undid the top button of her raincoat. “You know as well as anyone, Nora, that with the war stopping food imports, we’re all called upon to produce more of our own. I thought perhaps you’d consider doing a little gardening talk in the fall for the ladies of the village—and men, what’s left of them?”

  Mrs. Müller’s voice went softer than usual. “Me?”

  The lady nodded. “However much some of us may hate it, we’re going to need to dig up our hydrangeas and boxwoods and put potatoes in their places. You’ve such a fine vegetable plot already, I think people could benefit from your expertise. You know—preparing their gardens to produce something next spring?”

  “It’s kind of you to say so, Florence…really, it is, but—”

  “I’m not being kind, Nora. It’s a fact. You grow more than anyone else in the village. Who better than you to offer advice?”

  “Thank you, Florence. It’s only…” Mrs. Müller’s voice dropped so low that Anna had to tilt her head to hear. She knew she ought not to eavesdrop, but there is nothing so compelling as the sound of a whisper just within one’s reach. “I’m not exactly the most sought-after person in the village, am I?” the librarian said.

  “Rubbish from a few small-minded people,” the old lady replied. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Nora. Quite the opposite, in fact. It’s you that’s been done wrong.”

  “I know that, Florence. Well—on good days I know it. But it often feels as if it’s more than just a handful of hard-hearted souls.”

  “Which is precisely why I think you ought to do this. Talk to people. Let them see you for the good soul you are. Show them you’re doing your bit.”

  “I am doing my bit—or trying to. You know I am.” Anna heard a tremble in the librarian’s voice.

  “I do, Nora. I do. Heavens, the scarves and socks you’ve knitted for our boys…”

  William and Edmund appeared, selections in hand. “You haven’t got very far, have you, Anna?” William said, noting that her book was only opened to the first page.

  “What?” Anna said. “Oh, I haven’t, have I? I was chatting with Mrs. Müller, and then I just…”

  Anna wished she hadn’t missed the end of the ladies’ conversation, but by now Mrs. Müller was showing the older woman her knitting. She introduced the children when they approached. “The Pearces are staying with the Forresters,” she said, “and they’ve already become my most astute customers.”

  Anna beamed—the boys did, too, come to that. Anna guessed they must already know what astute meant.

  On the walk back to the Forresters’, Anna told her brothers of the ladies’ conversation.

  William looked at her. “Anna! You know better than to eavesdrop.”

  “I know!” Anna cried. “But I was already there in the room! What was I to do?”

  “I wonder what she’s done to make people dislike her,” Edmund said, kicking a pebble as they walked.

  “She hasn’t done anything,” Anna said. �
��The old lady said so.”

  “She must have done something.”

  Anna’s brow wrinkled. “It’s something about the war. The old lady said if Mrs. Müller gave a gardening presentation, she could show she was doing her bit.”

  “What could a library lady do that was against the war effort?” William asked.

  Edmund considered this. “Stock too many books written by Germans?” He looked at his sister. “Didn’t that fairy story book you just read have some stories by the brothers Grimm, Anna?”

  “I don’t—”

  “They’re German, I think.” Edmund grinned wickedly at her. “Can you be arrested for that? Reading stories by Germans?”

  Anna narrowed her eyes at her brother.

  “They’re probably looking for you right now, ready to throw you in the clink.” Edmund kicked at the pebble and missed, stubbing his toe on the roadway.

  Anna gave a tiny smile. The clink, she thought. Honestly.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  July brought news of bombings in Wales, Cornwall, and Dover.

  “The Germans are hitting the ports,” Mr. Forrester said, “trying to frighten us into capitulation.”

  “What’s capitulation?” Anna asked.

  William took her hand. “It means surrendering.”

  “We won’t do that, will we?” Anna whispered.

  “Of course not, stupid,” Simon said, narrowing his eyes at her.

  “Don’t call my sister stupid,” Edmund warned.

  “Children—” Mrs. Forrester started, but Mr. Forrester cut her off.

  “We won’t capitulate. Not if Churchill has anything to say about it.”

  Indeed, Mr. Churchill did have something to say about it. The children listened to his rumbling voice on the radio as he said he would rather see London laid in ruins and ashes than give in to the Nazis.

  Anna gulped. Laid in ruins and ashes.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Mr. Forrester continued, “I may be a couple of years past being called up for soldiering”—and perhaps a couple of pounds too fat, Edmund thought—“but I’m going to join up with the Local Defense Volunteers straightaway.”

  “Oh, Peter—do you really think—” Mrs. Forrester began.

  “I do, Nellie,” he said, holding up a hand to indicate there would be no argument. “It’s not as if I’ll be in any great danger with the Local Defense. As near as I can tell, most of what I’ll be doing is taking down road signs to confuse the Jerries. Perhaps if I’m lucky I’ll get to manage some unexploded bombs?”

  Anna thought this sounded anything but lucky.

  Edmund tended to agree with Mr. Forrester. “How do you do that?” he asked.

  Mr. Forrester chuckled. “I don’t rightly know yet, but I expect they’ll train me.” He took Mrs. Forrester’s hand. “You can do your bit as well, Nellie…they’re turning cooking pots into planes, you know.”

  Mrs. Forrester glanced toward her kitchen. “First nylon stockings, now this.”

  The next day’s post brought a letter. Mrs. Forrester handed it to William. “This must be from your grandmother, children.”

  “That would be something, wouldn’t it?” Edmund muttered.

  The children made their way upstairs to Anna’s room, where William opened the envelope and read aloud.

  Dear William, Edmund, and Anna,

  I was delighted to receive your note and to know that you are all safe. I am forwarding your information to Mr. Engersoll, who will no doubt be glad of it as well.

  I’m happy to hear that the Forresters seem kind people. Perhaps their boys are just adjusting to the new arrangements and by now you’ll have made friends? I do hope so. And I wouldn’t worry too much about lipstick, Edmund. One must choose one’s battles in this life.

  I am well here with my sister. I shan’t say we are “having fun,” as you put it, but we are comfortable enough.

  Sending you all my very best wishes and hoping for the best with the “preposterous plan.”

  Yours,

  Kezia Collins

  “Her name’s Kezia?” Edmund said. “It doesn’t really suit her, does it?”

  William was dumbfounded. “We’ve lived with her our whole lives and you didn’t know her name was Kezia?”

  “Well, it’s not as if we were on a—what do you call it? First-base names?”

  “First-name basis. But you still could have known her first name.”

  “Well, I know it now,” Edmund said, “and I still say it doesn’t suit her.”

  Anna had to agree. “It doesn’t.”

  William sighed.

  Edmund thought for a minute. “She’s more of an Agnes.” He thought some more. “Maybe Lavinia.” He nodded, the matter decided. “Yeah. That’s it. Lavinia.”

  Some afternoons after lunch, the teachers took the evacuees on outings. The children loved these rambles—skipping rocks in the stream that bordered the village to the north one week, watching sheep graze on the hill beyond the train station the next.

  But none of these regular, ordinary outings compared with the surprise that awaited the children in late summer. One Friday, classes were let out early and the evacuees found themselves standing outside the village hall, waiting for buses that would take them to a theater in Coventry to see Pinocchio.

  The children were beyond delighted. Anna, Edmund, and William had only ever been to see a movie once before, and all three agreed that one could hardly count seeing Lassie from Lancashire with Miss Collins.

  Alfie was incredulous. “You never saw The Wizard of Oz?”

  The children shook their heads.

  Frances crossed her arms. “What about Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs?”

  “No,” Anna said.

  “Why not?” Alfie asked.

  Edmund shrugged. “Our grandmother doesn’t really care for the cinema.”

  As the buses arrived, Anna couldn’t stop herself from jumping up and down at the excitement of it all. Edmund shoved in front of her to be first on the bus.

  William followed him. “We should sit in front, Ed—with you by a window so you don’t get sick.”

  Edmund narrowed his eyes at his brother but lowered himself into a window seat in the second row. Anna slid in next to him, and William took the seat behind.

  This proved an unfortunate choice, as it was Frances who boarded next. Her eyes glowed as she took the empty seat next to William.

  “Ehm—H-hello, Frances,” he stammered. “I—ehm—I think Anna wanted to sit there.” He looked at his sister, who was quite comfortable and thought it would be terribly awkward to ask Frances to move.

  Frances smiled. “She looks fine where she is.”

  Edmund hung over the back of the seat in delight. “Yeah, Will. Anna’ll be fine with me. Don’t worry.”

  William wondered whether it was too late for him to feign illness and flee the bus.

  Frances smoothed the folds of her skirt. “Would you like to sit together in the theater as well?”

  What to say? I would rather throw myself under the wheels of this bus than sit next to you in a darkened theater? “Ehm—thanks, Frances. It’s only just…I think I should probably sit with my brother and sister, in case they—get scared or something.”

  Frances’s eyes widened. “Oh! That is just darling.”

  This time it was Anna who peered over the back of the seat. “Scared of Pinocchio?”

  It was an unexpected relief to William when Miss Carr boarded the bus and announced that she would teach them about Coventry as they made the journey westward. Green fields, browning a bit in the summer heat, passed in a blur as the children caught familiar names and phrases from history. King Richard II…King Henry IV…the Black Death…the Plague…

  Edmund thought he might nod off for a bit.

  “Miss Carr,” came the voice of Alfie from the back of the bus, “Coventry’s also where Lady Godiva lived, right? My grandad told me.”

  Miss Carr nodded. “Indeed, Alfred. Lady
Godiva did live in Coventry.”

  “And did she really ride a horse naked?”

  Edmund decided against nodding off after all.

  “Yes, Alfred,” Miss Carr said. “We all know the legend.”

  A small girl from the middle of the bus raised her hand. Evidently, she did not know the legend. “Why would someone ride a horse naked?”

  “That’s a fair question, Irene. And I would advise you all that the best way to ride a horse is, in fact, fully clothed.” Miss Carr cleared her throat. “Lady Godiva was the wife of a lord, hundreds of years ago. The story goes that her husband was taxing the people unfairly, and when she asked him to be reasonable, he said that he would lower the taxes if she would ride through the streets of Coventry without any clothes on.”

  An audible gasp made its way through the bus. Frances looked at William, who could think of nobody he would like to look at less when discussing nakedness.

  Frances returned her attention to Miss Carr. “So did she?”

  “So the story goes, Frances. I’m fairly certain, however—”

  Another voice came from the back of the bus. “And could people see her?”

  Miss Carr gave a weary sigh. “According to legend…she sent out a herald to tell the people not to peek. Now—let us get back to—”

  “And did anyone peek?” Frances asked.

  Miss Carr’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t know, Frances, whether anyone peeked. A poem called ‘Godiva,’ by Tennyson, tells us that one low churl did, and that his eyes shriveled and fell out of his head because of it.”

  “Excellent,” Edmund murmured.

  “Children,” Miss Carr continued, “I should like to return to the subject of—”

  Anna raised her hand in a moment of uncharacteristic boldness. “And did her husband lower the tax?”

  Miss Carr nodded. “According to legend, he did.”

  Anna took this in. “It seems a funny way to make decisions about taxes.”