A Place to Hang the Moon

by Kate Albus

  “Settle in,” Mrs. Griffith said. “I’ve got to tend to Robert before supper.” The baby carried on wailing as they disappeared down the hall.

  The children glanced around their new bedroom, then at one another. “Well, at least we’re together,” William said.

  Edmund sat on one of the straw mattresses. “I wonder which of us is worth the ten and six. Probably you, Anna. Girls are likely worth more than boys.”

  This pronouncement did little to lift Anna’s spirits.

  William saw a tear slide down her cheek. He drew her close to him. “Anna—It’ll be fine. Really, it will.”

  Anna brushed at her cheek. “This isn’t the one, either.”

  “What one?”

  “The one we’re meant to be with. We haven’t found the right family yet.”

  Edmund sighed. “Anna, you didn’t really believe Engersoll’s plan would work, did you?”

  Anna’s tearful stare at her brother was answer enough. In fact, she had believed just that.

  The children’s first dinner with Mrs. Griffith passed uneventfully. The baby had been fed and was sleeping quietly in a blanket-lined basket by the coal stove. Jane, Helen, and Penny had apparently already had their suppers—convenient, as there weren’t enough chairs at the table for all of them. The girls sat on the floor on the other side of the stove, playing with a toy airplane and a bedraggled doll.

  Corned beef and boiled cabbage quelled the gnawing in the children’s stomachs as Mrs. Griffith outlined the household routines and expectations. “Monday’s washing day. Friday’s bath night. You lot are to help when I ask, and to keep the house tended.”

  Doesn’t look as if it’s used to much in the way of tending, Edmund thought.

  “What can you do?” Mrs. Griffith asked.

  Not certain as to the sorts of abilities she might find most agreeable, the children were at a loss.

  I read, Anna thought. I could read to the children.

  Edmund considered his own skills. I put snakes in the beds of unpleasant persons. I get my brother and sister chucked out of places.

  William offered a diplomatic response. “We’re glad to help any way we can.”

  “Do you know how to cook?”

  Anna brightened. “I know how to make some things. Back in London, our housekeeper taught me.”

  Mrs. Griffith’s face curdled. “Housekeeper? Well. Aren’t we grand?” The children only twirled their forks in their bowls.

  The meal done, William was anxious to show that they could earn their keep, as it were, and set to clearing the table. Mrs. Griffith filled the sink with water from what appeared to be the only tap in the house. A meager sprinkling of soap flakes, and William began scrubbing the plates with a torn strip of flannel, passing them to Mrs. Griffith to dry. Edmund used another strip to wipe down the table. He wrinkled his nose as the cloth came back dark with coal dust.

  Anna, meanwhile, approached the children on the floor. It was unnerving, she thought, that they hadn’t made a sound since she and Edmund and William had arrived. She knew little about small children, but she had always pictured them as noisier than these. Not baby Robert noisy, mind you, but certainly noisier than these.

  “Hullo,” she said tentatively. “That’s a lovely doll. What’s her name?”

  Helen, who Anna guessed might be between two and three, did not respond but held out the doll. Anna took it tenderly. “She’s beautiful.”

  “Bedtime, littlies,” Mrs. Griffith said, setting the last of the bowls on a shelf, scooping up the sleeping baby in the basket, and beckoning to her girls. “G’night, you lot,” she said to the children. The little ones toddled up the rickety steps with their mother, leaving Anna, Edmund, and William in the kitchen to ponder what came next.

  “I suppose it’s time to investigate the petty,” William said with a grim set to his jaw. “I’ll go first and report back.”

  Glad of their brother’s willingness to perform reconnaissance, Anna and Edmund nodded encouragement. They sat at the kitchen table as William headed into the dark back garden.

  “I wish we had a flashlight,” Edmund said.

  Anna’s voice quavered. “Do you think there are spiders?”

  “Probably.”

  William returned from his expedition in a few minutes’ time. “It’s not so bad,” he said, his nose pink from the chill. “But we should probably use the ones at school and the library when we can.” Giving Edmund a bracing punch on the shoulder, William wished his brother luck and set to washing his hands in the cold water of the kitchen tap.

  Edmund was back in half the time William had taken. “I swear I felt something move against my leg while I was in there.” He shivered.

  Anna’s eyes widened.

  Edmund ran his hands under the tap. “Your turn, then, Anna.”

  “I can’t,” Anna whispered.

  Edmund dried his hands. “Of course you can, silly.”

  “I can’t,” Anna said again, her chin trembling now.

  William wrapped an arm around her. “Edmund and I will go with you.”

  “What?” Edmund’s indignation was fierce.

  “We’ll go with her.”

  “I’m not going out there again, and I’m certainly not tagging along every time she has to pee in the middle of the night!”

  “I didn’t say every time. For now, though. We’ll go with her.” William extended his hand to Anna.

  Edmund stood, sputtering, until Anna’s pleading stare got the better of him. “Just for tonight,” he said with a huff. “But I’m not holding anybody’s hand.”

  The children changed into their nightclothes by the weak light of the bedroom lamp. All three left their socks on as they crawled onto their straw mattresses, Anna in the middle with her brothers flanking her on either side. They pulled the single blanket over themselves. The room’s temperature was bearable, but each wondered silently what it might be like once things had turned well and truly wintry.

  “These beds are scratchy,” Anna whispered.

  “We’ll get more blankets tomorrow,” William said.

  “I’m thirsty,” Edmund said.

  William sighed. “Go back downstairs for a glass of water.”

  “Not that thirsty.”

  The three were silent for a long moment before Anna spoke. “Tell me something, William.”

  William closed his eyes and concentrated. He found it was getting harder and harder to come up with things. “Right. I remember one. When she was a girl, Mum wanted to be a cabbie.”

  Anna smiled. “Really?”

  “A cabbie?” Edmund scoffed. “Why would she want to be a cabbie?” In his secret heart, however, Edmund thought driving a cab sounded like an excellent career choice.

  William sat up. “I forgot. We’ve got to write to Miss Collins.” He rose with some reluctance and retrieved the postcard Miss Carr had left them. Crawling back under the blanket, he lay on his stomach to write.

  Dear Miss Collins,

  I hope this card finds you well. We wanted to let you and Mr. Engersoll know we are in a new home with a lady named Mrs. Griffith. Evacuees change billets quite a bit, as it turns out, but we are still together, the three of us, which is the most important thing.

  Our very best regards,

  William, Edmund, and Anna

  Peering over William’s shoulder, Edmund marveled once again at his brother. I hope this card finds you well. Honestly. He bit his tongue, however, glad that William had neglected to mention the reason for their change of billet.

  “Let’s have a bedtime story,” William suggested. “What shall we read, Anna?”

  “I don’t want to listen to girls’ books,” Edmund protested.

  Anna took offense. “I don’t read girls’ books!”

  William chose the path of least resistance. “Fine. Let’s start with the book Edmund got yesterday. That looked like a good one, didn’t it?”

  Pleased, Edmund reached into his rucksack for Five Chil
dren and It. He passed the book to William, who waited until the others had settled themselves before beginning. The title of the first chapter was certainly encouraging: “Beautiful as the Day.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Despite being lulled to sleep by the lovely story of the great white house and the gardens and the promise of fairies, it was a restless first night for the children in their new lodgings. The straw pallets were scratchy, and they woke periodically to the piercing wail of baby Robert and the creak of floorboards as Mrs. Griffith tried to quiet him.

  When the children heard the baby being carried downstairs in the morning, they dressed quickly and tiptoed after. In the kitchen, they found Mrs. Griffith stirring a pot of porridge while Robert whimpered on her hip.

  “Sleep well?” Mrs. Griffith asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, we did, thank you,” William replied. Edmund and Anna were impressed at how convincing he was.

  “Take the baby, one of you, and the others set the table.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the children said in unison.

  Anna was pleasantly surprised when baby Robert let her take him without protest. He extended a wavering fist toward her face and began exploring her mouth with his fingers. It might have been quite nice, holding the baby, were it not for the greenish muck streaming from his nose and the decidedly swampy feeling of his bottom.

  Mrs. Griffith ladled a bowlful of porridge for each of the children. “We’ve only enough milk for the girls. They’ll be up soon,” she said. “Ask your teacher about your ration books, as well as the blankets, would you? And do the washing-up before you go to school.” With that unceremonious farewell, she took the baby and made her way back upstairs.

  What a very great relief the school building was to the children that morning, at least until they met the unpleasant sight of Miss Carr behind the teacher’s desk. They took their seats quietly, wondering when Mrs. Warren would arrive.

  “Children,” Miss Carr began, her voice uncharacteristically tremulous. “I’m terribly sorry to report that Mrs. Warren won’t be with us for the foreseeable future. She received word last evening that her husband was killed in North Africa.” A murmur moved through the classroom. “I don’t know when she will be able to return to us. In the meanwhile, I shall take responsibility for the teaching of your class.” Another hum snaked through the students. “Our first task, I think, should be the writing of letters to Mrs. Warren, to let her know she is in our thoughts.” Miss Carr swallowed thickly. “Paper and pencils out, please, children. Deliver your letters to my desk when you’ve finished.” With that, she turned her attention to a stack of papers in front of her.

  Anna’s eyes brimmed.

  “I know you’ll miss her, Anna,” Edmund said. “We all will.”

  Anna sniffled. “I’m not crying for me, Edmund. I’m crying for her. How can you be so heartless?”

  Edmund only crossed his arms over his chest and turned away, stung that Anna had misunderstood his attempt at being heartful.

  Alfie turned in his seat. “I’ll tell you what’s heartless,” he whispered. “Giving us Carr-buncle for a teacher. That’s heartless.” Anna gave him a withering stare.

  One by one, letters to Mrs. Warren were brought to the teacher’s desk. The children then set to their lessons—glad, in a way, to lose themselves in whatever tasks Miss Carr assigned their groups. The subtraction of fractions, the memorization of King Henry’s wives, the drawing of topographical maps…all these were preferable to thoughts of loss and tragedy.

  After lunch at the village hall, Miss Carr presented the children with a welcome surprise: their ration books and two woolen blankets from the WVS. More welcome, still, was their trip to the library—the third in as many days. The children had pressing business to attend to, concerned that their library cards might no longer work, now that their billet had changed.

  Mrs. Müller greeted them with some surprise. “Goodness, children—back already…and you’ve brought blankets!” She smiled. “Will you be sleeping here, then?”

  If only we could, Anna thought. William explained about the blankets.

  Mrs. Müller’s face shadowed. “Who is it you’re staying with?”

  “Mrs. Griffith and her children,” William said. “Behind the schoolhouse, a few streets back. Her husband’s off fighting.”

  Mrs. Müller didn’t recognize the family’s name. “Is she kind, I hope?”

  This was not the sort of question the children were used to answering. Mrs. Griffith hadn’t been unkind…but that, as you no doubt know, is a very different state of affairs than kindness.

  William’s pause spoke volumes more than his words. “Yes. She’s been kind.”

  Mrs. Müller continued to regard the children with her eyes narrowed. “I hope it makes a happy home for you, children. You ought to have a good place to stay until you can go back to your family.”

  William took a deep breath and carried on with the business at hand. “We were wondering,” he said, “whether it will still be possible for us to use our library cards, now that our billet has changed?”

  Mrs. Müller nodded. “Of course. Just have Mrs. Griffith pop in to fill out new cards, and you’ll be right as rain.”

  The children’s faces fell. Mrs. Griffith seemed about as likely to make a trip to the library as a penguin was to go to the moon.

  It was Anna who spoke up. “It’s only…” She faltered. “It’s only—well—Mrs. Griffith has little ones. I’m not sure she’d be able to come, and…” She trailed off.

  Mrs. Müller took in their anxious faces. “I see,” she said. “Well, I can’t have my best bookworms do without, can I? All that’s required is a grown-up, and seeing as I’m one of those, let’s just have me be your grown-up for the time being, shall we?”

  Mrs. Müller was only offering to vouch for their library books, but the notion of her being their grown-up was, just now, almost too delicious for Anna to consider. “Thank you ever, ever, ever so much,” she said, resisting a very strong desire to throw her arms around the librarian and squeeze her.

  “Yes, thanks loads, Mrs. Müller,” Edmund echoed. “You’re a brick.”

  Mrs. Müller blushed at the compliment. “Well, children…can I help you select anything more today, or did you just come about the library cards?”

  Anna spoke up again. “I thought I might borrow some books to read to Mrs. Griffith’s little ones. I don’t think they have any.”

  “Oh, dear.” Mrs. Müller shook her head at the terrible sadness of such a thing. “Well, then they’re very lucky to have you for a new sister.” With that, she came from behind the lending desk to help Anna with her selections.

  The children arrived back at Livingston Lane, where the closing of the door brought Mrs. Griffith from the kitchen, hands on hips. “I see you got the blankets. What about the ration books?” William reached into his trouser pocket and produced these.

  “That’ll mean three whole extra eggs round here, won’t it?” Mrs. Griffith gave a chuckle. “Well…come in the kitchen. I need you to tear up newspaper for the petty.”

  Edmund grimaced, but the three of them set to work. Mrs. Griffith stirred a pot on the stove, turning away periodically to tend to the baby, who was growing increasingly restless in his basket. Penny lay in the doorway, humming a tune. Jane and Helen were fighting over a toy truck, until Mrs. Griffith turned to them and croaked, “Will you stop that racket? You’re firing up the baby and giving me a headache.”

  Anna remembered the books. “Would you like me to read to them, Mrs. Griffith? I brought some books for them from the library this afternoon.”

  “They don’t know words yet, but if it’ll get them to quit that racket, have at it.”

  Glad to be off the newspaper-tearing job, Anna washed the ink from her fingers so as not to smudge the library books. She bent over the girls and used her most grown-up voice. “Would you like to hear a story?” She took Helen and Jane, one by each hand, and bade Penny follow. Leadi
ng them to the front room, she chose the larger of the two chairs, lifted Jane into her lap, and patted the remaining spaces on either side of her. The other girls clambered in. Clearing her throat with just the right amount of theatricality, Anna started. “Chapter One: In Which We Are Introduced to Winnie-the-Pooh and Some Bees, and the Stories Begin.”

  The girls seemed content to sit close to Anna, who only occasionally had to ask them to stop touching the book for fear its pages would get sticky. Edmund and William listened from their spot in the kitchen, and while neither would admit it, they savored every word. When Anna got to the bit about Pooh disguising himself as a small black cloud and using a blue balloon to float himself to the top of the honey tree, Edmund’s lips, of their own accord, moved along with hers.

  Silly old bear.

  The next day, the children were awakened by a curious pattering. As William rolled over to investigate the sound, his hand landed in a cold puddle on the floor. The source, the children discovered, was a leak in the bedroom ceiling. Rain was seeping through a crack in the plaster and making its way across the floor to William’s pallet. Its underside was now heavy and damp. Edmund and Anna’s pallets seemed to have escaped the wet, but all three propped their mattresses against the wall farthest from the dripping ceiling. They dressed quickly, grateful that their clothes hadn’t been in the path of the flood, and hurried downstairs. Mrs. Griffith was not yet up, so William chose a large pot from the shelf above the coal stove and carried it upstairs to contain the leak.

  Anna started the porridge the way Miss Collins had taught her; she measured the oats and then the water, setting these to bubble atop the coal stove and stirring it every few minutes, glad to be near the heat. Edmund and William laid the table, then rinsed their faces under the tap as Mrs. Griffith appeared on the steps with her brood.

  “Morning,” she yawned, setting the baby in his basket and peering into the porridge pot. She scowled. “How much porridge did you use?”

  Anna hesitated. “I just made it the way I learned back in London.”