A Place to Hang the Moon

by Kate Albus

  The children nodded.

  “Excellent. And your bed things as well?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they chorused. Not that we’ve much in the way of bed things, Edmund thought. He’d never imagined he’d be grateful for that.

  She gave them a bracing smile. “All of this will soon be a gruesome memory, and a grisly adventure for you to write to your family in London about, right?”

  The children swallowed thickly. Mrs. Müller had shared her secret. Perhaps their own was safe to tell.

  “Right,” William answered.

  The walk back to Livingston Lane was icy, and the children’s reception at Mrs. Griffith’s hardly warmed them. “Nits?” she fairly shrieked. “You’ve got to be having a laugh. That’s all we need round here is nits. Have you not had a proper wash?”

  Anna recoiled.

  “It’s nothing to do with that,” Edmund protested. “It’s her coat from the swap.”

  “We’ve got to wash them—our coats. And our blankets,” William added.

  “You’ll be up half the night, starting the washing after supper, and keeping me and the babies up while you’re at it.”

  “If you’d rather we not,” Edmund said hotly, “we’ll just let things stay lousy.”

  Mrs. Griffith shook her head. “Just get it done, will you? We haven’t enough soap flakes for this week’s washing already, so you’ll have to make do with the boiling. And be quiet, for God’s sake.”

  After supper—an oily beef barley soup—Mrs. Griffith retired upstairs with the little ones, and the children set to their night’s work. They had a vague idea of how copper boilers worked, but they were largely guessing. Edmund filled as many pots and kettles as he could find, hefted them into the tiny scullery behind the kitchen, and dumped them into the boiler. Anna threw in their coats and blankets. William collected coal from the bin and stocked the fireplace that heated the copper. It took forever for him to coax a flame, but when at last there was a steady glow, the children lowered themselves to the scullery floor and waited for the woolen soup to cook.

  “How are we going to sleep tonight?” Anna asked. “The blankets won’t be dry, and it’s freezing upstairs.”

  “I don’t know, Anna,” William confessed. “I haven’t worked that bit out yet.”

  “I’m sorry,” Anna said, sniffling back tears that seemed to come from some sort of bottomless well.

  “Anna, please don’t start with the waterworks again,” Edmund said.

  William shot his brother a warning glance. “It’s not your fault, Anna.”

  She swiped at her nose. “I wish we could have just stayed at the library and never come back here at all.”

  “Me too,” William agreed, “but there’s nothing for it.”

  “At least now we know why the WVS lady called Mrs. Müller unsuitable,” Edmund said.

  Anna sighed. “I don’t think she’s unsuitable. I’d live with her, gladly.”

  Edmund hugged himself in an effort to warm up. “What about her husband?”

  Anna shrugged. “I don’t care about that. I can’t imagine he’s a Nazi, and she’s certainly not one.”

  “Of course,” William said. “The husband probably isn’t, either. But is probably not a Nazi enough for you?”

  Anna sighed and said nothing more.

  It was getting on toward midnight before the children decided that the lousy stew had cooked long enough. Anna was nearly asleep on her feet as she and her brothers heaved the coats and blankets out of the copper, wrung them out as best they could, and carried them one by one to the clothes mangle just outside the back door. Only ever having seen such contraptions in books, they made it up as they went. Anna fed their things between the rollers as Edmund and William turned the crank to squeeze out the water. Their wet hands froze in the icy night air, and no amount of blowing on them or shoving them in pockets seemed to help.

  The job done at last, the children hung the damp things to dry on the line in the scullery, then huddled around the coal stove in the kitchen, thawing their chapped hands.

  William’s teeth chattered. “Let’s just sleep down here.”

  Anna looked at him. “On the kitchen floor?”

  “It’s not perfect, I know, but I can’t bear the thought of going back up to that icebox of a room tonight.” He rubbed his hands together over the blessed heat of the coal stove. “Let’s just think of it like a camping excursion.”

  Edmund shivered. “This is nothing at all like a camping excursion.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It seemed only moments until the children were wiping bits of sleep from their eyes and stretching their aching limbs. The floor had been every bit as uncomfortable as they’d imagined it would be.

  Anna rose and made a watery porridge. This pleased Mrs. Griffith when she clumped downstairs an hour later. She seemed unaware that the three of them had slept in the kitchen, and since none of the children cared to linger on the subject, no one mentioned it. They ate a hasty breakfast and cleaned their faces and teeth.

  “Bath night tonight, remember, you lot!” Mrs. Griffith shouted as they headed out the door. “None of your larking about with your books this afternoon!”

  The children ran the whole of the way to school. Their damp coats still hung in the scullery, and the brisk pace served the dual purpose of warming them and bringing them more quickly to the comfort of the classroom.

  The morning had been set aside for the making of costumes and sets for the Nativity Play. Supplies were meager, but necessity is the mother of invention, as they say. Meaning, sometimes you’ve got to make angels’ wings out of newspaper.

  “Do you think they’ll have a real baby Jesus?” Anna asked.

  Edmund yawned. “Maybe they could use Robert.”

  “Can you imagine?” William caught Edmund’s yawn. “He’d shriek through the whole thing.”

  “Mightn’t be so bad,” Edmund said. “It’d take the attention off the rest of us.” He was still anxious about the performance, although it had come as a very great relief that, rather than parading about in a yellow box, he needed only to dangle a star strung onto the end of a stick. This allowed him to view his role as more of a prop than an actual actor, and for this nuance, he was grateful.

  By bath time that night, all three children were tired and cross. They were glad of the opportunity to wash the foul ointment from their hair, and the warmth of the tub by the coal stove was relatively appealing, but the thought of the cold bedroom was not. Retrieving their blankets from the line in the scullery, they retired upstairs, where their wet hair sent icy rivulets down their necks as they prepared for bed.

  “Do we have anything warm to read?” Edmund asked. “I don’t think I fancy The Call of the Wild tonight. Reading about Alaska seems a punishment.” His throat had gone scratchy, and he wished for a cup of tea but knew there was none to be had.

  Anna recalled a passage from A Little Princess that fit the bill. She retrieved it from her suitcase. Edmund scowled at the princess part but was too tired to protest.

  “Listen to this bit,” Anna said, thumbing her way to the right page. “It’s perfect. Sara has been locked in the miserable, cold attic by the cruel Miss Minchin.”

  “Excellent.” Edmund sighed. “I think I’ll take Alaska, thanks.”

  “But listen, Edmund! She imagines someplace warm and comfortable with lots of food, and it happens!”

  “Hmph,” Edmund grunted, then sneezed.

  Anna was not to be put off. “Just listen!”

  In the grate there was a glowing, blazing fire, on the hob was a little brass kettle hissing and boiling; spread upon the floor was a thick, warm crimson rug; before the fire a folding-chair, unfolded, and with cushions on it; by the chair a small folding-table, unfolded, covered with a white cloth, and upon it spread small covered dishes, a cup, a saucer, a teapot; on the bed were new warm coverings and a satin-covered down quilt; at the foot a curious wadded silk robe, a pair of quilted slippers,
and some books. The room of her dream seemed changed into fairyland—and it was flooded with warm light, for a bright lamp stood on the table covered with a rosy shade.

  “And it’s all real! All of it,” Anna said.

  William was curious now. “How did it get there?”

  “Magic.” Anna smiled. “Except, really,” she whispered, “it came from the gentleman next door. She only thinks it’s magic.” Truth be told, Anna was rather giving away the ending, but sometimes one cannot help oneself.

  “Hmph,” Edmund grunted again.

  Anna read on and on, only yawning every so often, until she found that both Edmund and William had dropped off. She closed the book and snuggled between her brothers under blankets that were by now almost entirely dry.

  Before Anna opened her eyes the next morning, she wished fervently for the sort of miracle she had read of the night before. Concentrating very hard, she conjured a cheery fire in a grate, a table draped in white damask and piled high with warm buns and steaming mugs of hot chocolate. Opening her eyes at last, she felt a chill of disappointment that no such magic had occurred. Rising and peeking through the rip in the window paper, however, she found the next-best thing.

  “Snow!” she exclaimed, shaking Edmund and William. “Snow!”

  It took only a moment for the boys to extricate themselves from their blankets and join Anna at the window. Their faces lit up as they peered into the lightening dawn, made ever so much brighter by the sparkling white carpet that shrouded the lane. The storm had had the good sense to arrive on a Saturday, and the children were giddy at the glorious December gift.

  They crept downstairs and made the porridge, ate their own, did the washing-up, and left the rest on the stove for Mrs. Griffith and the little ones, who arrived downstairs shortly after nine. This seemed to the children a disgraceful hour for a snowy day, but the late start was not the worst of it.

  “Play in the snow?” Mrs. Griffith scoffed at the very notion. “It’s Saturday. I’ve shopping to do.”

  Anna’s and William’s shoulders sagged. Edmund’s enthusiasm was not so easily squashed. “But it’s snowed!”

  Mrs. Griffith only scowled. “I can see it’s snowed—I’m not blind, am I?”

  “But—” Edmund began.

  “Snow or no snow, there’s still the shopping to do, and you’ll either be taking care of that or minding the girls while I do it,” Mrs. Griffith said.

  There was a brief silence as the children considered their options.

  “What if we took the girls to play in the snow with us?” Anna said.

  Edmund was horrified. “What?”

  “We could take them,” Anna said. “They’d have ever so much fun.”

  Edmund only sputtered.

  Mrs. Griffith looked at Penny, Jane, and Helen, her scowl softening. “If you’ll take them with you and mind them properly, you can go.” She sighed. “The baby can come with me.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Griffith,” William said. “We’ll mind them properly.”

  Edmund only glared at him.

  They lacked appropriate snow things, but what respectable child would give this a second’s thought, under the circumstances? Neither lack of scarf, nor want of Wellington boots, nor Edmund’s scratchy throat could dampen their spirits. Wrapping themselves up as best they could, the children set out toward the square. William carried Helen while Anna led Jane and Penny by the hands. This left Edmund free to pelt his brother’s back with snowballs as they walked, a task he took on with great enthusiasm.

  The village square was a hive of activity. The children, recognizing some of their classmates, joined the throng. Within an hour, the square had become a colony of snow people. Anna showed the girls how to swing their arms and legs back and forth to create snow angels. In truth, Penny, Jane, and Helen made Anna quite popular, as the schoolgirls present thought it great fun to play at being nannies for the little ones.

  Many of the children on the square had brought makeshift sleds—baking sheets, washtubs, and shovels. These were brought to the hillside north of the village, where the boys took turns careening from the crest of the hill to the frozen stream bed below. The sledding track grew slicker and slicker with the repeated runs, and the sting in the boys’ cheeks as they flew down the hillside was the most glorious sort of pain.

  When bits of earth and grass began to peek through the much-abused snow on the hill, the crowd returned to the square. Fat snowballs were hurled indiscriminately, until there was hardly a child who hadn’t taken at least one full in the face. Penny, Jane, and Helen were notable exceptions, as there are surely special fires reserved down below for those who throw snowballs at small children. Snow fortresses were erected for protection, only to be infiltrated, again and again, by enemy forces.

  The most noteworthy of these attacks was directed at Edmund as he crouched behind a battlement, molding reinforcements for his company’s munitions supply. From out of nowhere came two strong hands on the back of his neck, shoving him headfirst into the ice-crusted ramparts. He wouldn’t have known who had pushed him, except that he distinctly heard the words filthy vackie just before his face was plunged into the snow and everything went silent save for the beating of his own heart in his ears.

  Edmund kicked out at Jack and Simon, but one of them held his arms behind him, and he couldn’t get enough leverage to extricate himself from the pile of snow. He shook his head wildly, trying to clear a space to breathe, but melting snow filled his nose and mouth. It was just as he began to genuinely panic that his arms were at last released and he was able to raise his head out of the snowbank. He turned, still on hands and knees, to face his attackers.

  They were nowhere to be seen. It was only William who stood over him, extending a hand to help him up. Sodden and panting, Edmund took his brother’s hand and staggered upright, still looking this way and that, bracing himself for Jack and Simon’s next onslaught.

  “Where are they?” he asked, coughing.

  His question was answered by the boys now gathering round William.

  “Well done you,” one boy said, clapping William on the back and gesturing toward Edmund. “I thought they were going to drown him.”

  “Yeah,” said another. “Direct hit, that was. Nice punch!”

  Edmund’s eyes fairly popped out of his head. “You punched them?”

  Ernest, the round boy from the ratting, answered for William. “One of them, at least! Right in the jaw, he got him! Right in the jaw! Served them right, I say, going two on one like that!” Ernest pumped William’s hand and walked away, shaking his head in admiration.

  Edmund stared at his brother. “You? You punched—which one—Jack or Simon?”

  “I don’t know. They were too bundled up for me to tell. Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not.” Edmund grinned. “Thanks.”

  William didn’t return the smile. “I thought they were going to murder you.”

  Edmund shook his head. “I only wish I’d seen it. Direct hit, right in the jaw?”

  “I guess it was,” William said, trying to camouflage the pride creeping onto his face. He could see Anna approaching with the girls from the other side of the square.

  “Don’t tell her,” he said.

  Edmund’s eyes went wide. “I won’t have to,” he said. “By Monday you’ll be legendary.”

  Anna announced that the little ones were soaked to the skin and ready to go home. In fact, they all were. By now it was getting on toward dusk, and the children’s clothes and shoes were heavy with melted snow and sweat. On the walk back to Livingston Lane, they all began to notice their stinging toes and fingers. All three wished they were returning to a crackling fire and a cup of cocoa, but they were painfully aware that this was not to be.

  Mrs. Griffith greeted them with her hands on her hips. “What have you been at, then, dunking the girls in the river? They’re soaked!”

  Anna spoke up. “I think they had ever so much fun…they made snow angels and
built snowmen, and—”

  “And likely ruined their shoes,” Mrs. Griffith said, stripping off the girls’ coats.

  Edmund was cross. “Well, you did say to take them out with us. Did you expect them to come home dry after a day in the snow?”

  Mrs. Griffith scowled at him. “None of your cheek. Put these dripping things by the stove—and get the girls some dry clothes before they catch their deaths.”

  As if on cue, Edmund sneezed. He swiped at his nose with his shirtsleeve, then went to find dry clothes for Penny, Jane, and Helen.

  Upstairs in their bedroom that night, the children huddled in their blankets. The magic of the day had faded, and the three were left shivering on their pallets.

  “What would you wish for, if someone could magic it for you?” Anna asked.

  “There’s no such thing as magic,” Edmund grumbled. His throat hurt terribly.

  Anna clicked her tongue. “It’s just a game, Edmund.”

  Edmund sneezed.

  William smiled. “I’d wish for split pea soup with lots of potatoes and ham. The kind of soup that’s so thick you can stand your spoon in it.”

  “And slices of hot buttered bread to dunk in it,” Anna added.

  William’s stomach gave an audible rumble. “And cinnamon buns.”

  Anna nodded. “Dripping with icing. With a cup of hot, milky tea to wash it down.” Her stomach did backflips at the mere thought.

  “Not tea,” Edmund said. “Cocoa. Gallons of it.” He rolled over. “Honestly. If you’re going to wish for something, wish big.”

  Tuesday—Christmas Eve—dawned icy, crisp, and white. The children remained rolled in their blankets as long as they could, loath to leave the meager warmth.

  “Do you think Father Christmas will know where to find us?” Anna asked.

  Edmund and William exchanged looks. “Ehm…sure,” William said.

  “What about Mrs. Griffith?” Anna said. “Do you think she’s gotten us anything?”