by Kate Albus
Her brothers only stared at her.
Anna remained optimistic. “Well, she might have.”
“Mmmm, and I might have grown wings and flown to America,” Edmund said. He had a proper cold now, which made him muzzy-headed and irritable.
“Hopefully one of the warm bits of it,” William added. “Florida, maybe.”
“Perhaps we should have got her something,” Anna said.
Edmund coughed. “Like a new personality, maybe?”
“Got her something with what?” William wrapped himself more tightly in his blanket. “It’s not as if we’ve any pocket money.”
“I know,” Anna said, “but we could…I don’t know…draw her a picture or something.”
“I’m sure she’d treasure that,” Edmund growled.
William squeezed Anna’s fingers. “I think it’s a nice idea, Anna. It’s Christmas. We should be grateful, right? We’re all together, and we’re out of harm’s way.”
They dressed and made their way downstairs. Mrs. Griffith was stirring the porridge.
“Happy Christmas Eve!” Anna chirped.
“Right. Get that table laid and help Penny with the newspapers for the petty.”
Anna’s Christmas spirit was undaunted. “Will you be coming to the Nativity Play this afternoon, Mrs. Griffith?”
“What Nativity Play?”
“The Christmas Nativity at St. Andrew’s. The evacuees are putting it on. William’s a shepherd, Edmund’s the star over the stable, and I’m an angel.”
Mrs. Griffith rapped the spoon against the rim of the pot. “The baby would never sit through a play.” The children knew she made a fair point.
The table set, they joined Penny on the floor, where she was ripping newspapers into ragged squares. William and Edmund began tearing, while Anna set to the admittedly useless task of neatening Penny’s haphazard pile. As her fingers blackened with a film of newspaper ink, she was surprised when she came to a series of squares printed, not just with words, but with pictures: a corner of a flower here; what might have been the turret of a castle there; on one, a rather cloudish-looking swirl. The fragmented images were familiar, somehow, and a sort of sick fear was born in the pit of Anna’s stomach. She paged through more squares, hoping she was mistaken.
She wasn’t. One piece bore the name Dantès, another Sara. It was when she came to a square bearing the unmistakable image of the head of a bull, surrounded by flowers, that Anna’s breath caught.
“Penny?” She turned to the child. “Where did you get these pages?”
Penny only looked at Anna, clearly ignorant of any wrongdoing. Anna stood and surveyed the room in a panic, her eyes landing at last on the evidence. In the corner lay a small pile of what had once been books. On top was The Story of Ferdinand, eviscerated.
Anna stood for the longest time, staring at the remains, before turning to her brothers. “She’s torn them up,” Anna whispered. “She’s torn up our books.”
The boys looked at the bits of Ferdinand, the Britannica, the Count, Anna’s Princess, comprehension dawning. They turned to Penny, ready to reprimand her, before recalling that she was practically a baby and couldn’t be held responsible. Mrs. Griffith, however, would enjoy no such immunity, if Edmund had anything to say about it.
“Penny’s torn up our books!”
Mrs. Griffith only stared at him, irritated. “Well, you’ve already read them, haven’t you?” she said, huffing a sigh. “All the time you spend on it, I should think you’d have finished them by now.”
Edmund clapped a hand to his head. “That’s not the point, is it? One of them’s not even ours. It’s the library’s, and Penny’s torn it up! Did you let her into our room?”
Mrs. Griffith turned on him. “Your room, is it? Last I checked, this is my house.”
Edmund stood rigid, his fists clenched and his chest heaving with rage—about the desecrated books, certainly—but about all of it. All the want and cruelty and indignity of the past months threatened the fragile restraints of his heart. “You shouldn’t have let her do it!” He was shouting now. “Or at least you should feel sorry about it, now it’s happened! If you were a proper mum, that’s what you’d do!”
Anna and William agreed with everything Edmund was saying, but both feared the rising heat of the argument and wished he would back down and let it be.
Mrs. Griffith set the spoon in the pot and bent over Edmund, her face menacingly close. “I’ve let you into my home. I’ve fed you. I’ve given you a place to sleep. And you have the nerve to make out I’ve committed some sort of crime because Penny tore up your stupid books?”
Edmund stood almost on tiptoe, matching Mrs. Griffith’s venom with his own. “Apologize, you miserable cow!”
He didn’t see the slap coming. Whether it was the force of the blow or simply the shock of it, he stumbled backward and landed in a heap on the kitchen floor, holding his cheek in his hands.
William and Anna both sprang to their brother as if shot from cannons. They hauled Edmund to his feet, then stood staring at one another, all three pairs of eyes brimming with tears, all three pairs of cheeks aflame with fury or fear or both.
An age seemed to pass before William spoke in a voice barely audible.
“Let’s go.”
Pushing past Mrs. Griffith at the stove, he scooped up their shoes and coats, handing Edmund and Anna theirs, then putting on his own as quickly as he could before helping a shaking Anna with her laces.
Mrs. Griffith’s eyes narrowed. “Where do you think you’re going?”
William glanced at Edmund, then Anna. He took her hand. None of them spared Mrs. Griffith so much as a backward glance as they slammed the door of number four Livingston Lane behind them.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Out on the street, the children looked at one another. “Are you all right?” William asked Edmund, who was testing his smarting cheek with the heel of his hand. He only nodded, afraid that if he spoke, he might cry.
Anna swiped at her face with her sleeve. “What are we going to do?” she asked, hugging herself against the soggy chill of the morning.
“I don’t know,” William said. “Just start walking.”
“Start walking where?” Anna asked.
“Anyplace. Just walk.”
“But where, William?” Anna’s voice was shrill and wild. “We’ve nowhere to go!”
Bilious panic rose in William’s throat. “I don’t know! I don’t know, Anna!” There was a sort of shrieking sound inside his skull. “I don’t have all the answers, you know! I’m only twelve years old!”
Anna stepped back, terrified. Edmund read this in her eyes and felt no small measure of responsibility. His cheek stung awfully, and the icy morning air only made it worse. The three of them stood in the slushy snow of the lane, shifting from one foot to another to stop their toes from going numb. Edmund and Anna knew their brother was at the end of his tether, but neither of them had any idea as to where they might go. School was closed for Christmas Eve. Anna thought of the library—of course—but knew it would be closed as well. Edmund considered the Forresters’, but only for a moment. The memory of Jack and Simon brought him back to reality. He sneezed violently, and this shook William from his fog of panicked thoughts.
“The church will be warm, and we’re to be there for the Nativity Play this afternoon anyhow,” he said. “Let’s go there until things simmer down.”
The church was warm indeed. The children inhaled its ancient silence, removed their sodden shoes and socks, and tiptoed down the side aisle to a pew near the front. The sanctuary was greened for the holiday, sprigs of foraged pine and holly tied to the altar railings and the ends of the choir stalls, where costumes and props had already been piled in preparation for the afternoon’s event. On their walk to the church, all three had thought perhaps its very churchness would bring them at least a small measure of comfort, but as they sat huddled together, a shuddering breath escaping Anna’s throat every now and the
n, none of them felt any better.
“Perhaps we should go back to London,” Edmund said.
“London’s been bombed nearly every night since September. We don’t even know if our house is still standing,” William said.
Anna stiffened.
“We can ring Engersoll,” Edmund said insistently. “He said we could.”
“Ed, it’s Christmas Eve. If Engersoll hasn’t been blown to bits yet, he’ll be out caroling or doing whatever it is people do on Christmas Eve.” William leaned his head against the back of the pew, turning over their situation in his mind and feeling crushed by the weight of responsibility.
“We could ask Miss Carr about another billet,” Anna said. When she said we, she really meant William.
William shook his head. “We can ask, but I can’t imagine she can come up with one on Christmas.”
The children reclined on the narrow church pews and closed their eyes. Anna wanted desperately to ask William, tell me something, but a voice in her head said this was not the time. Instead, she offered another suggestion. “What about Mrs. Müller?”
The boys’ sighs mirrored each other. William mustered what little reserves he had and answered his sister. “I know you like that idea, Anna. Part of me likes it, too, but we can’t. For one thing, it’s Christmas. For another, we don’t know where she lives. And even if we did, Miss Carr and Mrs. Norton say she’s unsuitable.”
Anna remained unconvinced. “It’s not her that’s unsuitable, it’s her husband—and we don’t even know whether that bit’s true, do we?”
Edmund shifted on the uncomfortable pew. “Anna, we can’t very well go to stay with someone whose husband may turn up tomorrow in his Nazi uniform, can we?”
William looked at his brother. “I can’t imagine anyone just turning up here in the village in a Nazi uniform, Ed.”
“I didn’t mean it literally. That was a—a…what do you call it? Meta-something.”
“A metaphor.”
“Right. It was a metaphor.”
“No, it wasn’t. A metaphor is when…” William faltered. “Never mind. That’s not the point, is it?” He turned back to his sister. “The point, Anna, is that we’ve got to think about what’s best for the three of us, and I hardly think the wife of someone who may be a German sympathizer is the guardian Mr. Engersoll was picturing for us, do you?”
Anna returned her brother’s stare. “And Mrs. Griffith is?”
William’s shoulders sagged. “Fair enough.” Of course, Anna was right. “Look—we can’t think much beyond tonight just now, can we? And for tonight, at least, we’ll probably have to go back to Livingston Lane and hope for the best.” Edmund put his hand to his cheek, where he could tell an angry welt was blossoming.
Nothing more was said for a long time, as each of the children got lost in thought. William tried to work out a plan. Anna tried to picture what Mrs. Müller’s house might look like. Edmund, feverish, nodded off, drifting into a dream where something wicked was chasing him over a floor of glass. His feet broke through with every step he took, and he had to keep running faster and faster to keep himself from falling through altogether.
He startled awake when the church door opened with a groan. Miss Carr appeared, laden with paper crowns and other accoutrements of the Nativity Play, gone somewhat limp in the afternoon’s drizzle. She looked almost pleased to see the three of them. Almost.
“Ah—children,” she said, breathing hard. “You’re here early. Excellent. You can help me put the manger together.”
William stood and looked at Edmund and Anna, who silently encouraged him to plead their case with the teacher.
Miss Carr looked at his feet. “Where are your shoes?”
William approached her with a gulp. “Miss Carr, I’m sorry to trouble you, and on Christmas Eve especially, but I’m wondering if there happen to be any other billets available just now?” His request suddenly sounded comic as it hung in the cavernous silence of the church.
For a long moment, Miss Carr simply stared at him, her eyes narrowed. Then her jaw set and her eyes blazed. She took a deep breath. “That is not a funny joke, children. Now help me with the manger, please, all three of you.”
Anna thought an explanation might help. “Mrs. Griffith slapped Edmund.”
Miss Carr’s nostrils flared. She turned to Edmund. “What did you do?”
Edmund collected himself and looked up at her. “She let one of her girls tear up our books, and she didn’t even feel sorry about it.” For a passing moment, he thought the desecration of books might stir sympathy in a teacher.
It did not. Miss Carr only glared at him and said again, “What did you do?”
Edmund didn’t think his actions were especially pertinent. “We all hate her. She’s not equipped to take care of us.”
The teacher stood stock-still. Even her mouth hardly moved as she spoke. “Your liking or not liking your foster mother is irrelevant. You will go back tonight, and you will apologize.” She took another long breath. “Have you any idea the trouble you’ve caused already?” She straightened herself. “A third billet is out of the question. Apologize to Mrs. Griffith and be done with it.”
The church door was heaved open just then, admitting the first of the other Christmas players—one of William’s fellow shepherds. Facing the approaching Nativity Play, Miss Carr raised her eyebrows at our bedraggled threesome. “Put on your shoes.”
Just now, the idea of performing in a Nativity Play—or any play—seemed ridiculous to the children, but as they didn’t fancy returning to Livingston Lane any sooner than was necessary, they began to ready themselves with their classmates.
The newspaper wings of one of the smaller angels fell apart as she put on her costume. Two of the shepherds began dueling with their staffs and had to be separated. The jewels—in truth, painted pebbles—in the kings’ paper crowns were coming unglued, and the altar was soon littered with the rubies and emeralds of the wise men. These minor catastrophes notwithstanding, townspeople began to stream in, twining themselves out of scarves and offering hearty greetings of Happy Christmas.
The evacuees’ Nativity Play was afoot.
Under the circumstances, it went quite well. The setting of the action being more or less the stable, Edmund was onstage nearly the entire time, dangling his star over the cradle where the baby—a doll on loan from a willing parishioner—lay. He felt awful, and he wasn’t sure which was the worst bit: that he’d gotten the three of them in trouble again; the welt on his cheek; or that his head felt like it might split open at any moment. He sneezed, and in trying to cover his mouth, lost his grip on the star’s anchoring stick, bashing Joseph over the head with it. A chuckle made its way through the congregation, but Edmund recovered the star, and Joseph gave the sign that he was all right.
William’s role also involved a good deal of stage time, and a more halfhearted shepherd has never been seen before or since. As he trudged in with his fellow herders, William’s mind was anywhere but Bethlehem. He saw Edmund nearly flatten Joseph, but even this roused him only momentarily from the darkness in his head. The thought of returning to Mrs. Griffith’s did little for his Christmas spirit.
Anna did her best to flit with the other angels, but even if flitting had come naturally to her, her heart was not in her performance. If only I hadn’t made a fuss about the books, she thought, Edmund wouldn’t have gotten angry. The thought of books made her think of Mrs. Müller, and she felt a pang of guilt about Ferdinand’s being ruined. She sang along with “Angels We Have Heard on High,” offering the bravest Gloria she could.
The three wise men made their grand entrance, each singing a verse of “We Three Kings” as he processed down the aisle. The boys carrying gold and frankincense had pleasant voices. The one carrying myrrh was tone-deaf but made up for it with volume. Edmund was to hold the star of wonder high during the refrains but, done in with fever, rather forgot and let it sag.
The great story told, the ragtag band
of players made their way out, proceeding down the aisle to the back of the church while singing “Away in a Manger.” Anna thought her heart would surely shatter at Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care…Tears began to make their way down her face as she reached the rear of the church, giving up on the singing as her classmates carried on around her.
The Star was last to make his way down the aisle. He followed the procession to the vestry room, where a small reception was to be held. Edmund brightened. Something to eat, at least.
The tray of Christmas cookies had been nearly demolished by the stable animals by the time the children reached it, but Anna and Edmund each got one, and William made do with some broken bits. Their stomachs neglected since the night before, they savored the crumbs.
Licking the last morsels from their fingers, they warmed to a familiar face approaching through the herd of cows and sheep. Excusing herself and moving around the other villagers, Mrs. Müller reached the children. “Well done, all of you. You were excellent!”
All three mustered wan smiles.
“Thanks very much, Mrs. Müller,” William replied. “And happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas to you as well,” the librarian echoed, but her greeting drifted away as she took in their faces. She moved a step closer. “What’s happened, children?”
Nothing at all. We’re fine, thanks, crossed William’s mind, but he knew he couldn’t make it sound convincing.
“I have a head cold,” Edmund muttered.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Müller whispered. “But a head cold doesn’t leave a great welt on your face. What’s happened?” Edmund recoiled involuntarily as she reached for his cheek.
Anna swiped at her eyes and looked at her brothers, then at the librarian, then back at the boys again. It is terribly difficult to think up an on-the-spot story to explain a welt on someone’s face. “Mrs. Griffith slapped Edmund.”
Edmund swallowed thickly. The librarian reached out again to brush her fingers against his cheek. This time he did not recoil.