A Place to Hang the Moon

by Kate Albus

  For a long moment, the children only looked at one another. Mrs. Müller drew the wrong conclusion from their silence. “Oh, dear. You are entirely too old for bedtime stories, aren’t you?” She took a step back. “Not having children of my own, I’m sure to make a mess of these things—”

  “No,” Anna whispered. “We’re not too old.”

  Mrs. Müller looked at the boys.

  “We’re not too old,” William agreed.

  “Definitely not,” Edmund said, his voice cracking. Perhaps it was his head cold. But probably not.

  “Well”—the librarian gestured toward the book in William’s hands—“I hope that one will suit you.”

  “It will,” Anna said.

  “Good night, then,” the librarian whispered.

  As she headed for the door, all three children had the same wish. All three children were surprised that it was William who voiced it. “Would you read it to us?”

  Mrs. Müller smiled a sort of smile they hadn’t seen before. A smile that showed something like joy. Something like sorrow. Something like gratitude. “I’d be glad to.”

  The children stretched their toes to the hot-water bottles. Mrs. Müller took the book and arranged herself on the bench at the foot of the bed. She opened to the first page, turned it sidewise the way proper readers do when there are pictures involved, and began.

  ’Twas the night before Christmas…

  You’ve experienced a variety of bedtime stories, I’m certain. You know their magic. A well-chosen bedtime story sets you on the path to the dream you most need to have. Some speak of adventure—but our threesome had had quite enough of that already. Some frighten you deliciously enough to look under your bed before nodding off, just in case…well, no more need be said about that sort of story. This story, this night, was unlike any other. As the children sank into sleep, the words of the familiar rhyming tale were comfort and tenderness, ritual and home. A sort of prayer. A sort of lullaby. It set them on the path to dreams that felt rather like hope.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  None of them had the slightest idea what time it was when they woke the next day. The blackout curtains sealed the room in a timeless dark, and when at last William opened his eyes, he lay on his back, savoring the occasional pop from the fireplace and listening to the rasp of Edmund’s breathing on the other side of the bed. The wind outside howled, but its tune was almost pleasant now that it wasn’t making its way between cracks in windows. Anna woke next and, when she saw William’s eyes open, placed her hand in his. There they lay, mismatched cutlery in a drawer. Edmund slept on. There was something glorious about staying there, not because they dreaded what lay in wait for them when they rose, but because it all felt so lovely.

  A long while passed in blanketed silence before William whispered, “Quite a difference from yesterday morning, isn’t it?”

  Anna squeezed his fingers. “Mmmm.”

  “Warm,” he said.

  “Mmmm.”

  “First I’ve been warm since November, I think.”

  Anna stretched. “Me as well,” she said.

  “First hot chocolate since…since…I can’t remember.”

  “It was perfect.”

  “First proper bedtime story, too,” he whispered. “I mean, a grown-up doing it.”

  Anna propped herself on her elbows, reminded suddenly. “It’s Christmas!”

  William, too, had forgotten.

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

  William offered his sister a rueful smile. “I think maybe we already got our present from Father Christmas last night.”

  Anna’s face betrayed only a glimmer of disappointment. She sat up and looked at the clock on the dressing table. “Eleven-thirty! That can’t be right!”

  William glanced at the clock himself, then reached over to shake Edmund’s shoulder. “Ed! Wake up. It’s eleven-thirty.”

  Edmund groaned and pulled the duvet over his head. “I don’t feel well.”

  “It’s Christmas,” Anna said. “And maybe Father Christmas found us.”

  Edmund rolled away from his sister. “Don’t be daft.”

  There was a soft rap on the bedroom door, whereupon Mrs. Müller appeared. “I’m so glad you slept so long,” she said. “I expect you needed it. Happy Christmas, all of you!”

  The children chorused Christmas greetings in return as Mrs. Müller approached Edmund and laid a hand on his forehead. “Would you like to go back to sleep, or would you prefer a bit of breakfast?”

  Edmund weighed the need for sleep against the need of a stomach that had seen far too much emptiness of late. “Breakfast?”

  The librarian grinned. “I thought that might be your decision.” She disappeared into the hall for a moment, returning with a wooden tray laden with food. It smelled of all that is best in the world.

  “Here? In bed?” William gasped. “Mrs. Müller…thanks ever so much, but you needn’t have—”

  “I know I needn’t have. I wanted to.” The librarian passed plates to each of them.

  “But you’ve already done so much for us.” William squinted at her. “Just letting us come here last night, it’s…it’s enough.”

  Mrs. Müller looked at the children, then at the floor. “You seem to be under the impression that I am doing you a kindness.” She knitted her fingers in and out of one another. “The fact is, children, that I have wished for a Christmas morning in a house that wasn’t empty for too many Christmases now. It is therefore you three who are doing a kindness for me, reminding me that I’m not entirely unsuitable.” She sniffed. Edmund and William couldn’t manage to look at her.

  “Now then—don’t let’s wait any longer, or your breakfast will be cold. Tuck in, all of you.” Mrs. Müller began filling their plates with all manner of goodness. Sausages glistening brown at the edges, slices of warm bread flecked with currants and slathered in butter, boiled eggs, and cups of hot, milky tea.

  “How did you do all this?” Edmund took an enormous bite of sausage. His head cold was evidently having little effect on his appetite. “With the rationing?”

  “Making do,” the librarian said with a shrug. “I did the shopping day before yesterday, so I was as well stocked as a body can be. My back garden keeps me in good form if I’m willing to be creative, especially as it’s just me.” She lowered her gaze. “Martin was always bent on self-sufficiency. I suppose that’s one thing he left for which I’m rather grateful now. When you feel up to peeking outside, you’ll see my girls.”

  “Are they chickens?” Anna asked. “I thought I heard a chicken!”

  “Yes. They’re named for the Brontë sisters. There is also a goat named Jane. Though you’d think she was a herd of elephants, for all she tears things up in the garden. I don’t name the rabbits,” Mrs. Müller said, “as they’re rather…temporary.”

  Edmund nodded in dark understanding. He turned to Anna. “She means she eats them.”

  “Oh,” Anna said, and swallowed hard.

  The librarian grimaced. “Rather a wicked business, isn’t it?”

  Anna sipped her tea. “Let’s don’t think about it.”

  They chatted on as they ate. It seemed all the stories that had sat so long in Mrs. Müller’s head, just waiting for someone to know them, came pouring out. Nothing scandalous, mind you—only the everyday things that don’t find ears when one lives alone. She told them about Jane the goat, and how she had once eaten a three-foot length of garden hose. She told them about the Brontë sisters and their characters: Charlotte jealous; Emily fastidious; Anne quick-tempered. This was rather a revelation for the children, who hadn’t realized chickens had characters.

  In this way, afternoon arrived, and not a morsel was left on any of their plates. “Goodness, I’ve been nattering on forever and a day now,” the librarian said. “It’s your turn. I don’t know anything about your lives in London…tell me about your parents.”

  Agh, William thought. I
forgot…we haven’t done this yet.

  Anna and Edmund both found the duvet of intense interest all of a sudden.

  William took a deep breath. “It’s just our grandmother, actually.”

  “Oh.” The eager light in Mrs. Müller’s eyes went out. “Oh, dear. I’m so terribly sorry. I never asked—”

  “It’s been a long time,” William said.

  “Oh.” The children saw the librarian rearranging the picture she had made of them in her mind. “I’m so sorry, children. Tell me about your grandmother.”

  Mrs. Forrester had made things simple by assuming the grandmother was lovely. A blessing was how she’d put it. Mrs. Griffith had made things simple by not giving a fig one way or the other. Mrs. Müller was more difficult to answer.

  “Ehm—well, she’s j-just—our grandmother,” William stammered. “I’m not sure how to describe her.”

  Cold, thought Edmund. Cold would describe her, both literally and—what’s that word again? Metaphorically.

  “Her name is Eleanor,” William said.

  Mrs. Müller looked at the three of them, waiting for more, then realized that nothing further was forthcoming. “Right, then.” She stacked the empty dishes. “Are the three of you in need of more rest, or would you like to come downstairs to the snug?”

  “What’s a snug?” Edmund asked.

  “Like a parlor, only friendlier, I hope.” Crinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes. “That’s where Father Christmas has left your things.”

  Anna gasped. “I knew he’d find us.”

  William cast a questioning glance at the librarian. “How could—”

  Mrs. Müller’s eyes sparkled. “I believe it was the poet, Mr. Yeats, who said that the world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper?”

  Edmund swiped at his nose with the sleeve of his pajamas. “Let’s go.”

  The name snug was fitting. Two chairs and a sofa, a faded ottoman bearing a knitted blanket, a glowing fireplace. Aside from these, it was all books. Shelves lined every available bit of wall, and more books made themselves comfortable on the floor, stacked on side tables, lined up between bookends on the mantel. What could have felt untidy felt instead as Mrs. Müller had said. Friendly.

  Candles glowed on windowsills and glass balls hung from lampshades. There was no Christmas tree, of course—timber was needed elsewhere this holiday. Somehow, this did little to dampen the spirit of the place. A jug of holly branches bearing mismatched ornaments stood in as a Christmas tree. The children’s eyes lit up as they approached and saw the labeled items laid out in front of it.

  For Anna, from Father Christmas: three crisp white handkerchiefs, each with a spray of tiny shamrocks embroidered at the corner.

  For Edmund, from Father Christmas: a bundle of only-slightly-used colored pencils tied with red twine.

  For William, from Father Christmas: a jigsaw puzzle of the RMS Mauretania.

  Just next to these was a stack of three books—not new, but in fine condition. They bore no tags, but no tags were required. The children needed only to read the spines.

  The Count of Monte Cristo.

  A Little Princess.

  The Encyclopaedia Britannica, HER-ITA.

  “It’s our books,” Edmund whispered. “I mean—not ours, but…”

  William stared at Mrs. Müller, his eyes asking questions for which there were no answers. Clearly, a librarian would have a fair supply of books about, but all three?

  She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Magic,” she whispered, nudging him toward the gifts.

  A mist of wonder hung in the air as the children paged through the books that had somehow been spirited back to them after yesterday’s tragedy. Had it only been yesterday?

  The reverent silence was broken when Edmund sneezed.

  “Bless you, Edmund,” Mrs. Müller said. “Closer to the fire, all of you, in your bare feet. Which reminds me…” She paused, retreating to the front hall and returning with her arms full of packages wrapped in brown paper and tied with knitting wool. To each of the children, she gave a tiny parcel whose insides crackled, and a slightly larger one, lumpy and soft.

  William bit his lower lip. “We can’t, Mrs. Müller. We just can’t. You’ve been extraordinary to us. Really, you have. And we can’t accept any more—”

  “Nonsense.”

  Inside the crackling packages were peppermints—bright, spiral reminders of a sweeter time. Edmund unwrapped one and popped it into his mouth with a grin. The lumpy packages each contained a pair of dove-gray socks.

  Now, you may think that socks are a dreadfully dull gift. Perhaps, in times of abundance, you would have a fair point. To Edmund, Anna, and William, however, socks were evidence that Mrs. Müller had been thinking of them for quite a long time indeed. Hand-knitted socks don’t materialize overnight, after all, no matter the magic.

  Anna rose and wrapped her arms about Mrs. Müller. “Thank you.”

  Whether the librarian knew it or not, she wasn’t really talking about the socks.

  In the midafternoon, Mrs. Müller turned on the radio for the king’s Christmas broadcast. Having got used to doing without a radio at Mrs. Griffith’s, the children found the machine almost otherworldly.

  “God Save the King,” somehow more significant in those dark days, played first. Then the king began, measuring each word as he might have done with sugar in a cake, if kings baked cakes.

  In days of peace, the feast of Christmas is a time when we all are gathered together in our homes, the young and old, to enjoy the happy festivity and good will which the Christmas message brings. It is, above all, a children’s day, and I am sure that we shall all do our best to make it a happy one for them, wherever they may be.

  Mrs. Müller dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief. “No doubt your grandmother will be anxious to hear from you, children. We can go into town tomorrow if you’d like to telephone her?”

  William hesitated. “A letter would be fine, I think,” he said.

  Mrs. Müller nodded. “I’ll fetch you some paper.”

  The children retreated to the bedroom to write. This time, it was Anna who composed the letter. The boys read over her shoulder as she checked her spelling.

  Edmund sniffled. “You don’t need to put our last name, you know. How many children do you think she knows named Anna, Edmund, and William?”

  Anna shrugged. William sighed as he read the letter.

  Dear Miss Collins,

  Happy Christmas! It is Christmas night here and we are at a new billet. We left our old one because it was dreadful but now we’re with the librarian and it’s perfect. I’ve told William and Edmund this is the place for us, but they don’t believe me because Mrs. Müller’s husband might be a Nazi but I don’t think so. Edmund has a cold. I hope you are having a happy Christmas with your sister.

  Yours sincerely,

  Anna and Edmund and William Pearce

  P.S. Mrs. Müller has a goat called Jane.

  “Anna,” William began, “I understand. Really, I do. You want to stay here forever. It’s just—”

  “I know, William.” Anna stopped him. “You don’t have to explain it to me again.”

  “Yes, please don’t, Will,” said Edmund. He found himself quite content and thought it rather a shame to spoil Christmas with talk of dark things.

  The sun was hardly behind the trees when the children began yawning. After sleeping so long the night before, it seemed impossible that anyone should be ready for bed; however, there was much sleep to be made up from the months before. They ate an early supper—steaming bowls of soup, thick with potatoes and turnips, carrots and parsnips. None of them had got out of their nightclothes the whole day long.

  Mrs. Müller read to them again that night.

  This time, it was The Hobbit.

  This time, they didn’t have to ask her to.

  Boxing Day and the beginning of the week leading up to 1941 passed in a soft haze. The librar
y and school were closed for the week, leaving Mrs. Müller and the children to settle in with one another. A folding table was set up by the fire in the snug, and William and Anna got lost in the Mauretania puzzle. Mrs. Müller fussed over Edmund, who continued to sniffle for some days. She provided a steady supply of clean handkerchiefs and endless cups of tea sweetened with honey. Edmund grumbled at the weight of the blankets she wrapped about him as he dozed by the fire. “I feel like Tutankhamun,” he said. In his secret heart, however, he found the unfamiliar kindness rather delightful.

  They read for as long as they liked. And as it turned out, they liked to do so for a very long time indeed. Mrs. Müller’s bookcases overflowed with enough stories to last them all their lives. Fingering an ancient set of The Arabian Nights, William remarked that the pages of one volume had gone all wibbly. “As if it had been dropped in the bath.”

  Mrs. Müller looked up from her knitting. “Mmmm…the Thames, actually. I was reading that one at Tower Beach.”

  “We went to Tower Beach once!” Anna exclaimed.

  “Only once?” the librarian asked. “Growing up in London, I should think you would have spent oodles of time there.”

  “Only just the one time,” Anna said, remembering the toffee apples they had devoured that afternoon. “Our housekeeper, Miss Collins, took us once on her day off. We never went again, though. I don’t think the grandmother approved.”

  Mrs. Müller chuckled. “The grandmother?”

  “I m-mean…our grandmother,” Anna stammered, glancing at her brothers.

  Mrs. Müller cocked her head. “Your grandmother sounds an interesting sort.”

  “She certainly is,” Edmund agreed. You don’t know the half of it, he thought.