A Place to Hang the Moon

by Kate Albus

  Winter left little work in the garden, but spinach did have to be harvested from the cold frame, and the animals needed tending. Each morning after breakfast, Mrs. Müller carried a wide metal dish of mash to the demanding chickens, then a bucket to Jane, and another to the rabbit hutch at the back of the garden. While the animals were thus occupied, she collected whatever eggs might have been produced the day before. A stool and pail were then brought to Jane for milking time.

  The children positively ached to help, but for the time being, Mrs. Müller would have none of it. “It’s dreadful out, and your cold, Edmund—you’ll stay right where you are, tucked up by the fire.” And that was the end of that. The children had to be content watching out the kitchen window as Mrs. Müller went about her tasks.

  Anna eyed the rabbit hutch, thinking of the velveteen one from the story.

  “Do you think she kills them herself?” Edmund asked.

  Anna went a bit pale. “Ugh.”

  “I’ll bet she does.” Edmund craned his neck to see what Mrs. Müller was doing. “She’d have to, wouldn’t she?”

  “Honestly,” William said.

  “Not as if you can cart them off to the town rabbit killer or something, can you?” Edmund sniffled. “How d’you think she does it? She must bash it with something.”

  “Stop it, Edmund,” William said.

  Anna wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  “Or maybe wring their necks, like chickens.”

  “Please stop, Edmund,” Anna pleaded.

  “And don’t you dare say anything to her about it,” William warned, looking out the window at Mrs. Müller.

  “Don’t worry,” Edmund said. “I don’t want any part of it.” He grinned. “Except maybe rabbit sausages. I’ll bet those are all right.”

  Anna jumped down from her perch on the counter and left the kitchen in a hurry.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  As January neared, the thought occurred to the children that they might one day need to venture out of the cottage. Before bedtime one night, William approached Mrs. Müller. “I suppose we ought to retrieve our things from Mrs. Griffith’s.”

  Mrs. Müller seemed to see into his heart. “I’ve been thinking the same thing, but you children will have nothing whatever to do with it. You won’t be going back there.”

  William looked at the floor. “It’s all right. We can manage it.”

  Mrs. Müller raised his chin with two fingers. “I believe there is little you can’t manage, William.” She held his gaze. “I also believe that all three of you—but you especially—have managed far more than anyone ought to, these past few months. I hope that while you are in my care you will allow yourself a rest from…from managing.”

  William had wanted to hear these words for so long, he couldn’t remember a time of not wanting to hear them. He stared back at Mrs. Müller as a flush rose to his cheeks.

  This seemed answer enough for the librarian. She pinched his chin gently. “It’s decided, then. I shall pay a call on Mrs. Griffith tomorrow.”

  Edmund, for obvious reasons, was delighted at the prospect of never seeing Mrs. Griffith again. He was, however, concerned for the librarian. “You’ve got to be careful, Mrs. Müller. She’s a bad egg.”

  “Mmmm. So I understand,” Mrs. Müller said, buttoning her coat. “Shall I bring my pistol?”

  Edmund marveled. “You’ve got a pistol?” So that’s how she does in the rabbits, he thought.

  Mrs. Müller grinned. “I was speaking metaphorically.”

  “What’s metaphorically, again?” Anna asked. “I always forget that one.”

  “Comparing one thing to another in a way that isn’t literal,” the librarian explained.

  Anna didn’t blink. “So…do you have a pistol?”

  Mrs. Müller laughed outright. “I don’t, Anna. Do you think I’ll be sorry of that, once I’ve arrived at Livingston Lane?”

  Anna looked worried. “I hope not.”

  The children spent that morning much as they had every other since their arrival at the cottage. They worked on the Mauretania. They sat by the fire with their noses in books and continued a game of Monopoly that had gone on for three days now. With both Mayfair and Park Lane, William had built up an expensive real estate empire. Edmund, nearing this section of the board, suggested they take a break.

  It was then that Mrs. Müller returned, looking rather like a pack mule, wearing three gas masks round her neck and carrying two of their suitcases. “I stuffed as much as I could into these,” she said, her cheeks pink. “It was all I could carry in one go.” She deposited the children’s belongings in the hall and joined them in the snug, her eyes brimming.

  “Was she awful to you?” Anna asked.

  “No, Anna, she wasn’t. Well—I suppose she was, but that’s not what’s making me misty.” Mrs. Müller laid a hand on Anna’s head. “It’s just that it’s dreadful to think of the three of you in that house.”

  Edmund nodded. “Was it the smell?”

  Mrs. Müller grimaced. “There was rather an odor, Edmund. But more than that, it was the funk of sadness about the place.” She took Anna’s hand. “Can you children ever forgive me for not stepping in sooner?”

  “How could you have, Mrs. Müller?” William asked. “We didn’t say anything.”

  “You shouldn’t have had to. I ought to have noticed.”

  “Did she give you trouble about our things?” Edmund asked.

  Mrs. Müller unwound her scarf. “She was none too pleased to see me, I can tell you that. I think she intended to use your belongings herself. And perhaps we ought to let her—just leave the rest of it there. I can get you new things, and she could use your old, by the looks of that place.” She heaved a sigh.

  She unbuttoned her coat, retrieving a copy of the Daily Mail from her pocket. “I stopped at the newsagent on my way through town.” She laid the paper on the ottoman. The front page bore a photograph of St. Paul’s Cathedral, shrouded in smoke and fire.

  William picked it up. “They’ve hit St. Paul’s?” he whispered.

  “No, I don’t believe they have.” Mrs. Müller began extricating herself from her coat. “I hadn’t time to read all of it, but I skimmed it in the newsagent. Look at the headline. St. Paul’s Stands Unharmed in the Midst of the Burning City. The fire brigade saved it.”

  This was certainly good news, but William took in the hellish scene in the photo, the words burning city, and felt an unexpected heave of panic in his stomach. “Ehm—if you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I just need to—ehm…” His sentence trailed off as he retreated upstairs to the bedroom. There, he lowered himself onto the bed, closed his eyes, and took deep breaths, trying to settle his nerves.

  It wasn’t long before he heard a soft rap at the door.

  “Will? You all right?” It was Edmund.

  William sighed. “I’m fine, Ed. Down in a minute.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Not just now, Edmund. I’ll be down soon, all right? Just give me a second.”

  Never one for heeding commands, Edmund opened the door. William raised himself on his elbows and narrowed his eyes at his brother as he made his way to the side of the bed and took a seat. Edmund didn’t say a word—only sat there. William found that Edmund’s uncharacteristically quiet presence was calming, actually. This was a surprise.

  It was a long while before William broke the silence. “Seeing that photo just made me panic.”

  “Mmmm,” Edmund murmured.

  “The direness of things, I mean.”

  “Of the war.”

  “Of the war, sure, but of the three of us, more than that. Sometimes I just feel punched in the gut with the weight of it all…figuring out how to keep us together.”

  “But we are together.”

  “I know.” William rolled to his side. “It’s just—seeing London in flames like that made Engersoll’s plan feel a great deal more…necessary.”

  “Mmmm,” Edmund hummed a
gain. He drew his knees to his chest and hugged them.

  “But it’s an awfully big thing, choosing a family, isn’t it? It seems terribly important to get it right,” William said.

  Edmund was quiet for a moment. “How d’you think you know you’ve got it right?”

  William shook his head. “I don’t know. Not a lot of experience in the mum-and-dad-choosing department.”

  “You do have, though, Will. You’ve been choosing our Mum and Dad—the dead ones, I mean—for ages now. Making up those stories every time Anna asks you to tell her something? You’ve been choosing bits and pieces of them all along.”

  William stared at his brother. “You knew I was making that stuff up?”

  “Of course I did. Honestly, that one about Mum wanting to be a cabbie? Ridiculous.”

  “Well, why’ve you played along, then?”

  Edmund shrugged. “Just because I don’t believe it doesn’t mean I don’t like it.”

  William lay back on the bed. “I didn’t make up the bit about her thinking her children hung the moon.” At least, I don’t think I did, he added, but not out loud.

  “I know you didn’t,” Edmund whispered. He thought a long time before he spoke again. “Maybe that’s how you know.”

  William squinted at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, maybe you know you’ve got the right mum when you find one that thinks you hung the moon.”

  William grinned. “Thanks for coming up here to check on me.”

  “Mrs. Müller wanted to, but I stopped her. I told her we both had a soft spot for St. Paul’s, because of all the special times we’d spent there with Gran.”

  “Gran?” William chuckled in spite of himself.

  “Yeah. Mrs. Müller offered again to take us to town to telephone her and make sure she’s all right.”

  “Did you really say special times?”

  “I did. I thought it was rather inspired. Better than telling her that dear old Gran is actually six feet under. And I told her the phones would probably be down in London, so we’d just write her another letter.”

  “You’re brilliant, Ed. Thanks for taking care of that.”

  “No problem. Thanks to you for taking care of…well…everything else.”

  The turning of the year meant the return to school and work. The children were loath to leave the warmth of the stone cottage.

  Mrs. Müller clearly felt the same. “Perhaps I ought to keep you home a bit longer.” She felt Edmund’s forehead. “I wonder if you’re really over your cold.”

  Edmund, who hadn’t so much as sniffled in two days, was tempted to feign feverishness and buy himself another day by the fire. He had nearly finished all nearly-a-thousand pages of the Count and would have liked nothing better than to read the last few at his leisure.

  “He’s fine. Really, Mrs. Müller. We’re all fine,” William said.

  Mrs. Müller crossed her arms over her chest, resigned. “Well, at the very least, we’ll walk to town together. It won’t hurt me to get in early this morning, having been on holiday so long now.”

  The children donned their coats, as well as hats and mittens from Mrs. Müller’s closet, and made their way into the frosty January morning. They walked Mrs. Müller to the door of the library, where they agreed to return after their lunches in the village hall.

  Fortified as they were by their week in their new billet, even the prospect of seeing Miss Carr couldn’t darken the children’s spirits that morning. The whole class hummed with excitement as children told tales of their holiday weeks.

  A pink-cheeked Frances approached William. “My mum came to visit for Christmas and gave me this.” She smoothed the pleats of her dress. “How do I look?”

  Edmund was more than happy to play along. “Yeah, Will, how does she look?”

  William could think of nothing to say. You look lovely, while polite, would almost certainly give Frances the wrong idea. You look the same as you did last week felt unkind, as did Please, won’t you just leave me alone?

  Anna came to her brother’s rescue. “That’s beautiful, Frances. I wish I had a dress like that.”

  As the children took their seats, young Hugh, who looked ever so much rosier than he had on their arrival in the village last summer, surprised Edmund by presenting him with a square of chocolate. “My foster mum gave me a whole bar on Christmas. I always remember you giving me yours the day we got here, and I meant to pay you back.” Unwrapped as it was, the chocolate had gone soft around the edges and bore traces of lint from Hugh’s pocket. Edmund ate it on the spot.

  “Thanks.” He smiled, his teeth streaked in Dairy Milk bar. “This makes coming back to school almost bearable, even with a teacher like Carr-buncle.”

  And there she was, standing over him.

  Miss Carr smiled the sort of smile that is not really a smile at all. “I trust,” she said, “that you have managed to last the whole of the week in the same billet?”

  Edmund’s cheeks burned. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Mmmm. Will wonders never cease?” She cleared her throat. “I couldn’t help overhearing your last few words just now. Do you know what a carbuncle is?”

  Edmund sank deeper in his seat. By now, the whole class was listening.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Would you please enlighten us all?”

  He took a deep breath. “It’s a sort of a pus-filled boil, I think.”

  A few of the children giggled.

  “Indeed,” said Miss Carr. “Did you also know…that a carbuncle is a sort of a brilliant red gem?”

  Is it really? Edmund sighed. “I didn’t, ma’am.”

  “Hmmm.” Miss Carr folded her hands. “I see this as a fine opportunity to educate you. You shall enjoy a special assignment this evening: writing the definition of carbuncle—my definition—five hundred times.”

  Edmund gasped. “Five hundred times? That’ll take hours!”

  “That will no doubt make the lesson memorable,” the teacher replied.

  And with that, the new year in the classroom began.

  Edmund put off doing his lines as long as he could that night. Truth be told, he was ashamed of himself. His brother’s repeated eyebrow-raisings were little help.

  “You might as well get started, Ed—you’re going to be up half the night,” William said as the children cleared the supper table.

  “Whyever are you going to be up half the night, Edmund?” Mrs. Müller asked.

  “I’m to write lines,” Edmund said, downcast.

  Mrs. Müller grimaced. “What are you to write?”

  “The definition of carbuncle.”

  “Oh, dear.” Mrs. Müller’s chuckle was only just contained. “I can only imagine why that assignment might have been given. How many times?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “Heavens. You will be up half the night.” She mussed his hair. “Perhaps I ought to make some cocoa?”

  William and Anna retired to bed while Mrs. Müller sat at the kitchen table with her knitting, keeping Edmund company as he wrote.

  “That woman really has it in for you, hasn’t she?” the librarian said.

  Edmund nodded. “She’s hated me from the start.” The cocoa tasted sweet against the bitter tang of anger.

  Mrs. Müller sighed. “I’m awfully sorry, Edmund. A person must have the darkest of souls to hate someone as dear as you.”

  Edmund wasn’t used to being characterized as dear. He sat with the idea for a moment, turning it over in his mind and finding he had no objections to the notion. In fact, he found it rather delightful. “Thanks,” he said.

  “I suppose the only reasonable course of action, under the circumstances, is to keep your head down. What did Mr. Tolkien say in The Hobbit the other night? It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him?”

  Edmund smiled. “I know you’re right about keeping my head down, and I try to. I really do. But I seem to keep lifting it up agai
n.”

  Mrs. Müller studied him. “Perhaps I’m the wrong one to give advice. I keep my head down quite a bit more than necessary, I suppose.”

  Now it was Edmund’s turn to study the librarian. “You do,” he said. “You ought not to let Mrs. Norton and her lot treat you the way they do. You’ve done nothing wrong and you should let everyone know it. It’s not as if you’ve put a snake in someone’s bed.” He grinned.

  Mrs. Müller gave a soft chuckle. “I haven’t.” She paused. “Though there are a couple of people I might like to…”

  Edmund wrote in silence for a long while. The only sounds were the occasional hiss from the fire and the rhythmic clicking of Mrs. Müller’s needles. By the time he got to five hundred lines, the clock in the hall was about to strike midnight. His pencil had long ago gone blunt. He cracked his knuckles, stretched his neck this way and that, and tipped back his empty cup to gather up every last drop of sweetness.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Müller.”

  She took the cup, setting it in the basin. “I always find that a cup of chocolate makes an unpleasant task a bit more bearable.”

  “I didn’t just mean about the chocolate. For sitting with me, too.”

  “I’m glad to,” she said.

  She reached out to muss his hair again, but he misread the gesture and found himself opening his arms for a hug. It might have been a terribly awkward moment, had it not felt—to Edmund’s very great surprise—entirely right. As if this sort of thing—this hugging sort of thing—happened all the time.

  After a moment, they released each other. Edmund smiled up at the librarian. “And thanks for the advice about dragons.” He stifled a yawn. “I’ll try to be more mindful of them.”

  “Right,” she said. “And I’ll try to be less.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  On a gray February Friday, Mrs. Müller and the children arrived home later than usual, having got engrossed in their books by the library fire. They hung their coats and Mrs. Müller picked up a letter that had been dropped through the mail slot. She remarked on its postmark with some curiosity. “I don’t know anybody in Switzerland.” She slid her finger under the flap as they went to the kitchen to set the table for supper.