by Kate Albus
The children washed their hands and began retrieving dishes from the shelves. All three were startled to attention at a soft cry from Mrs. Müller.
They turned to see that her face had gone quite pale. “Excuse me, please, children,” she said, dropping the letter on the table and disappearing up the stairs.
The children gaped at one another.
“Do you think she’s ill?” Anna ventured.
William shook his head.
Edmund grabbed the letter.
“Edmund!” William whispered. “You ought not to read other people’s—”
The look on Edmund’s face stopped him cold.
“He’s dead,” Edmund said. “Martin. Her husband.” He offered William the letter.
William took it, skimming it silently. The three of them stood there, their hearts hurting for Mrs. Müller.
“I’ll go up,” William said.
“And do what?” Edmund asked.
“And—I don’t know—tell her we’re sorry.”
“We should all go,” Edmund said.
“Maybe she doesn’t want all of us up there.”
“Maybe she doesn’t.” Edmund shrugged. “And maybe she does.”
William gave his brother a long look. “All right. All of us, then.”
“I don’t know what to say to her,” Anna whispered.
William looked at his sister. “Do you want to stay down here?”
“No.”
The children went on tiptoe. When they reached the spare bedroom, William started to knock, then thought better of it. “Mrs. Müller?” he called.
“Come in.”
They found the librarian perched on the end of the bed. “Ah, children.” Her voice was thick. “I just—”
“We’re ever so sorry, Mrs. Müller,” William whispered.
The librarian looked up at them, an involuntary shudder making its way through her thin frame.
“I read your letter,” Edmund confessed. “I know I shouldn’t have, but it was right there, and we—”
Anna interrupted her brother, not with words, but by lurching forward and wrapping her arms about the librarian as tightly as she knew how. A sob escaped Mrs. Müller’s throat as she returned Anna’s embrace with fierce desperation. The boys said nothing, only looked at their feet as their sister offered comfort from all of them. Anna might not have known what to say, but she knew what to do.
Which is often the more important thing, as it turns out.
It seemed an age before Mrs. Müller released Anna. She ferreted in her pocket for a handkerchief. When she found none, Anna produced one of hers from Christmas. Mrs. Müller mopped her eyes and drew another shuddering breath. “I’m terribly sorry, children, putting this on you.”
“We understand,” William whispered. “Really, we do.”
Mrs. Müller surveyed the three of them for a long moment. “I suppose you do, don’t you? But that doesn’t mean you’re keen on listening to my blubbering. I’ll be all right shortly. Really. I’ll be down in just a minute, and—”
“No,” said Edmund.
Mrs. Müller looked at him. So did Anna and William, come to that.
“I mean,” he continued, “that you’re not to worry about coming down. We can make supper and…and do whatever else needs to be done.”
The librarian wiped her eyes again. “You’re awfully kind, Edmund, but really—”
“Please,” Edmund said. “Let us do this for you.”
Alone in the kitchen, the children realized that they didn’t actually know how to make a proper supper. In the end, they decided on the offering that had so comforted them on Christmas Eve: thick slices of buttered toast and steaming cups of dark, sugary chocolate. Mrs. Müller’s chocolate supply was dwindling, but tonight hardly seemed the time to worry about such things.
Anna sliced the bread. “Did he die in Switzerland?”
“What?” William asked.
“Switzerland. Mrs. Müller said the letter was from Switzerland,” she said in a small voice.
“Oh. Right.” William shook his head. “No. The letter was from someone named Müller, so it must have been her husband’s family. It’s just—you can’t post a letter here from Germany because of the war. It’s got to go through someplace else. Like Switzerland. They must have mailed it through someone there. A friend, maybe.”
“He died in Berlin, it said,” Edmund added. “In the raids in August.”
Anna turned from the counter. “It’s awful, but—doesn’t this mean we can stay?”
William put down the knife he was using to chop chocolate. “What?”
“Well…” Anna gulped, knowing how selfish she sounded. “I just mean…now we know we’re not to be living with him, can’t we stay forever?”
Edmund snorted. Truth be told, he’d had the same thought himself, but he hadn’t quite turned it over in his brain enough to say it out loud. Besides which, even Edmund knew the moment was terribly inappropriate. And that was saying something. “Sure, Anna. Why don’t we ask her when we go upstairs? ‘Here’s your toast, Mrs. Müller. Now that we don’t have to worry about your husband one way or the other, how’d you like to be our mum?’”
William looked at Anna. “Edmund’s right. It’s probably not the best time.”
“I know that.” Anna huffed. “I just—”
“And besides,” William continued, “even though that letter may make things less…complicated…it’s still important to think about it, the choosing.”
“I’ve thought about it. And I’ve chosen,” Anna said. “I chose ages ago.”
“I know.” William gave a winsome grin. “I just want us all to be sure.”
“I am sure. When will you be sure?” Anna crossed her arms and looked from one to the other of them.
William looked at Edmund, who avoided his gaze, staring resolutely into the pot of chocolate. “Ed says we’ll know when we find someone who thinks we hung the moon,” William said.
Anna smiled, entirely satisfied.
Despite Mrs. Müller’s protests, the children insisted on taking care of her for the remainder of the weekend. They fed the animals and gathered the eggs. Edmund tried to milk the goat, but Mrs. Müller eventually had to take over when it became apparent that—having little in the way of training—Edmund was only making the poor creature cross and nippy.
Mrs. Müller spent a great deal of time in her bed, reading and sleeping, sleeping and reading. On Sunday afternoon, she accepted the children’s offer of a game of Monopoly. Anna made tea, which they savored while the librarian proceeded to bankrupt the three of them, despite the fact that they were all actually trying. Only William briefly considered letting Mrs. Müller win out of pity, but he soon found this both unnecessary and irrelevant.
The librarian offered the first genuine smile the children had seen from her since Friday’s news. “After all you three have done for me, fancy my trouncing you so shamelessly.”
Edmund sorted his pathetic pile of money and put it away. “That’s all right. You can always tell when someone’s letting you win, and it’s never fun that way.”
“Indeed.” The librarian nodded. “Thank you ever so much, children.”
“We’re glad to, Mrs. Müller,” William said.
Anna and Edmund set to clearing away the teacups.
“I know I lost Martin years ago, really…when his letters stopped, I suppose,” Mrs. Müller said. “But somehow seeing it there, in writing…made that loss real.”
William nodded.
Mrs. Müller sniffed. “Not only the loss of him, I mean, but the loss of…whatever hope remained of understanding why he disappeared in the first place.”
William nodded again. “I understand,” he said.
She met his gaze. “You do, William, don’t you?” She laid a hand on his. “You’ve taken care of me as you only could have done if you knew what I was feeling.” She paused. “That’s an awful lot to know, as a boy of only twelve.”
William looked down at the table. “Actually, I’m thirteen.”
“I thought you were twelve.” Mrs. Müller’s brow creased.
“I was.” William smiled. “And now I’m thirteen. My birthday was last month.”
Mrs. Müller stood abruptly. “While you were here with me? Why didn’t you say anything?”
He shrugged. “You…had already done so much for us, I didn’t want to ask for more. And really, it’s not important. Even back in London, I never—”
Mrs. Müller went fiery in the eyes. “Not important? A boy turning thirteen? Gracious, William.” Anna and Edmund returned from the kitchen. “Children,” the librarian asked, “did you know your brother had a birthday last month?”
Anna bit her lower lip. “January eleventh.”
“Cripes, Will,” Edmund said. “I’m really sorry.”
By now, William felt rather guilty about the whole affair. “Honestly—we’d only been here a couple of weeks or so at that point, and everything was such a muddle, I hardly thought about it myself.”
Mrs. Müller took William’s face in her hands and kissed the top of his head. His cheeks went pink. “Upstairs,” she commanded. “You’re to occupy yourself with something pleasant until your brother and sister and I tell you to come back down. Isn’t that right, Anna, Edmund?” She stopped, studying the two of them. “Heavens, when are your birthdays?”
“Both of us are May,” Edmund answered.
“So we haven’t missed any others.” Mrs. Müller sighed. “Upstairs,” she repeated, shooing William toward the staircase. “We’ve a celebration to plan.”
William started to protest again, but she would have none of it. “Go!”
So, at last, he went.
Anna and Edmund thought they had never had so much fun as they did in the preparations for their brother’s belated birthday party. Mrs. Müller started on a cream sponge cake with what ingredients she had on hand. She set Edmund the task of rummaging through drawers and cupboards to unearth whatever birthday candles he might find. Anna set to decorations with great enthusiasm once Mrs. Müller told her that paper rationing can go to the devil for today. After his candle mission, Edmund gathered his colored pencils and joined her, and the two quickly filled the table with brightly penciled paper crowns, bunting, and cards offering heartfelt birthday greetings.
“This is going to be the best birthday William’s ever had,” Anna chirped.
Mrs. Müller peeked at the cake in the oven. “I should hope not,” she said. “Fancy a birthday party pulled together in two hours’ time—and a month late, at that!”
Edmund fastened bunting to the kitchen wall with bits of tape. “No, really—he’ll love it. This is loads better than anything we’d have done back in London.”
The librarian studied Anna and Edmund the way she had so often—as if she had been painting their portraits and suddenly realized she had got the colors all wrong. “Does your gran not go in for birthdays much?”
Edmund shrugged. “Not anymore.”
“Mmmm.” Mrs. Müller nodded. “Quite a character, your gran.”
“Yep,” Edmund sighed. “Character is a good word for the—for Gran.”
Anna gave him a covert scowl.
Mrs. Müller took another look at the cake, then excused herself to the garden for several minutes. She returned bright-cheeked. “Right, then,” she said, retrieving the cake from the oven and testing it with a broomstraw. “That’s done. We’ll just wait for it to cool enough that it will take the icing. Oh, children—what a lovely job on the bunting. And the crowns are perfect. Well done, both of you!”
“Thanks for doing this, Mrs. Müller,” Edmund said. “Especially with you just—you know…”
“I couldn’t think of a better time to occupy myself with celebrating,” Mrs. Müller said. “I’ve had myself a wallow, and now it’s time for a proper do.”
When the cake was covered in a layer of pillowy whipped cream, Mrs. Müller sent Edmund to fetch the birthday boy. This he did, nudging William down the stairs to the kitchen doorway, where he put his hands over his brother’s eyes so as not to reveal the party too soon.
Having never been a guest of honor before, William found himself in a curious state of mingled discomfort and delight. The delight quickly won out, however, as he took in the shining faces of his brother and sister—more gleeful, he thought, than he had ever seen them.
Mrs. Müller wrapped her arms about him. “Happiest of birthdays, William.” She planted another kiss on the top of his head.
It occurred to William that the two such kisses he had received that day were, in fact, the only ones he could remember. He felt a sort of a jolt in his stomach at this realization. “Thank you. You really oughtn’t—”
“Hush,” the librarian replied. “You’re only thirteen once in this life.”
“Or twice, in this case,” said Edmund, “I s’pose.”
There followed a rowdy chorus of “Happy Birthday to You.” William stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Blow out the candles, William!” Anna squealed.
“Make a wish first,” Edmund said. “And make it a good one. Don’t wish for nonsense.”
“What sort of wish would be nonsense, in your esteemed opinion, Edmund?” Mrs. Müller asked.
“I’m sure I don’t know, but William is generally far more sensible than is sensible, so I just want him to think carefully. Don’t wish for something daft, Will.”
“Mmmm.” Mrs. Müller turned her attention to the guest of honor.
William smiled at each of them in turn, took a long breath, and blew out the candles in one go.
“That means you’re sure to have your wish!” Anna clasped her hands in delight. “What did you wish for?”
William raised his eyebrows at his sister. “You know you’re not supposed to tell.”
Anna knew what her own wish would have been, and hoped, like Edmund, that William had chosen wisely.
The foursome ate cake until they all felt they would burst wide open. William pushed back from his plate and offered heartfelt thanks for the celebration.
“Not done yet,” Mrs. Müller said. “Close your eyes again.” William did as he was told. She retreated into the garden, returning momentarily with a bit of bumping and thumping, then telling William to open his eyes. This he did, ever so slowly.
Right there in the kitchen was a bicycle. Not a new one, to be sure, for such things rarely materialize in the space of two hours, but a bicycle nonetheless. It was red, mostly—only rusted in a few spots—and with a bow of dove-gray yarn tied around the center of its handlebars.
“It’s a bicycle,” William said, breathless.
Mrs. Müller smiled. “It’s a bit cold for it now, but once spring arrives, I thought you might fancy a bit of freedom.”
William ran a hand through his hair.
“I think it’ll work nicely,” Mrs. Müller continued, “if we lower the seat just a hair…it was Martin’s, but he wasn’t so tall.”
“Thank you,” William said, his voice gone thin. “Thank you ever so much.”
“You’re very welcome. Happiest of birthdays to you, and I shan’t miss another one! Even when you’ve gone back to London, I shall have all your birthdays in my daybook and I shall send you birthday greetings from afar!”
William swallowed thickly. A thought entered his mind—a wish, you might even say—but somehow Edmund’s voice rang in his head. Now that you’ve got me a bicycle, I wonder if you’d also fancy being my mum?
“Thank you ever so much,” he said again.
“Why don’t you take it for a ride?” Mrs. Müller asked. “It isn’t quite dark out yet, and it’s cold, but if you put on a coat—”
Edmund interrupted her. “He doesn’t know how.”
The librarian seemed certain she hadn’t heard right. “I beg your pardon?”
“He doesn’t know how to ride—do you, Will?” Edmu
nd didn’t mean to embarrass his brother, least of all at his birthday celebration. He was only stating a fact.
William gave a sheepish grin. “I don’t.”
“You don’t know how to ride a bicycle?” Mrs. Müller asked.
“No,” William answered. “None of us do.” He looked at Edmund and Anna. “You should both have a go on it as well.”
“Yes!” said Edmund.
Anna cocked her head at the size of the bicycle and reserved judgment.
Mrs. Müller hadn’t yet come to terms with this latest revelation. “Whyever not?”
William shrugged. “I don’t know. It just—there just—wasn’t the time, I suppose.”
“Wasn’t the time? For a child to learn to ride a bicycle?” She looked from one to the next of them. “Didn’t your gran ever…” The silence hung there, amid the bunting.
“She didn’t,” Edmund answered.
Mrs. Müller swallowed. “Well. It’s high time you all learned.” She grabbed her coat and wheeled the bicycle back out into the garden. The children put on their own coats and followed.
The encroaching darkness made the rocky terrain around the cottage a less-than-perfect training ground, so Edmund ran alongside the wobbling bicycle, holding on until William picked up speed enough to leave him behind. Anna stood with Mrs. Müller in the front garden, cheering for every moment he remained upright and covering her eyes each time he didn’t. William skinned the palm of one hand in his first attempt, and grazed a knee in his second, but the sting was delicious. The icy wind on his face smelled clean and wild, and the gleeful shouts of his audience were nearly drowned by the thrum of his own heart. It felt like flying.
Still sated with sponge cake, the foursome enjoyed cups of tea by the fire, but nothing more, for dinner that night.
“Thank you, Mrs. Müller,” William said. “This has been the best birthday I’ve ever had.”
She met his gaze. “You’re very welcome.” She cleared her throat. “And I should think it’s high time you all three started calling me Nora.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
As spring began to creep out of cracks in the icy ground, Mrs. Müller greeted the season with the energy that comes from months away from the out-of-doors, and the children couldn’t help but be caught up in her garden enthusiasm. She was glad of their help. The few fine days of late February meant the raking of seedbeds and the turning of soil; the grim days were spent organizing seeds and drawing up plans to use every bit of fertile ground in the garden.