It was only much later, when the children had managed to learn English and the unseen crisis had finally been overcome, that I learned the meaning of the name Annique had given me.
Andiel was Czech for angel.
FOURTEEN
Since my visit with Mabel the travel agent, I had successfully avoided going anywhere in the village, except to church and my one trip to the fliers' pub. Sundays I slipped into the service at the very last moment, and left before the final hymn was sung. I took my meals either with Rachel or at the orphanage. I had avoided the High Street and the shops and the eyes. Until now.
I was so nervous that I didn't realize I had no idea where I was going until after Fred dropped me off and drove away. I waved and called his name, but the bulging gas bag blocked his rear vision. I dropped my hand, turned, and realized I had done the worst thing imaginable. I had called attention to myself. Faces up and down the street had turned my way. I ducked my head down into my collar, hugged the box of stockings up close to my chest, and started down the walk. I could feel the eyes following me.
"Oh, hello there, Miss Emily." The grocer's wife was a hefty woman, handsome in a work-worn way, with masses of tumbledown red hair. I had seen her several times, delivering loads of produce to the orphanage, but had never spoken with her before. Her red face was wreathed in smiles as she wiped her flour-covered hands on her spotted apron and stepped through the doorway. "How are you, dear?"
I was not sure I had heard correctly. Dear. "Fine, thank you," I faltered.
"Splendid day, now that it's stopped with the snow and all." The two of us blocked more than half the sidewalk.
People stepped around us, smiling and murmuring greetings. Not just to her either. To us. She pointed to the box in my arms. "What've you got there?"
"Oh, they're, ah, stockings."
Her eyes widened. "Ooooh, let us have a look, will you?"
"A-all right."
Eagerly she lifted the lid and pulled out one of the slender packages. She ran one finger under the cover, stroking the silk. "Ooh, that's nice, ain't it? Haven't had a pair of these since forty-two. Like to have broke my heart when they ran. My Danny, he took me to the picture show down Bottley way, back before the snows. Used my eyeliner and drawed up the back of my legs." She gave me a girlish grin. "Spent half the night pretending to check and make sure I had 'em on straight."
The friendliness of her welcome had warmed me to my toes. "Why don't you keep those?"
She used both hands to clasp the little cardboard container to her apron. "Oh, no, I couldn't possibly."
"Please, I want you to."
She clasped them even tighter. "Everybody in town knows how you came by these. Gotten people talking, it has, how you gave away the whole box to the orphanage."
I blushed at the thought of people having another reason to talk about me. "And who has given more to those children than you and your husband?"
"Well, but . . . " She eased the package out far enough to peek down at it. "Do you really think I should?"
"They're yours." To stave off further argument, I asked, "Do you know where I could find a camera?"
"Oh, I don't know if you can." She seemed genuinely apologetic over not being able to help. "All such as that is on the restricted list."
"I'm sorry, the what?"
"Means you can't buy it without a license. Couldn't have people going around taking pictures of what we didn't want the Jerries seeing, now, could we? 'Course, the war's over, but that doesn't mean the rules have been changed. Tilings move slow in this old land of ours." She pointed down the High Street. "Still, you could try the dry-goods shop down by the church."
As I started down the sidewalk, the woman added, "Pity about the news, isn't it?"
I turned back to ask her what news, but her husband called from within the shop. Hastily she headed for the door, tossing me a cheery, "Thanks ever so much for the lovely stockings, dear!"
I walked on down the High Street, carrying the smile with me. Clouds scuttled overhead, and the broad High Street was full of people hurrying after errands and home. Perhaps it was my imagination, but a couple of times I thought people nodded and murmured greetings in my direction. I kept my gaze fastened upon the scenery, for fear that if I looked down, I might find the curious and the gossip-hungry, and be sunk once more into gloom.
Arden was truly a lovely place. The High Street descended a gende hill to join with the river and its ancient stone bridge. Its eleventh-century church rose beside the quietly flowing waters, the gray stone matching the river and the winter sky. The buildings on both sides dated back six and seven centuries, their beam-and-brick walls tilted and bowed by the weight of years. Lead-glass windows flowed like crystallized tears, turning the interiors into moving portraits of a bygone era.
But the town's pleasant air vanished the instant I stepped into the dry-goods store. The place was very full, its worn wooden floor scuffed by decades of farmers' boots. A trio of men in tweeds and trilby hats were examining shotguns, while their wives shook their heads over a bolt of heavy fabric laid upon the counter. As soon as I appeared in the doorway, all movement froze and all attention turned my way.
I felt my earlier nervousness return as the man behind the counter said, "Can I help you, Miss Robbins?"
Trying hard for a smile, I replied, "Perhaps. I hope so, Mr. . ."
"Clyde Hoggin. My daughter helps out at the College." The wispy-haired storekeeper sniffed his disapproval. "What with all we've got going on and her mother being poorly, we'd be far better off if she spent less time with them kids and more seeing to my customers."
"We need all the help we can get," I pointed out, trying hard not to wilt under the sudden hostility.
"Not for long," muttered one of the men handling the guns.
"Aye, and it'll be a grand day when we see the last of that lot." The storekeeper walked down the counter toward me. "What can I do for you, then?"
"I need a camera and some film. A lot." That was as far as I got before what I had just heard settled in. "I'm sorry, what did you mean by seeing the last of the children?"
"Don't go spreading those rumors of yours," chided one of the women.
"It's not a rumor." The farmer was a barrel-chested man whose ruddy nose was mapped with blue veins. "I heard talk of it at the farmers' union this morning. Seems the Ministry's finally come to its senses."
"It'll be a sad day for Arden when the children are gone." The woman tilted her chin defiantly. "And it's people like you who give this town a bad name."
The man swelled indignantly. "Just because I'd rather keep my produce to feed my own lot, rather than toss it out to wastrels what nobody can even understand, that don't make me anything but smart."
"Hmph." The woman turned to me, and said quietly, "There's a rumor going around, dear, that the Ministry has decided to close down the orphanage."
"And I tell you," the man clamored, "that it ain't no rumor."
Storekeeper Hoggin stepped closer to where I was now leaning heavily upon the counter. "We don't stock cameras, Miss. And you can't buy film without a permit." He pointed at the box under my arm. "What's there in the carton?"
"Stockings," I said, but my mind was held by the unbelievable news. "You mean, they want to take away our children?"
"Them ain't yours," the man in the corner snorted. "Nor the village's. They're nothing but a weight tied 'round all our ruddy necks."
"A carton of silk stockings?" The storekeeper's tone tightened with avarice. "Well now, in that case I imagine we can overlook such things as permits, can't we?"
The news was so shocking and spoken so harshly that I found myself grasping for something, anything to hold on to. "But nobody's said anything. Not even Reverend Albright."
"Aye, well, the vicar'11 be round soon enough, I warrant." The thought gave the farmer a reason to smirk. "Him and his dicky heart."
The day's second shock struck me with the force of a blow. The wind was knocked out of
me so that I could only manage a single word. "Heart?"
"The vicar doesn't like to talk about it," the woman said, moving up close as though to protect me from the farmer and his barrage of bad news. "Had rheumatic fever as a child, poor dear. Left him with a heart murmur."
"But he's always so active," I protested. "He never stops."
"Aye, that's his way of compensating, I suppose." The woman took my arm, which was very good, because I felt frozen to the spot. She guided me back outside. "You mustn't pay that lot in there any mind, dear. This happens to be a gathering place for the malcontents. I'd do my shopping elsewhere, if it didn't mean taking the bus to Bottley and back."
But I had no time for that. "Is it true what they were saying about the children?"
She sighed. "Rumors are as sure a product of war as sorrow. But this one has the stamp of truth, I'm afraid. It's come out of nowhere. I only heard about it an hour ago, but everyone seems to take it for granted that it's true."
"But it can't be—" At that moment I spotted Colin walking from the church doorway. "You'll have to excuse me," I said, and raced away.
Colin was climbing into the truck, but stopped at my approach. Even before I was close enough to speak, the grim expression to his face said it all. I felt something in my chest tear apart, as though a wound that had just begun to heal was violently reopened. "Oh, Colin. Isn't there anything we can do?"
"I'm going to the Ministry," he said tersely. "And I'm not leaving until I find out who's responsible."
Without another word I raced around and opened the passenger door. Tossing in the box of stockings, I clambered inside and declared, "Let's go."
MY SECOND JOURNEY to London was better than the first only because I was not so alone. Despite the steady flow of buses and lorries, there were very few automobiles. The broad streets seemed strangely empty, as though the city had been built for twice the traffic. The sidewalks were crowded, but people seemed as subdued as the city itself. I watched the faces wherever we stopped, especially when we approached one of the bomb sites. It seemed as though I was the only person who took any notice of the destruction.
We turned down a spacious avenue, and abruptly I found myself surrounded by the grandeur of the mighty British Empire. Tall buildings of white marble stood like solemn soldiers, flanked by pillars and statues and ranks of broad steps. When Colin pulled up in front of one of them, I asked, "Where are we?"
"Pall Mall."
I got out, but hesitated there by the truck. The buildings seemed so imposing, so utterly powerful and uncaring. It was only the sight of Colin, poor tired Colin tromping up that expanse of grand white stairs all alone, that gave me the strength to go forward.
We passed through a pair of enormous bronze doors. I read a placard beside one that said the doors had been made from cannons melted down after some battle. The interior was no less dignified, with a vast circular chandelier suspended from a ceiling thirty feet high. I stayed close to Colin as we crossed the marble-tiled floor, feeling very, very small.
The gray-haired man guarding the entrance barrier wore row after row of ribbons and medals on his ancient uniform. He gave us an impassive stare. "Yes?"
"Displaced persons," Colin said, his voice clipped by tension and worry.
"Second floor, down the hall on your left. Take the stairs there."
Upstairs the building was much less imperial, full of bustling offices and hurrying people and uniforms and voices. Nobody paid us the least attention. I sat on a hard wooden bench while Colin went in to announce our arrival and, as he put it, demand a meeting with someone who could do something about this mess.
As I sat and waited, I found myself growing increasingly aware of my appearance. The clothes had seemed fine when I put them on this morning, as I had planned to go no farther afield than the orphanage. But within the walls of this stuffy Ministry, I realized that I looked a mess.
My shoes were scuffed and worn. The hem of my skirt was muddy from a walk through the orphanage garden the afternoon before. One of the infants had also stained my lapel with formula. I wore no makeup. My hair was pinned haphazardly into place. My hands were chapped raw from scrubbing floors.
The meeting was a misery from beginning to end. It was the only time I had ever seen Colin lose his temper. The woman was precise and prune-faced, with her hair in a bun so tight it drew her eyes into slits. She wore a tailored gray suit, and cast a disapproving eye over my appearance. I found myself so intimidated I was afraid to open my mouth.
Colin grew red-faced and bitter when he learned the Ministry could not even tell us where the children were going, or when. His anger seemed to please the woman to no end. Her name was Miss Hillary Tartish, and she watched Colin storm and protest with amused contempt. "The children are not your concern, Reverend, ah . . ."
"Albright," Colin snapped.
"Of course. The children are the Ministry's responsibility, to do with as the Ministry sees fit." Her gaze was as severe as her dress. "A fact that seems to have escaped your attention for far too long."
"Those children are alive because we looked after them," Colin flashed angrily. "And not a lick of help or thanks did we receive from your lot."
"What you fail to recognize, Reverend," Miss Tartish responded glacially, "is that it is precisely because of your meddlesome ways that our own carefully planned and logical routine was so thoroughly disrupted."
"The children still needed food," Colin barked. "They still needed clothes. What kept you from sending supplies when we were so desperately short?"
"Those very same shortages are exactly why we shall all be better off distributing those children around the other displaced persons camps. Facilities, I might add, which are much better run than your own."
What she had just said struck me with the force of a slap to my face. "A camp? You're sending these children to a camp full of adults?"
"Full of displaced persons," she replied icily. "Which is precisely what these young people are, in case that has slipped your notice."
"They're not," I cried. "They're children. They've been horribly scarred by war and their experiences, and they need love and care. Not to be lost in the mass of humanity in a camp!"
"I've heard quite enough of this nonsense," she snapped. "For your information, Europe is positively awash with these displaced persons. There is neither the time nor the resources to give them special treatment of any sort." She looked down her nose with frigid contempt. "Your lot has done nothing but set a bad example, and upset our carefully prepared plans."
I turned to Colin. "This is absurd."
"What this is, young lady, is official government policy." Her words were a biting lash. "We shall begin transferring those children by the beginning of next month, and close you down entirely three weeks later!"
"We'll see about that," Colin cried, rising to his feet.
"Yes," Miss Tartish retorted, remaining seated behind her vast empty desk. "Yes, we certainly shall."
It was only when we were back in the truck that Colin dropped his head to the steering wheel and moaned, "I made an absolute shambles of that."
"No, you didn't," I protested, as worried at that point for Colin as I was for the children. "You did everything you could."
"Which was nothing at all." He turned hopeless eyes toward me. "What on earth am I going to tell the others?"
The drive back began in a silence more dismal than the one that had accompanied us in. I wanted to ask him about his heart, but Colin was already so despondent that I did not dare. Instead, I tried to force away the quiet by talking about Brad's telephone call and my trip into the village.
"I'm not surprised he wanted your stockings," Colin said when I was finished. "Clyde Hoggin has made a small fortune as a spiv."
"A what?"
"A spiv is someone who deals on the black market. There's such as that in every town." Colin shook his head. "His daughter Hannah is one of the quiet ones, and no wonder, given her father's nature. Whenev
er she can manage she helps out in the sick-hall." He tried to offer me a smile. "It's a pity God doesn't operate heaven on a family plan, for I fear that's the only way her father will ever see the eternal city."
The sadness in his eyes threatened to break my heart. "I'm so sorry, Colin."
"And you are a dear to be so concerned for our little woes." He drove on in silence for a while, before offering, "I used to be a fair hand at taking photographs."
"You did?"
"I even apprenticed to a portrait maker, back before I received my calling." He gave his chin a thoughtful rub. "It's not such a bad idea you've had, Emily. Jolly nice, in fact. We could send a few pictures over to Brad's church, and save the others for ourselves. You know, in case—"
"Take the stockings and buy all the film you can," I cried, cutting him off. I could not bear to hear him say that our little charges might be taken away, lost in a maelstrom of Ministry papers. Or that the photographs might someday become our only link to what once had been. The thought of not even knowing where they might land cut like a knife. I could not hear him speak the words.
FIFTEEN
The next morning Rachel decided to take our protest up with the Arden village council. Fred was busy with an out-of-town call, so I took the bus up the hill to the orphanage. I was no longer afraid of being seen and stared at and whispered over. I could not explain why going to the Ministry had affected me in that way. O r perhaps it was the way the grocer's wife had greeted me. Or the avaricious shopkeeper, more concerned with my stockings than with my needs or our children. Yes, I thought. Our children. I was far too busy worrying over where they might end up, and under whose care, to be concerned with the murmured conversations and the looks shot my way. Even if some of the half-heard words were meant as arrows, I kept my head held high.
The bus was an ancient round-shouldered affair that wheezed and rattled at each stop, and belched great clouds of black smoke as it started off again. I sat and stared out the rain-streaked window, and found myself thinking of the river, and of Rachel's words from the day before. How I needed to hold on to silence in order to hear the Lord's quiet voice. The more I came to know that tall stately woman, the more I admired her. My thoughts about Rachel and the river pushed aside my worries, and left no room for the snide conversations swirling about me. Instead, I was held by an image of the river, the rain falling softly upon the surface, the steady current flowing on undisturbed.
Tidings of Comfort and Joy Page 11