“I hadn’t thought of the Germans doing any of us a favor,” a thin young woman said. “When we chase them off once and for all, I’ll get me a new house, and it won’t have a thatch roof either to catch every fire spark.”
“Me and my husband will have us a fine butcher shop again,” another woman added, “without a bomb in the middle of it.”
Soon they all were laughing and joking about their misfortunes. That’s what Margaret liked the best about being British—strength and humor.
Beryl wiggled her way through the crowd to her cot. She wore a smile, but Margaret doubted if it held much substance.
“I have an announcement to make,” Beryl said, waving her hands to quiet the others. She nodded at Margaret. “As much as I love all of you, I will be departing from your delightful company.”
“Where ya going?” Jenny said.
“To Patrick’s family in Ireland … to be with my dear boy, Christopher, and … to give birth to another babe.” She lifted her chin, while silence echoed around the barracks. “Would someone say something, please?”
A moment later, a dozen arms wrapped around Beryl, and the hum of well-wishers sounded livelier than a beehive.
“When are you leaving?” Margaret said, feeling immense relief for her friend but realizing how much she’d miss her.
“Shortly, I believe. Lieutenant Fitzgerald is making the arrangements.” Beryl embraced Margaret and hugged her tightly. “Thank you for supporting me these months since Patrick died. I couldn’t have made it without your God-given friendship and all of the wonderful ladies here.”
Margaret responded with a nod. Later they could talk in private. Right then, emotion blocked her every thought.
“What will you name the babe?” Jenny said.
Beryl smiled genuinely. “Patrick Winston if it’s a boy, and Elizabeth Clementine if it’s a girl.”
“Ah,” Jenny said. “For our Mr. Churchill and his wife.”
“Bravo,” the cheers rose. “To God and England.”
“And His blessing on our families where’er they may be,” Jenny added.
The conversation continued with names of children and mothers’ fond memories of peaceful days. Without warning, the sirens sounded.
“Soon you’ll be free of this,” Margaret whispered to Beryl as they raced to the shelter.
“But a piece of my heart will always be here with you, my friends,” Beryl said as they hurried to go, “and all of the RAF. Here is where Patrick and I found purpose to the lives God gave us.”
Andrew watched Margaret and Beryl hug each other one last time before Beryl departed. A train would take her northwest to Liverpool, where she would cross the Irish Sea to Dublin. Now he understood Margaret’s concern for her friend and the reason she protected Beryl.
“So you’ll be home for Christmas?” Andrew said heartily. “I envy you with family and all.”
Beryl laughed. “It seems like a fantasy come true.” She clasped Andrew’s hand. “Oh, I don’t mean to sound selfish or shirk my responsibilities.”
“Not at all,” Andrew said, peering into her eyes. “You have the responsibility to take care of another loyal subject. Motherhood is the finest profession I know.”
Beryl tilted her head. “You are so kind, Andrew. I wish you the best, and take good care of Margaret for me.”
“I will, be certain of that.” Andrew winked at Margaret.
The conductor called for all to board, and Beryl glanced longingly at the train.
“Wait up,” a voice shouted.
The three turned to see James racing toward them. He closely resembled a rugby player hurrying for the ball. “I wanted to see Beryl off,” he said between frosty breaths. He turned to her and removed his cap. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I’m humbled you took the time in this bitter weather.” She drew her coat around her bulging stomach.
The train whistle sounded.
He glanced up with a smile. “Godspeed, Beryl. I wondered if I might write you.”
She nibbled at her lip and glanced down at her suitcase setting beside her. “I’d like to hear from you, Corporal Harris.”
“Call me James,” he said above the roar of the train.
She nodded and made her way up the steps. Turning, she waved. “Merry Christmas to you. I’ll be praying for you and England.”
Margaret stared after the train until it disappeared. No tears, only a trembling smile. How wonderful for Beryl. May God bless her with a healthy baby and a good life.
“Are you all right?” Andrew said.
“Very well,” she whispered. “Things will be fine for her. I’m sure of it.”
He wrapped his arm around her waist and longed to take her into his arms and kiss her soundly, but he hadn’t ventured past friendship yet. Christmas Eve he planned to tell her of his growing feelings, and he prayed she felt the same.
The winter seemed to be colder than usual, or perhaps the bleakness of the war held its own bitter temperatures. In London, a few fragile restaurants still stood and served four-course dinners—if one could pay for them—and the theater still drew the attention of the elite. Although dust from the bombings fell on the stage, the “show must go on” philosophy kept the actors and actresses returning for repeated performances. English and Americans alike entertained the troops, often using the bomb shelters as a hotel.
“Wish I could find a small gift for Andrew,” Margaret said wistfully to Jenny. The two had just finished breakfast and were walking back to the barracks.
“I understand,” the tall woman said. “With the cost of everything in London so dear and everything rationed, what can you do?”
Margaret contemplated the matter once more. She’d always sent much of her money home to Mum and Dad, and she couldn’t justify not continuing to do so. “He says our Christmas will be celebrating the Lord’s birthday and a carol-sing, but I wish for a token of our friendship.”
“Friendship, aye?” Jenny said with a soft laugh.
“Of course. We’re good chums.” Margaret knew she inched closer and closer to something more with Andrew, but she found it difficult to admit the truth to herself, much less confide in Jenny. At times Margaret’s growing attraction angered her as if her heart had a will of its own. Other times she allowed the sweet bliss of love to envelop her like a garden of fragrant roses. She tried not to think about the many missions Andrew flew—only to be grateful when he safely returned.
Jenny leaned closer and whispered, “I know where you can get a chocolate bar.”
Margaret nodded. “Perfect.”
Unfortunately, on Christmas Eve, Margaret received orders to drive high-ranking officers to a special meeting and remain near the lorry until they finished. After she transported them to their destination, the air raid sounded as usual. She took shelter, then resumed her position and waited for the officers to finish. In the wee hours of Christmas morning, she returned to her barracks.
Christmas Day, Andrew flew an unscheduled flight. Margaret had learned he and James often flew these types of missions to take critical pictures for future bombings.
On the afternoon of December twenty-sixth, Margaret and Andrew were finally able to grasp a few moments alone to wish each other merry Christmas.
“I have something for you,” she said, pulling the rare sweet treat from her trouser pocket.
His smile warmed her like the fireplace at her mum and dad’s home. “Hmm. I’ll make sure James doesn’t know I have chocolate. Thank you so much, and I have a gift for you. I hope you’ll be pleased.”
She held her breath, unable to image what Andrew could have gotten for her.
He carefully reached inside his jacket and produced a sheet of paper. She knew he had sketched something special, and judging by the rose he left in her lorry, she knew it would be magnificent.
The moment Margaret saw the drawing, she gasped. She touched her fingers to her lips to keep from crying aloud. There before her, a quaint
, moss-covered cottage stood surrounded by a garden of roses. Some climbed the stone walls trailing up onto the roof, while smaller bushes and other flowers dotted the earth’s floor. A winding rose vine arched the doorway, spreading blossoms over the entrance. In the middle of a pebble-laden path sat a young woman dressed in the manner of an eighteenth-century maiden. She inhaled the sweet fragrance of a rose and possessed a face identical to Margaret’s.
“If I had my colored pencils, I’d have given her dark brown hair and violet eyes,” he said. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“Oh, Andrew. This is the most extraordinary gift anyone has ever given me. Thank you ever so.” She stared into his eyes and saw her own reflection and something else—the warm glow of love. The sensation both frightened and pleased her at the same time.
“Margaret,” he said, “may I kiss you?”
She’d thought about his kiss—more than she cared to admit—but with this bridge between friendship and a relationship came a commitment. Could she brave forward?
“It’s a step beyond … well, where we are now,” she whispered, more for her own understanding than his.
“Yes, it is. I’m ready, but are you?”
She nodded and lifted her face. “I think so.”
He wove his fingers through her hair and drew her close to him. His lips touched hers, gentle at first then deepening with his embrace. Trembling, she responded, desiring to hold back her own delicate emotions and yet losing the battle. With one hand firmly gripping the sketch, she wrapped the other arm around his neck and leaned into the curve of his body. She knew she’d given him her heart—no matter that the time seemed too soon and uncertainty lay around them. She could love him and he’d never know.
The kiss ended, and when they parted, Margaret traced her finger along his jawline and lightly touched his lips. He gently caressed her fingers and kissed them lightly.
“Merry Christmas,” he whispered, still holding her fingers.
She glowed from the inside out. “Thank you for making my holiday perfect.”
“My pleasure, but the thanks go to you. You’re all I need, all put together quite nicely in one lovely package.”
Margaret could not reply. She wanted to say the thoughts wafting across her mind, but until Andrew made his declaration, she’d not have to respond. Truth be known, any feelings of love were best unsaid until after the war.
On Sunday, December twenty-ninth, Margaret was assigned to night duty delivering much-needed medical supplies. The Germans’ nightly bombing had continued to shake London, leaving their city collapsing in rubble and the injured storming the hospitals.
Britons refused to give in to the siege against their capital and plodded on, unwilling to accept defeat as an option. The air-raid shelters were full at night, while the cleanup and search for victims persisted by day. Some of those seeking shelter sank into wells of depression, while others spent their time singing songs and rallying England. The shared danger seemed to make them more sociable, or perhaps they learned to value those things money could not purchase.
Shortly after the medical supplies were loaded, the sirens sounded, and heavy air strikes began, stronger than she could remember in months. Instead of seeking shelter, she watched the bombs illuminate the night sky as if a demon had lit a giant torch. The incessant attack left her feeling empty and fearful. One prayer after another flowed from her heart.
As soon as the all-clear siren sounded, Margaret climbed into her lorry and drove toward the hospital, all the while wondering about the horrendous devastation. This had to be the worst barrage since the Battle of Britain began in late August.
Fires raged in the distance. Their flames leapt into the blackness like giant tongues hungry for more. The attack appeared to concentrate its efforts on central London. Soon afterward, she learned that in Westminster and the City regions, fires spread out of control and destroyed docks, factories, and offices.
Dear Lord, when will it all end? We can’t take much more of this. I pray for those whose livelihood has been destroyed, for those who have lost loved ones this night, and for Britain to survive.
Chapter 5
“Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, ‘This was their finest hour.’ ”
WINSTON CHURCHILL
High winds carried sparks from rooftops to melting stained-glass windows, but Saint Paul’s Cathedral towered erect as though the hand of God halted the bombs destroying everything around it. For Margaret, the magnificent church symbolized Britain’s ability to withstand Germany’s assault.
She leaned her head on Andrew’s shoulder. Twelve hours ago, she’d watched in horror the sight of London plummeting into ruins thirty miles away. Yet, today, Home Guardsman and firefighters worked diligently to extinguish the blazes and pull victims from the wreckage. The casualty count had been much lower than anticipated, since the areas hardest hit were commercial. In truth, it looked like the Germans had caught the British off guard by focusing their bombs on the heart of Britain’s financial security district. News reports claimed it was the greatest fire in recorded history.
Beautiful old buildings—the pride of many Britons—had vanished beneath smoldering ashes. History in the making had destroyed the relics of the past.
“The Thames nearly ran dry,” Andrew said. “Hitler chose to do his work during low tide. Can’t put out such an inferno without water.”
“What will Churchill say now?” Margaret said, grasping his hand in the bitter cold.
His lips pressed firmly together. “I have no idea, but we are still here.”
She fought the rage inside her over the violation of her homeland. “I shall not give up,” she said. “Not as long as I can breathe.”
He smiled and brushed a kiss in her hair. “We all feel the same. The more Hitler bombs, the more we rally onward.”
“Do you suppose the United States will join the war now?” she said, believing the Americans’ entry would give Britain the edge to stop Germany.
“We already have many of their fine pilots joining our ranks.” He sighed. “They’re good chaps to volunteer and help us. Perhaps Churchill can convince them.”
“I’ve heard speculation about Germany’s plans,” she ventured.
“I have as well. I believe Hitler would not stop at merely controlling Europe. He has even set his sights on the States.”
Margaret felt a deeper cold seize her. “And would not Japan attack them on their west coast?”
“Who knows? We will not let it come to that.”
Neither whispered a word for several moments.
“You and I are like England,” Andrew finally said.
Puzzled, she merely stared up into his face.
“We can withstand any adversity. Nothing can separate us. We’ll make it through this war and live to tell about it.”
She smiled sadly, not wanting to consider the fact that every time he flew, the odds increased of his not returning.
He began to hum “There’ll Always Be an England,” a popular wartime tune. Together they softly sang the chorus.
There’ll always be an England,
And England shall be free
If England means as much to you
As England means to me.
The winter persisted with work and missions halting when the pilots were hampered by ice and snow. Germany eased the intense bombing that had occurred during late August through the end of 1940. It appeared the island had passed the test for control of England.
Spring arrived, and Andrew wanted to take Margaret to the country. He felt they would gain new hope in the midst of fresh air and the landscape unscathed by bombs.
“I’d like to take a few days to go see my mum and dad,” he announced one March morning. “I’m sure I could help with the extra children, and I want to see my nephew before he’s walking.”
“Splendid id
ea,” Margaret said. “You need a break.”
“Would you care to join me?” he said, all the while praying she’d agree. “My mum has plenty of room, even with the children.”
“Are you sure? I mean, it sounds wonderful.”
“Positively.” Oh, how he treasured the joy of the woman beside him. “The garden will be blooming in spring color, and there’s a special spot I’d like to show you.”
Because Andrew and Margaret had not taken any passes for several months, their arrangements were quickly made. The end of March, he escorted her to London, where they boarded a train to Northamptonshire. From there they’d take bicycles to Andrew’s family estate.
The moment London lay behind them, he felt his spirits lift, much like in his schooldays when he traveled home for a holiday. So many things he needed to tell his parents. With no end of the war in sight, they should hear of his love and respect for them. Andrew also wanted them to meet Margaret. He knew they would love her as much as he did.
Andrew hadn’t revealed his true feelings for Margaret. He prayerfully waited for the right moment. In the confines of his heart, he feared she might not share the same love. Whenever he spoke of the future, she veered from the subject and irritation took over her demeanor. He knew her commitment to the war and her apprehension about his dangerous position, but her eyes betrayed her. He’d seen the love, and he’d guessed her feelings.
In Northamptonshire, they purchased bread and cheese for a picnic and secured bicycles for the remaining distance to the Stuart Estate. He was anxious and excited, wanting to leave the dark months of war behind and enjoy three days of peace. Glancing at Margaret pedaling beside him, her hair flying free, he saw the weary lines vanish from her face and her cheeks grow rosy in the chilly air. They sang songs and teased the other over forgotten words to the tunes, and laughter rang from the budding trees. He stole a kiss, which nearly wrecked them both.
Once they walked their bicycles so they could hear the birds, although he believed the lilt of her laughter far sweeter than any sound of nature. The light-heartedness reminded him of a proper courtship, the way it should be.
A Sentimental Journey Romance Collection Page 10