If I Were You

by Lynn Austin

  “I would like to do more for the church, too. I know I haven’t been very involved, but I’ve seen the work that other churches in England are doing, and I very much want to be. Involved here, I mean. To show my gratitude for Alfie. The message board is a bit overwhelming.”

  The vicar nodded and sat down in the pew in front of her, crossing his legs and resting his arm on the back of the pew as he faced her. “I can describe some of the ways the other villagers are involved and you can decide what suits you. Fair enough?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “We always need volunteers to take shifts as rooftop spotters to look for enemy aircraft. This is especially important since an invasion is imminent and will likely include Nazi paratroopers dropping from the sky. The battle for Britain has already begun, and our valiant RAF fighter pilots are doing a remarkable job of keeping the enemy at bay. But the Nazis will have an advantage once France falls and the Luftwaffe takes control of their airfields thirty miles across the channel. I’m told they’ll try to knock out our air defenses first, as they prepare to invade us. And as you know, our village is quite close to several airfields.”

  “Yes, I see.” Audrey hadn’t imagined enemy paratroopers landing near Wellingford. She found the idea frightening.

  “If you aren’t squeamish,” Rev. Hamlin continued, “the government offers first aid classes so we’ll be mobilized to help in the event of an emergency. It’s expected that the enemy will begin massive bombardments to try to weaken us by destroying our war industries and crippling our ports to prevent shipping and cause slow starvation. If the Nazi invasions of other nations are any indication, we can expect aerial bombing raids quite soon. Once they begin, the need for air-raid wardens, civil defense workers, fire brigade volunteers, and medics will skyrocket.”

  “Oh, dear.” Audrey felt the color draining from her face as he brought the war vividly to life, right in her backyard. She could tell that the vicar saw her fear, too.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Clarkson. Have I been too blunt? My wife often accuses me of it.”

  “Not at all. I did ask. Please, go on.”

  “Many of the villagers qualify for the free bomb shelters the government provides, but there’s always a mountain of paperwork involved with these endeavors, and we could use help sorting through the government red tape. We also lack the manpower to get the shelters dug with so few men remaining behind. It’s vitally important to ensure that everyone has access to a safe shelter when the invasion comes.”

  Audrey nodded, feeling numb. Father had refused to provide an Anderson shelter for their servants, but perhaps she should look into it while he was away. A few holes in the back garden would be well worth saving their lives.

  “Then there’s the Women’s Voluntary Service,” he added. “They’re preparing to help out in almost any home-front situation one can imagine. In fact, they’re meeting in the village hall at this very moment, if you’d like to listen in.”

  “Yes, please. I would.” She stood, and they walked to the village hall together, the vicar wheeling her bicycle for her. “What about helping at church?” she asked. “I would like to convey my gratitude to God by helping to serve there in some way.”

  He studied her for a long moment and she wondered if he was scrutinizing her motives. Or was she being overly sensitive? “My wife leads a prayer group every evening before curfew,” he finally said. “You’re welcome to join us anytime. Right now, and for the immediate future, I believe that the work of Christ’s church will be exactly those things I have just outlined. It’s more important than ever that we serve as the hands and feet of Christ in every way we can during these troubling times.”

  They stopped outside the door to the village hall, which stood open. The murmur of women’s voices drifted outside. The vicar paused before saying, “I hope you won’t feel offended, Miss Clarkson, if the villagers seem a bit cool at first. I suspect there is some resentment toward your family for seeming to ignore the village’s needs all these years. Once they see that you would like that to change, I’m certain they’ll welcome you and your efforts. But please don’t be put off until they do.”

  Audrey drew a steadying breath, determined to be useful instead of hiding in Wellingford Hall for the duration of the war. “I’m grateful for the warning. I know my family’s faults as well as the villagers do, and I shall try to be thick-skinned.”

  They slipped inside and sat down in the back row, listening as a middle-aged woman in a tweed skirt and cardigan described plans to help a village family whose son had died on one of the rescue ships that sank near Dunkirk. She followed with the story of a young wife and mother whose husband was taken prisoner in France. Two other women from the village struggled to cope alone with their husbands away. In every instance, women from the group pledged their help and support. Eve Dawson grew up in this village and likely knew all of these families, people who had helped Eve and her mother after her father died in the first war. Audrey longed to stand up and apologize to all of them for her family’s long indifference. Instead, she turned to the vicar and asked, “Where is God in all these tragedies? Why does He allow evil to triumph and cause such suffering?”

  Rev. Hamlin sighed. “Much wiser men than I have tried to answer that question. One can only hope that when all is said and done, God will use this war to draw us closer to Him and make us better people. I fear, however, that it may have the opposite effect in many cases.”

  Audrey thought it an odd thing to say. There was so much she didn’t understand about God. In fact, she barely knew where or how to begin to understand Him. She stood. “I’ll be back,” she promised, then went outside and climbed onto her bike for the mile-long ride home to Wellingford.

  She was within sight of the manor house when she heard the roar of an airplane approaching from the south, flying lower than usual. She braked and looked up, shielding her eyes, straining to see the insignia on the fuselage and wings, dreading the sight of a Nazi plane. The roaring engine grew louder, closer. Her heart pounded as she recalled the vicar’s ominous words about an invasion of paratroopers.

  The plane came into view at last, just above the woods, the engine stuttering now. A plume of dark smoke trailed behind. Audrey spotted the bull’s-eye emblem on the RAF Spitfire and could breathe again. But the plane flew much too low, barely skimming the chimney tops as it soared over Wellingford Hall. It was going to crash on the lawn. Audrey leaped onto her bicycle and pedaled as hard as she could toward home, as if she could do something if she got there in time, as if she could prevent the stricken plane from crashing.

  But of course she couldn’t.

  The explosion, when it came, rocked through her, nearly knocking her from her bike, moments before she reached Wellingford’s front door.

  LONDON, SEPTEMBER 1940

  “I have no idea if my mum will be here or not,” Eve warned her friend Iris as they walked to the Clarksons’ town house. “I hope she and the rest of the servants have all gone back to Wellingford Hall. But if she’s here, Mum will be getting Lady Rosamunde ready for a Saturday night out.”

  “A night out?” Iris asked. “Who would go out with a war on?”

  “Lady Rosamunde won’t let a silly little thing like a war keep her home.” Which was why Eve worried about her mum. Audrey was at Wellingford, and Alfie was somewhere in the north, and Eve wished Mum could leave London, too.

  The sun felt warm on her shoulders as Eve walked with Iris to the servants’ door, passing the ungainly hump of an Anderson shelter dug into a bare patch of ground between the town house and the garages. It hadn’t been there in May when Eve had come with Audrey to fetch the car. Fresh earth lay mounded over the top and sides to cover the shelter’s corrugated roof. It resembled a tomb and looked much too small to house Lady Rosamunde and all of her servants.

  “Your mum is upstairs,” Tildy said after hugging her. Eve led Iris up the steep servants’ stairs, feeling out of breath when they reached the top floor.

/>   Mum pulled Eve into her arms, holding her tightly. “What brings you here, love?”

  “I came to tell you my good news. I have a brand-new job as a typist for the Ministry of Information.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Mum’s hands lingered on Eve’s shoulders, caressing them.

  “The pay is better, and I feel like I’m doing my bit for the war effort instead of typing invoices all day. Iris works there, too.” She gestured to her new friend, a pretty, black-haired girl who also came from a working-class background. Iris was the pride of her family for escaping the poverty of London’s East End with a good job as a typist. She and Eve sat side by side at the Ministry of Information in an office crammed with clacking, pinging typewriters.

  “Iris needed a fourth roommate for the flat she just rented and asked me to move in with her. No more dreary boardinghouses for us! I came to give you my new address and telephone number.”

  “You’re doing so well for yourself, Eve,” Mum said, hugging her again. “I’m so proud of you.” The familiar room where Eve once slept looked unchanged. The photograph of Eve’s daddy still sat on the bedside table. Granny Maud’s picture of the Good Shepherd hung on the wall above the bed. Mum owned so little—but then so did Eve. “Let’s go downstairs,” Mum said. “I’ll make tea and we can visit.”

  “No, please don’t fuss. We can’t stay long. I’m going with Iris to the East End to visit her grandmother.”

  “Granny takes her tea with mounds of sugar,” Iris explained, “and she can never get enough of it, with rationing and all. I take my lot to her whenever I can. I’m getting used to going without,” she finished with a laugh. Her cheerful, generous spirit was one of the reasons Eve liked Iris. She was so unlike serious, moody Audrey.

  “That’s very kind of you, Iris,” Mum said. “I’m sure your granny appreciates it.”

  “Why are you still in London, Mum?” Eve asked. “The Season is over—if there even is such a thing with the war on. I was hoping you’d be back at Wellingford, by now, where it’s safe.”

  “Lady Rosamunde has decided to stay in London. She finds it too boring in the country. All her friends are here.”

  “But . . . Audrey is at Wellingford, isn’t she? And Mr. Clarkson?”

  “I don’t know where Mr. Clarkson is these days, but Audrey is there, yes.”

  “You should quit and go home to the village, Mum. You could easily find work there. I can send you some of my pay every week. They’re saying the Nazis will bomb London any day.”

  “So are you leaving London and going where it’s safe?” Mum asked.

  Eve looked away. “No. My work is here.” She didn’t say so, but Eve would stay as long as there was hope that Alfie would come to London on leave.

  “My work is here too,” Mum said.

  “I don’t understand why you’re so loyal to her, Mum. Lady Rosamunde demands so much from you, working all hours of the day and night, yet she doesn’t have an ounce of consideration for you.”

  Mum sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “It isn’t easy to explain, Eve. I suppose . . . I suppose it’s because of what the vicar once said in one of his sermons. He read a Bible passage that said servants should do their work joyfully, as if serving the Lord. Jesus said if we’re ordered to go one mile, we should go two. And I feel sorry for Lady Rosamunde. For all her wealth, she is a sad, lonely woman.”

  “It’s her own fault if she is.”

  “You’re right. But she gave me a job at a time when I badly needed it to support you. So I’ve always thought that God must have a reason for wanting me to work for her.” Eve shook her head, unable to persuade her. “Don’t worry, Eve,” Mum added. “There’s an Anderson shelter out back where I can go if there’s an air raid. I hope your new apartment has one, too.”

  “There’s a public shelter nearby,” Iris said. “We’ll be fine, Mrs. Dawson.”

  They spent a few more minutes visiting, but Eve could tell that Iris was eager to get to the East End and home again before the afternoon grew too late and the blackout began. Eve hugged her mum, promising to visit longer the next time, and they left.

  London’s East End was a warren of densely packed houses and tenements, yet Eve felt at home among its poor, hardworking people. They were much like the villagers she knew back home. Iris’s grandmother, a tiny, white-haired woman with a bent back and gnarled hands, reminded Eve of Granny Maud. She sat crocheting in the dark cottage where Iris had grown up with her three older brothers, all now off fighting the war. Threadbare furnishings and well-worn possessions filled the tidy room. “Where’s Mum and Dad?” Iris asked.

  “At work, putting in extra shifts at the motor works. Would you girls like tea?”

  “Not for me, thank you,” Eve replied. The fire in the range had gone out on this warm September day, and besides, she knew how dear tea was in these days of ration books and pinching pennies.

  “Oh, you’ve brought pure gold!” Iris’s granny exclaimed when Iris gave her the packet of sugar. “God love you for it, darling.” They carried a chair outside for her, and Eve and Iris sat beside her on the stoop, watching the swirl of activity in the street while they told her about their new jobs and three-room flat. Few people owned cars in this neighborhood, nor could they afford the petrol to drive them, but bicyclists and pedestrians strolled past, enjoying the lovely fall afternoon. Barefoot children played in the streets. A year ago, children had stood in long queues in the train station waiting to be evacuated. Now here they were, back home again.

  The sun slipped lower in the sky. The damp, fishy odor of the nearby Thames drifted on the breeze. “We should probably be on our way,” Eve finally said, standing and stretching. “It must be after four thirty.” That’s when they’d planned to leave, but Iris had lingered, hoping her parents would return.

  Then, above the clamor of children at play, Eve thought she heard a rumbling sound, like a distant waterfall. She remembered that sound from her time in Dover with Audrey—the hum of airplanes. Her pulse quickened.

  She hurried out to the middle of the street, wading into a lively game of tag, and looked up. High in the distance, hundreds of airplanes filled the sky, glinting in the waning sunlight like a swarm of silvery insects. The children stopped playing and looked up, too. “Surely they’re ours,” Eve murmured as the rumble grew louder. But their shape was all wrong. And there were so many of them. Eve stood frozen in place, not with fear exactly, but with astonishment. Was this really happening?

  “What is it?” Iris called to her, but before Eve could reply, the dreaded siren began to moan, shivering up Eve’s spine like an electric current. Wailing Winnie, people called it. The sound swelled as it rose in pitch, screaming a warning—loud and urgent. Eve’s instincts demanded that she run, like the children who were scattering in every direction. There had been air-raid warnings in London before, followed by small raids and a few clusters of bombings, but never such an enormous cloud of aircraft as this.

  She sprinted toward Iris, shouting, “Where’s the shelter? We have to get to a shelter!” Ten minutes. Once an air-raid warning sounded, that was all the time they would have to get to safety. Iris’s granny stared as if she didn’t understand. She hadn’t seen the deadly swarm of enemy planes, but Eve had. She took the old woman’s arm and lifted her from the chair. “Where’s the nearest air-raid shelter? Do you know where one is?”

  “Can’t we just go in the house?”

  Eve glanced at the little shanty with its sagging roof and crumbling chimney. It resembled a cottage in a children’s fairy tale that might blow over with a huff and a puff. “No, it isn’t safe here,” she said. “Come on, we have to go!”

  They followed the crowds of panicked people running down the street. Eve hoped they knew where to go. Iris’s granny couldn’t move very fast, so Eve and Iris slowed to match her pace. A squat, brick shelter crouched at the end of the block, and the mob funneled through its narrow door. Women screamed as loud thumps from falling bom
bs began sounding in the distance. Eve glanced over her shoulder and saw plumes of smoke rising in billowing columns. And still the planes kept coming. They would surely bomb the nearby docks along the Thames. The gasworks. And the Ford Motor Works, where Iris’s parents worked. Factories and warehouses filled London’s East End, which was why so many families packed the neighborhood.

  Clanging fire bells added to the chaos as fire brigades sprang into action. Volunteers from the Auxiliary Fire Service poured from their homes in helmets and boots, turning in circles as if wondering what to do in this first test of their meager training. One of the barrage balloons, tethered from steel cables to entangle low-flying aircraft, exploded with a loud blast, bringing a shower of debris raining down. Eve felt the push and crush of people and wrapped her arm around the older woman’s waist as she and Iris tried to hurry her along, all three of them mute with fright.

  They reached the public shelter at last. Why wasn’t it underground? Frightened people jammed the interior. More fought to cram inside. Iris found a place for her granny to sit and they huddled beside her as if they could protect her from the accelerating thumps and booms outside. Children clung to their parents. Women moaned and prayed. An old man shook his fist at the ceiling. Above the clamor, the roar of planes kept coming and coming. They were overhead now.

  A bomb fell through the sky right above them with a deafening scream. Eve lowered her head and gritted her teeth, preparing to die. When it struck nearby with a tremendous roar, the ground trembled. Another followed and another. Hundreds of bombs, one after the other, until the building shook and shifted. Plaster sifted from the ceiling like flour, coating everyone with white dust.

  Eve had never known such terror. She was going to die, and she didn’t want to. She wanted to live, get married, have children, grow old. She closed her eyes as she hunched in place, silently pleading with God to spare her life. To spare Mum and the other servants in the Anderson shelter. Audrey at Wellingford. And Alfie, wherever he was. She wanted to beg for mercy for the people she loved, yet she had nothing to bargain with. Nothing to offer God in return for her pitiful pleas. She was helpless. Utterly helpless.