CHAPTER 11 

September 1939

Hazel and Flora rode in the backseat of Mrs. Aberdeen’s blue Flying Nine. Outside, the sky was low and dove gray, spitting bursts of rain. Wipers flapped noisily across the windshield. Hedges brushed against the car, explaining all its scratches. Hat in her lap, Mrs. Aberdeen drove with both hands on the wheel, singing with complete abandon a song on the radio about being too marvelous for words.

In the front passenger seat, Harry twice turned around and smiled at the sisters, rolling his eyes as if to say he knew his mum was nutty, but what could you do? Flora and Hazel scooted as close to each other as possible, holding hands; Berry was squashed between them, his furry face aimed toward the front windshield as if watching where they were going, how many turns down this curvy road it took to get to the Aberdeen house.

Hazel stared at Mrs. Aberdeen, evaluating how to tell her mum about the lady who took them. She had creamy white skin as if she’d never been in the sun. Her mouth had a little bow in it like Harry’s, and when she sang in her lilting voice, the corners of her mouth rose in a smile. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders and danced with the terrible bouncing of this car that felt as if it might fall to bits over every bump.

Flora and Hazel had never been to the Oxfordshire countryside, and Flora stared out the windows without a word. The landscape in twilight had Hazel almost believing that Whisperwood was possible, that there were shimmering doors scattered here and there. Her feet itched to get out of the car, to run through these heather fields and rolling hills, bounding over lichen-covered rocks. She imagined the growing shadows on the grassy fields as silver pools of water. You only had to look for such things. She hugged Flora. “We’re going to be all right,” Hazel said.

Flora yanked Berry from his stuck place and tucked him into her lap. “I know.”

Soon, they bumped along a long gravel drive with so many ruts and dips the car felt like it might collapse into a heap. When they came to a quick stop, Mrs. Aberdeen trilled, as if this were the last line to the song she’d been singing all along, “Welcome to the Aberdeen cottage.”

The sisters climbed out of the car onto the gravel and stared at the quaint stone cottage. The house was aglow. The sunset behind it turned its stones near silver. An inside light left on filled the windows with lemony hues. The front door was painted a bright blue. Under windows on either side of the door, window boxes were wild with green leafy plants and red and yellow flowers that rambunctiously overflowed their edges.

This cottage appeared to have sprouted from the earth. Ivy ran along the side of the house and crept toward the left window. The roof was tiled in dark slate and its copper chimney pot looked set aflame by the setting sun, tossing bright arrows across the roofline. Around the cottage, the landscape poured over mounds and hills in green and brown waves. There was not another house in sight.

“Hurry now. It’s getting dark, and I want to get you settled,” Mrs. Aberdeen said. “We’ll have a look about tomorrow. Come, come.”

The sisters followed, with Harry behind, who was carrying their packs into the house.

Moss held together an entryway path of flagstones that wound around two alder trees whose yellow leaves fell to the ground while others clung tenaciously to the branches. Hedges at the front of the house sprouted every which way.

A great wind came from behind them, sending the sisters through the front door along with a swirl of leaves, small sticks, and moss. Mrs. Aberdeen let out a tinkling sort of laugh. “Well, the land must be welcoming you home.”

Hazel took in the view of the cozy home with a riverstone fireplace big enough to walk into, ample firewood stacked next to it. The mantel itself was fashioned of a log cut in half. Above were open beams and bumpy plaster walls glistening white. And everywhere there were books: on wooden side tables and shelves, on the floor and stacked in corners. The cozy living room also held a large, overstuffed couch and two plump chairs with a floral pattern of red and blue flowers. Instead of a proper coffee table there was a trunk and upon it, more books. The rug was a crisscross of ivy on an arbor. The riotousness of it should have felt chaotic but didn’t. The cottage whispered comfort.

“You can’t say home,” Flora said, resolute while her lips trembled. “It’s not our home.”

Mrs. Aberdeen dropped her big tapestry purse on an entryway bench and leaned down, set her hands on her knees to face Flora. “Oh, dear, you are so very right. It is not your home. But I hope you find you love it anyway. I should have been more careful with my words. Let me try again.” Mrs. Aberdeen stood and cleared her throat. “Welcome to the Aberdeen cottage, home of Bridgette and Harry Aberdeen.” She curtsied and grinned.

Flora laughed.

“We must send Mum a postcard right away,” Hazel said. “We have to let her know we are safe. It’s…” She tried to remember the word. “Imperative.”

Mrs. Aberdeen looked at Hazel and ruffled her hair as if she’d known her all Hazel’s life, not less than an hour. “We shall do that first thing in the morning. For now, let’s get you something warm to eat and settled in your room. What a day you must have had today!”

Harry picked up the packs he’d dropped in the entryway and tossed them over his shoulder. “It’s back here.” He nodded toward the hallway.

The sisters followed him across dark wood floors gleaming under lamplight. Framed photos of Harry at all ages covered the hallway walls. Hazel didn’t have time to stop and stare at them but knew that she would. They took a right and found themselves in a kitchen, a square and solid room with windows at its far end looking out to a garden in dusk. Hazel saw arbors and pathways and a red barn, a vegetable garden with willow cages.

A brick hearth fireplace with charred logs was along the right wall and Hazel believed she’d never seen anything so glorious: a small hearth in the kitchen. The kitchen! On another wall was a door to a tiny bathroom, then one going outside, and a closed door with a bright egg-shaped brass knob.

The kitchen was soaked in green: its counters, the AGA stove putting off heat, the curtains over the sink made of pale checkered emerald and the countertops of mint. The wooden cupboard’s open shelves sagged, overcrowded with plates and mugs and glasses and linens. A round and dark wood table and centered upon it was a flowered teapot and a vase of purple thistles.

Harry opened the closed door, nudging it with a shove of his hip. Hazel followed him as Flora lingered in the kitchen, walking to the table and touching the edge of the prickly thorns. Hazel entered the room behind Harry.

Harry dropped their knapsacks on the bed covered in quilts of mismatched patterns that dominated the rectangular room. “This is yours.”

A wardrobe of dark wood and a dresser draped with frilly lace laid across were against the left wall. Two windows offered a view of the back fields.

“It’s beautiful,” Hazel said, and she wasn’t just trying to be nice. She was too tired for nice.

Hazel sat on the bed as Flora walked in. “Oh!” Her exclamation at the sight of their room was of delight, and she ran to Hazel and climbed into her lap.

Relief rolled over Hazel: safe in a house such as this with a bed such as this while the war raged. But could she be so happy while Mum was most likely sitting at the kitchen table with tears flowing down her face, wondering where her daughters were and if they were safe?

Harry smiled at them, that same grin she’d seen when she’d dropped her knapsack in the street and hands were grabbing at her things and then suddenly there he was. “Mum says dinner is in twenty minutes, so if you want to wash up, the bathroom’s right outside your door.” He made a funny face. “We’ll be sharing. We only have one.”

Hazel drew Flora close, and she set Berry on the pillow. “I’ll unpack, and we’ll come out for dinner.”

Harry lingered at the door until Hazel asked, “Do you need something else?”

“No, I’m just glad you’re here,” he said, and the door clicked shut. He was gone.

Flora let go of Hazel and plopped onto the bed they’d be sharing, lying back. “It’s so soft!”

Hazel pressed her hand onto the mattress and smiled. “It is lovely, even if it feels a million miles away. It seems farther away than just a train ride from London.”

“Tell me a story,” Flora said. “Please.”

“Dinner’s coming up,” Hazel told her. “I’ll tell you one before we go to sleep tonight.”

“Okay.” Flora popped up, her dress swinging as she twirled in the middle of the room. “Our room!”

From outside came the sounds of Mrs. Aberdeen in the kitchen, banging pots and pans, the duller thump of pottery and the soft sound of the wireless playing music instead of the bleak voice of Prime Minister Chamberlain. Scents of rosemary and lavender sifted into the room. At the window, Hazel looked at the shapes of the land, lumps and spikes in the descending night. A river was out there, its soft hush rushing past.

The music on the radio was turned up as Guy Lombardo sang about September in the rain, and Harry’s laughter interrupted the notes.

“She plays a lot of music,” Hazel said.

Flora walked to the door and placed her hand on it as if it were the magic door of Whisperwood. She wasn’t quite ready to push it open and enter, not yet. “I like it,” she said.

“Me too,” said Hazel. “I like it a lot.”

“Can we read Mum’s note now?” Flora twisted her dress hem in her hands, anxious.

“Yes, let’s.” Hazel fished the note out of Flora’s mackintosh that hung on the wooden peg by the door and unfolded it. She read it out loud. “I love you both so much. Be brave and watch out for each other. I will visit you as soon as I can. All my love forever, Mum.”

“Watch out for each other,” Flora said out loud, and then turned her face up to Hazel. “I will watch out for you.”

Hazel almost laughed but she could see the sincerity and knew it would hurt her sister. She kissed her nose. “Time to unpack.”

She tossed their knapsacks onto the end of the bed and pulled out their scant belongings: their white underthings and folded socks and pressed shirts. Her white shirt and a flowered dress were streaked with mud from the fall in the street. She set them on the dresser and folded them neatly; she would clean them. She was in charge now. She neatly placed the rest in an empty drawer of the pine dresser. Hazel put their jackets and two matching blue dresses, which Mum had made on the black Singer sewing machine, in the wardrobe to join other raincoats and wool sweaters.

Even at home they’d never had much, just a few dresses and all the sweaters and coats they needed to stay warm, but here they had even less, and Hazel wanted it to be neat—as if Mum had put things away in their proper place. She would need to be Mum for Flora, and sister and storyteller.

Watch out for each other.

The words echoed in Hazel’s mind and she drew Flora close, hugged her tightly, and kissed the top of her head.

“Let go!” Flora said, yet she clung so tightly that Hazel couldn’t have let go if she wanted to.