This separation, Millie has come to understand, is rather like surviving grief. The sorrow comes and goes in waves, but now that it’s been over a year, the lows come less frequently. On some level it is as though Beatrix is gone for good. Millie has heard that some mothers have visited their children abroad but she knows this is not possible for her. Reg has been clear about that, especially after they heard about that boat with all the children on it that was torpedoed. The next time she sees Beatrix will be when she is back in London, when the war is over. Somehow, knowing that is what has allowed her to move forward. There are moments now when it feels so long ago, as though being a mother was something that happened to someone else. This American woman seems to be doing a fine job. Every once in a while, though, she allows envy to creep in. Perhaps Nancy is a better mother than she ever was. It seems clear that Beatrix is often happier there than she was here, and Millie can never dwell on this for long. It’s best when she can stop thinking about it altogether. There are now longer stretches of time when that happens.
How different London seems now that the raids have stopped. Millie feels as though she can breathe once again. That constant dread of the night is gone. The blackout is still enforced, but they stay in the flat. Or, she stays in the flat. Often Reg is out with his unit. There are so many older men in the Guard that Reg is considered one of the strongest and most fit. He’s risen to the top, of course, and so he’s on duty more and more.
Millie, too, is busy. During the weekdays, she’s now doing the bookkeeping for several local shops. She also volunteers as an ambulance driver and spends her weekends and an occasional evening driving around London. She is one of only a few women on the force, having learned to drive on her grandparents’ farm. In London, it’s mostly the upper-class women who know how to drive. So she’s found herself with a new crowd, women who grew up on Eaton Square, spent summers in the south of France.
One night, on duty, she’s paired with Julia Ainsley, and in the dark of the car she tells her about Beatrix and where she lives in Massachusetts. Oh, it’s lovely in Boston, Julia says. I’m sure she’s being dreadfully well taken care of. Yes, Millie responds. I’m sure you’re right. But it must be hard, Julia says, to have her so far away. My fiancé is somewhere in France. There are nights when I wake up because I hear his voice. Does that happen to you? No, Millie says. It did at the beginning. But I don’t know what she sounds like anymore. She pauses and looks out the window but sees only her reflection. It’s easy to talk to a stranger. She rarely says such things to Reg. She lights a cigarette and rolls the window down to blow the smoke out. It’s not just not knowing her voice, she continues, but then can’t go on. Her biggest fear is that she won’t recognize her when she comes home. She’s heard about these mothers whose children walk right past them when they return. What kind of a mother, she wonders, would not know her own child. She crushes the cigarette in the ashtray. Enough, she says to Julia. Let’s talk about something else.