It occurs to Millie, sitting in church on Easter Sunday, that Beatrix could come home now. The bombs have stopped. America is at war. Is she really any safer there? As she mulls this over, smelling the old wood and the prayer books and singing the familiar words to the hymns, she wonders why she hasn’t thought about this until now. Why hasn’t she brought it up with Reg? They never considered the possibility that London might become safer than America.
She closes her eyes during the sermon and remembers an Easter from before the war. Not this church. The church that was bombed early in the war. The church where Beatrix was baptized. Beatrix was wearing the sweetest dress, with smocking on the top and a little Peter Pan collar. As a special treat, they’d bought coordinating shoes, Millie telling Beatrix that she mustn’t ever tell her father that they spent so much money on dress shoes. How lovely she looked. The shoes had lavender-blue ribbons as laces, and the color perfectly matched the dress. They walked into church with Beatrix between them, each of them holding a hand, and she heard a lady sigh. Oh, how adorable, the woman whispered. Just look at that little one.
The three of them walked the long way home after the service, as it was a rare beautiful day in London, with the bluest sky over it all. They ate a proper Easter luncheon, with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and a lemon tart for dessert. It was just the three of them, in the small kitchen, but she dressed up the table with a lace tablecloth from her mother, and she put new candles in the crystal holders Reg’s parents gave them for a wedding gift. Candles were special then. Now those same holders have layers of wax dripped on them after years of daily use.
Why is she remembering this particular Easter? She supposes it’s many things: the day, the dress, the pudding that rose just so. The way life was then, when those little moments of joy could be focused on, could be paid proper attention. Before fear was in every breath.
But it was also when she and Beatrix were close. A year or two later, when Beatrix turned nine, she began to move more toward Reg, asking him to read to her before bedtime, to play cards. It was a quiet and subtle shift, one that she almost didn’t notice until the turn was complete. She knew he was more fun. Beatrix had always confided in her, though, told her what was happening at school, would rush to her when she picked her up at the schoolyard to wrap her arms around her waist, to tell her about her day. All of a sudden, it seemed, there was a formality between them. And that break, that space seemed to widen. So of course Beatrix believed that Millie was the one to insist that she leave.
On the way home from church, the streets crowded, she glances at Reg’s face. Don’t you think, she begins, that it would be a good idea to bring Beatrix home? No, Reg says flatly, his eyes refusing to meet hers, staring straight ahead down the pavement. The war’s still going on. That was our original agreement. She grabs his hand. Not here, she says, knowing that she’s pleading. It’s infinitely safer now. You read her recent letter. She’s doing air patrols with the older boy. Seems like it’s more likely for bombs to fall there than here. No, Reg says again. She’s not coming home now. Not until there’s a declaration of peace. Safer for her to stay. Why, she wonders, does he get to make all the rules? Why did he get to decide she would leave and now he gets to decide she can stay?
In a box in the hall closet, Millie finds that Easter dress, with the smocking and the Peter Pan collar. The shoes are long gone. She donates the dress, along with other items, to the church.