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Between picking string beans, baking a pie, and preparing dinner, Addie checked on Daisy. After eating, Harold dashed to the barn. She wiped her hands on her apron when he peered through the screen before heading back to the field. “You won’t forget the mare, will you?”
“I’ve been watching her all morning.” Why couldn’t he call Daisy by her name? And did he really believe she was a child? She stacked the plates and pans to dry, though he wouldn’t approve. A few minutes later, the door screeched and he stuck his head in again.
“She left a couple of manure piles in her stall. You could clean them up too.”
He fell silent when she simply stared at him. She might have said, “When have I failed to notice extra jobs around here? The other day, you left the tank water running, and if I hadn’t happened into the barn for a shovel, the pump would have worked five extra hours.”
She held her tongue, but something swirled inside her, dark and burgeoning. Words fumed like strong horseradish roots boiling for relish. What would hed do if she ever let them go?
Harold tapped his fingers on the screen, but finally swiveled and left the porch. Addie checked the strawberries, since they ripened fast in this heat, and during that time, Harold left the yard for the field. Perspiration pooled in the small of her back by the time she entered the barn.
The familiar odor of animal waste spread from Daisy’s back stall, along with an odd grating sound. Well-organized tack, feeding troughs and milking stools lined either side of the wide, dim alleyway.
No wonder Harold had attracted her—he kept the barn as clean as some women kept their houses. But that same careful nature chafed on her nerves. Did other married people realize too late that they differed so greatly? Did other women discover that such weak stitching held things together?
But her most haunting question had to do with Mama. What motivated her to marry Avery Shields, who was about as responsible and organized as an infant? Had he seemed strong and protective to her back then, like Harold? Had he changed gradually over the decades, until Mama became the strong one?
She would give every flower in her yard for one afternoon to chat with her. Maybe now, she would say what she couldn’t back then. No one but Avery ever paid me any attention, or My father died when I was young, so I was hungry for someone—anyone.
A steady scrape joined Daisy’s urgent rubbing, so Addie quickened her pace. Daisy rubbed her hindquarters across the far wall, back and forth, back and forth.
With all her inner stretching, this itching made sense. Pungent fresh manure singed Addie’s nostrils, but she saw no piles.
On closer look, small brown flakes peppered the whole area—Daisy’s agitated crossings must have dispersed the warm, wet droppings. Her nose felt hot, so Addie hurried for some water. When she poured it into the trough, though, Daisy shook her head and kept scratching.
For a fleeting moment she wished Harold were here. Mama’s sparse wisdom on birthing came waylaid, like a message advanced through several people. Once, returning from helping with a birth, she commented to Ruth.
“Don’t worry, Ruthie, you’ll be fine. My babies all came easy.”
In home economics class, Mrs. Belwith added little to the tight textbook paragraph. “Modern science works to sanitize delivery, resulting in better health and a lower mortality rate for both mothers and newborns.”
Shooing flies from the mare’s caked eyes, Addie felt almost as helpless as she did with Norman. Maybe she should crack open the back door for some fresh air.
Humidity flooded in, so she barred it again, and smoothed Daisy’s velvety muzzle. Early this morning, the sun, hidden in mist, resembled the moon—a sure predictor of a scorcher.
Shading her eyes, she checked outside for Jane—she wouldn’t forget their one o’clock trip to town. She should be here any minute. Beside the barn, lazy black and white sows lounged in their shady pen. The spring litter grew so fast that Harold moved them to the pasture in little wooden tents he nailed together to keep off the worst of the heat, but now he fed them corn to fatten them up.
Between the barn and the house, the hollyhocks she’d planted by the windmill grew almost waist-high by mid-June. Now they flowered, yellow and white, deep rose and pink. But the garden fence stood barren except for the trumpet vine.
Back in the stall, the creaking had stopped.
Seeing Daisy reach for her backside with her muzzle ignited panic, but the Studebaker horn blasted and she ran outside to Jane’s open window.
“Daisy’s about to give birth, and—”
Jane turned off the motor, bailed out, and poked her way across the yard with her cane. About halfway down the alley, an unearthly cry stopped Addie in her tracks.“Keep moving.” They rounded the stall divider and Jane inspected Daisy. “The head and two hooves are showing. Perfect.”
Near enough to touch Daisy, Jane found a spot on the floor and lowered herself against the wooden divider in a flurry of straw and manure. Addie dropped beside her.
“Do you think everything will be all right?”
“No need to worry, child. We’ll just let nature take its course.”
“But Harold said this would be a hard birth.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “What does he know?” Addie wanted to ask, “Did you ever have children?” But Jane had never mentioned any. Jane leaned toward Daisy as a tiny hoof became a leg, then two. Addie held her breath as the front quarters protruded.
For a while, Daisy licked her foal’s face, and then the baby’s hooves struggled with their white sac. Stroke by stroke, the foal finally gained full freedom, and alerted the world with a high-pitched squeal.
“Good girl, Daisy. You’ve got yourself a filly.”
After a while, the baby struggled to rise to its feet, tilting back and forth. At her first step, Jane squeezed Addie’s hand. Her eyes sparkled like two green lanterns.
“The yarn can wait—we’ll go to town tomorrow or the next day. Wonder like this doesn’t come along that often.”
v
Halberton’s emergency siren went off as Addie dumped the supper scraps in Old Brown’s dish. She ran inside and motioned to Harold, but he ignored her. Finally, she turned the radio down long enough for him to listen. Eeriness descended as they pulled all the drapes and shut off lights. Normally, the Saturday night party line ring reminded them of the blackout, but this must be something new.
He hunkered on one end of the davenport, so Addie picked up her knitting. But her mind traveled to London, where Mr. Tenney had instructed Kate on air raid precautions. A pilot injured early in the war, he now headed an important government office.
Harold would be quick to point out that at least Mr. Tenney’s country allowed him to serve. Lately, a few other men in the county who might have been classified sole providers had shipped out, raising his ire again. During the latest war report, she slid a little closer to him, hoping he would put his arm around her. But he moved away and cupped his chin in his hand.
A little later, she jumped when he slammed his fist on the cushion, raising puffs of dust.
“Damn Japs! I hope they burn in hell.”
She slipped through the dining room and kitchen for a twilight stroll around the yard. Evening light sometimes helped her find summer’s skulking weed crop. Even if she’d gone over the same area that morning, waning day might reveal a weed she missed. If she failed to stop them now, the next generation would overrun her flowers and vegetables.
Last night, she’d hovered near the fence, where a yellow trumpet vine testified to its will to live. Not much more than a spike of brown last spring, now its green tendrils spiraled halfway up the wire she strung over the fence.
When Jane gave her this plant, she included a warning. “You don’t often see a yellow one, Addie—this is for your birthday. Mind you, plant it away from the house, or it’ll eat at the foundation.” Then she predicted that last year, the vine would send all its energy toward its roots, this year to its leaves, and next season, yellow trumpets would cheer her early morning raspberry patch raids. Thanks to Jane, so many plants flourished here.
This thought brought to mind the wonder of Daisy’s foaling she and Jane had shared yesterday. Yet Jane’s secret about her husband still seemed as deep as the Atlantic. Would she ever mention him?
The joy of the foal’s birth lingered, like Norman still clinging to life as his sister Lucille took over his care. But when Addie pedaled to town on an errand, she often stopped to see him. One morning last week, Lucille asked if she could stay for an hour while she grocery shopped.
Addie prayed Norman would divulge more about Fernella, but he flitted in and out of sleep.
At least Kate bore the suspense with her, since neither of them knew the end of Norman’s story.
A whippoorwill cast its song from one of the tallest pines and a squirrel darted along a fallen log. She weeded until darkness encroached, then went inside to bed.
The next morning, she would have forgotten it was the Fourth of July, but Harold shooed her to Berthea’s house after chores to listen to the radio. For once, he sat through a broadcast without fidgeting.
“Friends, we bring you our President. Following his example, government workers take no vacation today, to propel the war effort. And now, we move straight to Washington, D.C.”
Papers rustled into the microphone and Berthea brought in some coffee and cookies. President Roosevelt’s voice sounded more nasal today.
For 166 years this Fourth Day of July has been a symbol to the people of our country of the democratic freedom which our citizens claim as their precious birthright. On this grim anniversary its meaning has spread over the entire globe—focusing the attention of the world upon the modern freedoms for which all the United Nations are now engaged in deadly war.
On the desert sands of Africa, along the thousands of miles of battle lines in Russia, in New Zealand and Australia, and the islands of the Pacific, in war-torn China, and all over the seven seas, free men are fighting desperately—and dying—to preserve the liberties and the decencies of modern civilization. And in the overrun and occupied nations of the world, this day is filled with added significance, coming at a time when freedom and religion have been attacked and trampled upon by tyrannies unequaled in human history.
Never since it first was created in Philadelphia has this anniversary come in times so dangerous to everything for which it stands. We celebrate it this year, not in the fireworks of make-believe but in the death-dealing reality of tanks and planes and guns and ships. We celebrate it also by running without interruption the assembly lines which turn out these weapons to be shipped to all the embattled points of the globe. Not to waste one hour, not to stop one shot, not to hold back one blow—that is the way to mark our great national holiday in this year of 1942.
To the weary, hungry, unequipped Army of the American Revolution, the Fourth of July was a tonic of hope and inspiration. So is it now. The tough, grim men who fight for freedom in this dark hour take heart in its message—the assurance of the right to liberty under God—for all peoples and races and groups and nations, everywhere in the world.
Berthea turned down the volume. “I guess that explains why we have no parade or fireworks this year.”
“Makes me at least want to work in a munitions plant somewhere.” Harold paced to the window and stared out. “Sure didn’t hear Roosevelt mention us farmers contributing anything.”
“But where would the troops be without food?”
“You always say that. I ought to be there with them.”
“Those hogs you sold last week probably went up to Austin, Minnesota to make SPAM for the troops.” His groan did nothing to deter Berthea.
“Look at this newspaper article about Joe DiMaggio’s parents. Remember when they were declared enemy aliens? Sounds like they’re going to be pardoned now, since the President says the Italians have passed the patriotism test.”
“So some Italians lost their house and their boat—what do I care? They deserve whatever they get. This is supposed to make me feel better? You don’t see Joe DiMaggio enlisting, do you?”
Berthea raised her palms and sighed when Harold threw the newspaper on a pile of magazines and left the house in a huff.
“I thought maybe it would make a difference—he has always thought so much of DiMaggio.”
“That’s for sure. Last summer he listened to Joe’s winning streak as much as he does the war news now. I thought he’d never stop describing how statistically impossible his record was.”
Addie reached for the top magazine. “Gary Cooper playing Lou Gehrig—Kate would sure want to see this movie. Would you mind if I borrowed this issue?”
“Any time, and LIFE is there, too—there’s a convoy on the cover. Orville thought magazines were a waste, but I saved my egg money for them all those years. There’s nothing I like more that reading in the evening.”
“I’d say you earned that right.” Addie patted Berthea’s hand and looked up to see tears in her eyes.
July 18, 1942
Dear, dear Addie,
Your letters remind me of my old home, but Halberton holds little for me now, except you. Mrs. Minniver released here on the 10th—boy, would I love to see it with you.
When Alexandre kissed me good-bye this time, my heart nose-dived. “Hush-hush plans,” he said. “Military schemes prosper in secret, my love. But with your conniving mind, you’ll figure it out.”
Conniving... me? Don’t you think creative would be a better fit? Didn’t Mrs. Morfordson encourage us to use our ingenuity?
We suffered another defeat in North Africa last month, when everyone thought the Canadians would hold the city. Now Rommel’s heading for the Suez Canal—things look dire. Mr. Churchill spoke about the situation, but did little to hearten his listeners.
That day, I was moving into Mr. Tenney’s mother’s house in Westbourne Grove, and she had her ear to the speaker when we walked in. Evelyn stopped by the office a few days earlier and mentioned me working evenings in the hotel kitchen. Mr. T overheard and blustered, “I am well aware of the shortage in flats, but you’re staying in a hotel? Not under my employ! Mum has extra rooms. I shall ring her up this instant.”
I now enjoy a room on the second floor, down the hall from his mother. Mrs. Tenney’s quite proper, so I watch my Ps and Q’s Her circle of friends, fundraisers, and bandage-rolling keep her busy.
It’s wonderful to be back in a house, where I make my own tea (if there is any), and have some toast at will. However, sweet rationing has begun. It may never reach the States, but enjoy your cookies and pie while you can.
Our office “integrates imperial and foreign forces on our soil.” In other words, we provide necessities for Polish, American, Canadian, and Norwegian uniformed personnel.
I type and post messages at the nearest Royal Mail pillar-box, a shade of pure red reserved for the Post. The closest box bears the initials V.R. for Victoria Regina, the reigning monarch at its installation.
If weather permits, I eat my lunch outside. In the afternoon I type replies, receive deliveries, open mail and scoot it to Mr. T through a hazy glass door. He often emerges with more dictations, errands, or filing to be done. Mrs. Culver, the chief secretary, distributes the jobs amongst about 12 office girls. At five, one of the other girls walks me home, 14 refreshing blocks. (Except for some of the bombing sites still hanging open as if a tornado recently struck.) With everyone seeking escape, reopened theatres have extended their hours. Window displays flourish for quadrupled pedestrian traffic. Have you located a London map yet?
Fire scares everyone, decreasing motor traffic. Before the war, the London county council managed 65 fire stations and 3,000 officers. Now there are 25,000, not including volunteer compulsory fire watchers. (As you know, I’ve always liked a contradiction in terms) Mr. Tenney oversees ancillary ambulances, evacuation and rescue, rest centers, debris disposal, billeting, fire reports, meals, decontamination, first-aid posts, stretcher parties, shelters, and air raid wardens for civilian defense. No wonder he never stops working.
The debris service employs nearly 24,000 to demolish unsafe structures. Before they begin, the rescue service (500 parties equipped at 100 spots) evacuates the victims. Mr. Tenney says London’s bombing exceeds all of England’s, with more than 40,000 houses destroyed and half a million needing repair, plus extensive damage to sewers, gas and water pipes. From tenements to estates, everyone fears fire.
No doubt, the normal British class system will resume with peace, and “better people” will once again look down their noses at the masses. One day, I may become the first female Lutheran pastor, to proclaim lessons from this horrid war.
Did I mention we had an alert recently? An ear-splitting wail sounds, everyone takes shelter, and wardens begin their patrols until the all clear sounds. This bomb produced great damage, but not near here.
This gives you a snapshot of my life in London. Don’t worry about the bombs, please. Mrs. T and her warden friends have everything in hand, and it’s not so different from your situation, where at any second, Harold might blow up like Mt. Vesuvius. There’s a metaphor for you, and that reminds me, I think Mrs. M would give you an A for yours.
Craving your next letter,
Kate
