SCONES WERE LAID out in a starburst pattern of various flavors—from black-flecked vanilla bean to blueberry dotted with purple lumps, and even a pumpkin ginger, evidenced by its persimmon hue. They were stacked neatly around a large pot of clotted cream, whipped to perfection. Beside those stood a carafe of tea and a bowl of lemonade.
The warm coziness of the presentation, however, was dashed away by the brisk wind lashing off the River Trent.
It was not an ideal day for a picnic, but a good effort had been put forth.
Music rose jovially in the air before being whipped away by the stiff breeze, carried off from the band that had been hired to play. All around Emma, other Boots’ employees and their families were enjoying the festivities.
Despite the frivolities, Emma was painfully aware of the distinct lack of children at the family-themed event.
“Are you planning to sign up for the Women’s Volunteer Service?” Margaret pulled her charcoal-gray coat tighter around her slender frame and nodded toward the red, white, and blue table. The women there were stationed with clipboards hugged in their arms and wore the smart WVS gray-green herringbone coats and red-banded hats.
Margaret’s attempt at cheerfulness did not hide the maudlin note in her voice. There was a dimness to her smile, a faraway look to her gaze, an errant sigh here and there that pulled too deep, as if dredged up from the bottom of her soul.
Jeffrey was supposed to attend the picnic with her that day, but had been called up earlier than expected.
“I considered joining...” Emma admitted. And she genuinely had, ever since she’d seen the women of the WVS shepherding the children at the school during the evacuation. She’d been seeing the posters to volunteer ever since, as if they’d been speaking to her.
If she worked alongside those women, she might have a better understanding of the children’s evacuation. She might have advance notice on when they would return home.
Beside Emma, Margaret was looking morosely down at her engagement ring. The diamond had belonged to Jeffrey’s grandmother and now the ancient stone winked in the weak stream of sunlight that was trying to fight its way through the heavy clouds.
Emma settled a hand on her friend’s forearm in comfort.
Margaret looked up and gave a sad smile. “He had so hoped to be married by now. But I can’t just sit at home all day with my trousseau unpacked, and nothing better to do than wait for the post for a new letter to reply to.”
Emma nodded, understanding on a deeper level than she cared to confess.
“Why are married women unable to work? It’s ridiculous.” Color rose in Margaret’s cheeks that had nothing to do with the nip in the air. “If there are no children to tend to at home, why must they have to put their energy into cleaning an empty house and setting a lonely dinner table? And even if a woman has children, why can’t she work? Are we not allowed to derive joy from our careers as men do?”
Several people turned to look at them.
Margaret blinked and considered Emma with soft brown eyes. “But you know perfectly well how I feel given your own situation. Forgive my thoughtlessness.”
“I think the WVS will be a good distraction.” Emma guided Margaret toward the colorful table.
The last thing she needed were other Boots’ employees wondering what Margaret meant by Emma’s “situation.”
The smart-suited WVS women spied them coming and straightened in anticipation, their smiles growing broader with each step that brought Margaret and Emma to them.
“Let’s bring our loved ones home sooner.” Emma looped her arm through Margaret’s. “By doing our bit for Britain and helping to end this awful war.”
Margaret nodded, making her blond curls roll against her chic coat. “Let’s.”
The women at the table were more than eager to take down their names and addresses.
“We will be meeting this Friday afternoon at the Council House to assemble care packages for the soldiers,” the shorter of the two women said with an apple-cheeked smile. “Until then, we’re doing all we can to help promote the Comfort Fund to provide each soldier with cigarettes and chocolate and other goodies.”
“We’re also collecting aluminum,” chimed in the other woman, who seemed all business and little pleasantry.
“Turn your toaster into a Spitfire,” the apple-cheeked woman added with a grin.
The idea was a curious one, but Emma was willing to do anything to help.
Margaret accepted the pamphlet they handed her. Behind them, the band struck up a cheerful tune.
As they turned away from the WVS, her smile fell once more. “I think I’d like to return home for the rest of the afternoon.”
“Will you be all right?” Emma regarded her friend with concern.
“I just need a day or two to rally.” Margaret lifted a shoulder. “That’s how I’ve always been. My mother’s kidney pie will also help. Mum’s cooking can solve any problem or heartache.” The optimistic look she gave seemed genuine.
Emma never had the solace of a mother’s kidney pie, or a mother’s comfort or counsel at all for that matter. Not when her own had died days after her birth and Arthur’s parents had proved unwilling to offer any warmth.
But then, Emma had had a supportive and loving father, and she was eternally grateful for the time they’d had together, for the beautiful memories they’d created.
She hugged her friend and took comfort in the embrace as well.
After Margaret walked off from the field, Emma remained, awkwardly glancing about, debating what to do in the way one does when suddenly finding themselves alone in a crowd. Just as she considered leaving as well, she spied Miss Crane standing off to the side, looking as out of place as Emma felt.
Everyone deserved a chance. That was what Papa used to say.
Emma joined the other woman whose startled expression at her approach melted into something pleasant. Miss Crane was actually rather pretty when her face wasn’t so pinched with disapproval.
“Group events like this have a tendency to make me rather uncomfortable,” Miss Crane said with a nervously exhaled laugh. “I’m so out of place.”
Emma looked around at the faces of other men and women who worked at Boots’. “At least mostly everyone is familiar.”
“It does help to know a friendly face.”
Miss Crane’s comment rang with an earnestness that took Emma aback. Had Miss Crane thought Emma friendly?
Her attitude in their previous interactions suggested otherwise.
“I know I’m not as welcoming as the other women at Boots’,” Miss Crane said, as if reading her mind. “Women like Margaret who melts everyone like pats of butter in her palm. Or like you, who exudes such kindness, people can’t help but like you.”
“Not at all,” Emma stammered, unsure how to reply to such a statement.
“I see how the customers react to you both,” Miss Crane said. “And how they react to me. I assure you, I’m aware of my deficiencies.”
“You shouldn’t say such things,” Emma protested, the mother in her balking at any person resigned to such defeat.
Miss Crane smiled, though the action looked as if it hurt. “You truly are kind, Miss Taylor.”
At that moment, their conversation was interrupted by one of the head chemists as he thanked everyone for coming, implored them to bring several scones home, and to ensure they were all doing their part to aid in the war effort. After a sharp look from the stiffer WVS woman, he hastily added a reminder to contribute to the Comfort Fund and gather spare aluminum for donation.
When the speech concluded, Emma turned to Miss Crane, and found she’d gone.
Emma thought of what the other woman had said the whole way home, realizing that perhaps this entire time, she had truly not given Miss Crane a proper chance.
Once inside the tenement house, Emma stopped by Mrs. Pickering’s flat. The older woman appeared in the doorway with Tubby eagerly pawing at her side.
“I have an idea for some of those boxes,” Emma said. “The WVS is asking for aluminum collection. I wonder...do you think there might be some goods in Mr. Pickering’s effects that contain aluminum?”
Mrs. Pickering didn’t speak for a moment, pulling a blue cardigan around her body, clearly cautious about the idea.
“I could help. And you’ll be aiding the war effort...” Emma encouraged. “Turn your toaster into a Spitfire.”
Mrs. Pickering laughed at that. “A Spitfire indeed. Very well. When would you like to start?”
“I’m free now. You know I have nothing to do but bungle my way through knitting that jumper.”
Mrs. Pickering laughed again and widened the door, edging Tubby back gently with her calf as she allowed Emma inside. She led Emma to a tower of boxes to the right of the living space and settled her fists on her hips as Tubby glanced between them. “Now where to begin?”