“MR. SANDERSON, are you hurt?” Emma helped the older man to his feet and the whole of his weight sagged against her. Hugging his bulk to her side so he didn’t crumple to the ground, she led him up the short path to their tenement house and up the three steps leading to the front door.
She paused by Mrs. Pickering’s flat and knocked. The sound reverberated through the stairwell. Tubby’s shrill barking came from the other side. Emma waited for what felt like several long minutes, but Tubby’s yips were not interrupted by Mrs. Pickering’s shushing or footsteps.
Emma hesitated a moment more until it was obvious the landlady was not home.
Mr. Sanderson’s weight seemed to intensify and her hold slipped. He leaned harder on her, groaning. “I can walk.”
“Don’t strain yourself.” She tried to make her voice sound easy and casual despite the effort to keep him upright.
There was nothing for it but to haul him upstairs. Any thought she had to get him to his own flat, however, was dashed by the time she managed to help him up a single flight. Her muscles ached with the effort and he swayed dangerously. If she attempted one more landing, they might both come crashing down.
“We’re going to nip into my flat so we can both catch our breath,” she said between pants of exertion. He didn’t complain as she fumbled with the lock and managed to get her door open before leading him inside.
She flicked on the lights without thought. Outside, a sharp whistle from the ARP Warden reminded her to close the curtains.
“Please, have a seat.” She guided him quickly to the nearest chair at the dining room table and rushed about the flat, pulling the heavy curtains closed completely to ensure not a wink of light showed at any window.
Once the house was sealed enough to ensure the ARP Warden wouldn’t come knocking, prattling on with threats of a citation, she saw to Mr. Sanderson. She filled a cup with water from the tap and brought it over to him.
His elbows were propped on the table, his head resting in his palms. The halo of wispy hair was rumpled, jutting up at parts, and it took everything in Emma not to carefully smooth the strands back into place.
“Are you injured, Mr. Sanderson?” she asked again. “Shall I see if there is someone at the Red Cross station?”
The medical aid stations had begun popping up around the city in preparation for the war, in the event of a bombing. There were several within walking distance.
While there had not been bombings or attacks, the proximity of first aid had been beneficial and used by many in Nottingham for random injuries. Especially ones sustained during the blackouts. People ran into walls and into each other. They fell off curbs and docks. Cars crashed into other vehicles, and—in cases like tonight—into people.
Mr. Sanderson scrubbed his hands over his face and along the top of his head, making his sparse hair stick up even more. When he met her gaze, his eyes were bloodshot. “Just took a good knocking. Bounced the wind right outta me, it did.” His hands dropped and he blinked, bewildered. “Bloody car came outta nowhere.”
“It nearly hit me as well.” Emma sat down next to him and nudged the water closer. “Did you hit your head at all?”
He frowned in a way that seemed to fill his entire weathered face, causing even the wrinkles at his brow to tug downward. “Dunno.” He lifted his hand and gently prodded the pate of his head with his fingertips. “Nothing hurts. It was just the fall that took it out of me.”
“Are you certain?” Emma asked. “I can bring the ARP Warden round.”
In addition to telling the people of Nottingham to put out their lights, the wardens were also trained in first aid and had been of some help. Even though, in general, they were rather a nuisance.
Mr. Sanderson grunted. “Don’t be looking at me like that, like I’m some fragile old man in need of cosseting.”
“Not at all,” Emma rushed. Though she was indeed concerned for his well-being due to his age and apparent frailty.
His nostrils flared and he pulled in a deep breath, surveying the flat around him. The irritation melted suddenly from his features. “You’ve a lovely home, Mrs. Taylor.”
“Oh.” Emma regarded the room with the tired sofa that had once been elegant when purchased just after her marriage to Arthur. The faded blue rug beneath it served only to protect the hardwood floors and keep their every move from echoing off the yellow walls. Olivia’s drawings were hung throughout the flat, crooked and dangling by bits of scrim tape. One of these artistic renderings displayed the two of them at the Goose Fair one year; another was of them at a sweets shop when she’d let Olivia pick out whatever she’d wanted on her last birthday; several were of them at the cinema and there were even a few of Olivia and Tubby in the front yard. Truly, there was little to commend the flat, especially as his layout above was likely a mirror of her own. “Well, thank you.”
A smile touched his face, just barely notching up the corners of his lips. “I know your girl is in the country, but this...” He nodded, as if in confirmation to himself. “This is a home where a family lives. You’re a lucky woman, Mrs. Taylor.”
The earnest note to his flattery warmed Emma’s heart, making her thanks as genuine as his praise.
Mr. Sanderson pulled the water glass closer and took a noisy slurp before setting it on the table with a muted thunk. “I think I’m about as right as I’m bound to feel at this age. I’ll see myself upstairs.” He pushed to standing. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Taylor.”
Emma shot to her feet. “Let me walk up with you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Please. I’ll feel better ensuring you’ve made it home safely.”
Mr. Sanderson waved his hand dismissively. “Ach—fine, fine, fine...”
Emma eagerly accompanied him, not ready to release him from her care until he was upstairs with a hot cuppa. Thankfully he had not lied about being able to walk and could make his own way up the stairs without having to rely on her. She waited as he unlocked his door.
He hesitated. “Do you mean to come in?”
“I’d like to make sure you’re properly settled and don’t need anything.”
“I’m fine.”
She tilted her head, a silent indication she had no plans to leave.
Huffing a sigh, he pushed into his dark apartment and flicked on his lights. The blackout curtains had already been pulled, sparing them another whistled reminder, and likely a visit from the warden as well. Two infractions in one night would certainly warrant a dressing-down.
Emma entered the flat behind Mr. Sanderson and was taken aback by the stark furnishing. With being at the tenement house for so long that Mrs. Pickering considered him a permanent fixture, Emma had anticipated the space to be bursting at the seams with the contents of life. Books and pictures and bits and bobs from vacations and memorable moments with mates and all the things in between.
The flat appeared as if Mr. Sanderson had only just moved in.
She blinked in surprise at the lack of personality in the home. There was a dun-colored rug under a serviceable brown sofa, a wooden dining table with two chairs and a copy of David Copperfield resting beside a pair of spectacles. And the bland endless white of empty walls.
This was the flat of a man whose life was not being lived.
Mr. Sanderson cleared his throat. “It’s not much to look at, I know.”
“It’s so very clean,” Emma said quickly with a ready smile. “I always appreciate a tidy home, especially since mine never feels that way.” She laughed, and the sound came out as nervous as her prattling. “Have a seat, I’ll put together some tea for you.”
“Don’t worry after it.”
“Please let me do this for you.”
He sighed. “I haven’t a kettle.”
She blinked. Didn’t everyone in England have a kettle? The very idea of not having one was...well, it was not British.
Mr. Sanderson’s blunt fingertips tapped lightly on the table in front of him. “I take my tea at the shops.”
Suddenly, Emma recalled the teakettle she was planning to donate to the WVS for scrap metal. “I have an extra. I’ll be back in a tick.”
Before he could protest, she was out of the pristine flat and rushing down the stairs.
Her own flat seemed cluttered by comparison. Olivia’s mac, wellies and plimsolls crowded in the entryway beside Emma’s coat and handbag. An abundance of dishes and appliances covering the countertops in the kitchen due to the limited cabinet space. Emma reached for the donation pile of aluminum to retrieve the dented kettle and stopped.
Mr. Sanderson had nothing. Not even a kettle. And here she was about to bring him a damaged item. She pivoted toward the stovetop and removed her newer kettle, its round-bellied shape gleaming. Within a few seconds, she was back up to the third floor with the kettle and a tin of tea, relieved to find Mr. Sanderson’s door handle unlocked.
“You can keep this kettle,” she said as she moved about the kitchen, setting the water to boiling and preparing the tea. “And the extra tea. In case you want some in the morning without having to go out.”
Mr. Sanderson nodded his thanks and said nothing more except to agree to a lump of sugar and grunt at her request to call if he needed anything else.
Secure in the knowledge he was well and secure, Emma returned to her flat once more. Only then did she realize how nice it had been to be needed—even just for a moment.
Life over the last seven years had revolved around caring for Olivia—mending and washing clothes, preparing meals, reassuring her, listening to her, cherishing her.
Emma’s gaze fell on the red jumper, now nearly halfway done. And not a moment too soon now that it was November. She had to hurry to have the gift ready in time for Christmas.
But first, Emma could do with a cup of tea herself. She retrieved the dented kettle from the donation pile and filled it with water.
A steady stream dribbled from the bottom rim.
Frowning, Emma lifted the kettle to investigate. Sure enough, a trickle of water ran from a pinprick of a hole where the aluminum bottom ought to have been sealed together.
With a sigh, she set the kettle in the sink, remembering that the reason for her purchasing a new kettle had not been due to the dent, but on account of the leak.
Her cup of tea would have to be boiled in a saucepan that evening, a perfect accompaniment to her slow going efforts at knitting.