IT WAS LUCKY for Emma she had the opportunity for tea at work the following morning, lest she be forced to begin her day without. After a strong cup, she set about the quiet routine she’d fallen into, dusting the shelves to ensure all was orderly before opening hours began. As she did this, she paid special attention to the placement of the books, ensuring not one was out of order. It did not escape her notice that Miss Bainbridge eyed her in this task.
When the manageress strode in Emma’s direction, an uneasy knot tightened low in her stomach.
Miss Bainbridge stopped before Emma and folded her hands in front of her. “Miss Crane informs me there has been misshelving.”
“There were two that I’m aware of,” Emma said.
“I was under the impression there was only one.” Miss Bainbridge’s mouth thinned into a hard line. “We have a certain standard here at the Booklover’s Library, one our subscribers expect us to uphold.” She stopped speaking for a moment, drawing Emma’s full attention. “Miss Taylor, if there were indeed two, that is simply unacceptable.”
“I don’t know how it’s happening,” Emma confessed. “I don’t even recall having shelved the books that ended up in the wrong location.”
“If you are under duress at the absence of your daughter—”
“That is not the case,” Emma rushed, interrupting the other woman.
Miss Bainbridge tucked her chin into her neck, evidently irritated. “Be mindful, Miss Taylor. I took a great risk with you. I hope you prove worthy of the opportunity.”
Emotion ached in the back of her throat and Emma was embarrassed to find her eyes stinging with tears. She lowered her head to shield her reaction. “Yes, ma’am.”
After all, what could she say? She’d defended herself to no avail. How could she prove the misshelved books were not her fault?
After work, Emma stopped by Mrs. Pickering’s door with the box of aluminum to collect her to attend their first WVS meeting. Mrs. Pickering’s contribution hadn’t made much of an impact on the clutter in her home, but at least the donations meant one less box.
Margaret was already at the Council House, sitting in one of the folding chairs with her handbag and coat on the two beside her, clearly saving the seats. Looking at the packed room now, Emma was glad for Margaret’s foresight. She and Mrs. Pickering deposited the boxes next to a tower of gleaming aluminum items framed by posters of splendid Spitfires in action, then Emma made the introductions between her two friends as the remainder of the women coming in found their seats.
Apparently, every housewife in Nottingham had heeded the WVS’s call for volunteers.
The straight-backed woman from the WVS table at the Boots’ luncheon was at the front of the room and clapped her hands. The chatter quieted.
“Thank you for coming this evening. I am Mrs. Stark.” She paused, as if waiting for people to acknowledge who she was. Several women nodded, but Emma had no idea as to the significance of her name.
“Nottingham appreciates your efforts in joining the Women’s Volunteer Service,” Mrs. Stark continued. There was a note of austerity to her voice, very different from the laid-back dialect of most people who lived in Nottingham. If she wasn’t an important person, she clearly thought herself as one.
Mrs. Stark paced in front of the room, looking at the women as she spoke. “You’ll notice the previous poster we used to entice women to the WVS is no longer being utilized despite its attractive appearance. It has been removed on account of the model being German.”
There was a collective gasp in the room.
The model had been the most striking thing about the poster, with a determined glint in her eye coupled with her classic beauty.
“We like to face any controversy head on here at the Women’s Voluntary Service,” Mrs. Stark announced above the murmur of women’s voices so they quieted once more. “You can always expect the truth from me. We have important work to do here, ladies. I’m glad to have you at my side.”
The lecture continued on, offering various ways each woman might be able to help. The uniform was presented, a lovely herringbone jacket with six large buttons on the lapels and a gray-green felt hat with a red band. Not only did they look expensive, they were expensive—with a fee that the women volunteering were to cover on their own.
Certainly the cost was beyond Emma’s budget.
As with many other women that evening, she simply purchased the armband at a price she could stomach.
“Can you believe they’re making us pay for the uniforms?” Margaret hissed as she pocketed her own arm band.
Very few women lined up to purchase the jacket and hat, Mrs. Pickering being one of them. She emerged several minutes later with both in her arms and a wide smile on her face.
“Have you already filled out what positions you are willing to help with?” Mrs. Pickering asked excitedly. “I confess, I checked every one except the bit on driving.”
Margaret was bent over a clipboard, filling out her information as Emma had just done.
There had been a checkbox to indicate if they knew how to drive. Emma had driven the Austin 7 Arthur purchased after the second year of their marriage. He’d saved for over a year for the “Baby Austin” and insisted Emma learn how to drive.
“I did,” Emma replied. “And I checked every box but knitting.”
Several hours passed before the meeting concluded. In the end, they all went home with several pamphlets and detailed instructions for their next meeting the following Friday evening, to assemble care packages for their boys who had been shipped out to fight. Emma and Mrs. Pickering bid farewell to Margaret, who walked home in the opposite direction.
“Well, that was delightful.” Mrs. Pickering’s eyes sparkled and her cheeks were flushed. “Thank you for inviting me to join you. I confess, I didn’t think I would enjoy it—what with a bunch of busybody women. But I rather had a grand time. I can scarcely wait for our next meeting.”
“It’s nice to do something to help,” Emma agreed.
“And if they see the work you’re doing on that jumper for Olivia, they might just ask you to knit after all.” Mrs. Pickering nudged Emma’s elbow.
Emma laughed, feeling more buoyed than she had since before Olivia left. As if the camaraderie among women who had sent their children away to the country as well as sons and husbands to war somehow loosened the band of tension that usually remained locked around her chest.
“I’m serious.” The older woman scooted closer to make way for a young couple walking toward them. “You’re quite good.”
“That’s because I’m making it with love.” Emma smiled, pleasure warming her cheeks.
“Well, our boys out there need all the love from us they can get. You just keep right on knitting with your heart.”
They turned down their street, passing the large, boxy partially-built structures to be used as shelters in the event of an air raid.
Tubby’s delighted yips met them as they made their way up the front walk. Emma worked the key in the lock of the main door while Mrs. Pickering rubbed her hands over her coat sleeves. “This will be a cold winter. I can’t wait for a nip of tea.”
Tea. Emma almost groaned. “My kettle is broken. With the excitement of the WVS meeting, I forgot to pick one up.”
Mrs. Pickering waved her hand. “Just come join me for a cup.”
Emma murmured her thanks and opened the door for her landlady. Before following her inside, Emma reached into the mail and plucked out the day’s delivery. There was one envelope from a name she didn’t recognize, an Elizabeth Mason.
Frowning, Emma walked through the doorway. She moved too slowly and the door bumped impatiently behind her, shooing her inside the stairwell.
Emma slid her finger under the seal, gently tearing the envelope open with curiosity.
A quick skim to the bottom of the letter revealed the neat signature of a woman named Mrs. Elizabeth Mason, also known as Aunt Bess.
Ah, that was it, then.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Pickering asked as Emma followed her into the flat.
“A letter from the woman who is minding Olivia in the countryside. I’ve been eager to hear from her. Olivia’s letters don’t come often, but when they do, they are filled with wonderful things. I wanted to see if I might come by to visit, to meet the woman she calls Aunt Bess.”
Mrs. Pickering swept her hips around the desk in the middle of the kitchen and patted the back of a chair on her way to the range. “Well, you have a seat here and read while I put the kettle on.”
With a grateful smile, Emma slid into the seat Mrs. Pickering had indicated and did exactly as instructed.
Aunt Bess had delightful compliments to bestow upon Olivia. She was well-behaved, perceptive without being overly chatty, and reminded Aunt Bess of the girl she’d once been. Emma’s brow furrowed as she got to the part of the letter where Aunt Bess cited some concern over Olivia’s education and her lack of focus on her lessons. But aside from that, all was well.
What’s more, there was a generous invitation extended to Emma to join Aunt Bess and Olivia for Christmas that year at Aunt Bess’s home.
Relief flooded Emma at the invitation. Christmas had been weighing on her thoughts. In Olivia’s last letter, she had indicated her excitement to decorate Aunt Bess’s tree and go caroling in the square. But Emma had considered bringing her daughter home, especially as the war had not amounted to anything worth being frightened over—aside from that lone, misguided air raid warning they’d endured.
At this point, the blackout was their greatest danger. That and a citation from the ARP Warden for violating said blackout.
At least now Emma would be able to enjoy Christmas with Olivia without making her abandon all she’d been looking forward to.
“You’re smiling, lovey.” Mrs. Pickering set the tea tray in front of Emma.
“Yes.” Emma sat back and beamed up at Mrs. Pickering. “I’ll be going to East Anglia for Christmas. To see Olivia.”
Mrs. Pickering put a fist on her hip. “Well, we had better ensure you have that jumper done in time, hadn’t we?”