THE NEXT MORNING, as Emma rushed about to prepare for work, a knock resounded through her flat.
She had only just fastened her simple tweed skirt, and was still plucking at her shirt to ensure the fabric was not twisted about when she pulled open the door to find Mrs. Pickering in a bathrobe and curlers with Tubby sitting at her side. “We wanted to make sure you knew to come down for morning tea. Isn’t that right, Tubs?”
Tubby’s tail whipped back and forth and his mouth fell open in a tongue-lolling smile.
Emma had expected to grab tea at Boots’ before work started, but this was certainly preferable. “Let me finish here and I’ll be down in a moment.”
Mrs. Pickering nodded with finality, the way one did when all was right in the world. “A moment is all I need.”
Emma pinned her hair back from her face, grabbed her purse and toed on her low-heeled loafers. When she entered Mrs. Pickering’s flat, she found the older woman still in her bathrobe and curlers. “Don’t go telling anyone you saw me like this.”
“Of course not.” Emma accepted a cup of tea, opting not to let the other woman know she received tea before her shift. Because instead of arriving early to sit in an empty room after an evening of being in an empty flat, Emma wanted to enjoy every last moment of Mrs. Pickering’s chatty company, right down to the last drop. After all, tea was better taken with a friend.
Because that was what Mrs. Pickering had become in these months with her care for Olivia, her assistance with knitting, and these lovely talks over a steaming cup of perfectly brewed tea—a friend.
The lending library had been uncommonly busy with Christmas soon upon them. Not only were there more subscribers than ever putting their names down for Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, but people were purchasing subscriptions to the library as Christmas gifts. An annual subscription was costly, even for Class B subscribers—ten shillings and sixpence for one book at a time—especially with everyone conserving money on account of the war.
While Emma and the other librarians received a discount, they still had to pay a subscriber fee.
As the darkness of winter pressed in on them, the days grew shorter and her shifts seemed to fly by faster. She welcomed the swift passing of time that edged her closer and closer to being able to see Olivia.
While Emma’s earlier hours were consumed with work, her afternoons were busy with whatever the WVS needed of her—collecting aluminum from neighbors, rolling bandages, packing box after box so British soldiers away from home might have a Christmas parcel to open, and, yes, even knitting the occasional scarf from time to time. To be fair, she did find scarves to be much easier to manage than jumpers.
Even still, she took Mrs. Pickering’s advice and infused all the love she could into the items she made.
The week before Christmas, she sat in Mrs. Pickering’s cluttered kitchen for their usual cup of tea with the red jumper set before them on the table. Having added the little finishing details around the hem and neck, Olivia’s gift was finally complete.
Mrs. Pickering examined the jumper with a nod of approval. “You’ve done well, Mrs. Taylor. I suspect your daughter will be immensely pleased with the result.”
“I do hope so.” Emma studied the construction with a critical eye.
The many mistakes that occurred through the creation were now seamlessly blended and imperceptible. The jumper appeared identical to the one at Woolworths—or at least as far as Emma could recall.
“I can’t wait to hear about your visit to East Anglia.” Mrs. Pickering tucked her burgundy cardigan more tightly around the plain dark wool dress she wore. They were all cold these days, with the winter being just as brutal as anticipated.
She handed a small parcel to Emma. “Will you give this to Olivia for me? It’s just a bit of chocolate. To let her know we’re thinking of her.”
Tied to the brown paper was a note card stating the gift was from Mrs. Pickering and Tubby.
Emma set the item beside the jumper. “She’ll be delighted. Thank you for the consideration.”
“Not a day goes by that we don’t miss your girl.”
Emma didn’t stop thinking of Olivia either. The week before the visit to finally see her daughter crawled by with the expediency of a tortoise despite the chaotic business at the Booklover’s Library. Books were being taken out for vacation, as they could be returned to any Boots’ location, and in preparation for the upcoming holiday closures. No one wanted to be left without a book, especially when most homes likely had at least one member of their family missing that year.
While Emma packed for her trip, she hummed the new song by Vera Lynn, “We’ll Meet Again.” Though ostensibly written for sweethearts like Margaret and her fiancé, separated by the miles put between them due to the war, the lyrics took on a different note for Emma. The words of missing the one she loved, of not knowing when or where she might see her again, they stretched deep into Emma’s soul and touched the place that had been unsettled since Olivia’s evacuation.
But while Emma didn’t know when Olivia might come home, she at least did know when and where she would see her daughter again. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and she would be there in East Anglia with her daughter, finally meeting the oft-mentioned Aunt Bess.
There had been warnings in the paper that trains would be running slow due to civilians and soldiers alike trying to get home to loved ones, but Emma was still caught unaware. People rushed this way and that, the massive crowds very much resembling an anthill that had just been kicked by unruly children.
Men in uniform hurried by with their heavy kits slung over their backs. Women and children clustered on platforms, some crying out in delight as their loved ones returned home for the holidays, and others packed up to depart elsewhere. And women—mothers—waited anxiously for children who arrived on their own, returned for Christmas.
The latter squeezed at a wounded place in Emma. Perhaps she was wrong in agreeing to the visit with Aunt Bess. Perhaps having Olivia return home would have been better, to remain in Nottingham going forward.
There was nothing happening with the war-a “phoney war” they called it. There were no threats, no attacks, no reason to keep her daughter away.
Emma’s heart ached to have Olivia’s presence in the flat again, the thump of her feet dashing across the wooden floor despite Emma always telling her not to run, the sweet sound of her laughter when she and Emma joked together, the way Olivia would draw and chatter on while Emma made dinner. How Emma longed to have it all back again.
Down the platform, a man in uniform approached each person with a ticket clutched in their hand. Each shook their head and he moved on to the next.
Until finally he arrived in front of her.
There was a desperate widening of his sky blue eyes as his gaze caught the ticket in her hand. “Please, ma’am, can I have your ticket?”
Her stomach knotted.
“Please.” There was a pleading note to his deep voice. “I’ve been given special leave to see my mum. She’s in hospital and terribly sick.”
Emma swallowed, the “no” stuck in her throat.
The man’s eyes watered and the muscles in his jaw worked, as if he were clenching his teeth to hold back his tears. “I don’t know if I’ll have a chance to say goodbye.” He held out a ticket, the thin bit of paper trembling in his grip. “The closest I could find was a ticket for this afternoon, but every moment that goes by might be too late.”
Emma took the ticket from him, examining the print. The departure time listed was half past four, delaying her arrival by several hours, especially accounting for having to change trains midway through.
“Please.” The man’s voice cracked.
He was young, twenty if he was a day. Ready to sacrifice his life to keep England safe in a time of war.
Emma knew the impact of missing a child. What must it feel like to send one to war, to know they were going into a place of nightmares—of danger and terror and death? To know they might never come home?
This young man before Emma was that mother’s son.
How could Emma possibly deny him? Especially when she herself had never even known her mother, let alone had the chance to offer a proper goodbye.
She extended her ticket toward him.
He blinked, incredulous, then gave a hard sniff and swiped the heel of his hand against his watery eyes. “Thank you,” he said thickly. “Thank you.”
The train pulled up as he wished her a hasty happy Christmas and climbed aboard with the rest of the passengers. If nothing else, an individual from the outgoing wave of people vacated a seat on the platform for her.
She settled in and opened Barbara Cartland’s latest novel, Love in Pity, knowing she’d be there for another four hours.
But four hours turned into five with unforeseen delays. Then five became six.
Her growling stomach had her buying a soggy dill-and-egg sandwich from a vendor with a bit of lukewarm tea. She’d eaten the sad meal quickly to ensure she didn’t miss her train.
She hadn’t.
The signposting indicated another hour’s delay. At least.
When her train finally came to a stop at the station, the clock reflected nearly midnight. But the journey would likely be about five hours if what she’d overheard from fellow passengers was correct. But she refused to allow her spirits to dampen. At least she would still arrive by Christmas morning.
She gathered her suitcase, keeping its bulk close to her side as she joined the throng of passengers boarding the train. Several people jostled, pressing ahead of others when they might be polite under normal circumstances.
Even Emma, who was often calm, found her own patience pulling like a taut string ready to snap. Especially once finally inside the cabin and realizing there were no available seats. With a sigh, she stood at the back of the cabin with her suitcase braced between her feet.
The train lurched forward, launching them into the darkness of the blackout. A small blue light had been installed in the interior of the train, offering limited visibility and casting everyone in a grayish-blue hue.
Emma began to nod off, waking abruptly with either her head snapping forward or her knees buckling. Five hours had passed and they still were not at the transfer station.
Finally the train began to slow, but the station was impossible to discern with all the location names blotted out. What had originally been done to prevent Germany from spying now created a nightmare for travelers.
“Do you know where we are?” Emma asked the man next to her. Even as she did so, the question echoed through the cabin. No one seemed to know where they were until a conductor boarded the train and announced the location in a loud voice.
The tension in Emma’s shoulders relaxed somewhat. She was at the halfway point. There would still be time to arrive by Christmas.
There was one seat available at the train station, freshly vacated by the rush of men and women who clambered onto the train from which she’d just departed. Before she could sink wearily into it, a man plunked down ahead of her and leaned his head back, closing his eyes.
Not that it mattered, really. She needed to approach the ticket office anyway. Exhausted, she followed the signs. Each step made her regret the low heels she’d worn for the journey. Somehow her most comfortable pair of shoes had become her most miserably torturous pair and left her feet feeling like the bones were grinding against the hard floor.
She rounded the corner toward the ticket office and drew up short. The windows were shuttered.
A man beside her turned to regard her.
“The ticket office is closed,” she stated stupidly.
“Of course it is, love.” The man eyed her curiously. “It’s Christmas morning.”
A lump rose in her throat. She wanted to shout that she knew it was Christmas morning, that she was missing her daughter after almost four months, and how after seven years of it being just the two of them, this was her first Christmas morning without her daughter. She wanted to rail about how exhausted she was, how rumpled she looked, and how bloody bad her feet ached from standing for so long.
Instead, she swallowed her rageful frustration down, right along with that lump in her throat and nodded her thanks.
The man lifted his hat and gave her an uncertain smile. “Happy Christmas.”
At least the chairs near the ticket office were blessedly empty. She collapsed into one, propped her luggage longways, then curled her arms over it and laid her head in the comfort of her sleeves. There was nothing to do but sleep and wait for the office to open.
A crackling sound snapped Emma from her slumber. She jerked upright, her spine protesting the abrupt movement. The windows to the ticket office were open, revealing a man fiddling with a wireless set.
Several people milled around the window. Emma pushed to standing as pins and needles ran down the length of her legs.
How long had she been asleep?
It didn’t matter. All that mattered was obtaining a new ticket. Boarding a train. Reuniting with Olivia.
She rushed to the counter, her heels striking hard at the ground as she did so. A woman in a red coat turned to her and put a finger to her lips to quiet Emma. “The king is about to address us.”
Emma set her suitcase to the ground as King George’s deep voice resonated from the wireless screen. “The men and women of our far-flung Empire...”
With her fellow countrymen, Emma listened with rapt attention as the new king’s Christmas speech met their uncertainty with inspiration and hope through faith and love. The woman in the red coat dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Emma might have cried as well were she not so desperate to be in East Anglia with Olivia.
The crowd dispersed and Emma snatched up her suitcase, hauling its weight with her to the window. “May I trade my ticket for a new time, please?” The pitch of her desperation was now as poignant as that of the soldier she’d aided.
The man behind the counter gave a broad smile beneath his perfectly trimmed mustache. “Anything you want, ma’am. After all, it’s Christmas.”
She nearly cried as she received her new ticket with an afternoon departure. Which meant she might still arrive in time for Christmas after all.
The trains, however, were desperately behind schedule and as the time of her train’s arrival came and went, Emma had naught to do but rest her weary body in a chair and wait.