EMMA READ THE letter from the couple billeting Olivia, disbelieving some points made, while others left her heart in pieces.
There was the offensive claim that Olivia lacked education, suggesting she wasn’t fit for the school the local children attended. True, Olivia was not an apt pupil and took some nudging toward her lessons, especially in maths, but she was hardly ignorant. And she was well-behaved with a desire to please, making her amenable to completing necessary tasks and studies.
But their claims of Olivia wetting the bed...they were entirely ridiculous. Olivia had not experienced incontinence since her toddling years.
There had always been an element of Olivia that lent itself to a desire to be as adult as possible. Bedwetting at almost eight was simply an impossibility.
The worst news, however, was of the infection that had settled into Olivia’s chest. Her coughs were such that they apparently kept the household awake at night, likely due to the insufficient clothing Emma had sent—or so they’d stated. There had been clothes aplenty to get Olivia through the colder months, and warmer ones too, just in case.
The letter demanded money, more than the billeting fee the government paid them from Emma’s stipend. There was the need for medication and for clothes that fit properly, as they cited Olivia had grown quickly and her garments were now too small.
Emma replied as soon as she was in her own kitchen, asking for them to notify her at once should Olivia’s illness take a turn for the worse. Inside the envelope, she included more money than requested, a tidy sum pulled from the small box where she saved every halfpenny she could manage. If more medicine was needed, she didn’t want them bothering with the time to write her again.
Especially if she was in London and might miss their request.
At the end of the letter, she stated her intention to visit, then she signed off and sealed the envelope.
The week following the mailing of the letter, Emma received instructions for her trip to the Aldgate branch of the Booklover’s Library in London, along with a phone number for where she would be staying. The latter of which she forwarded on to Mrs. Pickering, who had recently had a phone installed in her flat and promised to call in the event of any letters from or about Olivia.
The evening before Emma’s departure, she went through her usual routine of taking Tubby for his walk. In Emma’s absence while in London, a younger woman with the WVS would help with Tubby.
“I’ll miss you, boy.” Emma ruffled Tubby’s silky head.
He panted up at her, pink tongue hanging from the corner of his wide smile. She led him out and grabbed the mail.
Two envelopes immediately caught her attention: one from the couple billeting her daughter—and one from Olivia.
Once more, Emma stumbled blindly after Tubby as the dog pulled her down the sidewalk, her fingers fumbling with the envelope from Olivia.
The familiar, blocky writing drooped down the page. Emma read quickly to find the letter altogether...sterile.
That was the word that came to mind. Sterile. Clipped. Efficient, save for the misspellings and grammatical errors. But there was one final line that grabbed Emma’s full attention.
I’m so sad that I wish I were with Grandma and Grandpa Williams.
Emma’s maiden name was Williams. Olivia was referencing Emma’s parents, wishing she was with them.
And they were both dead.
A choked sob erupted from Emma. Ahead, Tubby stopped and glanced back at her, his brows lifting in an expressive show of concern.
“Go on,” Emma encouraged.
He hesitated, then carried on at a slower pace. Hands shaking, Emma opened the second letter. Within, the woman keeping Olivia in her home disparaged the amount Emma had sent, saying they could use more even as she cautioned Emma on not visiting.
When parents visit, the children become miserable upon their departure.
But Olivia was already terribly miserable.
Something cold and wet nudged at Emma’s shin. She looked down to find Tubby sitting at her feet, gazing up at her with liquid brown eyes. He nudged his nose against her leg once more.
Emma’s heart swelled with love for the little dog. She picked him up, tucking him against her despite his muddy paws and nuzzled his snowy fur. He settled his head on her shoulder, returning her embrace in a way that somehow did make Emma feel slightly better, despite the upset of Olivia’s letter.
“You’re the sweetest boy,” Emma murmured into his fur.
After the walk, she brought Tubby up to her flat instead of returning him to Mrs. Pickering’s and left a note stating his whereabouts. Upstairs, Emma readied her suitcase with Tubby following close at her heels. Only now, she was not packing for London. She was packing for Kent.
And no matter what, she would not return home without Olivia.
Even with only a few train delays, the journey still took a considerable amount of time. Longer than before the war, to be sure.
Miss Bainbridge had not been pleased at Emma’s abrupt change of plans, but had consented under the compromise that Emma would still work at the London location in the future. Emma didn’t know when that might be, but agreed nonetheless.
She would agree to anything to retreive Olivia.
And now Emma was close, steps away from the ramshackle house in the middle of a muddy field with storm clouds swelling in the distance like a warning.
A shiver prickled down her spine and she quickened her pace.
Shouting could be heard coming from inside the house and a little girl with messy blond hair emerged from the nearby barn, clutching a bucket that was half her size. Her eyes went wide in her dirty face.
“I’ll get that.” Emma took the bucket from the child, surprised at the weight as milk nearly sloshed over the rim.
The girl ran toward the house, silently looking back as though confirming Emma followed her.
Emma pushed through the flimsy door behind the child and was immediately hit with the damp odor of soiled laundry.
“I said you need to muck out the stalls.” A woman’s shrill voice cut through the thick air. “What are you doing lazing about? Go on, off with you.”
“Olivia?” Emma called out.
The girl in front of her stiffened and the entire house seemed to go silent.
There was a clatter from the other room, the erratic slap of feet on the clapboard flooring. Emma rushed to the sound, through an open doorway that revealed a living area with a sagging sofa and mismatched furniture, as Olivia emerged from a door on the opposite side.
Emma’s heart caught in her throat.
Olivia’s once glossy waves were lank and dirty, her face smudged with filth, her clothes just as streaked as her face and appearing far too large.
A cry of rage and indignation tore from Emma. She dropped the bucket and she rushed to her daughter, capturing her in the protection of a maternal embrace.
There was a new leanness to Olivia’s already slender frame. Her elbows were sharp points where they pressed against Emma’s stomach and hollows showed in Olivia’s normally plump cheeks.
A woman with wiry gray hair that looked to be trying to scrabble its way out of a dingy yellow headscarf emerged from the same door as Olivia. The woman glared, her eyes small and mean. “What are you doing in my house?”
Olivia flinched.
Emma rose quickly, putting her daughter behind her. “I’m her mother. What are you doing to these children?”
The woman thrust her fists onto her boxy hips. “I told you not to come.”
“You have no right—”
“This is my home.”
“And this is my child,” Emma said vehemently.
The woman didn’t appear at all ashamed at the state of the child entrusted to her care.
Olivia coughed, a phlegmy barking sound that tore into the most tender place in a mother’s heart.
“I’m taking her with me.” Emma swallowed the anger rising in her. Rage would do no good in this moment. All that mattered was rescuing Olivia. “And I’m stopping by the WVS on the way to the train station to report you.”
The woman rolled her eyes at the threat and marched away. In the other room came the clatter of dishes as she loudly muttered invectives about parents who couldn’t leave well enough alone.
Emma turned to Olivia, struck anew with how shrunken and filthy her daughter appeared. “Let’s pack your things. You’re leaving now.”
Olivia’s face crumpled and she reached for Emma, clutching her hand like a lifeline.
The room where Olivia slept was a small space with one other bed, if they could be called beds. Really, they were more pallets on the floor with thin blankets. There was a sour odor in the room and a chill that the rag stuffed against the bottom of the window could not ward off.
Emma’s vision blurred with angry tears as she snatched up Olivia’s suitcase. When she snapped it open, she found the red jumper carefully folded within.
Olivia looked up at Emma, chin quivering. “I didn’t want it to get ruined.”
Emma took a second to maintain control of her emotions, then handed her daughter the jumper. “You don’t need to worry about that anymore.”
As Olivia pulled the jumper on, Emma shoved her daughter’s belongings into the battered suitcase.
The little girl Emma met earlier had followed them upstairs and watched silently from the corner.
Olivia regarded her with sympathy. “She’s my mother, Gertie. You can trust her.”
“Is she an evacuee as well?” Emma asked.
Olivia nodded. “Please don’t leave her here.”
“Gather your things,” Emma said gently to the girl. “I’ll bring you with me to the WVS. They’ll take care of you and find a new place for you to stay. A nice place.” Likely there was another woman just like Mrs. Pickering at the WVS in Kent who would gladly tuck this child under her wing.
Gertie scuttled forward and remained mute as she piled what looked like a few rags into a sheet and secured it by the corners into a large knot. Emma took the misshapen ball from her, then hefted Olivia’s suitcase, and led the girls downstairs. The main area was empty, so Emma called out, “I’m taking Gertie to the WVS. I would like both their ration books, please.”
Crashes sounded in the other room and both girls leaped. Emma’s pulse raced along with her thoughts. If the woman was aggressive, Emma would have to do whatever necessary to keep the girls safe. She set the bags down, freeing her hands, body tensed where she stood in front of the children.
Footsteps thundered toward them and Emma spread her feet, bracing herself. The woman erupted into the room and shoved two battered ration books at Emma. “Take the bloody things.”
Emma accepted them with a nod that hinted at the thanks she refused to voice, then said to Olivia and Gertie, “Come along, girls.”
Once in town, Emma easily located the main office of the WVS, where a woman in a herringbone-patterned jacket identical to Mrs. Pickering’s bent to welcome Gertie, tutting over her while ordering people about to prepare some milk and biscuits and bring fresh clothes.
Yes, Gertie was indeed in good hands with the WVS.
Olivia plastered herself to Emma’s side on the ride back to Nottingham and continued to repeat how grateful she was to be going home. They arrived in Nottingham late in the evening with little to be had in the way of dinner.
Olivia stood in the doorway of the flat while Emma opened and closed every cabinet in the hopes of food magically appearing on the empty shelves. There had been no reason to stock up when she planned to be in London for two weeks.
“Do you think you might make me a breakfast face?” Olivia asked, her voice small and hopeful.
Emma turned and found a small smile tugging Olivia’s lips upward. The first Emma had seen since she’d taken her from that awful billeting situation.
But then, breakfast faces always could bring a smile.
The special fare had originated years ago when Olivia was just on the brink of her fourth birthday. Upon waking that morning, Emma realized there was no more bread and barely any jam. Certainly nothing to make into a proper breakfast. Furthermore, it was impossible to pop out to the grocer while Olivia slept, since she was far too young to be left alone.
In a moment of desperation, Emma had gathered whatever she could find to piece together a meal, all arranged on a plate in the shape of a face, with a strip of cheese for a smile, berry eyes and nose, and a few crumbled crisps for hair. Olivia had squealed with excitement when she saw it. The following morning, she’d requested another breakfast face despite their having plenty of jam and bread.
Now Emma boiled the one remaining egg to cut in half for eyes while she searched for whatever else was available for the rest of the face. Some biscuits completed a crooked smile, a small knob of cheese made the nose and stale bits of bread made for hair that looked like it’d been set in pin curls. The breakfast face wasn’t the prettiest construction, but still brought a lightness to Olivia’s face that pulled at a place in Emma that felt raw and wounded.
In that moment, Emma hoped desperately that nothing would come of this war, and that Olivia could stay with her forever.