EMMA HELD ON to Olivia’s hand as they strode a few blocks to where she’d be resuming school. Again. The back-and-forth of Olivia’s education had been dizzying for them both and left Emma with a serious concern for her daughter’s overall education.
Apparently, the city had convinced several teachers to return from retirement, allowing for longer school days. This meant Olivia wouldn’t be home alone for very long in the afternoon, even though she now had a very strict set of rules to follow. Especially regarding the use of the oven and stovetop, and anything else that could prove flammable.
A crash sounded a few streets over and Olivia flinched.
She had been doing that a lot.
“Are you certain they never struck you?” Emma asked, inquiring for the countless time as to the hostility of Olivia’s former billet.
Olivia shook her head. “They just yelled a lot and threw things around.” Her hand on Emma’s tightened. “They were scary.”
They certainly were. Even recalling the brief interaction Emma had with the woman left her rattled.
The nearer they drew to the school, the more children appeared. Some holding their mothers’ hands like Olivia, others in small clusters as siblings and neighbors walked together.
Emma led Olivia to her classroom and found an older gentleman with white hair turned away from them. There was always benefit in knowing Olivia’s teachers, especially in light of the circumstances Olivia had been through. Emma approached to offer introductions.
The teacher turned around and Emma only just managed to swallow her gasp of surprise.
“Mr. Beard.”
He regarded Emma, then shifted his steely gaze to Olivia before returning his focus to Emma. “Miss Taylor?”
“Mrs. Taylor,” Olivia corrected him. “My father is dead.” She looked up at Emma with a frown. “Everyone is so confused over what to call you, Mum.”
The bewildered expression on Olivia’s face nudged at Emma’s guilt. She hadn’t told Olivia that she couldn’t work at the Booklover’s Library with a child for fear her daughter would feel like a burden. Emma agreed to what was necessary for the job for Olivia, so they could have a better life that afforded necessary items and hopefully a little bit more.
“It appears I am indeed confused at her title.” Mr. Beard lifted a brow at Emma in silent question.
Emma straightened a little taller. “The adjustment to my title was necessary, and the lending library is well aware of my situation.”
The detail was more than he deserved and all she was willing to offer.
Despite her bravado, that telltale heat crept over her cheeks, the one that came when waiting for whatever assumptions would likely be cast about her person.
“This is Olivia.” Emma put her hands on shoulders that were far too thin. “My daughter.”
A sense of relief washed over Emma for another person to know she was a widow, that she had a child. She hadn’t realized how much the lie weighed on her until that moment.
Mr. Beard had the presence of mind to at least offer an uncharacteristically benevolent smile as he instructed Olivia to take her seat.
“Thank you for welcoming her,” Emma said. “She’s been somewhat anxious about returning to school and doesn’t always take well to lessons.”
Mr. Beard’s brows flicked up. “Only having one parent takes its toll.”
If the statement was a meant as a barb, it certainly struck home.
A sharp retort caught in her throat. Now that he knew her secret, he had a semblance of power over her. A word to a few choice people and she might be sacked if anyone complained. Miss Bainbridge knew of her situation, yes, but those above her might not take as kindly to Emma’s delicate predicament.
“We manage,” she said defensively instead. After all, she couldn’t let such a statement go without speaking up for herself.
Mr. Beard studied her for a moment. “But does Olivia thrive?” Before Emma could even bother replying, he pulled his small notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon, Miss Taylor.” He stressed the ‘miss’ in the sentence and licked his pencil to begin writing.
As Emma turned to leave, he was already furiously scribbling. No doubt about her.
Olivia gave her a nervous wave and Emma ducked into the hallway, but even as she strode away from the school, there was a pinch deep in her chest.
Was Olivia thriving?
They’d always had a home and ample food, and sufficient clothing no matter how rainy or cold a season might be. There had even been extras for going to the cinema on Saturday mornings when the children’s programs ran, and presents for birthdays and Christmas.
Regardless of what Mr. Beard implied, Emma was doing her level best, and wasn’t that all any parent could do—whether they were on their own or part of a team?
Olivia was indeed thriving, in every way except perhaps with her education. Surely there was a fix for that, though. Emma just had to find it. To prove Mr. Beard wrong, as well as every other person who saw her pushing through on her own and found her efforts lacking.
Preparations for the war on English soil continued despite the quiet. And the WVS was not about to fall behind in their efforts.
So, when the ARP decided to put together an exercise to showcase how very prepared they were for anything Hitler might throw their way, the fire brigade and WVS were there to help.
Emma rushed around the large kitchen of the Council House with her fellow WVS ladies, each of them in an apron with their WVS armbands and badges on full display as they prepared food for the hundreds of people who would be at the event. When she wasn’t cutting the numerous vegetables they relied on to stretch food amid the ration, she was stirring several large pots or adding pinches of salt here and there.
“Have you seen the butter?” Margaret asked, her usually coiffed blond hair slightly cloud-like in the steamy kitchen.
Emma gazed askance at her friend. “Do you really think Mrs. Pickering would let such a commodity out of her sight?”
Butter was necessary for the pies, or so Mrs. Pickering had claimed. By some miracle—or more accurately, by the haranguing on her part to some official—a small trove of precious rationed butter had been delivered to the WVS. For the morale of the people of the Radford district was inscribed on the tag.
“Well, she’d best hurry.” Margaret glanced at the sleek watch on her wrist. “She’s due to help with the ARP exercise at half past.”
“I’m sure she won’t be late.” Emma leaned toward a younger woman who was setting some crockery in the oven. “Try cooking several items at a time to conserve energy.”
The woman nodded, her cheeks flushed with the heat of the room.
“Mum,” Olivia called.
Emma spun around. “I thought you were with Mrs. Pickering.”
“I was, but they asked if I can help in the exercise. May I?” She grinned, revealing yet another tooth she’d lost. This time a canine.
The eagerness on her face was impossible to resist. Especially when helping Mrs. Pickering would ensure Olivia wouldn’t be underfoot in the kitchen.
“Go on, but mind yourself and stay out of the way.”
Olivia beamed and launched out the door. A clatter sounded from across the room as the young woman who had been at the oven earlier dropped a pan full of vegetables.
Emma turned to help, and didn’t think for another second on Olivia’s request.
Several hours later, the food was neatly set on foldout tables laid with clean white tablecloths. A few women stayed to swat away early arrivals and attend to last-minute details, like setting out utensils and preparing tea.
Emma had meant to remain with them to offer her assistance when Margaret pulled at her arm. “Let’s go watch the exercise.”
Signs in the surrounding area warned of smoke and fire and loud bangs. That alone had made Emma reluctant. But Margaret seemed to notice, and cajoled Emma from her hesitation. “You know Olivia will want you there to see how she’s helped.”
With a sigh, Emma let her friend drag her away from the food tables and toward the waiting audience around a cordoned-off section of the street. An icy splinter of anxiety lodged itself low in her belly and she fought off the warning in the back of her mind urging her to leave.
“We are about to begin,” a voice said over a speaker. “The following explosives are not an attack, but an exercise aimed at demonstrating the preparedness of your local Nottingham rescue resources.”
The voice had only just dropped away when a loud pop burst from the middle of the street. Emma jumped and clasped her arms over her chest, as if doing so might physically restrain her in place. Fire erupted from the small cylinder there, flaring higher than the fire truck behind it as a plume of black smoke belched into the sky.
The acrid odor burned into her nostrils and seared the deepest part of her that relived the nightmare of that fateful day over and over again. The bookshop on fire. The maze of flames. The blistering heat and choking, burning air. Papa lying so still. Dead.
Run.
She squeezed her arms, remaining rooted to the ground as everyone else pressed forward with awe.
Chills raked over Emma’s skin.
Another explosion went off, the blast now a raging conflagration. The air was hot with smoke that left a familiar taste in the back of Emma’s throat and made her heart seize.
“Fire,” someone called in the distance, their voice filled with a feigned terror.
Emma.
The memory of her father’s voice filled her head.
Emmaline.
That raw, primal note to her father’s tone was what real terror sounded like. And it gripped her now like a vise, squeezing the breath from her lungs, catching at her heart so that it pounded, pounded, pounded.
Run.
The world spun and she hugged herself harder, keeping herself together, arms trembling with the effort.
Shouting continued in the distance, the sounds warbled and distorted like they were underwater.
Run.
A jet of water shot from somewhere unseen into the center of the inferno. Several men in flat metal hats with ARP stenciled in white paint rushed forward, lugging bags of sand to throw over the flames.
Their efforts tamed the wildness of the fire, which yielded with a great hiss as a sigh of steam replaced the destructive black cloud.
The sand in those bags had come from the sandstone layered beneath Nottingham, where caves were carved out like underground pockets beneath the city.
Emma drew in a steadying breath and focused on those facts to regain control of her emotions. She recalled how she and Olivia had watched great trucks grinding away at the stone to create the sand necessary for the bags that were now layered protectively around the Council House and other important buildings.
The distraction worked and her breathing slowly began to return to normal, along with her vision.
Men in layers of heavy clothing moved effortlessly to clear away the debris while the ARP wardens ran through checklists and pulled out first aid kits.
“With every incident, casualties are to be expected,” the voice over the speaker announced. “Our ARP team has been specially trained for such occurrences.”
As the smoke cleared, a new scene was revealed. Rubble was cast about as if a building had collapsed. Amid the broken bricks and errant tilted furnishings were people. Some lay still; others were propped up, holding limbs with gruesome paint as they groaned theatrically.
Mrs. Pickering was one of the actors nearest Emma, with a “wound” on her leg. Whatever had been done to make the injury appear real was convincing enough that Emma had to look away. Mrs. Pickering caught her reaction and flashed a jolly little wink before giving a well-practiced cry of agony.
Several people around her lay inert, pretending to be dead.
Except they really weren’t entirely without movement. One man quickly reached up to scratch at his nose. A woman shifted, self-consciously adjusting her skirt. Several people squinted an eye or two open to take in what was going on around them.
Really, the scene was almost funny as they all tried to lie perfectly motionless.
Then Emma’s gaze fell on the body of a child, one who was perfectly immobile, a little girl with her wavy hair plaited into twin braids. One whose face looked as if she was merely sleeping, an expression Emma knew from the countless times she’d studied that exact visage.
Olivia.
Emma’s throat caught her heart again and this time did not let go.
Olivia lay prone in the rubble, as if she were really and truly dead.
A tremble began somewhere inside Emma and rattled through her limbs, threatening to shake her apart. She couldn’t be here. She couldn’t stay as she shattered to pieces. Not when doing so would embarrass Olivia and ruin the entire event.
The production had been too much.
Too real. Far too real.
And this time, when the voice in the back of her head screamed at Emma to run, that’s exactly what she did