EMMA SAT IN the middle of Mrs. Pickering’s crowded living room the next day, with Tubby snoring at her feet as she tugged open the box in front of her. “More clothes.”
Mrs. Pickering joined Emma and examined her husband’s effects. “He would want this, for his belongings to go to people in need of them.”
“I’m sure he would.” Emma had never met Mr. Pickering, but was eager to offer her support regardless. “It’s heartbreaking to think how so many people have escaped with nothing.”
Refugees had been sweeping into England from the countries Hitler was still hammering, seeking succor in a land unmarred by hideous swastika flags and violence. Many had left everything behind as they fled, opting for safety for themselves and their families above all else.
What a choice they must have faced, abandoning jobs and homes and pictures tied to memories of people they might never see again. Emma hoped she would never have to face such a harrowing decision.
She sifted through the contents of the box once more to ensure there was nothing Mrs. Pickering might want buried beneath the neatly folded slacks and jumpers. “These donations will clear out several boxes as well.”
Mrs. Pickering eyed the crowded living area, where an extra well-worn recliner sat between the plum-colored velvet chairs and several additional shelves created something of a maze in the formerly open space. “They will need furniture as well.”
“They will,” Emma agreed.
Silence followed as Mrs. Pickering chewed at her bottom lip. Tubby lifted his head from where he slept at her feet, as if sensing her unease.
Emma worried Mrs. Pickering might change her mind and keep the lot of it, remaining buried beneath memories of the past.
“There’s so much,” Mrs. Pickering said at last. “How can we possibly move it all? We’re trying to restrict our petrol use as it is.”
The bulk of what Mrs. Pickering had to donate truly was significant, and her concerns about the petrol were not invalid. But Emma refused to let such a thing as transporting the items get in the way.
“I know someone who might be able to help,” she said slowly, thinking of Mr. Fisk and the large trucks and carts he worked with regularly. Surely there might be some assistance he could offer. Perhaps he could even help move some of the heavier items. “In the meantime, let’s pop up and see what clothes Olivia has set aside to donate.”
“I’m sure she’ll have quite a bit given how quickly she’s grown.” Mrs. Pickering turned away from the clutter of her crowded home and patted her thigh for Tubby to join them.
Olivia had quite a bit indeed. Most items were too small for her, but at the top lay a plaid skirt worn only once, the material having been deemed too scratchy to wear again, and an ice-blue satin-and-tulle dress that had been bought on discount and was far too fancy.
Emma quashed the rise of irritation at the waste, reminding herself that these items would go to children who needed clothing more than Olivia, who had more than enough.
“We should ask Mr. Sanderson,” Mrs. Pickering declared.
Emma recalled his empty flat. “I don’t think that’s necessary. He’s a man on his own. I doubt he has extra clothes.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” Mrs. Pickering declared. “Everyone has items they can be rid of.”
She marched toward the door.
“Mind Tubby,” Emma said to Olivia as she pushed up from where she’d been boxing the donated clothes and hurried after Mrs. Pickering. When the woman had an idea in her mind, nothing could dissuade her.
Mrs. Pickering gave an efficient rap on the door as Emma caught up with her. The shuffle of feet sounded on the other side before the door opened to reveal Mr. Sanderson’s familiar scowl.
“I’m here on WVS business,” Mrs. Pickering announced with a formal authority. “Do you have extra clothing that can be donated?” She didn’t wait for him to reply, but instead launched into the speech she had given first at the WVS meeting, and then to the grocer on the way home, as well as to the women who’d been in the rations queue alongside them.
“Refugees have come into this country, many with only the clothing on their back, sacrificing everything for safety. They need your old clothes and anything else you might donate. Can you imagine what it must be like to lose everything in one fell swoop?”
A strange expression passed over Mr. Sanderson’s face. The tan jumper he wore was frayed along the hem and his slacks were almost a size too big.
Embarrassment for Mrs. Pickering’s blind efficiency cut through Emma. “Only if you have anything extra,” Emma added in a gentle, more genial tone. “Nothing is required, of course.”
Mrs. Pickering shot her a hard look that Emma pointedly ignored.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Mr. Sanderson muttered.
Before another word could be said, his door snicked closed, a prompt and firm message.
That was the end of that.
Except that it wasn’t.
Later that evening, Emma sat across from Mrs. Pickering with a steaming cup of tea in front of her with Olivia on the floor, slowly petting a sleeping Tubby while “We’ll Meet Again” played on the wireless. No matter how busy Mrs. Pickering was with the WVS, she always insisted on at least having a cup of late-afternoon tea together—no matter that it sometimes happened at night instead.
A knock came at the door, a soft, almost hesitant rap.
Mrs. Pickering set her teacup down. “Who could that be?”
She disappeared out the kitchen. Tubby lifted his head and then lowered it with disinterest as he shifted to stretch his pink belly toward Olivia in an insistent invitation. The murmuring of voices at the front door of the flat was brief and indiscernible.
Mrs. Pickering returned to the room with a box in her hands. “That was Mr. Sanderson with some extra clothes. He barely accepted my thanks before he left. Such a strange man, that one.”
Emma eyed the box. “That was kind of him to share what he has.”
But Mrs. Pickering sniffed. “We’re all doing our bit. It’s what’s expected.” She set the box on the table and pulled out several items.
Curiosity drew Emma closer and she peered at the contents. “What’s in there?”
“Old clothes. Mostly children’s and a few women’s dresses. All a bit out of fashion, I must say, but well-made nonetheless.” Mrs. Pickering put the clothes back and secured the box before adding it to the stack she had by the front door, all awaiting Mr. Fisk’s assistance. “They’ll be put to good use.”
Mrs. Pickering didn’t bring up the box of items again, but Emma couldn’t get them out of her mind. Whose clothes were they? And what about Mrs. Pickering’s speech had so appealed to Mr. Sanderson that he’d felt compelled to bring them down at all?
Emma was off the following Saturday, which happened to be the same day Mr. Fisk said the horse-drawn carriage could be spared to collect Mr. Pickering’s effects.
For her part, Mrs. Pickering fluttered around the boxes while they waited, anxiously sifting through them and pulling out various items before tutting to herself and putting them back.
After a spell, she stopped in the center of the room and cast an anxious look at Emma. “I feel like I should keep something.”
“Keep anything you want,” Emma said delicately, knowing how difficult this must be for the older widow.
“But there are refugees in need,” Mrs. Pickering cried in plaintive distress.
A cheerful ring sounded at the front of the tenement house and Emma left Mrs. Pickering to frantically sort through the boxes one final time.
Mr. Fisk stood on the doorstep with another man behind him, an older gentleman with a shock of white hair combed neatly to the side and arms the size of tree trunks. Emma recognized him from the bombing exercise on Radford Road.
They both wore heavy trousers with suspenders, their sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. An unexpected warmth swam in Emma’s stomach, especially when Mr. Fisk grinned at her, flashing that dimple in his cheek.
“Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Fisk,” Emma said quickly.
Too quickly?
Unease fluttered through her. She was being foolish and Olivia would likely pick up on any unusual behavior. She might even openly question it. Trepidation crept into Emma’s thoughts.
This was a bad idea.
“Charles, please.” Mr. Fisk grinned again. “This is my boss, Francis Fletcher. Francis, this is Miss Taylor.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Fletcher.”
The older man leaned forward and shook her hand with surprising gentleness despite his massive grip. “Just Francis.”
“Then, please, Francis, right this way.” Emma pushed open the door and let them enter.
She followed behind them. As she did so, Mrs. Pickering’s eyes darted around her house, no doubt seeing it from their perspective. The clutter blocked the light from the tall windows, leaving the flat crowded and dark.
“Mr. Fisk.” Olivia beamed up at the two of them, her eyes starry as was the way of small children at impressionable ages when it came to seeing authority figures they knew.
Emma rushed to offer the proper introductions, and to distract Mrs. Pickering from becoming embarrassed over the state of her home. After all, the reason the men were there was to clear it all away.
Hopefully.
While Emma introduced Mr. Fisk—Charles—Francis sank to his knees to pet Tubby, and gave a husky laugh as the small dog delivered jumping kisses to his hard jaw.
He got to his feet when Emma introduced him to Mrs. Pickering, towering over them all, including Charles, who was by no means diminutive in stature.
“You’re the chef who made those delicious pies for the exercise.” Francis shook Mrs. Pickering’s hand, his ice-blue eyes locked on hers.
“Oh my, I’m hardly a chef.” Mrs. Pickering’s cheeks flushed. “You remember my pies?”
“Who could forget a pie like that?”
“It was the butter.” Mrs. Pickering waved dismissively.
He shook his head with genuine appreciation. “A flaky crust cooked so it melts in a bloke’s mouth, with just the right amount of fruit. Did you preserve the cherries yourself?”
Mrs. Pickering blinked. Or was she fluttering her lashes? “Why, yes, I did.”
“Perfection.”
“This chap could chat the day away.” Charles patted his boss’s shoulder, his tone light and playful. “What do you have for us?”
“Quite a bit,” Emma said somewhat apologetically. Though given the size of Francis’s arms, he likely could carry the lot of it in one go.
The smile faded from Mrs. Pickering’s lips. “My late husband’s belongings.” She swallowed. “I’ve...well, I’ve likely held on to them for far too long. There are people in need now, and I certainly don’t require so many bookshelves or all these clothes. Or any of it, really.” The laugh that followed was high-pitched with taut nerves.
Francis hooked a hand on his hip. “How long has it been?”
“Ten years this autumn,” Mrs. Pickering replied in a quiet tone. “He was a good man.”
“I lost my Jenny around the same time.” Francis nodded. “It’s a hard loss to be sure. Took me almost as long to finally pull her dresses out of the wardrobe to donate. But I know she wouldn’t want me pining away for her all these years. ‘Put this stuff to use,’ she’d say.” He chuckled, his gaze distant. “I imagine your Mr. Pickering would say likewise.”
Mrs. Pickering smiled softly to herself, the tension melting from her shoulders. “He’d say exactly that.”
Francis folded his arms over his enormous chest and surveyed the room. “So, what are we loading up?”
“All of it,” Mrs. Pickering replied with finality.
By the afternoon, exactly all of it had been swept into the waiting wagon. Even the sturdy desk had been cleared from the kitchen, the men easily carrying the monstrosity away as if it was a child’s toy.
When they left sometime later, after having a glass of lemonade and agreeing to return for some pie, Mrs. Pickering finally had her flat back. And judging by the shy look lingering between her and Francis as he left, she might have come away with a little something more.