EMMA’S THOUGHTS WERE heavy that overcast evening on the way home. Not only from her encounter with the soldier whose mother truly had been on her deathbed, but from the state of the men returning from France. There was a defeated look to them. Glassy eyes that stared at nothing, the dejected slope of their shoulders, all the blood and injuries.
No matter how the government kept up spirits with talk of how brave their boys were and how Britain would always keep fighting, Dunkirk had been an undeniable and exceptional loss.
The war was not going well.
But would France be able to hold?
Only when they were very nearly home did Emma realize that Olivia had also been markedly quiet.
“No exploits of the playroom to regale me with today?” Emma asked.
“It was quiet.”
“So are you, Olive.” Emma squeezed her hand in a gentle, encouraging way. “How was school?”
With Olivia, questions met with a dismissive response generally meant Emma had not asked correctly. In this particular case, Emma’s query was exactly on point.
Olivia lowered her head. “Edmund was mean today.”
“What did he say?”
Olivia lifted her shoulder, the same reaction she always gave.
“Is it about your performance at school?” Emma pressed.
“Mum, please.” Olivia growled with irritation.
While the right questions opened doors, the wrong ones incited a wrath that shuttered the conversation altogether. When it came to Edmund’s treatment of Olivia, Emma never seemed to be correct in her approach.
There was such helplessness in watching her daughter struggle through the boy’s cruelty. That her tormenter was a child was especially frustrating when Emma could not let out her outrage on the boy, even if he was a bully.
Olivia gave the impression of strength with how much taller and larger she was than the other children, but inside, she was fragile as spun glass. And these interactions with Edmund had left cracks that scored deep.
“I wish he’d just leave me alone.” Olivia sighed. “I always try to be nice to him, the way I know I’m supposed to, but he never lets up.”
They arrived at their tenement house. Usually Olivia had her key out, ready to be the one to open the door, but tonight, she stared at the building next door where Edmund lived.
“What does he say to you?” Emma asked, trying to keep her voice as light as possible.
Olivia met Emma’s gaze for a long moment, as though weighing how to answer. “Nothing.” She pulled the key from her pocket and opened the door.
As Emma replayed the conversation that night, she knew there was more than one way to handle this issue. The following morning, she waited until Olivia was at school, then went next door and pressed the bell.
Mrs. Mott opened the door and smirked. “Is that dog out again?”
Emma’s blood roared in her ears. She had never been one for confrontation, but she would do anything for Olivia. Even go toe-to-toe with the likes of Mrs. Mott. This bullying had gone on long enough. “I’m here to speak to you about your son’s treatment of my daughter. On more than one occasion, she’s returned from school upset over the things he has said to her.”
Mrs. Mott folded her arms over her chest. “And what has he said?”
The roaring in Emma’s ears intensified. “She refuses to tell me.”
“You’re coming here to complain about my son’s comportment, yet you can’t even relay what has been said?” Mrs. Mott shook her head. “It’s always like this with mothers like you.” She started to close the door, but Emma shoved her foot over the threshold, stopping the door from closing with the girth of her rubber sole.
“What do you mean, ‘mothers like me’?” All the anger and the injustice that had simmered in Emma for years came out in the vehemence of her question.
Mrs. Mott’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. “Women who are too selfish to find a husband to help with parenting. Women who are so busy with their jobs and their own lives that they can’t properly see to their children. If Olivia was close with you, she’d likely have told you whatever it is my son is saying. Unless, of course, she’s just trying to get your attention, which is very likely the case. And I will not upbraid my son over your inability to properly parent.”
With that, Mrs. Mott pushed her house slipper at the toe of Emma’s loafer. All the fight had been stunned out of Emma at Mrs. Mott’s biting words and she yielded, clearing the threshold of her shoe in time for Mrs. Mott to slam the door in Emma’s face.
The sting of her accusation followed Emma into work that day and through her shift at the WVS. As much as Emma could tell herself she was a good mother, she had to wonder at the truth of Mrs. Mott’s words, especially when Olivia clearly did not trust Emma enough to share exactly what was being said.
The issues with Edmund ended a few days later, or at least were postponed, and not by his mother doing the responsible thing, but by school coming to an end. Unfortunately the summer holiday brought a new set of problems for Emma regarding Olivia.
What to do with her?
A barb of realization told Emma most mothers would be home with their children for summer, organizing activities, or sending them outdoors to play. But Olivia hesitated to go outside every time she saw Edmund from the window. And he was always there.
She spent the first week of her holiday curled up on the couch, listening to the wireless, only eating what could be had cold until the time came to help the WVS mind children while Emma worked at the canteen.
Whenever Emma departed for work, she left her daughter sleeping, though later found out through Olivia’s own confession that she didn’t rouse until almost noon most days. So much sleep didn’t seem healthy. Especially with how much time Olivia spent listening to the wireless. Emma had grown to hate the incessant hum of a broadcast in the background after one show turned into five.
If only Olivia loved to read, she could be distracted by books rather than that infernal wireless set.
“Emma, he’s safe,” Margaret cried one morning as she entered the Bespoke Room.
Emma started from her thoughts. “Jeffrey?”
“Yes.” Margaret’s face was nearly glowing with her joy. “I heard from his mum last night. She ran over as soon as she received the letter. He’s out of Dunkirk, though he cannot say where he’s stationed.”
“What a relief.” Emma leaped up and hugged Margaret, accidentally knocking the book in her hand to the ground.
“Sorry.” Emma laughed and bent to retrieve the dropped book.
Little Women. It had been one of Emma’s favorites as a girl. In the absence of her own mother, she had supplemented that void with an image of what her mother would be like. And Marmee had seemed the perfect replacement.
Imagining herself caught up in the antics of sisterhood and a home rich in love has been so easy for Emma. Not that her home hadn’t been rich in love. Papa had loved her endlessly and whatever void had remained in her life had been filled with books.
Yes, if only Olivia loved to read, she too might find part of what she felt was missing in the pages of a story.
“I was just putting that back,” Margaret replied. “It was in the wrong place.”
“I didn’t put it away this morning.” Emma pulled out her pocket notebook where she recorded every title she returned to the library shelves.
Emma thumbed through the pages before stopping at the day’s list of books recorded from the return box. Margaret peered over her shoulder as she did so. “Who has been moving the books from their shelves?”
“I’ll find out eventually,” Emma vowed and picked up the book. “I’ll put this back. I was just heading out to the floor anyway.” She quickly wrote Little Women in her notebook and returned the book to its proper place.
“That is one of my favorites,” a voice said from beside her.
Emma looked up to find Mrs. Chatsworth smiling at her, a purple feather bobbing over her head where it thrust up from a blue pillbox hat affixed to her curls.
“It’s one of mine too,” Emma admitted with a grin.
“Did you know I didn’t like books until I read that one?” The older woman laughed, disturbing the basket at her side. Pip peeked an eye open, casting an irritated glance at his mistress before nestling deeper into his pillow.
“Really?” Emma asked, incredulous. Mrs. Chatsworth was such a voracious reader, imagining her not liking books was nearly impossible.
“Really.” Mrs. Chatsworth lifted her thin brows. “I’d tried several, mainly ones we were told to read in school or ones my parents had loved. Oh, I found them all so very dull, so I assumed I just wasn’t much of a reader. It wasn’t until I wandered into that old bookshop that was in Beeston...” Her gaze searched the air and she shook her head, unable to pull up the name. “You know, the one that burned down some years ago. Such a horrible story, that man had been so kind.”
Emma’s mouth went dry. “Tower Bookshop?”
Mrs. Chatsworth lit up and her feather bounced about, echoing her delight. “Yes, that was the one. I told the owner I wasn’t much of a reader when he asked if he could help me, and he told me—” She tsked. “You know, it truly was so sad the shop burned down. It was such a lovely place. I couldn’t walk by without at least going in to look at the stationery. They always carried the finest cardstock. And there was this cerulean-colored ink...”
Irritation crinkled Emma’s usual veneer of patience for the first time in the countless hours she’d listened to Mrs. Chatsworth. “What did he tell you?”
The older woman stopped talking, blinking in surprise at Emma’s interruption. “I beg your pardon?”
Emma offered an apologetic smile. “You said the owner told you something when you said you weren’t a reader. I’m so very curious as to what it was that he said.”
“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Chatsworth looked heavenward and chuckled, as if mocking her own inability to control her runaway dialogue. “He told me that the world is full of readers, some just haven’t found the right book yet.”
Warmth filled Emma’s chest. Yes, that was very much something Papa would have said. And hearing those words now were as if he’d spoken them to her himself.
“Ah, but that cerulean ink, it was lovely,” Mrs. Chatsworth prattled. “You know, I’ve never found another color quite so unique...”
But Emma was scarcely listening. Instead, she mentally combed through the catalog of books at the Booklover’s Library, taking the time to fully assess her own daughter in the way she did with the Class A subscribers.
Why had Emma never thought to do this before?
Olivia just needed the right book. And Emma knew exactly which one.