Paige narrowed her eyes.
“Oh, Miss Poulter was really quite nice—” said Annabelle, sensing Paige’s annoyance.
“—and very pretty. And smart. Like Jo March in Jo’s Boys—” Clarabelle chimed in.
“—or Anne Shirley in Anne of Avonlea—”
“—and not at all like Miss Minchin in A Little Princess—”
Chuck glared. “The fucking Nazis are going to drop fucking bombs on us, and all you two twits can talk about is fucking books?” She grabbed hold of a shovel, stalked off, and began digging with a vengeance.
“She’s still annoyed about the dish situation,” Maggie explained. “Maybe … if you two could wash up a little more often?”
The twins exchanged exasperated glances. Then Annabelle whispered, “She’s just so—”
“—bossy,” Clarabelle said.
“And loud!” both twins said simultaneously, setting off a fresh explosion of giggles.
“And her language sometimes,” Annabelle said.
Maggie’s lip twitched; Chuck was indeed bossy, loud, and prone to using profanity. Still, she had her reasons. “Just do your dishes,” she said gently. “And I’m sure everything will be fine.”
They turned back to digging. After months of the “bore war,” the threat of bombs wasn’t just hypothetical anymore. Overhead, Hurricanes and Spitfires roared by in V-shaped formations of three, on their way to France, most likely. German Messerschmitts and Heinkels could be on their way to London any day. Some of the port cities had already been bombed. It was just a matter of time for London.
Shovels in hand, they all ripped up the sod, rolled it back, and then began digging in earnest. The earth smelled damp, rich, and loamy, warmed in the sun. A hundred years and a gallon of sweat later, the five had barely scratched the surface. The back of Maggie’s blouse was soaking wet, and beads of sweat stung her eyes.
They rested on the back steps leading up to the kitchen, gulping glasses of cool water as the sun’s rays slanted and deepened. As Chuck lit a cigarette and pushed back a brown curl, Paige ventured, “You know, I’m sure if we called the boys, they would—”
“No!” Maggie exclaimed. Then, in a more reasonable tone of voice, “We can do it ourselves,” she said, rubbing her sore forearms. A blood blister on her forefinger was starting to ooze. “Eventually.”
The twins sighed. “We don’t really need an Anderson, do we? We could always just go down to the basement.…”
“And be crushed if the house collapses?” Maggie asked. “Or burned to a crisp if a bomb sets it on fire?”
The twins looked at the house and shared a chagrined expression, realizing Maggie’s logic.
“I don’t know how you can stand it, Chuck,” Annabelle said, leaning back and swatting at a buzzing fly. “With Nigel enlisted in the RAF now.” She looked at Chuck sideways. “Any idea where he’s going to be sent? And when?”
Chuck took a long drag on her cigarette; her hands were shaking. “No, no idea,” she said. “Could be anywhere …” Her voice broke. “He’s training now. Probably up north, in Scotland maybe. I know he can’t say anything, but—”
Clarabelle patted Chuck on the shoulder. “It’ll be fine, Chuck. You’ll see. Everything will be all right.”
Maggie, Paige, and Chuck, and then even Annabelle, looked at Clarabelle, then at the pieces of the Anderson shelter, then back to Clarabelle. “I mean, Nigel will be fine. More than fine. A hero, in fact.”
Chuck blinked hard. “Bloody hell,” she said finally, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.
“Right, then. Back to work, ladies.” Maggie stood up, brushing dirt and leaves off the seat of her trousers. “And do you know what I think our shelter needs? A nice big bottle of gin.”
Across the Atlantic Ocean, in one of Wellesley College’s faculty apartments, Edith Hope couldn’t sleep. It was her age, she told herself; it was hot flashes and night sweats and needing to use the toilet every few hours.
She looked up at the bedroom ceiling, shadows from the maple tree branches outside the window dancing in the silvery light from a waning moon.
Not to mention the fact that her niece was in a country about to be invaded by Germany.
She turned over and flipped the down pillow to the cool side but still couldn’t get comfortable. She threw off the gray-silk duvet, the one her hair was beginning to match. Guilty conscience, Edith? she thought. Maybe. Probably.
Edith’s last argument with Margaret still rang in her ears and haunted her dreams. She hadn’t wanted to send her to London. But when her mother, Margaret’s grandmother, died, there wasn’t any other option. Edith wouldn’t—couldn’t—go back to London, to that place where time compressed and old hurts would feel just as raw as they had twenty-some-odd years ago. And she was still, after all this time, determined to keep her word.