by Terrie Todd
“See you later, sweetie.” Charlotte kissed Darcy on the forehead, smoothed the front of her uniform, and hurried off to the opposite wing of the building to begin her new job. The bus ride from Mrs. O’Toole’s had taken a little longer than she anticipated and she had no time to lose.
This room was much larger than the nursery, but more crowded with women dropping off their toddlers. Some of the mothers wore overalls, their hair covered with kerchiefs, lunch buckets in their hands. Others wore skirts or dresses. Charlotte knew that they would all earn more money at their office or manufacturing jobs, piecing together munitions and even aviation parts, than she would caring for their children. But she didn’t mind. This was the only way she could remain close to Darcy and continue nursing him.
“Hi, I’m Becky.” A dark-haired woman held out a hand toward Charlotte. “Welcome aboard.”
“Thanks.” Charlotte followed her to a counter where children were being handed over and checked in by their mothers.
Becky walked Charlotte through the procedures, and Charlotte checked off names in a logbook. One by one, the mothers filed out. Some of the children headed straight for the books and toys displayed along one end of the large open room. One little girl sat quietly weeping in a corner while others wailed outright until their mothers were out of sight. Then they settled down.
After the last mother had gone, Becky announced it was time for a game. She pulled a box out from under the counter and began distributing toy tambourines, kazoos, cymbals, and drums. The children lined up single file behind her, and she began marching around in circles, clapping her hands to create a beat. Charlotte followed suit, bringing up the rear of the line and joining in the fun. When the game was over, she glanced up at the door to the hallway. Through the large window she saw Mrs. Hudson, the woman who had hired her, observing from the other side. Charlotte raised a hand in greeting and Mrs. Hudson smiled back, then walked away.
This was followed by some Simon Says, storybook time, twenty minutes of outdoor play, a snack consisting of soda crackers and peanut butter, and free play. Charlotte helped several children to the bathroom, placed a bandage on one boy’s skinned knee, and rocked a little girl to sleep. Before she knew it, her lunch break had arrived.
Darcy was beside himself with hunger, and Charlotte wasted no time finding a corner in which to nurse him. Feeding the baby and eating her sandwich at the same time was not the simplest trick, but she’d have to master it or go hungry herself. Half an hour later, she returned to work so that Becky could take her break.
After lunch, the children napped for a full hour while their caregivers used the time to tidy up and prepare for the remainder of the day. Another venture outdoors followed, then an arts-and-crafts time and more stories. Charlotte couldn’t believe it when the mothers began arriving to pick up their children. The day had flown! After she returned to Darcy, she had to stop and feed him again before they headed off to catch the bus home.
As Charlotte sat in the nursery feeding her baby, a middle-aged worker approached, buttoning her coat. She studied Charlotte briefly before speaking.
“I’m Vivian. Darcy did just fine today.” She smiled warmly.
“That’s good to hear. I’m Charlotte.”
“How did things go at your end?”
“Good. So many cute little kids. I think I’m going to like it here.” Charlotte lifted Darcy to her shoulder to burp him.
“Your hubby overseas?”
There it was. Charlotte had wondered how long it would be before the subject surfaced. She’d almost made it through her first day. She realized that it might be much easier to outright lie. Who would know the difference whether she had a husband or not? It was one thing to endure the judgmental glares of casual acquaintances, but she’d have to face Vivian and her other co-workers every day, all day long. She remembered the unkind words she herself had freely exchanged with her old school chums when their classmate Tilly Munroe dropped out of school and had a baby. Was that really only a year and half ago? God, forgive me. I can bear to be called a whore if I must, but I can’t bear to have Darcy considered “illegitimate.”
“His father is stationed in Ontario,” Charlotte said. It was the truth. “And you?” Perhaps by diverting attention from herself, she could keep the charade alive without causing damage.
“We’ve got two boys in Europe—France, last time I knew—and my youngest is stationed near Petawawa, chauffeuring officers around. Where in Ontario is your husband?”
Well, that didn’t last very long. Charlotte bit her bottom lip and sent up a silent plea for courage.
“Petawawa also—”
“No kidding! Hey, I bet they know each—”
“—but . . . he’s not my husband.”
Vivian stared at her, waiting for more. “But I thought you just said—”
“I said Darcy’s father is there. He’s a cook at the base. We’re not married.”
Vivian stared some more. “When are you getting married?”
Charlotte sighed. Might as well lay it all out there and get it over with. Maybe Vivian would prove to be kind, like Mrs. Hudson. “We’re not. He’s . . . he’s married to someone else now.”
“Good Lord.” A look of disgust changed Vivian’s face, but Charlotte couldn’t tell if the sentiment was directed at her or at Reginald. Maybe both.
“How old are you, anyway?”
“Almost eighteen.”
The woman’s head moved back and forth almost imperceptibly, her lips closed tightly as she studied Charlotte and the baby.
“What on earth is this world coming to? How did you ever get this job? Did you think they wouldn’t find out?”
Charlotte could feel her jaw drop, but no response would come. Vivian wasn’t finished.
“Don’t you think the parents are going to raise a stink when they find out their children are being looked after by an unwed mother?”
“I—I don’t think they really need to know.”
“Oh, you don’t. That’s fine for you. You probably couldn’t care less who looks after your kid. But real mothers care, I can tell you that. You know there are plenty of good girls who would love to get this job? How can you sit there, nursing your little bastard, bold as brass?”
“She’s nursing him because he’s hungry.”
Charlotte and Vivian both looked toward the source of the voice. Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, her tall frame an imposing figure. “She can sit there feeding him because he’s hungry, as any mother would. I don’t believe it’s any concern of yours, Vivian.”
Vivian glanced at Charlotte, then at Mrs. Hudson. “Are you aware this young mother isn’t married, never has been?”
“Did you have any trouble with the baby today, Vivian?”
“N-no.”
“You seemed quite enthralled with him when I checked in earlier. I saw you rocking and singing to him. It was downright heartwarming.”
“Well, that was before I knew—”
“Precisely. Now don’t you have a bus to catch?”
With a huff, Vivian grabbed her purse and gloves and headed out the door. She never looked back at Charlotte.
Mrs. Hudson watched her leave, then turned to Charlotte. Darcy still nursed greedily, oblivious to his mother’s pounding heart.
“I’m sorry, Miss Penfield. I will do my best to make sure this won’t happen here again.”
Charlotte was still too stunned to respond.
“But I may as well tell you. This is your new life, and there are plenty of Vivians out there. Not all will speak up, but many will think the way she does. Or say it behind your back. You’ll need a thick skin. Did Maggie Marshall warn you about that?”
“Not—not really.”
“Well, she should have. She can’t be around all the time to protect you from it, and neither can I. You’ll need to learn to stand up for yourself and your son, or he’ll grow up believing what he hears.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
&nbs
p; Her tone turned to something warmer. “I’m sorry your first day had to end like this. Otherwise, did things go all right?”
“Oh, yes! I can’t thank you enough for giving me this chance, Mrs. Hudson.” Charlotte wrapped Darcy tightly in his blanket and stood. “I will learn to deal with people like Vivian. For Darcy’s sake.”
“See you tomorrow then.” Mrs. Hudson turned to leave. “You can leave the lights on for the cleaners.”
Charlotte rode the bus home in silence, the occasional tear escaping down her cheeks. The childhood taunts of “Charlotte, the harlot” surfaced in her memory. Back then, she wasn’t even sure what a harlot was, but she knew from Sunday school that there was one in the Bible, so she had figured it must be something good. She felt mortified when her friend Connie explained.
Had her parents been right all along? She’d just experienced a taste of what they wanted to protect her from, what they wanted to protect themselves from. Would she have to deal with this sort of thing forever? Would it go away if she married one day? But who would marry her now? The thought of Reginald’s wife happily married and enjoying her new life with Reginald’s child crossed Charlotte’s mind, but she quickly dismissed it when she looked down at her little son, contentedly nestled in her arms.
“We can do this, my darling boy,” she whispered near Darcy’s ear. “With God’s help, I know we can do this.”
CHAPTER 43
Halloween had passed, and winter was definitely here to stay. Snow lay piled high between the streets and sidewalks, making navigation a challenge for drivers and pedestrians alike. The famous “windiest intersection in Canada”—Portage Avenue and Main Street—was to be avoided at all costs. Maggie had purchased a used but warm winter coat from the Goodwill store, along with boots that fit right over her shoes. These kept her feet dry, but did nothing to protect against the cold. Mrs. O’Toole had knitted hats, scarves, and mittens for her and Charlotte.
“No point waitin’ for Christmas. You need these now!”
“Oh, Mrs. O’Toole! These are beautiful,” Charlotte had gushed, running her hands over the bright red needlework. “When did you have time to do this?”
“What else have I got to fill my time, love? And it’s not all that much. I unraveled some jumpers of me ol’ Patty’s, that’s how I come by the wool. Didn’t cost me a penny.”
Maggie’s set was a more subdued grayish-blue color trimmed in white, and the idea that Mrs. O’Toole had unraveled her late husband’s sweaters to make them brought a lump to her throat. What was wrong with her? If she wasn’t careful, she’d soon be as silly and sentimental as Charlotte. God forbid.
She walked up the steps to the boardinghouse, one hand on the rail to keep her from slipping on the icy concrete. Darkness was settling in, and she was tired from another day of baking at the hotel. Working within the restraints of food rationing was difficult but not impossible, and for some unexplainable reason, she enjoyed the challenge.
The warmth of the house and the savory smell of something in the kitchen welcomed her like a soft blanket around her shoulders. She hung up her coat and purse and checked the small table under the telephone in the hall. A note with her name on it said to call her lawyer, Theodore Jones, when she got in. Two telephone numbers were neatly written at the bottom.
“Mrs. O’Toole?”
“Oh, there ya are, Maggie.” Mrs. O’Toole came around the corner from her sitting room. “I see you found your message. Quite important he said it was, and not to wait for office hours. The bottom number is his house and you can call him there.”
Now what? Maggie wondered. As a self-protective measure, she had given instructions at the police headquarters and fire hall for all new information to go straight to Jones first. She wasn’t sure she could handle any more bad news. Was Earl out of jail? The thought sent a shiver through her.
Her lawyer picked up on the first ring. “Theodore Jones.”
“Good evening, Mr. Jones. It’s Maggie Marshall. My landlady said it was all right to call you at home.”
“Oh, yes. I’m glad you did. There have been some major developments in the case, Mrs. Marshall.”
“Bad news or good?”
“Some of both. As we suspected, the fire commissioner has determined that an accelerant was used, meaning it was arson that destroyed your home and restaurant. I am sorry. These kinds of losses are even harder when you know it was deliberate.”
Maggie sighed. “I hope that’s not the good news.”
“It’s not. You need to know this has all happened unusually fast. Arson is one of the most difficult criminal cases to prove in a court of law, because of the many elements needed to support the points of the crime. In this case, your arsonist wasn’t too bright. It turns out that someone was actually seen pouring fuel around the base of the building the night of the fire.”
“Really? And they’ve only just come forward with this information?”
“It happens. The better news is, police have enough evidence against Earl Marshall to keep him in custody until he goes to trial.”
Maggie sighed in relief. “Any idea when that might be?”
“At least another month, I’d say, but since that takes us into Christmas, it could be next year. You will probably be called to testify, based on your history with your late husband.”
Maggie felt panic rise to her throat. “Why? How can any of Douglas’s activities affect Earl if I can’t prove a connection?”
“Leave that to me, Maggie. I’d like to meet as soon as possible and have you tell me your whole story from the beginning. Are you up to it?”
“I guess I’ll have to be, won’t I?”
“Don’t worry. I will coach you all I can so you’re ready when the time comes.”
They made plans to meet early the following week, and Mr. Jones instructed Maggie to be thinking about and jotting down anything that came to mind regarding the relationship between Earl and her late husband and the questionable activities she suspected had taken place.
“Even if it seems trivial, write it down,” he said. “It may turn out to be important.”
Her appetite ruined, Maggie picked at her supper. She could hear Darcy kicking up a fuss in an upstairs bedroom and wondered what was upsetting the usually contented little tyke. The telephone rang again, and Maggie could hear Mrs. O’Toole discussing a sugarless-cookie recipe with her friend Lydia, who was hard of hearing even when the connection was a good one. Tonight, apparently, it was not a good one.
A fire engine sounded its siren a few blocks away, which instantly reminded Maggie of her burned-down home. The wail kicked off a chain reaction of barking dogs throughout the neighborhood. This was followed by at least one neighbor yelling at his dog to shut up. How could Maggie be expected to think in all this ruckus? And it wasn’t like she wanted to think very hard anyway.
If she testified at Earl’s trial, how much would her history with Douglas come into it? Would she have to describe his abusive treatment and how long she had endured it? It would feel like being stripped naked in front of everyone. A woman could only take so much humiliation.
A newspaper lay on the kitchen table, reminding her that it was Thanksgiving time in the United States: “Victory Prayers Voiced in Service at White House: President and 200 Leaders Ask Peace for World: Divine Guidance Invoked.”
Maggie stared at the headline a long time, not bothering to read the story. How could peace possibly come to a world where it couldn’t even be imagined in individual homes? Though no air raids had sounded and no bombs dropped in Canada, it seemed to Maggie this house had been far less peaceful since Reuben Fennel left it. Could it be that he had been “invoking divine guidance” on this household’s behalf and now they were on their own?
Maggie carried her plate over to the sink, washed and dried it, and placed it with the others in a cupboard. Then she wandered into the sitting room. Mrs. O’Toole was off the phone and had gone upstairs to help Charlotte settle the baby. The sirens had
faded away and the dogs had been silenced. Maggie had never paid much attention to the décor in this room, but now she looked around her. A picture on one wall depicted Christ on the cross, surrounded by Romans who held him in contempt and loved ones who wept grievously. She studied it, trying to imagine the pain, the hatred, the utter vulnerability of being in that position. Naked and nailed to a cross. Could a person feel any more exposed? A new thought struck her: He was humiliated too.
She noticed a record of Christmas carols that had been placed beside Mrs. O’Toole’s gramophone. She pulled it from its sleeve and settled it on the turntable, carefully placed the needle in the first groove, and slid the switch to the On position. Immediately, scratchy sounds began to emit from the speaker, followed by the strains of a philharmonic choir accompanied by a symphony orchestra.
Maggie wandered to the window. More snow was falling, which meant she’d be shoveling again in the morning. Sometimes one had to wonder why anybody lived in Manitoba. Ice and snow all winter and mosquitoes all summer! But as the music played on, she pushed her difficulties out of her mind and watched the gentle snowflakes make their way to the ground. It was her favorite Christmas carol, and the irony that it was originally written in the language of Mr. Hitler himself was not lost on her:
Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright.
Maggie knew that in a world so torn, she was blessed to live in the relative peace and safety of this home. She had much to be thankful for, even as she had much to trust God for. As they so often did, her thoughts turned to Reuben Fennel.
