Into the Storm

by Lisa Bingham

  “He’s going to land there, right over there!”

  For a moment, the neat queue was forgotten as those who had purchased their pans mingled with those who had not yet entered the shop. Then, the soldier landed, hard, upon the cobbled street, his parachute becoming tangled around a nearby lamppost. When he tried to rise, the women suddenly surged forward, wielding the only weapons they had at hand, their newly purchased skillets, pocketbooks, and shopping baskets. Before RueAnn could even summon the wits to move, the crowd overwhelmed the German and began pelting him with blows.

  The shrill squeal of a whistle heralded the arrival of a pair of policemen. But the women would not stop. This pilot had become a symbol of their fear, and they continued to beat him until he sagged onto the street.

  Only then did the shriek of the whistle penetrate. The group began to dissolve as one by one, the women backed away, some running, some panting, gathering breath for another attack.

  “Is he…”

  RueAnn strained to hear the policemen, watching as one of them bent to lay a hand on the German’s chest.

  “…just barely.” He stood, waving the women away with his hands. “Go on, now! Go on!”

  RueAnn trembled as she watched the last of the ladies disperse—some of them sobbing, others righting their hats and returning to their spots in line as if they’d merely stepped aside to retrieve something.

  Forcing herself to turn away from the limp German and the women who stood placidly in line, their clothing spattered with blood, she fought to keep a cold panic from seizing her.

  Who would have thought that such proper, mild-mannered English gentlewomen could have formed so quickly into a bloodthirsty mob? But then, as she was resolutely pushed forward into the shop, RueAnn thought: Who could blame them? It was a wonder that the women of London didn’t stream into the streets each night to overpower the gun operators in an attempt to shoot down the bombers themselves.

  Woodenly, RueAnn collected her pot, a small bag of sugar, and four ounces of ham sliced so thin it was transparent. She surrendered her coupons, paid her precious coins, and hurried back outside, craving the cold chill air, praying it would help to blow away the images of what she’d just witnessed.

  Nevertheless, she purposely took a longer route, skirting the spot where the German flyer had lain. After what she’d already seen, she didn’t want to add the image of the man’s blood soaking into the granite cobblestones like so much grease and oil from passing cars.

  My Beloved Wife,

  I’ve spent a good deal of my time alone during the last few weeks. I’m not complaining. On the contrary. The woman who is hiding me is doing so at great risk to herself. It would mean death or imprisonment for her if I’m found, and my fate wouldn’t be much better. Yet, somehow, she has agreed to help me. Each day, she heads off to work early in the morning, not returning until late in the evening when she shares her meager rations and we talk. The rest of my time is spent in her root cellar, doing everything I can to remain as quiet as possible.

  I won’t worry you over-much with the details, but I’ve been wounded. I must confess that for a time, I thought I was a “goner.” But, thanks to my new friend, I’ve survived and grow stronger every day.

  I’ve done a lot of sleeping. All the rest has helped me to heal quickly, but I’m growing quite tired of the dark and the silence. Kerosene is much too precious for me to even think of wasting it on myself, and the blinds and blackout have to be kept in place night and day. So my only recourse is to prop open the trap door near midday. If I sit on the steps near the top, I can see well enough to write you a letter on the pieces of paper that my helper managed to find for me. I only have a few pages at my disposal, so I’ve rationed them. But if I write small and use narrow margins, I should have enough room to convey my thoughts.

  As far as my situation goes, I don’t dare be too specific. It would be dangerous if these notes were discovered and I’d given too many details of my reasons for being here or the woman who has come to my aid. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t tell you what I’ve discovered in these past lonely weeks.

  A person learns a lot about himself when he’s on his own for such long periods of time. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the things I’ve done. I’ve got regrets—far too many to count.

  But I don’t regret a single second of my time with you. I think that I can honestly say that the day I married you was a turning point in my life. It was at that moment, just after we’d exchanged our vows, that I’d realized I wanted to be different. You gazed up at me with such trust that I wanted to become the man you thought I was. I hope I get that chance. I hope that, one day soon, we’ll be reunited. I want to look deep into your eyes again, and be warmed by your goodness. Your hope.

  I will return to you, my love, my wife. Don’t forget me.

  Don’t give up on me.

  Charlie

  Chapter Fourteen

  Susan stepped into the bathroom, her arms filled with her towel and her ever-shrinking supply of toiletries. It wouldn’t be long before they would be completely out of soap again. She had only a dusting of powder left and a few drops of watered down shampoo. But right now, she didn’t care. She wanted to soak in a hot bath until the first air raids sounded—hopefully hours from now. After the water supply had been cut for two days, she was longing for a proper wash.

  She was reaching for the spigots, when her eyes fell on a dark black line circling the tub only a few inches from the bottom. Grimacing, she reached out to touch it, only to discover that it wasn’t a dirty ring as she’d first supposed, but…

  Paint?

  “Phillip!” she bellowed at the top of her lungs. “Get in here this instant!”

  Her brother staggered into the bathroom. “What? I was trying to get a nap before we go to RueAnn’s.”

  She stabbed an accusing finger toward the tub.

  “What on earth have you done?”

  He glanced at the line. “Voluntary water conservation measures.” He turned and staggered back in the direction of his bedroom. “’Course, with the way they send someone ‘round to read the meter, it’s probably not all that voluntary. Instructions came in a special morning post. Do not fill the tub past that line.”

  Susan glanced from her brother to the raggedy line permanently tattooed onto the surface of the tub.

  How in heaven’s name was she supposed to clean herself in that scant amount of water, let alone wash her hair?

  “Out. Out!” Sara staggered into the loo, flinging open the lid to the commode. Before she could even kneel on the ground, she emptied the contents of her stomach into the porcelain bowl, then huddled, retching.

  Dropping her belongings on the edge of the tub, Susan quickly wet a facecloth with water and handed it to her sister, then reached around her to flush.

  “You’ve got to see a doctor,” Susan insisted as Sara twisted to lean her back against the wall. Eyes closed, she panted softly, indecisive as to whether the nausea had completely passed. “If you won’t do it for yourself, then think of Phillip or Edna. You don’t want to be passing this bug around.”

  Her sister laughed bitterly. “Trust me. This isn’t something I’ll be passing around any time soon.” Her humor turned hysterical. “It’ll be about five and a half months before I pass it around, to be exact.”

  Susan shook her head in confusion. “You’re not making any sense.”

  Sara drew her knees up against her chest and regarded her twin through half-slit lashes.

  “I’m pregnant, Susan.”

  Susan’s mouth formed a wide “O”. Then, sinking down on her knees in front of her sister, she said, “But, how? I-I don’t understand how—”

  “It happened the usual way,” Sara said bitterly, throwing the cloth in the sink.

  Susan thought of the letters hidden beneath her mattress. Sweet, sweet love-letters that she had stolen from her sister.

  “Who? I mean, does…Paul…know?”

 
Sara eyed her in confusion. “Paul. Paul Overdone? Why on earth would I tell Paul anything?”

  “I just assumed…I mean…You went with him…”

  “To the pub,” Sara said, enunciating each word. “Good Lord, I haven’t even thought of the man in months.”

  “Then, who’s…”

  “You needn’t pussy-foot around the issue, Susan. I’m not going to spontaneously combust if you allude to sexual intercourse.”

  “Sara!”

  “Don’t be such a prude.” Her chin wobbled. “You can’t be a prude, because…because I need you. I need your help.”

  Susan reached out, clutching Sara’s hand. “What about the father?”

  The tears came then, spilling over Sara’s lashes and streaking her cheeks along with the tinge of smeared mascara.

  “Bernard can’t help me.”

  “Bernard? Bernard Biddiwell?”

  Susan couldn’t have been more shocked. Yes, she’d been well aware that Sara and Bernard spent a great deal of time together, but…

  But Sara was beautiful and effervescent and fun. Men followed her like baby ducklings, and yet, she’d chosen…had sex with…Bernard Biddiwell?

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Sara sobbed, the tears coming harder and faster. “I’ve known Bernard for…for forever.”

  “Yes, I know but…”

  “But nothing! He’s kind and sweet and…and…”

  And short and balding. A complete homebody. He was nearly thirty and still tied to his mother’s apron strings if Sara was to be believed.

  “I’ve known him forever,” Sara said. “When I’m around him, I feel…beautiful.”

  The comment stunned Susan. Her sister had always been so vibrant and comfortable around men that Susan would have never suspected that Sara had ever doubted her attractiveness.

  “I-I know what you’re thinking…th-that I could have had my pick of any of the men I used to drag home for Mummy to feed. But around them, I always felt as if I had to…act the part. But with Bernard…I can be…me…”

  Huge sobs tore from her chest. Susan held her close, patting her back, trying to calm her.

  “Where is Bernard now?”

  If he had rejected Sara in her current condition, Susan would have the man tarred and feathered. She remembered in the past how her mother—her ladylike, mild-mannered, genteel mother—could suddenly appear ten feet tall and as fierce as a bear if one of her children had been wronged. And suddenly, Susan knew just how Millicent Blunt had felt.

  But her sister began crying even harder, her tears soaking through Susan’s blouse.

  “He’s been given his naval appointment on a destroyer. He sails a week from Friday next!”

  And suddenly Susan understood her sister’s tempestuous emotions. She was alone, pregnant, and about to be labeled “one of those girls” by the neighborhood gossips. Worse yet, her sweetheart was being sent into active duty, perhaps never to return.

  Like Charlie.

  And Paul.

  “Can you get word to him?” Susan asked after the storm of weeping subsided.

  Sara blinked up at her, tears sparkling on her lashes, her face smeared with mascara, her cheeks blotchy with emotion. Susan had never seen her sister looking such a mess…and yet, at the same time, so beautiful.

  “I’m wondering—and mind you, I don’t know anything about what would be involved in such matters—but I’m wondering, if perhaps, we could arrange a wedding.” She hastened to explain, “Not just because you’re pregnant, but because…” she used her palms to wipe the streaks of black from Sara’s cheeks. “Because you’re in love with Bernard—as I’m sure he is with you—and the two of you deserve to celebrate your happiness.”

  For the first time in weeks, Susan saw a bit of hope sparkle in her sister’s eyes.

  “Do you think we could?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t. I don’t know if there’s enough time to get the proper papers, arrange for a vicar…” As Sara’s joy faltered, she promised, “But I’d wager that if it can be done—you, me, RueAnn—we can make it happen.”

  • • •

  When it became apparent that the possible legal formalities could be set into motion and Bernard would be able to get leave, the women were immediately thrown into high gear.

  The wedding would take place in the Tolliver home, since Edna’s front parlor was more suitable for formal occasions. RueAnn and Louise launched themselves into the preparations, polishing the woodwork, scrubbing floors, beating rugs within an inch of their lives.

  Even Edna, who was managing to do a little more on her own each day, rolled her chair next to the kitchen table and spread out the silver, diligently rubbing each utensil to a gleaming finish.

  But the most difficult challenge they faced was the matter of refreshments.

  Susan dug into the larder, discovering a long-lost pot of her mother’s strawberry jam. Then, with a mental apology to Matthew—whom she refused to believe was dead without positive identification of his remains—she confiscated the meager sugar rations that her mother had been saving for more than a year and added the supplies to the pile taking shape on RueAnn’s counter.

  As soon as the neighborhood fence-line telegraph got wind of the nuptials, they were soon inundated with offers of fruit, spare vegetables from the garden, and a precious stick of butter.

  Bringing a war ration cookbook to the Anderson, they pored over recipes with limited amounts of fats and sugars, finally deciding on a selection of small tarts, scones, and miniature savory pies. It meant that they would be eating nothing but vegetables from the garden until the end of the month, but a meeting amongst the boarders had been proven unanimous in splurging for the occasion.

  Since it had become illegal for bakeries to ice a cake, they decided to make their own. Although they had barely enough sugar for the cake itself, they reserved a small amount so that they could drizzle a glaze over the top.

  When the menu had been decided, they turned their attention to the bride herself. There were a few marigolds and chrysanthemums left in the front garden, enough for a bouquet—and the colors would be beautiful against Sara’s skin.

  When they began worrying about a dress, Edna became clearly agitated, pointing to the ceiling. After several minutes of fruitlessly trying to guess what she wanted, RueAnn finally hit on a process of reciting the alphabet, slowly, clearly. When she hit upon the proper letter, Edna would slap her hand on the arm of her chair.

  “Dress? You have an idea for a dress?”

  Edna shook her head and they began again.

  “A…t…t…i…Attic! There’s a dress in the attic?”

  Edna’s hand slapped against the arm of the chair and her head nodded emphatically.

  “Do you want me to go look?”

  Edna nodded again.

  Pushing herself to her feet, RueAnn took a flashlight from the drawer and hurried up the staircase, past the “family floor” as it had been dubbed, past Mr. Peabody and the rat-a-tat typing, past the garret room where she’d been ushered her first night in London. A few feet farther, there was a smaller door that led into the attic space.

  Other than right beneath the steep pitch of the roof, there was very little headroom and RueAnn was forced to stoop. Clearly, Edna was not a collector of things, because other than the furniture they’d brought up after moving Edna downstairs, the space was all but empty except for a few trunks piled in the corner.

  Kneeling in front of them, she opened the first chest, uncovering a treasure trove of Christmas decorations—from delicate glass globes to tinsel, and intricately carved nutcrackers. Moving on to the next trunk, she smiled, realizing that this must be Charlie’s. There were loving cups from various sports and school activities, yo-yo’s and wind-up toys, a bundle of comic books, and a stuffed monkey, its fur nearly rubbed away.

  The next trunk was more promising. Here, she found coats and scarves, mittens, and rubber galoshes. But nothing that even resembled a
dress. Perhaps Edna was confused. There were still times when her frustration and emotions overwhelmed her.

  There was only one other place to look. A suitcase that looked much too small to contain anything approximating a wedding dress.

  But when she lifted the lid to expose a nest of tissue paper, her heart began to beat just a little faster. Pulling the protective layers aside, she exposed a beautiful silk, high-waisted gown with rows of tucks and lace interspersed with dozens and dozens of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons.

  Lifting it high, RueAnn gasped as the delicate ivory silk flowed from her fingers like water. Beneath the gown, still swathed in tissue, she also found a veil edged in Chantilly lace as fine as a spider’s web, a pair of satin dancing slippers, ivory silk stockings, and pale blue garters made from silk satin ribbon.

  Looking at the beautiful garments, RueAnn tried to imagine a young Edna, one who had anxiously prepared to be a bride, carefully choosing silk and lace and ribbon. Had she been in love with Charlie’s father? The house was rife with evidence of Charlie having been here as well as a little girl named Francine.

  So what had happened to Charlie’s father? Had he died? Or had Edna been abandoned? Either might explain the aura of bitter pride that had clung to her on that evening when RueAnn had first arrived.

  Closing the attic door behind her, RueAnn hurried down the stairs, the silken ensemble cradled in her arms. The moment she walked through the door, Edna’s mouth lifted in a crooked smile.

  A sound that sounded very much like a slurred, “Yesh, yesh,” burst from her lips.

  RueAnn carefully laid the dress across Edna’s lap. “Are you sure you want to loan it to Sara?”

  “Gish.”

  “Give? You want to give it to Sara.” She took Edna’s good hand. “You can’t mean that. This dress must hold happy memories for you.”

  Edna nodded, then said again, “Gish Shara.”

  “You’re certain?”

  Edna pushed the dress toward her, then made a cutting motion like scissors with her good hand.

  Impulsively leaning forward, RueAnn placed a kiss on Edna’s cheek. “You are a special lady, do you know that?”