All Good Women

by Valerie Miner

  She loved the hardiness of the park, despite the dreary weather, despite the endless war. This resilient green reminded her of the patched elbows on men’s sweaters and the made­over dresses Esther and Sheila wore. On certain days, Ann felt as if she had no personal life; she simply lived for the news over the wireless about fighting on the Continent and the speeches in Parliament. And yet at other times she existed as if only the basics mattered — going to work, shopping for supper, drinking with friends.

  Even on these mundane days she knew the war had burrowed deeply into British life. All women between eighteen and sixty were conscripted for the services, for nursing, factory work or other vital jobs. People donated their cooking pots for aeroplane aluminum. Signs in the butcher’s shop read, ‘Have You Registered For Meat?’ It felt like an army of citizens, more dedicated than organized. Certainly there were rations and patriotic sacrifices in the States, but the war wore closer to the bone here. The bombings brought death, injury, damage. Churchill, himself, was much more of a warrior than Roosevelt. She often wondered how the man had suffered through Chamberlain’s appeasement policy.

  Ann breathed easier now. The further she moved into the park, away from the traffic exhaust, the more pensive she became. Perhaps it was because the oxygen was getting to her brain? While she felt involved in the war effort, she was continually reminded that she wasn’t British. First, there was the language: lift, petrol, biscuit, barrister, Wellingtons, spanners. Then her accent. Still, she was amazed when Londoners didn’t understand her, for she spoke so clearly and slowly in comparison to them. Often she was grateful that she wasn’t born here for she knew her class origins would exclude her from many circles. But as an American she was part of an international set which flowed in and out of various scenes. If she were to stay, would she lose that fluidity? Would she become British? She thought Reuben could make a more successful conversion than she.

  Ann knew she could always count on the serenity of the pond, even this early in the morning. She thought about Wanda’s letter reporting Howard’s death. The Europeans who were so smug about Americans being unscathed by the war should meet Wanda and her family. God knew why it was Howard and not Daniel. They couldn’t have been stationed that far apart. She had even written to Daniel suggesting the two boys try to meet. Why was it so important that all the pieces in her life fit together? Clearly she was losing rein on that. Everything was changing. Look at Moira, full of joy about baby Tess. Good for her. That kind of optimism counted for a lot when the world around you was falling apart.

  There were four ducks today. Two stayed in the pond; two circled overhead and landed on the water. Where had the swans gone? Ann admired their alabaster certainty. She remembered how Moira used to tease her about being as aloof as a swan and now she had to wonder about her own arrogant presence around the house. So many questions crystalized now that she was leagues away from San Francisco. How much she wanted to return to Stockton Street, just for an evening.

  She missed Moira’s energy and Teddy’s laconic good will and Wanda’s political insights. She missed the fresh vegetables from their garden. She missed the sun. The stupid radio programs — even Jack Benny. The sense of possibility. Oh, the British were inspiring in their endurance. But they would call her American belief in progress quaint. Ann realized that this was more than another patch of homesickness. How could she convey the depth of this feeling to Reuben? If she were to stay in this country, she would always be alien. When she had first moved here she had revelled in the sophistication of the people, the historical buildings, the international references, the proximity of Culture. She thought she had grown up. Now she understood she had simply moved.

  Ann pulled her hat over her ears and walked down the hill as fast as her straight, wool skirt would permit.

  That evening, as she hurried to the train, Ann heard a distant air raid siren. She had got to the point that she knew where the bombs were falling, almost to the street. The sirens bothered her more than the explosions, with their eerie whining before and after attack. What was the sound? Melancholy, fear, resignation, resistance, outrage. Wolves howling in the bush. Women wailing in the kitchen.

  Ann never worried about being hit. She knew people who had died. She had friends who had been badly hurt, who had lost their homes. But she felt immune. It wasn’t rational, she understood this.

  Once on the train, she prepared herself to be cool and professional with Leah. She would show her kindness through the book she brought and that was all. She would not fall for those big, brown eyes. She was going to reassure Mrs Goldman that the girl would be all right.

  Mrs Goldman had prepared a generous meal. Sarah graciously helped her serve. Leah stayed in her room and Ann kept her resolve to attend to Mrs Goldman first. She would ignore the girl’s sulking.

  ‘Delicious,’ Ann said. ‘You’re a splendid cook.’

  ‘I worry about her appetite.’ The plain, middle-aged woman spoke softly. ‘She’s a wee one.’

  Ann looked at the fresh cake. ‘She’ll perk up. With such temptation, how can she do otherwise?’

  ‘She does what she pleases,’ said Sarah. ‘Mum has tried everything. She doesn’t care.’

  ‘That’s enough, Sarah, run along now dear.’

  The girl walked out with dignity, turning at the door and casting a critical eye at Ann.

  ‘She’s very loyal to you.’ Ann smiled.

  ‘A lovely child,’ Mrs Goldman nodded. ‘Must have had — or have — a wonderful mother in Germany.’

  Ann agreed, lost for a moment in the thought of Uncle Aaron’s kids. She had never found out anything about her cousins. Could Sarah be her cousin? She was probably a little young.

  ‘Leah is also a lovely child,’ Mrs Goldman persisted. ‘I’m just not sure this is the right home for her.’

  ‘Are you asking us to take her back?’

  ‘I cherish the girl. It’s not me who’s doing the asking.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Ann summoned Esther’s confidence. ‘She just needs time.’ She changed the topic to practical matters of school and clothing rations and the two women managed to fill half an hour without mentioning Leah’s ‘condition’ again.

  ‘Perhaps I should say hello to Leah now,’ Ann said, hoping she masked her anxiety.

  ‘Right, this way.’ Mrs Goldman led her to the back bedroom. Knocking on Leah’s door, she called out, ‘Visitor, luv, someone to see Leah.’

  The door opened. Leah stood wrapped in a grey blanket. Ann looked at Mrs Goldman, who raised her eyebrows and ushered Ann into the room. Then she shut the door behind her.

  It took all Ann’s willpower not to open her arms to the child. She reached into her bag for the book she had brought. ‘Hello, Leah. A present. From me … and Esther.’

  Leah looked at Ann as though she were being presented with a dead mouse.

  ‘How are you doing, Leah?’

  Leah returned to the bed and pulled the covers around her. Ann noticed what a cheerful room it was, with a big window overlooking the garden, just as Mrs Goldman had promised. Ann waited several minutes for Leah’s response.

  Then she tried, ‘It’s a pretty room, dear.’

  Leah stared at her in disbelief.

  ‘Are you getting along with Sarah?’

  Again Ann waited, leaning now against the bureau. Leah continued her silent reproach.

  Ann was furious. Furious at the world forcing Leah to shuttle German and English and American mothers. Furious at herself for being so vulnerable. Furious at Leah for being so strong. She could think of nothing to say. So she turned and put the book on Leah’s bureau. ‘Good-bye then, Leah.’

  She reached for the door and was split in two by the sound from behind her, a high-pitched wail.

  Ann turned back toward Leah with a fearful admiration.

  Ann sat in the chilly classroom, at the back near the
door, because she didn’t want to be conspicuous as she tried to catch up. She hadn’t done this week’s assignment because of the flu and the extra load at work. Were Virgil’s Eclogues worth the effort? What was she doing studying Latin in the middle of a war? What good could this possibly do anyone? Ann stretched her neck, aware of an incipient migraine. Since she arrived in London, the headaches had diminished.

  Professor Warwick was a small, white-haired man who looked as if he might have campaigned with Caesar himself. He had a fine Roman nose and aristocratic brows and, behind the stern veneer, a great store of kindness. It was kind of him to allow her to audit the course. Kind of him to see her before class because she couldn’t come during the day. She felt remorseful tonight about being behind. Remorseful about school. Remorseful about work. She should be in the office now, finishing the new files. What use was it sitting in this cranky old room listening to Virgil’s poetry?

  Whose flock is that, Damoetas? Tell me, are these

  Meliboeus’ sheep?

  No, they are Aegon’s. Aegon has just left me

  in charge of them.

  Her last few days had been filled with questions about Leah and work and Papa and Reuben and now about this course. She hated the painful scrutiny.

  Ann turned the page, consciously returning to the class. Yes, she followed these lines.

  Poor sheep, unlucky all the time!

  Aegon runs off to keep Neara

  warm, fearing she may prefer me to himself,

  while here a

  hireling shepherd milks his ewes every half hour,

  till the whole

  flock is dry and the lambs left without a drop.

  She wasn’t far behind. Ann looked around the room, appreciating the eclectic class: the young bank clerk in her starched white blouse; the middle-aged woman slumped behind her parcels; the thin, quiet, red-haired fellow who rarely spoke but who always seemed ahead of everyone. Yes, Latin appealed to a variety of people. Perhaps Professor Warwick was the attraction. Clearly he delighted in transporting his audiences through the centuries. She would like to do this one day. She imagined being in front of a younger group of students — exploring the psychological, spiritual and emotional textures of these poems. When she returned to San Francisco.

  Ann felt a draught and pulled the coat around her. Teddy had been right about the value of a good wool coat. Only English rooms could be stuffy and chilly at once. Professor Warwick glanced in her direction. He seemed to be inquiring if she were taking care of herself, scolding her for sitting so near the door. That was a peculiar aspect of English personality — although they treated you formally at first, once they had got used to you they became overly solicitous. She smiled to reassure him, but by this time he had re-entered the Eclogues.

  Teddy’s letter was stuck in between the next two pages and as much as Ann tried to concentrate on Virgil, her mind wandered back to Stockton Street. Teddy sounded like she was running around with her head cut off, with her family and the Emporium. They were all overdoing it — Moira and Wanda too — but Teddy was stretched the thinnest. Nice to hear she had grown closer to Sandra and Dawn. Had she changed this year? Of course, they all had. They all changed in the sense of growing up: that didn’t mean they were different people.

  Oh, she would love to return to the slow Friday evenings and the lazy Saturday mornings, even to another dinner with the parents. Teddy always wrote encouraging her to come back, when she wanted. If they had another room-mate, they would tell the girl she could stay only until Ann’s return. What would be waiting besides the room? Was Moira that much tougher from the shipyard? Would Leah and Tess get along? Leah, she had to stop thinking about her. Would Wanda be too bitter to return? How would they all feel about Reuben? No, she didn’t want to think about him either. She wanted to …

  Chairs screeched across the wooden floor and Ann glanced up to find class over. She didn’t dare look at Professor Warwick who knew, no doubt, that she had spent the evening far from Meliboeus’ sheep. Carefully she collected her papers, as if they were her wits — slowly, neatly — and resolved to be better prepared the following week.

  The next trip to Penge was less leisurely. Mrs Goldman had phoned, desperate about Leah not eating. On the train Ann’s thoughts splintered into images of the Dachau victims and of Simone Weil starving herself in sympathy with the French people. Of course Leah was too young to understand any of that. Of course she was just being stubborn. Everything would be all right.

  The train seemed impossibly slow. Ann tried to re-read a letter from Wanda. Then she started to write back. Then she put the pad in her bag and stared out the train window. How foolish to think she was immune.

  Mrs Goldman let her into Leah’s room and quietly exited.

  Leah lay in the bed, her eyes closed, with none of the defiance of the previous month. Ann approached the bed cautiously, thinking she was crazy; she hardly knew this child, she had a life of her own. No, she reminded herself, this was not Mama; this was a stranger, a little girl who had a mother in Germany and another mother right here in England. Then Leah opened her eyes.

  Ann expected anger, bitterness, demand.

  Instead, the child smiled.

  ‘All right,’ Ann said. ‘I’ll ask if you can come home with me.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Mid-winter 1945, San Francisco

  AMERICANS TAKE MANILA

  DRESDEN FIREBOMBED

  SYRIA DECLARES WAR ON AXIS

  TEDDY STOOD ON THE FRONT STEP, shaking out her black umbrella as Moira opened the door and bustled inside to claim Tess from the babysitter. Rainy Saturday, perfect time for a funeral. Teddy glanced at the Minellis’ house. Hard to believe they were both gone now. She would miss seeing Mr Minelli thumping down the street with his cane. Of course she knew he wouldn’t last long after Mrs Minelli went. What was it — ten months and he was gone. Mr Minelli had become a daily presence in their lives since his wife died. The Minellis had been good neighbors during the past six years. Lord, had it been six years since they had moved in? Teddy watched the water running in a small stream along the sidewalk. The street was slick and she could hear a screech of brakes from around the corner.

  ‘Hey, Teddy, you gonna stand out there all day, heating up the sidewalk?’ Moira called.

  ‘Sorry.’ Teddy hurried into the house, surprised by Moira’s edge. She was probably just upset from the funeral. Teddy stood with one hand on the radio. The announcer was talking about the Marines on Iwo Jima. But Moira wasn’t listening. She was paying the babysitter and twisting the lace collar off her black dress.

  ‘How about some hot chocolate?’ Teddy asked. ‘Wouldn’t that warm you up?’

  ‘No, there’s too much work to do.’ Moira was escorting the girl to the door, grateful for her report about Tess’s good behavior.

  Teddy started to turn off the radio, then followed Moira into the kitchen. ‘What’s so important? The breakfast dishes? I’ll do those.’

  ‘Why should you? You have your own life to lead.’ Moira began running the water. Relieved to be back in the house with her daughter, she often worried someone would steal Tess while she was away.

  ‘But you’re part of my life. And those dishes are half mine.’ Teddy draped her raincoat over a chair, listening to the radio with one ear. Iwo Jima, could that be where Virgil was?

  ‘One-third yours. You did the vacuuming, the dusting and the cooking all week. It’s my turn to do the damn dishes.’

  ‘Moira, honey.’ Teddy reached for her elbow, but Moira pulled away. ‘You have enough to do with your job and Tess.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Moira nuzzled Teddy’s shoulder. ‘I know you’re just trying to be kind, but I have to assume my own responsibilities.’

  ‘Why can’t you accept a little help? Listen, let’s sit down and have a cup of something before falling straight back to work. It
would be good to talk about Mr Minelli. We hardly got to talk last night with Tess’s crying and such.’

  ‘Babies cry, Teddy; it’s part of the deal.’

  Teddy didn’t even attempt to answer.

  ‘It’s not my fault the child cries.’ Moira could feel her spine tighten. ‘If it bothers you, we can find another place.’

  ‘Enough.’ Teddy knew that when Moira got this upset she was hiding something. ‘Just go into the living room and lie down on the couch while I make cocoa.’

  Moira obeyed, shivering as she approached the old elephant. She had been upset all week, but it was getting impossible to contain. When she first saw the envelope from Randy, she felt relatively collected. Even after she opened it and read the neat block printing saying he would be home in a month, she thought she could handle it. Hadn’t she practiced this scenario a hundred times? Of course Vivian and Dorothy always said he would throw over that girl in the end. But what did she care? She would see him once, explain that she was otherwise engaged, and be as low key about Tess as possible. He had no legal claims on either of them.

  Moira half heard the gruesome details of the Dresden bombing.

  Horrible, but necessary, everyone was saying. Necessary, did they have any idea what necessary meant when they entered this war? She tried to concentrate on a report about the Russians in Breslau. She had no strength to get up and turn off the wretched radio.

  If he had been so anxious to see her, why hadn’t he written for months and months? What was this about a minor wound, a medical discharge? Moira held her breath and told herself to forget it. Forget it. FORGET IT. What did she care? She was taken. Lesbian, he would hate that. She wanted to tell him as much as she knew she couldn’t. She felt secure in Teddy’s love but their very bond seemed like a terrifying dare to the rest of the world. Oh, hell, what did he matter?

  She had managed to put the letter out of her mind all day Monday, but on Monday night she dreamt Randy was making love to her. She woke up, went downstairs for hot milk and later fell into another dream, like the ones that haunted her early in the war, about him bleeding on a deserted beach. She felt better on Tuesday after she saw old Vivian. Vivian said she had a right to be furious with the bastard. Then, as she was welding, Moira’s mind wandered to the injury. What was it? Had it interfered with his writing? Maybe a blow to the head? His hands? The more Vivian defended her rights, the more guilty Moira felt. On Wednesday, she resolved to stop fretting about him and on Wednesday night she could not sleep for the dreams. Moira thought about telling Teddy, but she was so caught up with Mr Minelli’s funeral and Mr Whitney’s roving hands. However, the fact that she had a problem was becoming perfectly clear. Yes, she should tell Teddy. Tell her what? That she had heard from Randy? How important was that after all? There was no peace — in silence or in disclosure.