The Way to London

by Alix Rickloff

  She had only one room left to explore. If Michael didn’t return in five minutes, she’d search him out and remind him not-so-subtly of his promise of a lift to the train station. Miss Ruth and Miss Maude would just have to find another repairman. She had dibs.

  Quite determined and not a little perturbed, she lifted the latch on the front parlor. Here, Mrs. McKeegan’s influence reigned supreme. Braided rugs and spotted dimity curtains. Polished beeswax-scented furniture and copies of Woman’s Weekly and Tatler. More photos of Michael standing in pride of place on the mantel along with school medals and certificates of merit, and calling out to Lucy where it stood gleaming in a patch of bright morning sunlight, the pièce de résistance: a glorious Singer 66.

  A smile of delight and then inspiration crept onto Lucy’s face. She left and returned with her suitcase, setting it on the sofa and snapping open the clasps. She removed each of Aunt Cynthia’s gowns, laying them out to examine them with a designer’s eye.

  The taffeta’s beading would make it difficult to repurpose without more time, while the cream-colored lace was lovely and light but not exactly what she had in mind. The steel-blue satin, while a bit on the severe side, draped beautifully and had plenty of extra material that might be used to add a bit of flair to the neckline, but it was the chiffon that won her heart.

  The floral motif of the underskirt gave it a peacock brightness when so much of the world seemed sapped of every color but khaki and the material flowed through her hands like water. She could imagine half a dozen ways in which to make the old dress not only new again, but better than before. Her earlier impatience faded as she sketched possible ideas on a scrap of paper she found in a drawer.

  Just five minutes more.

  Chapter 13

  Would you look at that? It’s like an advertisement from out of a Vogue magazine, isn’t it?”

  Struggling with her artistry, Lucy hadn’t heard Mrs. McKeegan come in but there she stood, the cherries on her hat wobbling as she took in her front parlor’s current disarray.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, reddening. “I was waiting for Michael to get back and got a bit distracted.”

  “I can see that, love.”

  Mrs. McKeegan took in the deconstructed chiffon. Putting her handbag down on a chair, she circled the gown, fingering the fabric.

  Lucy tensed in expectation of a lecture, and she’d had quite enough of those to last a few lifetimes. “It’s in my head clear as day, but it’s not turning out the way I planned.”

  Mrs. McKeegan glanced at the hastily penciled design sketch, then studied the results of Lucy’s labor for the past half hour. “Did you come up with this all by yourself?”

  “That depends. What do you think?”

  “I think you’ve a real eye, that’s what. It’s a rare few that can look at something and see the possibility. My Michael is the same. Give him a view and it’s not five minutes before he’s penciling it in with all sorts of pretty little buildings.”

  “I don’t think your son would appreciate being compared to someone of my . . . type.”

  “You heard that, did you?” She gave a good-natured laugh. “Don’t pay him any mind. No girl could ever measure up to Michael’s standards. The boy’s looking for a cross between Nurse Edith Cavell and Sylvia Pankhurst.”

  “With a splash of Carole Landis?”

  “What’s that, love?”

  “Just thinking out loud.”

  “He’ll learn soon enough that he can’t build the perfect girl from the ground up. It just happens.”

  “Or doesn’t, as the case may be.” Exhibit A, the mysterious Arabella.

  “Right. Enough about that son of mine,” Mrs. McKeegan declared with a bracing snap to her voice as she shed her jacket and hat. “We’ve work to do.”

  “We have?”

  “Mrs. Forrester and her niece are fabulous at fine work. Miss Mason is a whiz with measuring. And Mrs. Buskin has a dressmaker’s dummy left over from when she used to do alterations at the local milliner’s shop. I daresay that will come in very handy.”

  “Handy for what?” Lucy asked in a slightly dazed voice as she wondered where she had lost control of this conversation.

  “Sprucing up this dress of yours, of course. Oh, you wait. We’ll have it looking smart enough for tea with the queen.”

  “But all those strawberries . . . you’re supposed to be canning today.”

  “Don’t fret yourself, love. The girls and I will have you kitted out long before we’re needed at the hall. And just between you, me, and the lamppost, the sewing circle could use a wee bit of a pick-me-up after all the camouflage netting we’ve been making recently. Useful, but not exactly aesthetically satisfying, is it?”

  What followed was a miracle of organizational planning and execution as Mrs. McKeegan gathered her troops and explained the situation. “Now, Lucy dear, tell us what you’re thinking of and we’ll get to work.”

  Soon enough, Miss Mason studied Lucy’s sketches with a careful eye. Mrs. Forrester and her niece pulled apart seams, marking and saving each piece for use later, while Mrs. Buskin arranged the gown shell on her dressmaker’s dummy.

  Mrs. McKeegan worked the Singer, and Lucy moved from woman to woman explaining her ideas and listening to suggestions in her turn. Someone switched on the radio. Someone else threw open the front windows to the spring breeze scented with lilac and viburnum. The group worked and talked with equal fervor.

  “What do you think if we were to take the hemline here . . .”

  “Did you ever try that recipe for Spam casserole that I cut out of the Woman’s Weekly for you?”

  “I’ve some lovely lace left from my old wedding gown that would be perfect for this bit here by the collar . . .”

  “Elaine’s mother hasn’t left her bed since news came of her brother missing in Borneo. Nasty Japs. Knew we couldn’t trust ’em.”

  “Careful of that ruching at the waistline. You don’t want it to bunch up by the hip there . . .”

  “I substituted cauliflower for the Spam. My Henry said it tasted like dirt, but I noticed he had three helpings.”

  “What do you think, ducks? Would it be better up here . . . or down here . . . ?”

  “Did you see that new girl they got working at the telephone exchange? Talk about cheap goods.”

  “Pass me that spool of pink thread, would you, dear?”

  Like the men at the sentry post, the women were happiest as they traded gossip about neighbors and friends. Lucy was reminded of the backbiting and innuendo traded over Singapore’s tennis courts and dance floors, yet as she listened, she realized this was different from the smug rumors and nasty scandals that were the bread and butter of Malay’s expatriates. There was no ugliness or spite in this endless river of chatter. These women cared about their little community; the triumph of Hazel Clapper’s new job as a secretary and the tragedy of Norma Askey’s boy gone missing over the North Sea were as important as the Russian army’s attempts to break through the German lines or the US Army’s retreat in the Philippines. The war for the ladies of the Charbury Sewing Circle wasn’t being fought on battlefields far away. It was being fought by people they knew. People they loved.

  Despite the grim talk and the forced delay, Lucy experienced a bubble of unexpected happiness. She was usually the outsider looking in: new school, new home, new father. Never staying in any one place long enough to make close friends or put down roots. She’d always called it freedom. It had a better ring than “isolation.”

  Outside, a bicycle bell chirped. All work paused and all eyes focused on the window as the telegram boy passed. Mrs. Buskin watched from the window to see where he stopped. “He’s knocking at the Wagstaffs’. Don’t they have a son in the air corps?”

  “And a daughter working in Birmingham.”

  The room fell silent but for the ticking of the clock and a static-laced duet on the BBC Forces Programme.

  Mrs. McKeegan gripped the Singer’s hand crank
in her fist, her face white as chalk. “Too many telegrams,” she said softly. “Too many of our good boys lost to this fight. And too many left to die.”

  Old sorrows shuttered her face, but Lucy glimpsed an unexpected oaken strength beneath the double chin and flour-coated apron.

  The Wagstaffs’ front door opened. The boy passed over his telegram.

  The women waited, watching, listening.

  A shriek ripped the eerie stillness. “Sam? Sam! It’s Davy!”

  Lucy’s nerves tightened as if they’d been stretched in a winch. The room held its breath.

  “Sam? Did ya hear?” came the feminine shouts from across the street. “Our boy’s got a week’s leave. Davy’ll be here tomorrow.”

  The room exhaled on a sigh. The Singer ticked over slowly, then built up steam. Miss Mason laughed at something Mrs. Forrester said. Her niece hummed around a mouthful of pins. Mrs. Buskin went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. The room settled. The work resumed. Their earlier fear and anxiety were pushed aside by a prattle of village gossip.

  Lucy had always assumed independence equaled strength. But these women displayed a different sort of strength, and a courage found only among friends. As she passed by Mrs. McKeegan, Michael’s mother reached out and gave Lucy’s hand a quick squeeze. Her simple gold wedding band gleamed with a patina of decades, and she smelled of sugar and flour, lavender and soap.

  “A shame you’ve got to run off to London, love. We could use some fresh blood among the ranks. The sewing circle hasn’t been so energized since we helped Maude Caskell turn an old parachute into a wedding dress.”

  “I wish I could, Mrs. McKeegan, but—”

  “You look at London and see the possibility. I understand, love. Wasn’t I just the same when I was young? Eyes on the horizon and not on what was under my own nose.” She winked, and in that moment, Lucy felt included. Like she was one of them.

  Like she belonged.

  Then Miss Mason leaned close to Lucy, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Mrs. McKeegan says you know William Powell.”

  What do you think? I like the way the . . .” She swung around to find Michael, not Mrs. McKeegan, standing in the bedroom doorway. “Oh. It’s you.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were in here. I came up to retrieve my old crystal radio receiver. I thought Bill might like to have a go at it.” He sidled past her to the wardrobe, where he knelt and began rummaging through crates and old cardboard boxes. “Wow! I’d forgotten I still had this.” He held a wind-up tin car painted bright red and yellow. “And look here. My old building blocks.”

  “Really?” She did a little twirl, the skirt breezing round her legs. “Is that all you have to say?”

  He sat back, his gaze traveling over her refashioned gown. “That’s right. Nearly forgot.”

  She preened, awaiting his comment.

  “Car’s gassed and ready to go whenever you are.”

  The first pillow struck him in the back of his thick head. The second caught him square in the face.

  He laughed. “You know good and well you look smashing with or without that fancy dress on.”

  It was her turn to arch a mischievous eyebrow.

  “You know what I mean,” he grumbled, stuffing his head back into the dusty closet of old toys.

  As he resumed his search, she picked up a framed photograph of Michael in a school uniform beside his mother puffed up like a baker’s loaf with pride. “You’re a lucky man, Corporal McKeegan.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The few times my mother deigned to show up at my school, she’d turn the place inside out—all the teachers and staff jumping to do her bidding, wanting to be the one the perfectly perfect Lady Amelia singled out for her regal smile. The girls thought she was some kind of princess. They’d no idea how I envied them their dull, plain, sensible-shoed mothers with their care packages of clean underwear and stale cake.” She paused. “Mothers like yours.”

  “There’s a compliment in there somewhere, but damned if I can find it.” Michael stood up, a long, dusty wooden box in his hand, the label half-peeled away.

  She put down the photograph, running a finger over the glass as if tracing the outline of mother and son beaming proudly into the camera. “Do you know I don’t have a single photograph of Amelia and me? We may as well have been complete strangers.” She shrugged. “I suppose when it came to what counts, we were.”

  Before he could answer, she turned her back to him, pulled her hair from her neck. “Would you mind? The zipper sticks.” When he hesitated, she sighed. “I’m not going to attack you.”

  He put the box down on the bed and stepped close behind her. She felt his breath against her skin and smelled the tobacco-and-soap scent of him as he tugged at the hook and eye. The shallow jump of his breathing sparked an answering hitch in her own.

  Cool air splashed across her back as Michael slid the zipper down as far as her hips. He paused for a moment, his body absolutely still, his deep voice close against her ear. “Is that a tattoo?”

  She could almost hear his jaw snap closed over the word and laughed softly. “What you get when you mix three bottles of brandy with one very bad boy.” Holding the front of the gown against her chest, she started to pivot in the circle of his arms, but he released her, his hands dropping to his sides. “Does that shock you?”

  His face remained impassive, but his eyes gave away the storm of his thoughts. His pulse leapt at the open collar of his shirt.

  “I see.” She turned away. “I guess you were wrong, Michael. You don’t know my type at all.”

  The estate wagon was loaded and gassed. Mrs. McKeegan dragged both Bill and Lucy into lavender-scented, bosomy hugs. “Take care of yourselves. Keep your papers and your gas masks close. See that you stay together and send word just as soon as you’re safe in London.”

  “We will. And thank you”—Lucy gripped the suitcase that held her new and improved chiffon—“for absolutely everything.”

  She was rewarded with a final kiss on the cheek and a maternal gleam that seemed to dance with the promise of orange blossom.

  Oh dear.

  Lucy hid her chagrin in a last check of her watch as the car sped away.

  Michael spotted her frown and quickly defended himself. “Don’t blame me. Bill and I have been waiting for over an hour.”

  “I know. It’s completely my fault.”

  This seemed to confuse him. He glanced over not once but twice with a bewildered expression. “Who are you and what have you done with Lucy Stanhope?”

  “Hardy har har.”

  Lucy didn’t know what had come over her in those few lightning-charged moments in his bedroom, but she was relieved any lingering awkwardness between them had dissipated in the flutter of last-minute preparations for departure. Michael was back to his usual genial self and she . . . she was fully clothed. He’d not surprise her into exposing herself like that again.

  “Laying aside blame for the moment, you’re certain you can still get me to the train station in time, right?”

  He gave a wry grunt of what she chose to take for laughter as he shoved in the clutch and changed gears, but they’d only driven a few miles before he pulled to the side of the road and shut off the engine.

  “What are we doing?” Lucy cried. “Did we forget something? Don’t tell me you need to . . . Why didn’t you take care of that before we left?”

  Michael’s left arm was flung along the back of the seat, his right draped loosely against the wheel. He motioned with a jerk of his chin. “What do you think?”

  She followed the track of his gaze to find herself staring at a shabby stone cottage, the whitewash faded and mildewed. Chimneys sprouting weeds squatted at each end of a slate roof slick with moss. Birds flitted in and out from under a small covered porch flanked by wide mullioned windows, one of which was shattered. Smaller upper-story windows looked out on a back garden overgrown with wildflowers that sloped down toward a meadow and the g
reen shore of a pond rimmed in tall grasses.

  It was the sketch in Michael’s book.

  “It’s not a big estate or a grand mansion, but it’d be mine.”

  “A questionable privilege.” As they sat there, a mangy cat climbed out of the broken window. “Could you really be happy burying yourself out here where the highlight of the social calendar is watching two men play shove ha’penny in the pub?”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

  Bill leaned over the seat and pointed toward a long stone shed with a caved-in roof. “Is that where you’d keep your cow, Michael? I been to Smithfield Market once. There was blood and guts everywhere. And the butcher marched around with a big hammer what smacked ’em right between the eyes.”

  “Bill!”

  Michael laughed and pulled back onto the road. “My cow would be for milk and live a long and happy life up to her waist in meadow grass.”

  Lucy tried to look at the view and see the possibilities. She imagined herself living in a cottage by a millpond. Chatting with Mrs. Buskin and Miss Mason outside the village shop. Walking her dog on the village green and running into Old Man Yancy, who would bend her ear over the RAF officers billeted at the vicarage and the scandal over Louisa Dunlop’s elopement with a conchie of all things. Waving to Miss Jervis, the pretty new schoolteacher, whom all the boys were sweet on.

  It wouldn’t take two weeks before she was bored out of her mind. Six months and the men with the butterfly nets would have to take her away.

  Yet still she found herself glancing back at the little cottage as it fell behind them, watching through the rear window until it was swallowed around a bend in the road.

  Michael glanced over. “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Caught off guard musing over cows and cottages and a life bordered by one’s own garden walls, Lucy ventured what she hoped was an expression of cheerful interest, though she’d little experience at such a combination of facial features, and blurted out the first thing that popped into her head. “Your mother said you won a scholarship to university. I’d no idea I was in the company of such an accomplished academic.”