Tidings of Comfort and Joy (13 page)

"The trouble with stopping out here is I never want to leave," Colin confessed.

"It is beautiful," I agreed. I was becoming increasingly comfortable with the soft-spoken assistant vicar. Colin was an odd candidate for sainthood, with his shock of sandy hair that looked as though it had never seen a brush, and his utter disregard for the state of his clothes or his truck.He often forgot to eat, unless someone grabbed hold as he rushed by and sternly ordered him to sit. He was scatterbrained and forgetful, and he took on more work than could possibly have been handled by two men.

But the children loved him, and he kept up a determined effort never to let them down. We would work together for hours, scrubbing floors, or making vast urns of soup, or tending the sick children, and scarcely share a word. Yet just being around Colin Albright was helping to heal my wounds. His silence and his dependability assured me that not all men were like Grant.

Once again, our truck's arrival caused a mad scramble around the airfield. Brad, the Indiana farmboy, separated himself from the rush to greet us with a grand wave. "Was wondering when you folks'd show up again."

"I'm awfully sorry that we only come when we need something," Colin said, stepping down from his truck.

"Shoot. We been wondering why you haven't come back before now." He tipped his airman's cap in my direction. "Bob's off on a jaunt across the Atlantic, Emily. But we haven't forgotten you. Just been awful tied up lately. Planes have been in here morning, noon, and night, what with this spell of nice weather. Kept us all hopping. Ain't had a single spare seat, though. I've been watching."

"That's okay," I said, extending my smile to all the gathered young men. It was becoming increasingly easy to smile these days. "I've been pretty busy myself."

"She's proved herself to be indispensable to our efforts," Colin agreed.

"So how come you haven't been back for more stuff, Reverend?"

Colin found it hard to respond. "Actually, we've hardly ever asked for anything."

"Come again?"

"Well, you see, we've rarely made collections even among the villagers, that is, unless there has been a genuine emergency."

"Like now," I added.

"Precisely. The villagers have simply given what they could, and we have tried to make do."

For some reason, the vicar's words seemed to shame the tall young man. "All this time, we been standing around here like a buncha jackdaws," he muttered. "Wait till Bob hears about this."

"You really mustn't think like that," Colin protested. "Your largesse in our hour of need was a godsend."

"Yeah, well, we coulda done more."

It seemed like a perfect opportunity to discuss our plight. "We have a problem," I said, and told him of the children's illness. "We're not sure, but the doctors think it's probably hepatitis. We want to inoculate those who are well, and the Ministry has promised us the drug . . . "I looked helplessly at Colin. I had forgotten the word.

"Gamma globulin," he supplied. "But we've been waiting for weeks now, and still they say there is nothing available. I fear there are other afflicted areas with higher priority than an orphanage full of foreigners."

"Not as far as we're concerned." Brad turned and shouted, "Where's Smitty?"

"Here." Abowlegged ox dressed only in a green T-shirt and fatigues, despite the cold, emerged from the crowd.

"How many kids we talking about?"

"One hundred and seventy are well," I replied."Another hundred and nineteen are bedridden."

"Not a hope," Smitty replied. "I got maybe two dozen doses."

"We'll get more," Brad declared, and levered his jaw out another determined inch. "Or my name ain't Bradley Atwater."

Once again, the truck was overloaded for the return journey. Our protests were simply ignored as a steady stream of young men carried out box after box of PX canned goods. Finally we gave up, and allowed ourselves to be herded inside their warehouse.

We walked the aisles in stunned silence. I had forgotten how different things were back home. I found myself thinking of the Arden village grocer's empty shelves. Or the arguments relayed by one of the helpers who had gone in to ask the butcher for soup bones. Or the rationing of everything from sugar to dresses. Or how at least once a week the baker had no flour with which to make bread. The amount of goods in this warehouse, stacked right to the ceiling, seemed vaguely obscene.

We allowed ourselves to select two cases of canned meat, and four more of orange juice. From an entire aisle of medical supplies we chose bandages and aspirin and ointments and iodine and cough medicine. Our quiet excitement caused the young men accompanying us to beam like lighthouses. As we started back toward the truck, Brad stopped at the corner.

"Oh, hey. I almost forgot. Think you could use any of these?"

I had been too excited until then to notice, but the smell hit me hard. I did not need to see what Brad was holding up. I stepped over to the open door, hoping the fresh air would relieve my sudden nausea.

Colin's reaction could not have been more different."Bananas," he said, his voice hushed. "You must be joking."

"We got three hundred pounds of the things dumped on us last week. Been eating 'em like we're racing the clock. Got 'em coming outta our ears."

"May I?" Reverentially, Colin pulled one off the stem, peeled it, and took a bite. He closed his eyes as he chewed.Finally he said, "I haven't had a banana in four years. No, make that five."

"Do us all a favor, Reverend." Brad extended the armload. "Take these things off our hands, will you?"

"With pleasure." Colin handled the gift as he would the sacraments. "I doubt many of these children have ever tasted a banana."

The words brought a sudden stillness to the gathering.The smiles vanished. "You serious?"

"Totally." Colin took the last bite of his fruit. "That was perfectly delicious. Thank you so much."

Another moment's silence, then Smitty offered, "Supposed to get in another load of oranges next week."

"We will take whatever you don't need yourselves," Colin said. "Certainly."

The bananas were loaded in a strangely subdued silence.It was not until we were inside and Brad climbed on the running board, that he explained, "Most of the guys, they're using this extra junk to, well . . . "

"Impress the local ladies," Colin replied quietly. "I quite understand."

"I don't guess any of us thought maybe we should do something on our own, you know, without somebody asking for help." He stood there and continued to chew on his lip for a while before confessing, "Our chaplain, he got shipped back in November."

"Yes, I know. He was a friend of mine," Colin said quietly. "Well, it certainly would be an honor to have you and all your friends join us for our Sunday service."

"That might just be the ticket." Brad shot me a quick glance from beneath his heavy black brows. "We sorta been hanging around too much lately."

"Don't be too hard on yourselves," Colin said. "You have all been through the ravages of war. It's perfectly natural that you would want to blow off some steam." He hesitated, then added, "But I would appreciate your not repeating my words to the fathers of our village maidens."

Brad grinned through the open window. "You're all right, Reverend."

"A rare and valuable compliment indeed," Colin said, returning the smile. "I would only counsel you and your friends to remember the Scriptures as you unwind."

Brad nodded slowly. "I believe I'll take you up on your offer to visit you in church. Some things I've sorta let slide."

"Excellent." Colin ground the starter. "Until Sunday, then."

We drove the entire way back in silence, my window lowered a bit to keep the smell of ripening bananas from overwhelming me. Occasionally we glanced at each other and shared a smile. For some reason, the visit to the airfield had left us both feeling things that simply could not be put into words.

THIRTEEN

The next morning I awoke to the sound of heavy rain drumming on my clay-tiled roof. Once again, I had dreamed about Grant. For the first time since the early days of my illness, I had difficulty rising from my bed. Tendrils of my dreams held me like rank and odiferous roots. They had grown up about me in the night, and now sought to draw me down into the dark and bitter earth.

As quickly as I could manage, I dressed and walked next door. My eyes remained dry, but my heart was sore from the memories reawakened by the dream. The rain fell in steady sheets. As I let myself in to Rachel's house with the key she had given me, I had the feeling that the sky was crying for me.

We had fallen into the habit of breakfasting together. I tried to dredge up a smile in reply to her cheery hello. I accepted a cup of tea sweetened with condensed milk from the PX, one of the few things Rachel had taken for herself, and confessed, "I dreamed about Grant again last night."

"Yes, well, it happens." Rachel popped toast into the oven, and stood sipping her cup at the counter. "If only we could cauterize our hearts and memories like we can our body's wounds."

I nodded, but in truth I was thinking about the dream. How Grant had walked strange streets I knew belonged to Berlin, searching for me, calling my name, confused because I was not there with him. "Do you think maybe I should go to Berlin, and just give—"

"No, I most certainly do not." Her tone was quiet yet firm. "Grant is no longer a part of your life, my dear. For better or worse, he has chosen his course. You must free yourself, and look to your own future."

Though it was hard to accept the words, I liked Rachel's way of neither excusing nor pushing aside, but accepting with a quiet dignity and strength. It appealed to me. There was no falseness in her way of discussing Grant. He was who he was, he had done what he did. "You're right," I sighed. "It's just, well . . . "

"You miss him," she said matter-of-factly. "But you must not mistake your heart's whimper as a call from either God or a possible future. That door is closed."

After breakfast, we spent the few final minutes before the taxi arrived standing out on Rachel's balcony. The row of houses had originally been one long riverside inn. When the industrial revolution made travel affordable for most people, Arden had become a favorite destination. It lay midway between Oxford and London, and families would come here to escape the city's confines. They would overnight here and spend the next day cruising up and down the Thames on long Victorian steam launches.

That morning, the heavy rain turned the sky the same color as the slate-gray river. Across the water, a narrow field stretched to meet hills that rose in lazy ridges. The vista was very sleepy-looking, decorated by forests stripped bare in winter, and by the rain. The loudest sounds were the calls of geese who wintered on the plain, and lorries trundling across the ancient stone bridge to my right.

"I love to come out here," Rachel murmured, "and listen to the river."

The breeze flicked rain back to where I stood by the door. "It's cold."

"Perhaps." Rachel did not move. "I only notice it until I hear the river speak to me. After that, the unspoken truths warm me to the core."

She glanced over at me, a contented smile playing upon her features. "I find God's creation holds so many lessons. From this little stretch of river I have learned the power of those simple words, 'Be still and know.' It is only when I learn to quiet my mind and heart that I can sometimes catch the faintest hint of what can never be expressed in words alone."

I stood beside her, watching the water sweep by below us. Light and wind and rain sent scattered impressions across the surface, coming and going so swiftly they melded into one giant intangible canvas.

When the doorbell sounded, I was glad to turn away and follow Rachel back inside. I felt my eyes had been shown what my heart was not yet ready to fathom.

When Fred dropped us off at the orphanage, the night-mistress came rattling down the stairwell to greet us. She had taken to wearing a great ring of keys strapped to her belt, one for the main doors and others for each of the larders, which were becoming increasingly full. With each step, Kate jangled like an old-fashioned potsherd.

"Annique is down," she said in greeting, speaking to me and not to Rachel. "And she's calling for you."

I felt a hand rise to catch my lurching heart. "What do you mean, 'down'?"

Impatiently she grasped my arm and tugged me upstairs. "I mean she's down, what do you think?"

"But she can't be," I protested, allowing myself to be dragged to the upstairs sick-hall. "The children are getting better."

"And I'm telling you she woke up with a swollen liver and a jaundiced complexion," Kate replied edgily. Nights of interrupted sleep were taking their toll. "She should be sleeping, but all she does is lie there and cry for her
Andiel
Emily."

"Andiel? What's that?"

"I haven't the foggiest."

The upstairs ballroom had been transformed into an isolation hall. The grand domed ceiling, with the ceramic cherubs in each corner and the trio of crystal chandeliers, now looked down over a hundred little forms. There were beds of every variety, from farm cots with straw mattresses to cast-off whitewashed hospital beds to one ancient four-poster holding three of the smaller children. The hall smelled of disinfectant and illness.

As soon as the door opened, I heard a familiar highpitched voice calling weakly. I rushed down the long central aisle until I arrived at Annique's bed. Two spindly arms were outstretched, the bright dark eyes imploring me with a language that I could understand. I sank to the bedside, and allowed the arms to draw me close. As I held her, I realized it was the first time I had ever touched more than her hand.

Annique was always there, playing the little assistant, guiding me to those in need, watching as I held and comforted. But she had never let me embrace her. Now, as I spoke soothing words and stroked the fine black hair, I realized that watching others receive affection was as close as Annique had permitted another person to come, until now.