Tidings of Comfort and Joy (14 page)
I sat there and rocked Annique back and forth. Time seemed to slow, and the outside world receded. I found myself thinking back to standing upon Rachel's balcony.
I remembered the river's gentle flowing, and the sound of the rain, and the way the calm had tried to work its way into my bruised and battered spirit.
Peace, be still,
came the whispered words to my heart. As though it was only now, when need forced me to reach inside and tap my own inner well, that I was able to hear the silent voice.
I do not know how long I sat there holding Annique. But finally a hand touched my shoulder, and a voice said, "There is a telephone call for you."
"For me?" I turned and stared up at one of the sick-hall helpers. "But nobody knows I'm here."
"Obviously someone does." The sick-hall attendant waited until I had settled Annique back onto the mattress. As I rose, she examined my face, and said quietly, "You mustn't worry, dear. We haven't lost a single child yet."
I followed her back downstairs to where the orphanage's only telephone rested in the side hall. I picked up the receiver and said hello.
The twang of an Indiana farmboy rang out loud and clear. "Well, hey there, Emily. That operator lady said she was pretty sure you'd be here. How you doing?"
"Fine," I said weakly. "How are you, Brad?"
"Oh, I'm just dandy. Reason I'm calling, the shipment of that gamma stuff is coming in before long. Thought you'd like to know."
I could not help but feel a little pang for the darkhaired girl lying upstairs. Why, oh why could it not have arrived earlier? But I put as much enthusiasm as I could into saying, "Oh, Brad, that's wonderful. I can't thank you all enough."
"Don't mention it. Got all the boys fired up, having something to think about besides just getting home." His cheery tone carried over the crackling line. "Hey, you won't believe what else has happened. After you were up here, I sent a letter back to the folks with one of the planes. Told them about the kids and how they'd been rounded up all over the place, no papers, can't hardly understand them. They called me last night."
My tone had drawn Rachel out from the kitchen. She stood staring at me, as I said, "From America?"
"Yeah, couldn't hardly believe it myself. Said it took 'em two solid days to get through. Anyway, they said they'd read my letter out in church. I was real embarrassed about that. I never did pay much attention to grammar and such. But they said that some of the church families were talking about maybe adopting a couple of the kids."
"That would be splendid," I cried, not trying to mask my excitement. "They are wonderful children, and they certainly could use a loving home."
"I'll write and tell 'em what you said. And that gamma stuff, it oughtta be here early next week, but we can't say for certain. There's some real rough weather over on the Continent, temperature's down to fifteen below in Belgium. They say it's headed this way."
After I hung up, Rachel said, "Well?"
"The temperature may be dropping again tonight."
"I am certain the excitement I just heard in your voice was not caused by a discussion of the weather," Rachel snapped. "Now what did the young man say?"
"The gamma globulin might be in soon," I announced, and explained about the weather.
"Thank God," Rachel breathed. "May this finally be the end to the illness."
"There's more," I said, and related the news about the adoptions.
Rachel grew very somber. "I wouldn't mention that just yet," she warned. "Not to anyone."
"Why on earth not?"
"Think of all the red tape we would have to unravel before that could actually happen. There is no need to get anyone's hopes up." She hesitated, then added, "If it happens at all. You don't know the Ministry like I do."
"What do they have to do with anything?"
"My dear, these children are officially under
their
care, not ours." Rachel's aged features creased into a worried frown. "I can't even begin to think how they might react to news that we are shipping their charges off to America."
"You're right," I agreed, but already my mind was racing. I lifted the receiver, and jiggled the handle until the operator came on the line.
Rachel demanded, "What are you doing?"
"Could you ask Fred to come pick me up, please?" I said to the operator. "Yes, that's right, I'm up at the orphanage."
Rachel watched me closely. "You're planning something. "
"It's just an idea," I replied, already moving. "Do you know where they stored the stockings?"
IT IS VERY good that we cannot see into the future.
Had I known what we would soon face, I might have given up and said it was impossible, that I did not have the strength for the task and probably never would. But glimpses into the future are withheld from us, so I entered into my new work with the simple happiness of having something to fill my lonely days.
It was only much later, when the children had managed to learn English and the unseen crisis had finally been overcome, that I learned the meaning of the name Annique had given me.
Andiel
was Czech for
angel.
Since my visit with Mabel the travel agent, I had successfully avoided going anywhere in the village, except to church and my one trip to the fliers' pub. Sundays I slipped into the service at the very last moment, and left before the final hymn was sung. I took my meals either with Rachel or at the orphanage. I had avoided the High Street and the shops and the eyes. Until now.
I was so nervous that I didn't realize I had no idea where I was going until after Fred dropped me off and drove away. I waved and called his name, but the bulging gas bag blocked his rear vision. I dropped my hand, turned, and realized I had done the worst thing imaginable. I had called attention to myself. Faces up and down the street had turned my way. I ducked my head down into my collar, hugged the box of stockings up close to my chest, and started down the walk. I could feel the eyes following me.
"Oh, hello there, Miss Emily." The grocer's wife was a hefty woman, handsome in a work-worn way, with masses of tumbledown red hair. I had seen her several times, delivering loads of produce to the orphanage, but had never spoken with her before. Her red face was wreathed in smiles as she wiped her flour-covered hands on her spotted apron and stepped through the doorway. "How are you, dear?"
I was not sure I had heard correctly.
Dear.
"Fine, thank you," I faltered.
"Splendid day, now that it's stopped with the snow and all." The two of us blocked more than half the sidewalk.
People stepped around us, smiling and murmuring greetings. Not just to her either. To
us.
She pointed to the box in my arms. "What've you got there?"
"Oh, they're, ah, stockings."
Her eyes widened. "Ooooh, let us have a look, will you?"
"A-all right."
Eagerly she lifted the lid and pulled out one of the slender packages. She ran one finger under the cover, stroking the silk. "Ooh, that's nice, ain't it? Haven't had a pair of these since forty-two. Like to have broke my heart when they ran. My Danny, he took me to the picture show down Bottley way, back before the snows. Used my eyeliner and drawed up the back of my legs." She gave me a girlish grin. "Spent half the night pretending to check and make sure I had 'em on straight."
The friendliness of her welcome had warmed me to my toes. "Why don't you keep those?"
She used both hands to clasp the little cardboard container to her apron. "Oh, no, I couldn't possibly."
"Please, I want you to."
She clasped them even tighter. "Everybody in town knows how you came by these. Gotten people talking, it has, how you gave away the whole box to the orphanage."
I blushed at the thought of people having another reason to talk about me. "And who has given more to those children than you and your husband?"
"Well, but . . . " She eased the package out far enough to peek down at it. "Do you really think I should?"
"They're yours." To stave off further argument, I asked, "Do you know where I could find a camera?"
"Oh, I don't know if you can." She seemed genuinely apologetic over not being able to help. "All such as that is on the restricted list."
"I'm sorry, the what?"
"Means you can't buy it without a license. Couldn't have people going around taking pictures of what we didn't want the Jerries seeing, now, could we? 'Course, the war's over, but that doesn't mean the rules have been changed. Tilings move slow in this old land of ours." She pointed down the High Street. "Still, you could try the dry-goods shop down by the church."
As I started down the sidewalk, the woman added, "Pity about the news, isn't it?"
I turned back to ask her what news, but her husband called from within the shop. Hastily she headed for the door, tossing me a cheery, "Thanks ever so much for the lovely stockings, dear!"
I walked on down the High Street, carrying the smile with me. Clouds scuttled overhead, and the broad High Street was full of people hurrying after errands and home. Perhaps it was my imagination, but a couple of times I thought people nodded and murmured greetings in my direction. I kept my gaze fastened upon the scenery, for fear that if I looked down, I might find the curious and the gossip-hungry, and be sunk once more into gloom.
Arden was truly a lovely place. The High Street descended a gende hill to join with the river and its ancient stone bridge. Its eleventh-century church rose beside the quietly flowing waters, the gray stone matching the river and the winter sky. The buildings on both sides dated back six and seven centuries, their beam-and-brick walls tilted and bowed by the weight of years. Lead-glass windows flowed like crystallized tears, turning the interiors into moving portraits of a bygone era.
But the town's pleasant air vanished the instant I stepped into the dry-goods store. The place was very full, its worn wooden floor scuffed by decades of farmers' boots. A trio of men in tweeds and trilby hats were examining shotguns, while their wives shook their heads over a bolt of heavy fabric laid upon the counter. As soon as I appeared in the doorway, all movement froze and all attention turned my way.
I felt my earlier nervousness return as the man behind the counter said, "Can I help you, Miss Robbins?"
Trying hard for a smile, I replied, "Perhaps. I hope so, Mr. . ."
"Clyde Hoggin. My daughter helps out at the College." The wispy-haired storekeeper sniffed his disapproval. "What with all we've got going on and her mother being poorly, we'd be far better off if she spent less time with them kids and more seeing to my customers."
"We need all the help we can get," I pointed out, trying hard not to wilt under the sudden hostility.
"Not for long," muttered one of the men handling the guns.
"Aye, and it'll be a grand day when we see the last of that lot." The storekeeper walked down the counter toward me. "What can I do for you, then?"
"I need a camera and some film. A lot." That was as far as I got before what I had just heard settled in. "I'm sorry, what did you mean by seeing the last of the children?"
"Don't go spreading those rumors of yours," chided one of the women.
"It's not a rumor." The farmer was a barrel-chested man whose ruddy nose was mapped with blue veins. "I heard talk of it at the farmers' union this morning. Seems the Ministry's finally come to its senses."
"It'll be a sad day for Arden when the children are gone." The woman tilted her chin defiantly. "And it's people like you who give this town a bad name."
The man swelled indignantly. "Just because I'd rather keep my produce to feed my own lot, rather than toss it out to wastrels what nobody can even understand, that don't make me anything but smart."
"Hmph." The woman turned to me, and said quietly, "There's a rumor going around, dear, that the Ministry has decided to close down the orphanage."
"And I tell you," the man clamored, "that it ain't no rumor."
Storekeeper Hoggin stepped closer to where I was now leaning heavily upon the counter. "We don't stock cameras, Miss. And you can't buy film without a permit." He pointed at the box under my arm. "What's there in the carton?"
"Stockings," I said, but my mind was held by the unbelievable news. "You mean, they want to take away our children?"
"Them ain't yours," the man in the corner snorted. "Nor the village's. They're nothing but a weight tied 'round all our ruddy necks."
"A carton of silk stockings?" The storekeeper's tone tightened with avarice. "Well now, in that case I imagine we can overlook such things as permits, can't we?"
The news was so shocking and spoken so harshly that I found myself grasping for something, anything to hold on to. "But nobody's said anything. Not even Reverend Albright."
"Aye, well, the vicar'11 be round soon enough, I warrant." The thought gave the farmer a reason to smirk. "Him and his dicky heart."
The day's second shock struck me with the force of a blow. The wind was knocked out of me so that I could only manage a single word. "Heart?"
"The vicar doesn't like to talk about it," the woman said, moving up close as though to protect me from the farmer and his barrage of bad news. "Had rheumatic fever as a child, poor dear. Left him with a heart murmur."
"But he's always so active," I protested. "He never stops."
"Aye, that's his way of compensating, I suppose." The woman took my arm, which was very good, because I felt frozen to the spot. She guided me back outside. "You mustn't pay that lot in there any mind, dear. This happens to be a gathering place for the malcontents. I'd do my shopping elsewhere, if it didn't mean taking the bus to Bottley and back."
But I had no time for that. "Is it true what they were saying about the children?"
She sighed. "Rumors are as sure a product of war as sorrow. But this one has the stamp of truth, I'm afraid. It's come out of nowhere. I only heard about it an hour ago, but everyone seems to take it for granted that it's true."
"But it can't be—" At that moment I spotted Colin walking from the church doorway. "You'll have to excuse me," I said, and raced away.