Tidings of Comfort and Joy (19 page)
"She just sat there in my arms," Colin recalled. "Didn't move a muscle."
"When I saw that photograph in the magazine, what I really saw was Annique. Her and all the others," I went on. "It brought home to me just how much they've gone through, these children."
"Bringing them to the point," Colin added for me, his face somber, "where they do not even cry over a needle and an injection and a strange doctor."
"Not unless they're scared," I finished quietly.
We sat there, silent for a long moment. Then Colin straightened with a sigh and rubbed his neck. I asked, "Are you all right?"
"I've been feeling a little tired lately."
"No wonder," I told him. "You really ought to slow down."
He smiled and changed the subject with, "You know, the hardest time for me was when we could not give the children a Christmas."
"What?" I cried. "Nothing at all?"
"There wasn't much of a Christmas for any of us," Colin said. "Most of our soldiers are still overseas, waiting for places on too few boats home. Rationing was worse than ever. Presents were lean on the ground, let me tell you. The whole town seemed dressed for Christmas in Land Army colors—brown, beige, gray, and lots of black." His face seemed to age as he spoke. "It seemed like the sweetness had gone from life. I had my Christmas with a friend who runs the parish church in Bottley, and a grim affair it was indeed. The only way his wife managed a Christmas dinner at all was because we butchered Adolf."
I stared at him. "Did what?"
"Adolf, the house pig," Colin explained. "Long overdue for the pot, if you ask me. Tough as a wild boar raised on shoe leather." He tried for a smile. "Christmas was a perfectly miserable time, if you want to know the truth. I spent the entire day running from one tragic household to the next. It was the first Christmas since the war ended, and so many families would never be whole again."
"But the children," I protested.
"There was simply so little of everything left," Colin said apologetically. "Besides which, we could not communicate with them. So we simply treated the day as any other, searching for enough food to keep their little bodies alive, and hoping for things to improve."
I sipped from my cup, wondering why it seemed as though his words were connected to the magazine picture and my own unheard message. Finally I pushed the confusion aside, and asked, "When can we expect to see your photographs?"
"Three days, perhaps four." His face drew longer lines. "That is, unless they need me on one of their empty treks to London."
Abruptly a shadow was cast over our evening. We had tried hard not to speak of our worries, but I knew the topic was bound to rise to the surface sooner or later. It was always there, hovering just beyond the reach of the fire and our cozy table. "There's been no change, then?"
"None at all, I'm afraid." Colin sighed and leaned back. "Even the mayor and his entourage have found nothing but a series of closed doors to their entreaties."
Before I could speak, the bartender came hurrying over. "Sorry to disturb you, but the operator's putting a call through."
Colin started to rise. "Won't be a moment."
"Not you, Vicar. It's for the young lady here."
I jerked upright. "Me?"
"If you're Miss Emily sitting with the vicar, it is indeed."
Confused, I followed him back. The phone was a wooden box hung from the central pillar, with a black Bakelite earpiece hanging from a long cord. I fitted the receiver to my ear, and raised up on tiptoes so I could say into the mouthpiece, "Hello?"
"This is Mabel at the booking agency. Oh, my dear, you wouldn't believe the trouble I've had tracking you down. First I tried the orphanage, and they told me to call Rachel, and she said you were with the vicar, but when I called the vicarage they said he had come here, and, well . . . Hello? Are you there?"
"Still here," I shouted back, feeling my cheeks flushing at the eyes watching me from both rooms.
"I can hardly believe it myself. Couldn't wait until tomorrow, of course, not with only six days left."
"Six days until what?"
"The ship sails, of course. Oh, goodness, I forgot to tell you that bit, didn't I? Yes, they've found you passage. On the
Brittany.
Sails from Portsmouth next Tuesday. Isn't that good news?"
I swallowed and managed to say, "Great."
"I knew you'd be pleased, that's why I didn't wait. You'll need to stop in the office tomorrow, of course, there are forms to fill out and a deposit to pay."
"Of course. Thank you." I set the receiver back in slow motion. I did not want to turn around.
As WE LEFT the inn, Colin steered me across the village's main crossroads and down toward the bridge. The night was so cold the wet air tasted metallic. A n icy mist drifted in the utterly still air. Streetlights were golden globes floating above the cobblestone way. All was painted with their soft light. It was a special glow, granted only to this village, and only to this night. I shivered with the delicious pleasure of our lonely walk. "Why do you push yourself so hard, Colin?"
"Because it is in prayerful service that I find the closest connection to our Lord's command to love," he replied.
A lonely truck trundled by, and then the night and the silence closed back around us. We started across the bridge, its ancient stone turned luminous by the tall iron lamps. A bridge into the unknown, crossing over mist-clad waters. Colin said, "You've been so quiet since the call came for you. Is everything all right?"
I wish I knew,
should have been my answer. But I could not speak. We stopped and leaned over the center of the bridge, staring at the dark waters flowing beneath us. So many questions, so many worries, so few answers.
"Emily?"
I did not turn toward him. What could I say, that I might be leaving for America? That I might go away and abandon him and the children in their hour of need?
"I do wish you would say something."
But a sigh was all I could manage. America. It was strange how the possibility of going home was suddenly a problem and not a solution. I stared down at the waters and silently spoke a prayer, asking God for guidance. But the river remained a mystery, and I found no answers that night.
The next day was busy before I even opened the door.
The doorbell startled me so that I spilled my tea all over my hand. I rushed down the narrow stairs. As I crossed the front room, a loud hammering began. I opened the door to find Rachel standing there, brandishing her cane. "Oh, there you are. Where on earth is your coat?"
"Upstairs. What's the matter?"
"Tell you on the way," she said, wheeling smartly about and stumping down the lane. "Hurry!"
I flew back upstairs, grabbed my coat and scarf, and raced to catch up. For a seventy-year-old woman leaning heavily on a cane, Rachel set a remarkable pace. "The orphanage called. Colin did not show up with his supplies this morning."
"So?"
"I fear the worst. He has never been late. Not once, not since this whole affair began."
Her harsh tone frightened me as much as her words. "Maybe he just overslept."
"Hardly likely. Regular as clockwork is our Colin."
Thankfully, the church courtyard's walk was graveled, for the world was frozen once again. The vicarage was a modest stone home built to match the church. The assistant pastor lived in what had once been the stables, the brick-and-beam walls so old they leaned heavily against the adjoining church. Dried stalks of wisteria climbed in haphazard profusion around the two lead-paned windows. Rachel knocked, then called loudly when Colin did not appear. "His truck is still here, so he—"
I shushed her, thinking I had heard something. There it was again, a faint cry from within. Something about the tone filled me with a fire of urgency. I pushed against the lever, then cried out, "It's locked!"
There was a low shuffling from within, then a crash, and finally the scrape of a key in the lock. I pushed open the door, and gasped at the sight of Colin standing in his nightshirt, leaning heavily upon the door. "What on earth is the matter?"
"Pushed myself too hard, I'm afraid." His complexion was gray and waxy. "Spoke with Bradley, the American pilot, yesterday evening. Something has come up, and he needed the photographs delivered to him this morning."
"So you stayed up all night to develop them." Rachel was as cross as I had ever seen her. She raised her cane once more to brandish it in his face. "Colin Albright, of all the silly messes, did you even for one moment think . . . "
Colin gripped the front of his nightshirt, and started to sink. I flung my arms about him for support. "Help me get him to the bed!"
Rachel and I managed to half-walk, half-drag him back into the bedroom. As I straightened the bedcovers, Rachel went next door to the vicarage in order to phone the doctor. Colin's complexion and his shortness of breath and the way he kept holding his chest worried me terribly. "Is there anything I can get you?"
"Photographs," he gasped. "Airfield."
I stared down at him. "What on earth is so important about those pictures?" Bradley's family had mentioned finding people willing to adopt a few of our children. "Why
all
the photographs?"
But Colin could only respond with a shake of his head. His gaze held such a desperate appeal, I could not bring myself to object any more. "All right. Where are they?"
"Darkroom." He pointed to a door in the side wall. I walked over and discovered a windowless cubbyhole that had been turned into a makeshift laboratory. Trays of rank-smelling chemicals lay across the table, and overhead was strung a series of wires with coat hangers. A few pictures still hung there, all of them showing me with one of the children. There was something about my expression that made the moment and Colin's illness even more poignant.
He called hoarsely from the bed, "Box. Take it to Fred."
The carton of photographs was there at my feet. Gingerly I released those still hanging and added them to the pile. It felt very uncomfortable to see so many images of myself.
As I carried it back into the other room, he groaned, "Fred."
"I heard you the first time."
The front door opened and Rachel entered. "The doctor's on his way."
I walked up to her and said, "Stay with him while I go call Fred. Colin's all in a lather that these get off." I glanced back to the bedroom. "Working all night, collapsing, then ordering me around over a bunch of pictures. He's just impossible."
"Of course he is, my dear," Rachel said, patting my arm. "He's a man, now, isn't he?"
THE DAY PASSED in a blur. And the day after that. And the third day. I never realized just how much Colin did until I tried to do it myself.
I was surrounded by things left undone. Whatever I did was not enough. For every task I finished, another dozen were added to my list.
Finally, on the evening of the third day, I managed to stop by the travel agency. I found poor Mabel beside herself. She leaped from her seat and demanded, "Where have you been?"
"Everywhere. Something has—"
"But I was expecting you the day before yesterday! I need you to fill out the forms, I need your deposit!"
"I'm not going."
She did her best imitation of a goldfish out of water. "You what?"
As swiftly as I could I explained what had happened to Colin. "I need to stay and help out."
She fell into her chair like a dropped sack. "My dear, do you have any idea—"
I waved it away. I did not want to hear. I did not want to be tempted away from the decision I had already made. The night before I had written my family a long letter, so tired I could scarcely keep my eyes open, but doing my best to explain what was happening. "Can you transfer my booking to another ship?"
Once more the mouth opened and closed without a sound. Eventually she squeaked, "I beg your pardon?"
"No, I guess that would be asking too much." A thought occurred to me. "Could I use your phone?"
Only when the operator came on the line did Mabel finally find her voice once more. "You are actually going to refuse this?"
"Maybe not." I spoke into the receiver, "Can you connect me to the American airfield, please?"
The wait for Bradley Atwater to come on the line seemed to go on forever. I avoided Mabel's gaze, and tried to ignore her rising volume of protests. When the midwestern twang drawled out a hello, I felt a vast flood of relief.
"Brad, it's Emily Robbins here."
"Emily!" He seemed to tense up at the sound of my voice. I decided that was no real surprise, since he only heard from me when something was wrong. "Is everything all right?"
"No, not really."
"How's the reverend doing?"
"The doctor says he's out of danger. He just needs to rest. But that's not—"
"Any word on the kids?"
His question seemed to hammer at me. Or perhaps it was the strain of the decision confronting me. Or perhaps simply because I was tired from carrying this crazy load. Whatever the reason, I felt a sudden burning to my eyes. "They're supposed to start moving them the week after next."
"Say, that's not good." He turned and relayed the information to someone standing nearby. There was a rising murmur of voices, before Brad came back and said, "We can't let that happen, Emily."
"I don't know what else we can do," I said, blinking back tears. Nine days from now, the first trucks were scheduled to arrive. The Ministry would move the children and close the orphanage in three weeks. The official notice hung from the bulletin board in our kitchen. "The mayor and the town council have worn out their welcome all over London. And it hasn't done a bit of good."
And when the children left, I wanted to add, there would be nothing left to hold me here. Nothing to fill the empty days. I could not look up at Mabel. Not without seeing a reflection of the other voice ringing through my head, the one that kept saying that I was a fool to pass up this chance. A purebred, hundred-proof fool.
I pushed away the thoughts and worries and hesitations with all the force I could muster. "That's not why I'm calling. I have a berth on a liner leaving in three days."