But of course she couldn’t.
The explosion, when it came, rocked through her, nearly knocking her from her bike, moments before she reached Wellingford’s front door.
LONDON, SEPTEMBER 1940
“I have no idea if my mum will be here or not,” Eve warned her friend Iris as they walked to the Clarksons’ town house. “I hope she and the rest of the servants have all gone back to Wellingford Hall. But if she’s here, Mum will be getting Lady Rosamunde ready for a Saturday night out.”
“A night out?” Iris asked. “Who would go out with a war on?”
“Lady Rosamunde won’t let a silly little thing like a war keep her home.” Which was why Eve worried about her mum. Audrey was at Wellingford, and Alfie was somewhere in the north, and Eve wished Mum could leave London, too.
The sun felt warm on her shoulders as Eve walked with Iris to the servants’ door, passing the ungainly hump of an Anderson shelter dug into a bare patch of ground between the town house and the garages. It hadn’t been there in May when Eve had come with Audrey to fetch the car. Fresh earth lay mounded over the top and sides to cover the shelter’s corrugated roof. It resembled a tomb and looked much too small to house Lady Rosamunde and all of her servants.
“Your mum is upstairs,” Tildy said after hugging her. Eve led Iris up the steep servants’ stairs, feeling out of breath when they reached the top floor.
Mum pulled Eve into her arms, holding her tightly. “What brings you here, love?”
“I came to tell you my good news. I have a brand-new job as a typist for the Ministry of Information.”
“That’s wonderful!” Mum’s hands lingered on Eve’s shoulders, caressing them.
“The pay is better, and I feel like I’m doing my bit for the war effort instead of typing invoices all day. Iris works there, too.” She gestured to her new friend, a pretty, black-haired girl who also came from a working-class background. Iris was the pride of her family for escaping the poverty of London’s East End with a good job as a typist. She and Eve sat side by side at the Ministry of Information in an office crammed with clacking, pinging typewriters.
“Iris needed a fourth roommate for the flat she just rented and asked me to move in with her. No more dreary boardinghouses for us! I came to give you my new address and telephone number.”
“You’re doing so well for yourself, Eve,” Mum said, hugging her again. “I’m so proud of you.” The familiar room where Eve once slept looked unchanged. The photograph of Eve’s daddy still sat on the bedside table. Granny Maud’s picture of the Good Shepherd hung on the wall above the bed. Mum owned so little—but then so did Eve. “Let’s go downstairs,” Mum said. “I’ll make tea and we can visit.”
“No, please don’t fuss. We can’t stay long. I’m going with Iris to the East End to visit her grandmother.”
“Granny takes her tea with mounds of sugar,” Iris explained, “and she can never get enough of it, with rationing and all. I take my lot to her whenever I can. I’m getting used to going without,” she finished with a laugh. Her cheerful, generous spirit was one of the reasons Eve liked Iris. She was so unlike serious, moody Audrey.
“That’s very kind of you, Iris,” Mum said. “I’m sure your granny appreciates it.”
“Why are you still in London, Mum?” Eve asked. “The Season is over—if there even is such a thing with the war on. I was hoping you’d be back at Wellingford, by now, where it’s safe.”
“Lady Rosamunde has decided to stay in London. She finds it too boring in the country. All her friends are here.”
“But . . . Audrey is at Wellingford, isn’t she? And Mr. Clarkson?”
“I don’t know where Mr. Clarkson is these days, but Audrey is there, yes.”
“You should quit and go home to the village, Mum. You could easily find work there. I can send you some of my pay every week. They’re saying the Nazis will bomb London any day.”
“So are you leaving London and going where it’s safe?” Mum asked.
Eve looked away. “No. My work is here.” She didn’t say so, but Eve would stay as long as there was hope that Alfie would come to London on leave.
“My work is here too,” Mum said.
“I don’t understand why you’re so loyal to her, Mum. Lady Rosamunde demands so much from you, working all hours of the day and night, yet she doesn’t have an ounce of consideration for you.”
Mum sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “It isn’t easy to explain, Eve. I suppose . . . I suppose it’s because of what the vicar once said in one of his sermons. He read a Bible passage that said servants should do their work joyfully, as if serving the Lord. Jesus said if we’re ordered to go one mile, we should go two. And I feel sorry for Lady Rosamunde. For all her wealth, she is a sad, lonely woman.”
“It’s her own fault if she is.”
“You’re right. But she gave me a job at a time when I badly needed it to support you. So I’ve always thought that God must have a reason for wanting me to work for her.” Eve shook her head, unable to persuade her. “Don’t worry, Eve,” Mum added. “There’s an Anderson shelter out back where I can go if there’s an air raid. I hope your new apartment has one, too.”
“There’s a public shelter nearby,” Iris said. “We’ll be fine, Mrs. Dawson.”
They spent a few more minutes visiting, but Eve could tell that Iris was eager to get to the East End and home again before the afternoon grew too late and the blackout began. Eve hugged her mum, promising to visit longer the next time, and they left.
London’s East End was a warren of densely packed houses and tenements, yet Eve felt at home among its poor, hardworking people. They were much like the villagers she knew back home. Iris’s grandmother, a tiny, white-haired woman with a bent back and gnarled hands, reminded Eve of Granny Maud. She sat crocheting in the dark cottage where Iris had grown up with her three older brothers, all now off fighting the war. Threadbare furnishings and well-worn possessions filled the tidy room. “Where’s Mum and Dad?” Iris asked.
“At work, putting in extra shifts at the motor works. Would you girls like tea?”
“Not for me, thank you,” Eve replied. The fire in the range had gone out on this warm September day, and besides, she knew how dear tea was in these days of ration books and pinching pennies.
“Oh, you’ve brought pure gold!” Iris’s granny exclaimed when Iris gave her the packet of sugar. “God love you for it, darling.” They carried a chair outside for her, and Eve and Iris sat beside her on the stoop, watching the swirl of activity in the street while they told her about their new jobs and three-room flat. Few people owned cars in this neighborhood, nor could they afford the petrol to drive them, but bicyclists and pedestrians strolled past, enjoying the lovely fall afternoon. Barefoot children played in the streets. A year ago, children had stood in long queues in the train station waiting to be evacuated. Now here they were, back home again.
The sun slipped lower in the sky. The damp, fishy odor of the nearby Thames drifted on the breeze. “We should probably be on our way,” Eve finally said, standing and stretching. “It must be after four thirty.” That’s when they’d planned to leave, but Iris had lingered, hoping her parents would return.