William would be six months old in a couple of days. Six months, and all he’d known was war.
“I’m sure they’ll give us the all clear in just a moment,” an older woman told her with a kind smile.
“Certainly,” Scarlett replied, adjusting William to her other hip and pressing a kiss to the top of his head through his hat.
Ipswich was a natural target, Scarlett knew that. But they’d been lucky so far.
The sirens stopped, and there was a hum of collective relief throughout the long tube that served as their shelter underground.
The ground hadn’t shaken, though that wasn’t always a sure way to tell if they’d been hit, only that they hadn’t been hit nearby.
“There aren’t as many children as I would have expected,” Scarlett said to the older woman, mostly to distract herself.
“They built shelters at the school,” she explained with a proud nod. “They can’t fit all the children, naturally, but they go to school in shifts now, taking only as many children as can fit at once. It’s thrown more than a few schedules into upheaval, but…” She trailed off.
“But the children are safer,” Scarlett assumed.
The older woman nodded, her gaze flickering to William’s cheek.
“I can appreciate that,” Scarlett said, holding William just a little tighter.
Six months ago, evacuating the children from London and other major targets had felt so logical to her. If the children were in danger, of course they should be evacuated to safer areas. But holding William in her arms, she couldn’t imagine the strength those other mothers must have had to put their children on a rail, not knowing exactly where they would be headed. She couldn’t get past her own gut check reaction that William was safest with her, but in her own need to stay close to Jameson, was she ultimately placing William in more danger?
The answer was unequivocally yes, and she couldn’t deny it, not seeing as she now held him in an underground air-raid station, hoping and praying for the best.
The all clear sounded through the station, and the crowd began to file out. The sun was still shining as she exited the air-raid station. What had felt like days had only been hours.
“Passed right by us,” she heard an older man say.
“Our boys must’ve frightened them off,” another added with pride.
Scarlett knew better, but she didn’t say so. Her time plotting the bomber raids taught her that fighters weren’t often a deterrent. They just hadn’t been the target. It was as plain as that.
She walked the half mile home, talking gibberish to William the entire time while keeping her eyes on the sky. Just because they were gone now didn’t mean they wouldn’t return.
“It might just be the two of us for tonight, little one,” she said to William as she opened the front door. With the increased raids, Jameson hadn’t been allowed to sleep off-station in over a week. Their house was only fifteen minutes away from Martlesham-Heath, but fifteen minutes was a lifetime when there were bombers approaching.
She fed William, bathed him, fed him again, and had him put down to bed before she thought about eating, herself.
She couldn’t stomach much, especially not knowing where Jameson was. It had been frightening to move his markers across the plotting board, to know when he engaged the enemy, to know when members of his squadron had fallen, but it was worse not knowing.
Scarlett sat at her typewriter, opened the smaller box that she had added to her collection in the past few months, then took out her latest page, and continued writing. This box was for their story—she couldn’t just lump it in with the other sketched-out summaries, partial chapters, and unfinished thoughts. If one story had to be kept up-to-date, it was this one, just in case it was all she’d have to give to William.
Perhaps she had romanticized a detail or two, but wasn’t that what love did anyway? It softened the sharper, uglier moments of life. She was already on chapter ten, which brought them nearly to William’s birth.
Once she finished that chapter, she dutifully put the last piece of paper back into the smaller box, then reached for a fresh sheet. She’d finally reached halfway, or at least what she thought was halfway, in an actual manuscript. She lost herself in that world, the clack of the typewriter keys filling the house.
She startled at the knock at the door, her fingers freezing over the keys as her head snapped toward the unwelcome sound.
He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He’s not dead. She repeated the phrase in a hushed whisper as she stood, then took the agonizing walk past the dining room, to the front door.
“He’s not dead,” she whispered one last time as her hand reached for the doorknob. There were plenty of reasons someone might call at this hour… She simply couldn’t think of them at this moment.
She lifted her chin and yanked open the door, ready to face whatever fate lay on the other side. “Constance!” Scarlett’s hand flew to her chest, hoping to contain her galloping heartbeat.
“I’m sorry to call so late!” Constance threw her arms around Scarlett. “I had just gotten back to the hut, and one of the girls said Ipswich had an air-raid scare. I had to see for myself that you were all right.” Her sister held her tight.
“We are all right,” Scarlett assured her, hugging her back. “I can’t say the same for Jameson, because I haven’t seen him in a few days.”
Constance pulled back. “They canceled his Sleeping Out pass?”
Scarlett nodded. “He’s been home twice since the raids began, but only to grab a clean uniform and kiss William and me goodbye once again.”
“I’m so sorry,” Constance said, shaking her head and lowering her eyes so her hat obscured her expression. “I should have spent my leave here with you, instead of taking it in London for yet another wedding arrangement session.”
Scarlett took her sister’s hand in hers. “Stop. You have your own life to live. Why don’t you come in, and let’s—”
“No, I have to get back,” Constance said with a quick shake of her head.
“Nonsense,” Scarlett argued, glancing over Constance’s shoulder to see the new car parked at the edge of the pavement. “It is already so late, and if you can’t spend the night, at least let me make you some tea before you drive back.” Her eyes narrowed slightly at the lack of insignia on the bumper. “It’s a lovely car.”
“Thank you,” Constance said with no joy. “Henry demanded I take it. He said no fiancée of his would be dependent on public transportation.” Constance lifted her shoulders in a minute shrug as she looked back at the sleek automobile.