It made her wonder—would she ever meet a man who garnered that reaction? Now that she was aware of it, it was apparent that Dottie had a special look when talking about John. And Gladys—though she would deny it—had a particular expression when talking about Oliver.
Until then, she had her friendship with William. Which was really all she wanted at the moment. New opportunities for women were opening up every day, and she felt she was standing at the dawn of a new age that she dearly wanted to be a part of.
Gladys was poised to place herself in this new world full-force, rectifying the wrongs that had been done to her mother, be it through political means or bringing issues to light in the public sphere. Dottie was going to be a mother herself soon enough and would certainly follow the path of so many women generations before her. Staying home and raising her children.
Margaret saw the beauty in both. This was her time to discover what it was she wanted.
“Are you sure you’re not sweet on this boy?” her mother asked one afternoon. She’d just taken the wooden spoon out of her pot of vegetable soup and tasted it. She sprinkled some salt and returned to stirring.
“He’s just a friend,” Margaret had answered, tiring of the question. Why was romance the assumed motivation behind any interaction with the opposite gender? “You know how much John likes to hear from us. William likes letters too. I’m sure they all do.”
“Is he the one you knit the socks for?”
“Yes. But I send some to John and their other roommate, Tom, as well.”
“They must have the warmest feet in all of England!”
Margaret grinned. “I certainly hope so. And we’re well on our way to making enough for their whole company. If it takes cozy toes to defeat Hitler, then you can be damn sure I’ll knit until my fingers fall off.”
“Margaret Jane Beck!” her mother scolded. “Did you pick up that kind of language at the Navy Yard?”
She would be scandalized to know that damn was the least of what Margaret heard the men at the Navy Yard say. And some of the women.
“Sorry, Mom. It just slipped out.”
Margaret climbed the narrow steps until she got to her bedroom, enjoying the scent of the simmering soup and already thinking about dinnertime. She shut the door and ran some scissors along the top of the envelope.
The familiar handwriting was such a source of peace for her. It was very neat, as if William was well practiced in the art of it. Though given the beautiful flower sketches he’d been including at the end of every letter, it made sense that he would be elegant with a pen.
John’s handwriting looked like chicken scratch in comparison.
The Browns surprised us with an American-style Thanksgiving, William wrote.
Remarkably, they’d saved and traded ration coupons for weeks in order to do so. They kept the secret well! John said that Mrs. Brown made apple pie even better than your mom does (though don’t tell her he said so), and Tom and I had to agree that she’d bested our mothers as well. She’d never made it before, she insisted, and I don’t know her secret, but we’re hoping that she’ll bake another even though the holiday is over. Maybe we’ll look ahead to Christmas.
She read the rest of the letter—a tome on Tom’s surprising talent for playing cards, with gin rummy being his favorite—and a few new words for her to ponder. She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. It took no effort to think about what to say to William. The words flowed as if they were having a conversation over a pot of coffee. Or tea, as it would be if they were visiting in England.
Thank you for the additions to my word list, she penned. I wouldn’t have known how different our two English languages could be. “Jumper” where we’d say “sweater.” “Lift” where we’d say “elevator.”
She’d paused when his list included the word nappie for diaper. Dottie had begged her not to tell John about the baby, lest he be worried and distracted as they headed into war. Margaret disagreed. She knew that her brother would be exhilarated by the news that he was going to have a son or daughter and that the knowledge of it would make him even more determined to come home safely. But Dottie’s role as fiancée bested Margaret’s as sister and so far, Margaret had respected her wishes.
Keeping the news quiet was even more difficult on the home front. Dottie had rebounded from the anemia better than they could have hoped and had bolstered herself enough to make it to the first day of their new work at the Navy Yard. The nausea and frequent morning trips to the toilet had initially kept her figure slim, but her appetite was finally beginning to keep pace with her condition, and she had started to let out the waists of her dresses. It would not be much longer before she’d have to make new clothes altogether.
When it was announced that Dottie was moving in with Gladys, Mrs. Troutwine entered a crying spell, accusing her daughter of being a modern woman as if that were pejorative. Mrs. Troutwine was still reeling, perhaps, over her first daughter’s untimely pregnancy some years back, and it set her on a course of additional rigidity with Dottie. But all the wrath Dottie had incurred from that decision was nothing in comparison to the fear of being sent away if her mother found out the truth too early.
So Dottie’s concerns were legitimate. But Margaret didn’t see where the harm was in telling her brother.
She looked down at what she’d written so far. After several rounds of back-and-forth, the letters between her and William had grown well beyond introductory exchanges, and she discovered that they shared a mutual sense that the war was going to change everything they’d come to expect for their lives.
She found it a bit like writing in a diary, save for the kinds of intimacies one would keep for their own eyes. William might have been flesh and blood, but he was thousands of miles away and really only took shape in the curves and strokes of the ink with which he wrote. John had asked her to send a picture so he could show the boys what his sister looked like, and she’d included one in a recent box. Though she didn’t reveal that she’d had one specially done rather than find one that was already lying around. Gladys had done her hair and makeup for it. Restrained, at Margaret’s request, so that she looked natural but enhanced. She’d even embroidered a little design on her collar to freshen up its plain look.
She still didn’t know what he looked like, though. And contrary to Gladys’s ribbing or her mother’s inquiries, there was nothing on the pages that suggested a budding romance between them. But that didn’t mean that she didn’t want to have his image pinned to her wall. She could say good night to her friend and give shape to her prayers for his safety with more ease if she knew the particulars of his face.
I’m glad you liked the photograph, she continued.
I’ll send another once we’ve put our Christmas tree up. Did John ever tell you that he likes to take pictures? Before the war, he worked in our father’s cobbler shop, but he got up extra early to deliver the Brooklyn Daily Eagle because he wanted to buy a camera and have money left over to develop the film. How I wish he’d become a war correspondent instead of a paratrooper, but you know my brother as well as anyone at this point. He’s not going to be talked out of anything he sets his mind to.
And I guess he wouldn’t have met you and Tom then. Still, his interest was our gain. We have more photographs of our family than most since we’re one of the few to have a camera of our own, thanks to John’s hard work. Now that I’m working in the engraving department, I enjoy a little extra jingle in my pocket as well and will take some photographs of our Christmas tree to send to John. I’ll be sure to tell him to share them with you and Tom.