Dottie leaned in and showed them how to change the pattern in order to create the ribbed part that would hug the shin. Knit two, purl two.
As she continued, Margaret thought about the boys who would wear them and about a special request that John had asked of her.
Could you write a note to my buddy William? He hasn’t received any letters yet, and I don’t know why. But I think it would mean an awful lot to him. Something cheery. You’re just the girl to do it.
She paused to glide a finger along her nearly done piece and thought about who this William was. Would he put the pair on right away? Or would he stash it in his rucksack for later? But most important, would he smile at the thought that some girl in Brooklyn had spent a Saturday evening making this for him?
She was grateful her brother had enlisted her help. It gave her the kind of purpose that she felt working at the Navy Yard. That in some little way, she was contributing to the war effort.
“Margaret, watch out!”
Dottie was pointing to the pocket of the red sweater that Margaret’s grandmother had made for her many Christmases ago. It had seen better days—Margaret wore it frequently to the Navy Yard, and it had caught on her work more times than she cared to count. She missed her grandmother, having lost her two years ago to pneumonia, and the sweater was a warm reminder of the woman she’d loved. Margaret still felt the void at the dinner table every night as her grandmother’s seat remained empty. And now John’s.
She saw the problem that Dottie was pointing to. A piece of the yarn had come loose and had wound its way around the gray wool skein. The last row of Margaret’s stitching had the beginnings of an unintentional red border.
“Looks kind of nice, if you ask me,” offered Gladys.
Dottie stood up to inspect the work. “I think she’s right, Mags. It dresses it up a little bit. Makes it stand out.” She dug through her bag. “I don’t have a red skein, but I have a yellow one if you want to make a border on purpose.” She held it up.
Margaret took it from her hand but wasn’t convinced as she put it next to the sock. There was something dull about it. Yellow on gray. Whereas the red reminded her of some of the flashiest dancing shoes her parents used to make.
She shook her head and gave the yellow back to Dottie. Then she tugged on her sweater, loosening the yarn even more.
“I’m going to stick with the red. For all the socks I make. It will be like having my signature on it.”
“Oh, Margaret!” exclaimed Dottie. “What do you mean? That’s your favorite sweater!”
Margaret’s heart beat faster as she doubted herself, but she knew deep down that this was something she had to do. “That’s why. It’s because it’s my favorite. What if this little sacrifice means something? Like the amount of our effort somehow elevates theirs?”
Gladys set her project down on her lap. “Like it’s in the stars. The more good you put out there, the more comes down to them.”
“Or”—Dottie seemed enthusiastic about the idea now—“it’s like sending them a bit of your grandmother’s goodwill. Letting her be their guardian angel too.”
Margaret smiled. “Yes. Exactly like that.”
“I like it. And so would John.”
Margaret stifled a yawn. It was only nine o’clock, but she still felt tired from the sleep she’d missed from the early shift yesterday. This work was too important, though, and this evening with her friends was too dear to wrap up early. Another Glenn Miller song came on—“Knit One, Purl Two.” The girls fell into another fit of giggles. The song had dominated radio stations last year, and its appearance at this moment felt like it was all meant to be.
“You know what?” said Gladys. “I think I’d like to do this every Saturday night after all.”
Margaret smiled at Gladys’s response to the silent wish of her heart. She whispered a prayer for the boys who would receive the socks and went back to work.
Tomorrow, she would write a letter to William and slip it into the box before shipping it out.
Chapter Three
From the shelter of the rotund folly, Tom Powell could almost believe that there was not a war going on beyond its columns. In almost every direction, he beheld the gentle slope of hills in a palette of green hues. And closer to the estate house—which looked miniature from this perch—lay perfectly manicured hedges shaped into precise geometric patterns. The kind in which a child might delight in a round of hide-and-seek.
He’d been dispatched to Littlecote House to deliver a message to Colonel Sink, and his luck at borrowing a bicycle to take on his way from Chilton Foliat had saved a few minutes over walking. When he’d arrived at the estate, it had looked nearly deserted. So he was reveling in this extra time by sitting under the shade of the white pavilion before heading to the large manor and completing his assignment.
It was a far cry from just weeks ago when they’d been packed—five thousand men in a vessel built for one thousand—in the Samaria. Fresh from training in the debilitating heat of Camp Toccoa, Georgia, and more schooling in North Carolina. (Still hot, but fewer bugs to contend with.) Even as their stomachs lurched from seasickness, his friend John Beck had told him his secret for staying hopeful among the intensity of the training and the fear of what was to come. Stop when you can. Close your eyes. Smell the air. Listen for the birds. Imagine that it was a vacation that brought you over the Atlantic.
A seeming impossibility considering the few hours of sleep they were afforded. But now Tom wanted to try it, especially in a place as beautiful as this.
John was right. Even on the ride over, Tom paid special attention to his surroundings and already, his spirits were lifted. The warm aroma of yeast had wafted from a bakery window. Children’s voices had echoed from a nearby alley, their British words and accents still a novelty that surprised him every time. The River Kennet had glistened as he traveled along its gravel path.
He could imagine easily enough that he was back home in Virginia with a front porch view of the Chickahominy River and that his mother had peach pie warming in the oven. Always a treat after an afternoon of picking the fruit in their orchard. The best ones were reserved for the market, and the bruised ones were held back for baking. His father would be sitting at his desk reading the newspaper, an armchair commentator on every decision President Roosevelt made. Opinions informed, at least, by his own military experience.
His father had been so eager for Tom to enlist, following family tradition. And Tom had never questioned that he would do otherwise. Photographs of Powell ancestors from as far back as the Civil War crowded the mantel of the redbrick fireplace at their home, and stories dating back to the Jamestown settlement taunted Tom to be among the next generation of heroes.
“A career in the military is the only path for a man,” his father was famous for saying. The patriarchal enthusiasm was tempered only by his mother, who insisted that Tom go to college before joining up. A tactic that Tom knew was merely the desperate wish of a mother’s heart to delay her son buttoning up a uniform.
But a master’s degree in history was not likely to do much good when rifle met rifle. The time to step out from behind a desk had come and Tom was ready.