The good work continues—first the state, then the country! her mother had scrawled along the top.
Underneath was a bank draft, with the scribbled injunction: For your village schools.
She hadn’t expected anything, not really. Emmie had arranged for presents for the boys before she left in August, knowing her parents would never remember: a new phonograph for Jack, a camera for Nat, a glass case for George to house his rock collection, a phenakistoscope for Bobby. They would have been put under the tree by the housekeeper.
Kate had cut the strings on a brown paper parcel. “It’s a present from my parents and brothers. New boots. My mother says—” Her voice caught. “My mother says the saleswoman at Gimbels told her these are the very best for keeping the damp out. She must have bought these and had them sent right after we left.”
“My mother sends Christmas greetings and wishes us all well,” Emmie lied. It wasn’t entirely a lie. She was sure her mother did wish them all well. When she remembered. Her mother had always liked Kate. “What are those?”
In the middle of the table was a pile of paper scrolls tied up in ribbon.
“A surprise for you,” said Dr. Stringfellow complacently. “Santa made it through last night and left a note for each of you.”
“Santa’s handwriting looks strangely familiar,” said Julia.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re meant to read them aloud and guess who they’re for,” Dr. Stringfellow added helpfully. “Go on now, children.”
“I think I’ve found Emmie’s,” said Anne, unrolling the first scroll. “‘Our angel of the barrack, she tramps both near and far Through snow and mud and dark of night, not waiting for a car. Although she may not be able to tell a rooster from a hen When it comes to building chicken coops / Her strength is the strength of ten.’”
Emmie winced. “No one will ever let me forget those roosters, will they?”
“They made very tasty soup,” said Alice, trying to make her feel better.
Liza put the next scroll right up to her nose, squinting at it. “This one’s cheating—there’s a name in it. ‘Though small of stature she may be / Her heart is undismayed By broken trucks and missing coal And shipments all delayed. / Our patient Kate, our canny Kate—’ Couldn’t we be trusted to guess?”
Dr. Stringfellow shrugged. “Literary license.”
“‘She keeps us all on time / She bosses and she wheedles And finds in every haystack A regular crop of needles. Our stalwart assistant director She keeps us all on time And so it fits her schedule / I’ll promptly end this rhyme.’”
“Can you really call that a rhyme?” asked Maud, shuddering delicately.
“A rhyme, certainly,” said Ethel Ledbetter, “but is a rhyme necessarily a poem? The troubadours of old—”
“I’m a doctor, not a poet,” retorted Dr. Stringfellow, cutting Ethel off before she could get started on chansons de something or other. “You try making fourteen doggerel verses all by yourself.”
Nell’s poem was about her library; Anne Dawlish had an elaborate conceit about their savior being a carpenter; Alice worked wonders with their cars.
Liza blushed at “‘She always wants to lend a hand, despite a broken arm / Canadian, Ami, Engineer / Alike have felt her charms.’”
And while Maud tossed her head at “‘No peddler sells better / Than she who runs our store She sells them soap and sabots And aprons by the score,’” Emmie could tell she was pleased.
“Have we had any outbreaks of lice since I sold everyone soap? I thought not,” Maud said haughtily. “And there were washtubs too, I’ll have you know.”
“I think all the lice just died of cold,” said Alice, shivering.
“If you wore more wool and less lace—” began Gwen Mills in her patronizing way.
“Then how would we keep up the elegant reputation of the Unit?” drawled Julia, who was perfectly happy to defend Alice if it meant squashing Gwen.
Emmie watched them all bickering and thought how very odd it was that six months ago most of them hadn’t known each other at all, and here they were, with a very clear idea of each other’s strengths and foibles. They might mock Alice’s lace collars, but they all knew that Alice could fix any truck that had a bit of life left in it. And Gwen Mills might be an utter pill, but if you were sick in the middle of the night, she’d be there with a washbasin, holding back your hair. Even Maud. She complained, but she was out there in that truck in all weathers, peddling with all her might. They might not all love each other, but, by a strange alchemy, they all worked together.