“There’s the opera, maybe they want to recruit us,” said Emmie giddily.
“Or run us out of town on a rail,” said Kate, making a face but smiling all the same.
“I think I’m already sitting on one, thank you,” said Julia smartly, trying to shift a rake handle from her posterior.
The truck went over a bump and Alice squealed as the crate of precious petrol bumped against her knees. “Oh no. That’s left blue paint all over my skirt.”
“At least it’s French blue,” offered Emmie, trying to hold on to the holiday mood.
From the wheel, Kate called, “Don’t you dare drop the essence, Alice! It’s a dollar the gallon; we’ll never be able to afford more if it spills, and then where will we be?”
“Singing for our supper?” offered Emmie.
“Pushing the trucks, most likely,” said Kate. “Uphill all the way.”
Julia looked at Emmie sideways. “I’m sure Aunt Cora would stump up for gas money if you applied to her humbly.”
Emmie could feel her cheeks flush. “I wouldn’t want to—that is—”
She hated to be reminded of her mother’s money. It made her feel as though she weren’t really one of the group, but only included in the hopes that her mother might open her purse. And that wasn’t the case, not this time. Her mother hadn’t contributed, at least not more than anyone else.
Except for one thing. There was one thing Emmie had asked her mother for. But no one needed to know about that. It was quite beside the point.
Emmie fell back on generalities. “You know she thinks it’s important we do this properly, through raising funds and all that sort of thing.”
“Oh yes. It creates character, I gather.” Julia’s voice was drier than day-old war bread.
“I hear the New York committee has stumped up wonderfully,” said Alice, and Emmie could have hugged her, if she hadn’t been afraid of upsetting the petrol.
“My mother wrote me that they’ve all taken up knitting and have been making the most tremendous things for the children,” said Emmie. “I’ve asked them to send chocolates for the children. They’re so frightfully expensive here, and I want to make sure we have enough for everyone.”
“I wouldn’t mind a chocolate right about now,” said Alice wistfully. “Do you think Fran will let us stop for lunch anytime soon? I could eat a cow.”
“The cows are being sent separately,” said Emmie, who had been responsible for buying them.
“And thank goodness for that,” said Kate with feeling.
Emmie glanced back over her shoulder. She couldn’t quite eat a cow—especially since they were rather depending on those cows for milk—but she wouldn’t mind stopping for lunch sometime soon. The Ford truck was motoring steadily along behind them, clearing the road of taxis and pedestrians alike as it barreled forward. Miss Englund had both hands on the wheel and a look of extreme determination on her face. “Was Miss Englund serious about stopping only on a downgrade?”
Kate exchanged a look with Alice Patton. “Oh yes,” she said.
Alice fiddled with the oil can. “Do you remember that time—”
“Outside Chartres?” said Kate.
“We had to pile all the pieces of the house back on,” said Alice, grimacing. “Goodness, those were heavy.”
“At least Fran didn’t take off the fence that time.”
“Or the onions! Remember the onions?”
Kate wrinkled her nose. “How could I forget? My uniform still reeks of them.”
“They did make excellent soup, though,” said Alice, “at that inn. You remember the one.”
“Are you sure those were onions in the soup?” asked Kate, and they both laughed.
It was good that they were getting along so well, Emmie told herself. It was important for morale and camaraderie and all that sort of thing. It was very silly—no, not just silly. It was downright selfish to feel left out just because the chauffeurs had come back from their jaunt to Saint-Nazaire with not only the trucks but all sorts of shared jokes and experiences.
“Would anyone like some bread and cheese?” she asked.
They ate bread and cheese—even Julia unbent to take a little, which meant she must have been very hungry, indeed—as the road wound through a forest, in all its leafy beauty. They were well out of Paris now, following the jitney through a landscape that felt like something out of Arthurian legend. It seemed impossible to believe, among these trees, that there was a war on. Until they got to the end of the forest and saw the first blasted village, houses crumbled in upon themselves, rubble upon rubble, like a block village after Emmie’s little brothers had run amok. Except these hadn’t been blocks; these had been buildings, real buildings, where people had lived and worked.