“What about Courcelles?” Emmie had asked that morning, coming up to Kate after the others had gone, grumbling, on their way. “You don’t have Courcelles on the schedule.”
“Yes, I do,” said Kate, looking harried. A giant shipment had just arrived from the Red Cross, everything from rice to mattresses to women’s winter coats, and needed to be signed for and sorted. “It’s there for the week after next.”
“But—that’s not for ages.” Emmie stared at Kate in dismay, wondering if this was because of their fight, if Kate would have found a way if they hadn’t argued. Which was silly, she knew. Kate wouldn’t be so petty. At least, she didn’t think Kate would be so petty. Then, she also hadn’t thought Kate would mind so terribly about having her board paid.
“I can’t conjure trucks out of thin air, Emmie.” Kate had always been slight, but since her bout of fever she looked like an ivory carving, all thin lines and hollows, burning up from within. As if trying to make up for it, she added, “There’s an English Ford for sale in Amiens. I’m going to try to get it for us.”
“How long will that take?”
Kate grimaced. “How long does anything take here? I’ll do my best.”
“I know you’re doing all you can.” Emmie hurried away before either of them could say anything more, anything they might regret.
It had been like that ever since Thanksgiving: there were days when they would seem almost normal again, if somewhat wary of each other, and then Emmie would say something, something entirely innocuous, and Kate would close up, and they’d be back to the beginning again, with Emmie in the wrong and still not entirely sure why.
Kate wasn’t the only one being paid for by someone else. Maud was funding Liza; Nell Baldwin’s bills were paid by an aunt. It didn’t make them any less members of the Unit. But when Emmie had tried to point that out to Kate, Kate would only say it wasn’t the same.
She was so good at all this, Kate. Emmie just wished she could make her see it, how much she was needed, how much she was valued, what a very good thing it was she was here, no matter how she’d got here.
Emmie only wished she could be half as useful.
On her way to the cellar, Emmie passed Dave, the Red Cross driver—disastrous Dave, Nell called him, or Dave-in-the-Ditch, for his habit of crashing his truck against their gates—finishing unloading the last of the bags of rice. And that was when she had her grand idea.
“Do you think you could give me a lift to Courcelles?” she asked. “I need to do my rounds and we haven’t any cars.”
She paused only long enough to stuff a few supplies in her haversack and scribble a note for Kate.
Gone to Courcelles with Red Cross Dave. Back by supper.
It was heaven getting away from Grécourt, away from the cold water dripping down the cellar walls, the stench of the animals in their little farm. The sky was an opaque gray that signaled snow, but it wasn’t snowing yet and the clear, crisp air felt glorious against Emmie’s cheeks after weeks of rain. The ruined houses and barbed wire had become just part of the landscape now; she was used to them. Army camions rumbled past them on the road, taking a convoy of French soldiers to the front. They waved their caps at her and Emmie waved back.
“Mademoiselle Aimée! Mademoiselle Aimée!” The children had come running out before the truck even stopped in Courcelles, in what had once been the village square before the Germans had got to it. Little hands waved up at her, grabbing at her hands, her skirt. Emmie sank down into the fray, delighted.
Miss Ledbetter, much more efficient than Emmie, had made it to Courcelles once a week with the store, but when asked if Pauline had had her baby yet or if little Leon’s cough was better, Miss Ledbetter waxed poetic about the Merovingians and went off on tangents about the Crusades.
But here she was herself, with Leon’s mittened hand—she’d brought the mittens last month, donated by members of the Chicago Smith Club—in hers, tugging her to see the new school building, which now had benches and five books, five whole books, and wouldn’t she like to see them?
Why, yes. Yes, she would. And she needed to see Blondine’s missing tooth, proudly displayed with a hideous pulling back of gums, and the new mattresses that had been delivered by the Red Cross man, the one who didn’t speak any French.
“Wait, wait,” said Emmie, laughing, as her arm was half tugged off in one direction by a six-year-old, her skirt pulled by a toddler. “I’ve treats for you all. Let me just get to my haversack.”