“Pfft,” Miriam said. “That is not true. Perhaps it would be too young for my grandmother, but not for a pretty girl like you. Everything in your ensemble is perfect. I would not lie to you about this. You certainly bear no resemblance to a sheep.”
“I still think we ought to have used the other fabric. Not this. This is too . . . too . . .”
It had been a moment of madness, agreeing to make a new frock from the material Milly had sent from Canada. There had been other fabric, practical fabric that would have seen her through the autumn and winter. A generous piece of woolen tartan, its colors nicely muted, that would have served for two skirts at least. But Miriam had been adamant.
“We will sew you these boring skirts later. When the weather is cold again and you need something warm. But now it is summer, and the weather is far too hot for such heavy fabric, and you deserve something pretty. We shall make you a frock from this.”
This had been a length of pale blue rayon, gossamer thin, with a delicate tracery of ivory flowers that almost looked like lace. It had been one of countless treasures in the parcels Milly had sent from Canada and, even now, as she remembered it all, her heart still skipped a beat.
She and Miriam had only just got home from work. A knock had sounded, and Ann had answered to find Mr. Booth from next door, his face nearly hidden by a stack of five large parcels.
“Postman left these with me earlier. Complaining something fierce about how many there are and how lucky some folks are to have relations in Canada to send them anything they want.”
“Thank you, Mr. Booth. I had no idea—I wasn’t expecting . . .”
“I told him to mind his own business. If I had family overseas I’d ask for everything excepting a kitchen sink!”
She’d taken the parcels from him, one after the other, and had carried them into the kitchen. They were identical, each about a foot square and half as deep again, wrapped in brown paper and webbed round with string. One whole corner of each had been tiled with Canadian postage stamps. Miriam had helped her untie the knots in the string, and then they’d removed the paper and folded it neatly. Beneath was a layer of waxed muslin, still pristine; it would be perfect for storing things like cheese.
One of the boxes—actually metal tins, a bit like the ones biscuits came in, only without any lettering—had a letter on top.
June 17, 1947
Dearest Ann,
By now you’ll have had airmail letters from me with news of Toronto, so I won’t go on about that now. I’m sure I’ll have told you all about the shops and how nothing is rationed and everything is so cheap compared to home—people here have no idea of what it’s like in England right now. You can just go into any shop and buy what you want as long as you have the cash to pay for it.
So that’s what I’ve done. My train from Halifax arrived on Sunday and on Monday morning—that’s yesterday—I went out shopping. When I was on the ship and feeling bored to death I made up a list of everything you can’t get at home right now. Things that are rationed or just aren’t in the shops or are so dear only the queen herself can afford them. I found nearly everything and I bundled it all into these five tins and we weighed them to make sure they aren’t more than five pounds each. The man at the post office here says you won’t get points taken off your rations that way.
You must let me know if I’ve missed anything you want or need. There’s nothing for winter in the shops yet but I’ll send boots and woolies before it gets too cold.
It was such fun filling these tins. I felt like Father Christmas and I hope it feels like an early Christmas for you, too.
With much love from your friend and sister,
Milly
“I don’t know how they got here so fast,” Ann said. “It usually takes months for parcels to get here. That’s what Mrs. Turner down the street always says. Her daughter lives in Vancouver.”
“Yes, but is not Vancouver very much farther away than Toronto? And what does it matter? The parcels are here. Go on. Open them,” Miriam urged.
Ann’s hands were trembling by the time the last tin had been emptied and its contents arranged upon the table. Milly hadn’t exaggerated when she’d compared herself to Father Christmas.
There were tins of corned beef, salmon, evaporated milk, and peaches in syrup. Dried apricots and raisins. A big jar of strawberry jam. Packets of powdered milk, cocoa, tea, sugar, and rice. Yards of heavy woolen suiting, finely woven tartan, and two bolts of silky printed rayon, one of pale blue and the other a smoky purple, all with thread and buttons to match. Half a dozen pairs of stockings, and, taking up almost one entire tin, a brand-new pair of high-heeled shoes.