The same could not be said of Milly, however, who was young and pretty and never in her life had been described as plain. There was no reason Milly couldn’t go out and have some fun. All she needed was something to wear and a little encouragement from Ann.
The women who worked at Hartnell were allowed to borrow patterns for their own use, and even to use such scraps of fabric and trim that the workroom heads let them have, and from time to time Ann had gleaned enough material to reface the lapels on a blouse, or cover a set of buttons.
That’s what she would do. She would go to the next WI swap meet and find a frock for Milly that she could freshen up with some scavenged trim from work, and then she’d persuade her to go out dancing with some friends. Perhaps Milly might find a new beau. Perhaps she might aspire to a future that was a degree or two warmer and wider than a wanly flickering fire and the pages of People’s Friend.
The mantel clock sounded the hour. It was nine o’clock, the fire had faded to a few glowing crumbs, and suddenly Ann felt so tired she wasn’t certain how she’d manage to climb the stairs to her bedroom. At least she didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn the next morning.
“You go on up to your room,” she told Milly. “I’ll bring you a hot-water bottle to take the chill off the sheets.”
Alone in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to sing, Ann admired the pot of heather she’d brought home. In the spring she would plant it outside, for their house had a tiny back garden that had just enough room for one flower bed, tucked between the shed and the coal store. For most of the war it had been filled up with practical things like beans, carrots, marrows, and potatoes. The June after VE Day, though, she’d planted a handful of marigold seeds that Mr. Tilley down the street had given her, and they’d popped up again the next spring, and bit by bit she’d squeezed in more and more flowers, until she’d covered every square inch of soil with plants that did nothing more to earn their keep than give her pleasure.
Milly might scoff, but the heather was something to treasure. A gift from the queen herself, given in recognition of the work she had done. She’d baby it for the rest of the winter and then, if spring ever did come, she’d find a spot for the heather in her own garden. It was a long way from Balmoral to Barking, but her garden was a fine place for it to end up.
“You’ll be happy here,” she told the plant, letting her fingertips brush against its downy stems. And then, feeling a little silly at her flight of fancy, she filled her and Milly’s hot-water bottles, switched off the kitchen light, and went up to bed.
Chapter Two
Miriam
London
England
March 3, 1947
Her first impression would forever be the grayness of it all. It was late in the day, the half-seen sun withering by degrees as it sank in the western sky, and arrows of sleet were beating against the windows of the train. Outside she could make out a dull, leaden sort of countryside, its winter-bare fields and lonely cottages giving way slowly, almost mournfully, to the huddled buildings and tangled streets of a city. The city. London itself.
The train shunted from one track to another, then another, steadily losing speed, its engine groaning in a deeper, gloomier cadence. Soot-stained brick walls were her view now, relieved by the briefest glimpse of rushing water as they crossed a river. The Thames, she supposed. Slower and slower they moved, the train lumbering forward, until with one last, shuddering lurch it reached the end of the platform and halted, belching out its ire in great huffs of smoke and steam.
The people around her were gathering their cases, pulling on gloves, wrapping scarves tightly around their necks. She followed in their wake, hurrying along the platform, matching her stride to theirs. Her bags were light; it was easy to do.
They reached the barrier, and she saw the people before her were showing their tickets to the inspector, or guard, or whatever he was called in England. She watched his expression as he punched their tickets, and felt an easing sort of relief when he smiled at those who seemed unsure or anxious.
She already had her ticket in hand, having anticipated she might need it again, but all the same she hung back until everyone else had passed. No sense in calling attention to herself by holding up the queue. She had heard stories about English people and queues.
“Good evening,” she said to the man.
“Good evening, miss.” He took her ticket, punched a little hole in one corner, and handed it back to her. As if it were a memento she would want to keep. The journey that took her away from France, from everything she knew, and deposited her in this strange, cold, and desperately shabby place.