“And I have something for you too.” Viv pulled the bag from her arm and took out a little box.
Grace accepted the parcel and drew off the top to reveal a bracelet within. It was a simple thing of metal chain links with a flat white oval at its center on one side and a small medallion on the other. The card it was attached to declared it to be an ARP identification wristlet.
“I have one too.” Viv held out her wrist, proudly displaying her matching jewelry. She’d written her name and their address on it, the same as the one she’d given Grace. “I found them at Woolworths.”
Grace stared down at hers once more as a shroud of dread brushed over her. “An identification wristlet?”
“In case we get bombed.” Viv’s mouth twisted to the side and Grace knew she was biting the inside of her lip, a habit she’d had since she was a girl. “These are far sturdier than our identity cards. So they can know who we are.”
In the last year, the National Registry issued each person in Britain an identity card to carry at all times. But Viv was right; the bit of paper, no matter how thick, was fragile.
“Viv…” Grace swallowed, uncertain what to say.
“If something happens, isn’t it better that we know?” Viv set aside the bag on the table beside a pile of pale yellow chiffon she’d purchased the day before. “I can’t bear the thought of never knowing what happened to you if you didn’t come home. The other night when you became lost in the blackout…” Viv’s smooth forehead puckered with concern. “I was so worried about you.”
Grace stepped closer to her friend to embrace her, but Viv put her hand up. “No, you’ll make me cry if you do that and my makeup will run all down my face.” She pressed the back of her forefinger to the underside of her eyes to delicately dab away any moisture. “I know you probably think this is morbid.”
Grace pressed her lips together to stifle her protest. After years of friendship, they knew one another all too well.
“That’s Saint Christopher at the top, the patron saint of safe travel.” Viv tapped the medallion. “You don’t have to wear it, but I shall. I’m a mess with the fear of being bombed. A bus started up this afternoon and half the people on the street jumped, thinking it was a bomb.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Including me.”
“It was considerate of you to buy this for me.” The wristlet hung heavy in Grace’s hand, weighted by the impact of its purpose—to identify someone who had been blasted beyond recognition by a bomb.
A finger of ice slid down Grace’s spine. “Perhaps I’ll wear it a bit later,” she promised.
Viv nodded with understanding. “Later.”
Grace put the wristlet in the drawer of the small table next to her bed.
Viv sniffed at a savory aroma in the air and drifted toward the bedroom door. “I heard Mrs. Weatherford is making toad in the hole tonight. With your mother’s recipe. Do you think it’s done yet?”
When Grace was a child, her mother made the meal with such regularity, Grace had grown tired of the stuff. It was a funny thought that she should crave it so much now after years of having gone without it and knowing her mother would never make it again.
“We can go down and see.” Grace shared her friend’s eagerness. “Thank you for my wristlet. And for thinking of me.”
Viv squeezed her arms around Grace. “Always, darling.” Her stomach gave a rumble, and she clapped a hand over it with a giggle.
Together, they left the room and descended the stairs, both breathing in the scent of Yorkshire pudding and browned sausage. Midway down, Mrs. Weatherford’s hushed whisper filled the stairwell. “Good evening, Mr. Simons, it’s Mrs. Weatherford.”
Viv stopped in front of Grace and mouthed, “Colin’s boss.”
“I want to ensure you’ve had success in securing Colin as an essential employee,” Mrs. Weatherford said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. Clearly she did not want Colin to hear.
This was not a conversation they ought to be listening in on.
Grace shook her head to Viv, indicating they should move on. But Viv simply waved off Grace’s concerns with her hand and stayed put.
“How long do you expect until you receive a response?” Mrs. Weatherford’s question was followed by a long pause. “I see,” she said at last. “I shall call again tomorrow to see if you’ve heard back.” Another pause, this one shorter. “Yes, tomorrow,” she said firmly. “Good evening.”