Through it all, however, Grace couldn’t help but notice Viv had been rather out of sorts. It became most apparent during one of their afternoon teas in the sunny yellow and white kitchen at the townhouse. First Viv forgot to turn the stovetop on, which left the kettle sitting cold on its surface, and then she brought the tea over without any teacups.
All of it was very unlike Viv, who loved to add fanfare to any event, even something as common as afternoon tea.
Grace quickly acquired two cups and studied her friend. “Something is weighing on you. What is it?”
Viv sank into the opposite chair and sighed. Her gaze wandered to the barren garden outside where Colin’s planting efforts for Dig for Victory had been frozen over by the winter’s brutality. A mound humped up from the middle of the desiccated flower beds where the Andy was buried. Normally a garden would have been locked in winter dormancy, but now there was only bare earth, stripped to stark desolation.
“Do you ever feel like you don’t do enough?” Viv took a sip of her tea and left a red half-moon on the cup’s rim from her lipstick.
Grace wrapped her hands around the heat of her teacup. The last week had been cold enough to freeze a mix of snow and ice on the ground. Though the kitchen was the warmest room in the townhouse, Grace’s hands never seemed to thoroughly thaw.
“This war will continue until we do something.” Viv’s large brown eyes were apprehensive.
Whatever she had to say, she knew Grace would not like it.
Nervousness tightened in Grace’s stomach. “What are you going on about?”
Viv’s mouth twisted slightly, indicating she was biting her lip, a confirmation that she was indeed anxious. “I can’t do it any longer. You know I’ve never been one to sit around waiting for things to happen.”
Grace set aside her teacup. She did know. Viv had always run headfirst into life, ready for whatever she might face. “The ATS?” Grace surmised.
Viv nodded. “The uniforms are ghastly, I know, but the service suits my talents. And it’s far better than becoming a Land Girl.”
The Land Girls were part of the Women’s Land Army, a group of women who assisted with growing crops. While the service was voluntary, it didn’t mean people wouldn’t pressure Viv to join if they knew anything of her history with her parents’ farm.
She’d heard from her parents only once in the time since they’d arrived in London. In the letter, her mother had expressed her displeasure at Viv’s abrupt departure and told her to not bother returning. Viv had passed it off indifferently with a light jest, but Grace knew it had cut her deeply.
“You’d make a fine Land Girl,” Grace protested as she bit back a smile.
Viv’s mouth fell open in exaggerated offense. “You’re so wicked, Grace Bennett.” She nudged Grace’s toe with hers in a mock kick. “You could come with me, you know.” Viv’s auburn brows were finely arched, plucked each day to perfection. They rose now in invitation. “Imagine it, the two of us in the ATS, commiserating in those atrocious brown uniforms that make our bums look long and rectangular, sacrificing youth and fashion to do our bit for England.”
“Well, when you sell it like that…” Grace laughed. Despite her mirth, she knew she ought to do something for her country. The men were being called up, mothers had sacrificed their children to the country to remain safe, strangers were caring for those children, women were volunteering. And what was she doing?
Nothing.
“Come with me, Duckie.” Viv winked, turning on the full effect of her charm. “We can do this together.”
Grace’s chest squeezed at what joining the ATS would mean, aside from the duty of aiding her country, of course. She would be leaving behind Primrose Hill Books and the disappointment of no longer working there. She wouldn’t have to work at Harrods without Viv. Best of all, she would still be at her friend’s side, the way they’d always been since they were girls.
But it would also mean leaving Mrs. Weatherford alone.
The WVS offered her mother’s friend only so much of a reprieve, and the threads of Mrs. Weatherford’s life were beginning to unravel. Mrs. Weatherford preferred to be in charge, but had to yield to the woman heading her local WVS, who had no intention of relinquishing the leadership role. Instead, Mrs. Weatherford shifted her need for control to the house.
The tar-like odor of carbolic soap permeated every surface from her daily scouring. Towels were adjusted neatly to the exact center of their racks, food tins were lined with their labels facing out like rows of soldiers and even the teacups were put away with their handles pointed in the same direction.