“What if someone needed you?”
“Nobody needs me.”
“I do,” Grace protested. “And there’s a boy who could use some help.”
“A boy?” Mrs. Weatherford regarded Grace with tired, barely tethered patience.
Grace explained how he’d come to listen to her read and the state he was in. “I don’t believe he has parents to care for him, and he’s too old to go to an orphanage.”
Mrs. Weatherford sat back in her chair. “The poor dear.”
Sadly, many children were in such a state. Although orphanages were filling up with those who actually went, it wasn’t uncommon for the older kids to take their chances on the streets instead. They didn’t need anyone, or so they thought. The state of them suggested otherwise with their tattered clothing and hollowed cheeks.
Mrs. Weatherford shook her head. “But what can I possibly do?”
Grace lifted a shoulder. “I hoped you’d know. I haven’t a thought how I can help, but I feel like someone must do something before he wastes away. There are too many other people in need for anyone to care for the likes of him.”
Mrs. Weatherford went silent at that. But Grace saw her eyes narrow, flickering with a hint of the spark that once gleamed there. Though the older woman carried on with disinterest, her mind was clearly winding through possible solutions.
The ARP shift that night was difficult. There were so many bombs, one Grace and Mr. Stokes had narrowly avoided, and far too much death. The Germans had begun implementing the use of landmine bombs, which floated down on parachutes and whose explosions caused damage that could spread as far as two miles.
No matter how many victims Grace saw to, she still found herself affected by every one. Each name scored on her heart, each memory burned into her brain. She was not alone in how death had affected her. The heavy rescue service, the men who dug through rubble for bodies, or whatever was left, passed a flask around as they worked, unable to perform their grisly tasks without the aid of spirits. They too never would grow used to what they witnessed.
So, when Grace, weary and soul-worn, came home that morning to the scent of baking bread, it did much to lift her downtrodden disposition. Especially when it had been half an age since Mrs. Weatherford had baked, putting to use the secret bags of flour. It was a good thing she had so frugally tucked them away. The months had shown them that just because something was not rationed did not mean it was any easier to come by.
And Grace thought she knew who would receive that coveted loaf.
In the afternoon, Mrs. Weatherford arrived just before Grace’s reading, her gaze sharp as she scanned the surrounding faces. The boy arrived just before Grace began and settled in to listen. As she finished the last passage, the boy rose and so too did Mrs. Weatherford.
Grace gave part of her attention to the paragraph in front of her as she watched Mrs. Weatherford out of the corner of her eye.
The older woman approached the boy in his secluded corner. He stiffened and regarded her quietly with his large eyes as she offered the bread. He stared at it for so long that Grace thought he might decline.
Mrs. Weatherford nodded, saying something Grace couldn’t hear. Then, quick as a bullet, he grabbed the loaf, tucked it under his jacket and skittered out of the shop.
Mrs. Weatherford met Grace’s gaze and offered a proud nod. She had done it. If nothing else, the boy would have food for one day.
Except Grace knew Mrs. Weatherford better than that. There would be many more days after this one. At the townhouse that afternoon, the mail wasn’t on the floor where it usually remained after being pushed through the slot by the postman. It had been added to the stack near the door, which appeared noticeably smaller as though it had finally been sorted.
At the top was a letter addressed to Grace from Viv. And beneath that one, another from George. Such a double blessing was indeed good fortune, for when Grace opened them, she found they both contained a similar message that sent her squealing with girlish delight.
Both Viv and George would be returning to London for Christmas.
SIXTEEN
It had been the end of October when Grace received the letters from Viv and George stating they’d be visiting in time for the festivities. A week later, London experienced its first night without a single bombing.
The weather had been terrible. Rain lashed sideways, thunder growled like a beast and lightning streaked the cloudy sky. Grace had been on duty with Mr. Stokes, both anticipating the air raid that blessedly never came. The hours of that shift had stretched on for an eternity, boredom after so much excitement and an unending assault of blistering rain.