Mrs. Weatherford looked guiltily at the ceiling as Grace shut the door.
“Taking tea in the entryway?” Grace teased.
“Oh, do stop.” Viv waved her hand. “You know full well we were trying to listen in on you. It was quite rude of you both to speak so softly that we couldn’t hear a word.”
The hack’s engine outside rumbled, carrying George away. Who knew when they’d see one another again? Months, if they were lucky.
She touched her fingers to her mouth where the warmth of his lips still lingered. She would wait those months happily for him. Years even, if that’s what it took.
There wasn’t another man like George Anderson.
“Well.” Mrs. Weatherford puffed with impatience. “Do tell us.”
With the older woman being in better spirits than Grace had seen her since before Colin left for war, she couldn’t help but share all the details. Well, nearly all. She left that kiss tucked closely against her heart. For her and her alone.
Christmas lacked many of the luxuries Grace had enjoyed in London the previous year. Carolers were absent from the streets due to the constant bombing. All the theaters that might have once been open were now few and far between, many having been rendered inoperable by damage.
But by some miracle, Grace and Viv managed to squeeze into a show for a pantomime on Christmas Eve, a festive play that recalled them back to their childhood, though the production was far better than what they’d had in Drayton. On Christmas Day, Mrs. Weatherford, as always, followed the rules to conserve fuel by cramming the oven full of crockery in an attempt to cook all their food at once, which was quite the accomplishment in light of the feast she’d prepared.
As everything Mrs. Weatherford did when it came to rationing in the kitchen, she made it work beautifully. The government had doubled their tea and sugar rations in preparation for Christmas, and Mrs. Weatherford put those to good use as well, in addition to her secreted stores.
There was treacle tart and figgy pudding and Christmas cake, though the latter was missing most of the dried fruit usually prevalent through the confection. All of it was adorned with frosted bits of holly, made by soaking the waxy green leaves in Epsom salts—a festive suggestion from the Ministry of Food.
Though Mrs. Weatherford remained seemingly in high spirits, Grace could see the cracks in her forced joviality. It came in the moments she thought no one was looking, when the smile wilted from her lips and a pained look pinched at her features in a sudden onset of agony.
Grace knew that hurt.
Loss.
For Colin.
His absence was felt like a missing limb. No—a missing heart.
His smile, his kindness, his light—no Christmas would ever be the same without him. And no amount of frosted holly leaves or painted newspaper garland could make that go away.
Though they’d agreed to no presents that year in light of conserving for the war efforts, they all had a little something for each other. Mrs. Weatherford had procured scented soaps for both Grace and Viv. Viv had knit them both thick mufflers, and Grace had managed to get Mrs. Weatherford and Viv a bit of chocolate. It was wrapped in wax paper as the foil was now needed for materials, and the chocolate was crumblier and less sweet than it was before. But seeing them beam with delight upon opening their gifts told Grace that chocolate would still always be chocolate, no matter how it came.
Dinner was as delicious as it was lovely, the addition of sugar a magical touch in such restrictive times. Mr. Evans came with a bottle of wine he’d been saving for just such an occasion, and he and Mrs. Weatherford spent a good part of the afternoon bickering with each other like siblings, each with a good-natured twinkle in their eye.
Jimmy and his sister, however, did not join them, and their absence was very much felt. Most especially by Mrs. Weatherford. The package under the unlit tree with Colin’s old clothes, altered to accommodate Jimmy’s skinny frame, was left where it lay alongside another bundle of several girls’ dresses and a coat Viv had tailored for his sister.
Viv had to return to Caister the following day. It was a sad realization that sifted like ash over the fleeting joy Christmas had brought and left the townhouse feeling darker and more alone than ever.
Mrs. Weatherford, especially, was affected by Viv’s departure, as though she were losing Colin all over again. The only time she managed to rouse herself from the house was the day after Boxing Day when she went to Grace’s afternoon reading at Primrose Hill Books with a great box of leftover Christmas cake, several rolls and the children’s presents.