Jimmy arrived, albeit shamefaced when he saw Mrs. Weatherford, but didn’t run from her and Grace after the reading.
“They were feeding us at the rest center.” He took his cap off, his expression heavy with remorse. “I didn’t want to take your rations.”
The boy’s consideration, in a devastated world when he had nothing and they had so much by comparison, needled into Grace’s chest.
“You needn’t ever worry about us,” she said.
“We had far more than we could possibly eat.” Mrs. Weatherford set the box before him and lifted the top.
She’d set the Christmas desserts in a large glass bowl nestled beside the wrapped presents for Jimmy and his sister.
He looked up in surprise. “You’re sharing too much.”
Mrs. Weatherford waved him off. “I made it for you both, and you weren’t there to eat it.”
“Open the larger package,” Grace urged, knowing what it would mean to Mrs. Weatherford to see him unwrap the gift.
Jimmy hesitated only a moment before drawing the parcel from the box. He didn’t rip into the package as children often do. Instead, he untied the string holding the parcel together, wound it around his hand into a neat bundle and set it inside the box. Only then did he gingerly fold back the paper so as not to cause a single tear.
It was the care of someone who had nothing, someone who knew they might have need of such materials later. It wasn’t only the item inside that was the gift, but the wrapping as well.
He stared for a long while at the clothes. Three collared shirts, three pairs of trousers, two pullovers and a thick coat.
All at once, he sniffed hard and swiped at his nose with the sleeve of his dirty jacket.
“It’s too much,” he croaked in a thick voice. He lifted a watery gaze at them, his mouth pressed hard together.
Mrs. Weatherford shook her head. “It’s not nearly enough.”
That afternoon, Mrs. Weatherford cast off the weight of her sorrow and marched back to the WVS to resume her aid. This time she homed her focus in on seeing to the orphans of the Blitz. She went at the task with fire and purpose, which was as true a Christmas miracle as Grace had ever seen.
Two evenings later, Grace was preparing herself for another shift for the night period with Mr. Stokes when the air raid siren screamed through the peaceful quiet. The sound of it nearly startled Grace. The nights since Christmas Eve had been quiet in London, an unspoken ceasefire. Overhead, the thick clouds indicated the night was not ideal for bombing, especially not so early in the evening.
Though it was only a few minutes past six, Grace led Mrs. Weatherford to Farringdon Station to join the queue of people waiting to get in and rushed to the ARP post. After all, there was no sense in being in the shelter for less than an hour, especially when an opportunistic entrepreneur might claim her spot on the tube station floor and try to sell it to a tardy soul later for two shillings.
Mr. Stokes was already at the post when she arrived, clearly having had the same idea. He smirked when he saw her, his thin lips stretched beneath his mustache. “The German planes are early tonight.”
“It would have been polite to at least wait until our night shift started.” Grace buckled her tin hat under her chin with a leather strap.
Mr. Stokes grumbled his agreement.
Outside, the vibration of passing planes reverberated with such intensity, Grace could feel the engines humming through the soles of her shoes.
This night would be bad.
She left the safety of the sandbag-laden post and went out into the wet chill of a late December night. However, it was not blackness that met her eyes, but a glow of orange in the distance, where a nearby part of London was on fire. Close to the Thames. By St. Paul’s Cathedral.
The planes rattled by overhead, emptying their bellies to strike an area several streets over. As objects fell, they spilled out small cylinders and a familiar sound met Grace’s ears. A swish, followed by the tapping of dozens of these sticks crashing through roofs and striking the pavement, violently sputtering flames upon impact.
“Incendiaries,” Grace called out to Mr. Stokes as she slung the coil of tubing for the stirrup pump over her shoulder.
She didn’t have to look behind her to know he followed closely. They both knew there were mere minutes between them and the many new fires that could easily flare out of control.
Two streets over, they found the first incendiary, sparkling with white splinters of light as it furiously expelled its magnesium innards. Nearly all doorsteps now had either a bucket of water, sand or even sandbags set out in preparation. Grace grabbed a sandbag, hefting its weight before her face to protect herself, and dropped it atop the glare of light. As the bag burned, it would spill out the sand and douse the sparks before they could do any damage. There was no need to wait to see if it would be effective. Not when there were so many more.