Tidings of Comfort and Joy Read online

  "Never mind, my dear." Rachel patted my arm. "You might be better off leaving that for a day or two. And you are welcome to stay here just as long as you like."

  "'Course, some of the boys might try to make it in to the local tonight," Fred offered.

  "I'm sorry, the what?"

  "The local, the pub." Fred was totally oblivious to the dark look Rachel was shooting his way. "The Horse and Groom, just at the top of New Street. The townsfolk call it the Gloom and Doom, don't ask me why. Those Yank flyboys, they claimed it as their own. Take those fourwheel-drive jeeps over roads I wouldn't try in my dreams."

  "We should be off, Fred," Rachel said crisply, climbing inside the cab.

  But Fred was too busy grinning and talking to pay her any mind. "Had one of 'em tell me they had their nerves surgically removed the day they pinned on their wings. I wouldn't put it past a few of them to try and—"

  "Fred!"

  "Right away, mum." Fred scampered around to his door.I stood there, feeling at a loss as to what I should do with my day. Rachel observed my confusion, and leaned back through the door. "My dear, I do wish you would reconsider and join me."

  "I'd just be in the way," I replied, though the invitation held the appeal of at least filling the empty hours.

  "Oh, piffle." Rachel slid over and patted the seat beside her. "We are so understaffed, I shouldn't be surprised if the day shift didn't fall at your feet in gratitude just for showing up."

  "It's the truth, Miss Emily," Fred called from the front seat. "It's a right shambles up there. Why, just the other day they—"

  "That is quite enough, Fred," Rachel rapped out. "I am paying you to drive, not spread your dreadful rumors."

  "Right you are, Miss Rachel." Fred grinned as he pumped the gas bag lever and pulled on the choke. "Right you are."

  THAT MORNING, THE village of Arden appeared straight from a fairy-tale painting. All the ancient buildings stood draped in snow and icicles. The air smelled of wood smoke and winter. Chimneys puffed cheerily, and windows glazed in frost stared back at me. People were made plump by padding, their faces lost behind scarves and hats and shawls.

  We climbed the slope leading beyond the clinic and on out of town, up to where the clouds draped lazily over the hills. Forests from a black-and-white etching closed in about us. Little stone cottages appeared now and then, surrounded by snow-covered hedges. In several yards, horses stamped and jingled their harnesses as families loaded carts with crates and milk tins.

  "Egg deliveries," Rachel explained. "With the rationing we've returned to earlier times."

  "What is it you do at the War College?" I asked.

  "Everything under the sun, and then some," Fred offered cheerily.

  "That will do, Fred," Rachel said mildly, and patted my knee. "It will be easier to show you than try and describe what has taken place in our little village, my dear."

  "Best thing that could have happened, if you ask me,"Fred declared.

  This time, Rachel did not dispute. Instead, she said to me, "Now as to your trying to find a way back to America, you mustn't concern yourself over how long you'll be staying in my little place."

  "I'll pay you rent," I offered. "But I need—"

  She shushed me with another pat. "We can work something out, of that I am certain. With everything else that has befallen you, I want this to be the last thing on your mind."

  The simple kindness brought a burning to my eyes."You've been awfully nice, Rachel."

  "Nonsense. It's the least I can do." Her eyes lit up as Fred turned through a pair of great stone gates and entered a long tree-lined drive. "Here we are, my dear."

  The elms were centuries old and thicker than I was tall.Through the snow-covered boughs I caught glimpses of a house that drew a gasp from my lips. Four stories of stone and turrets and gables and gargoyles, a fantasy palace standing proud and stern in a vast sea of white.

  Rachel paid my reaction no mind, nor did Fred. For as we drew up before the vast entrance, the front doors opened, and a sea of little figures came cascading down the stairs. There were so many of them, and they were making so much noise, that I drew back from the door.

  Then I saw Fred smiling and rolling down his window to admit a dozen little hands. I watched as Rachel allowed them to draw open her door and engulf her, and I knew my fears were groundless.

  The voices were a keening babble as I opened my own door and stepped out. I could not understand a word of what was said. A few of the little ones looked my way, those who were at the periphery of the circle around Rachel. Their outstretched hands formed a skirt of arms extending out from the elderly woman. She responded with a crooning voice and strokes to as many of the faces as she could reach.

  She turned to me and called out, "Come along, my dear. We mustn't keep you out in this cold."

  "But who are all these children?"

  "Ah," she said, moving at a slow enough pace to allow the children to flow with her. "These are my little angels. And the reason I have strength to meet another day."

  "THREE HUNDRED CHILDREN?"

  "Two hundred and seventy-six, at last count." Rachel's arms were white to the elbow, and a smudge of flour creased her forehead where she had wiped away a stray lock of hair. "But we are scheduled to receive more next week. At least, that is what we were informed the day before yesterday."

  I continued to peel the potatoes, just to give my hands something to do. "But who arethey?"

  "War orphans." She had said it before, but the words had not really sunk in. She kept her tone light and musical, as a half dozen little ones were playing a hand-clapping game in the kitchen's far corner. "They come from all over, as far as we have been able to tell. Most of them speak languages that none of us can fathom."

  I set down my knife. "They've sent you children without even telling you where they're from?"

  "Don't look so concerned, my dear." Rachel almost sang the words. "They can't understand you, so they only hear the tone. And yes, that is exactly the case. From what I've heard, there are some truly horrific discoveries being made over on the Continent."

  I nodded, recalling half-heard news stories about camps and trains and things so bad I had always turned away. But now I glanced over to where a half-dozen sets of eyes were observing me. Huge eyes, dark and quietly watchful. Their bodies were little, and the faces so pale and so fragile they seemed barely able to contain those great cautious gazes. I smiled down at them, and tried to match Rachel's light tone. "I don't understand."

  "No, I don't suppose you do." She slid out an empty metal tray, dusted it with flour, and began rolling out loaves of dough. Three other women moved about in utter silence. They carried themselves with the stolid determination of people too tired to see or hear beyond the task at hand. Rachel went on, "Neither do we for that matter, not fully. I can only tell you what we ourselves have learned.

  "Millions of people are wandering about Europe, from the sound of things. Simply millions. Displaced persons, they're called, DPs for short. And among them are thousands and thousands of orphans. No papers, no explanation for how they got to be where they are, and often no one who understands their language."

  Rachel stopped in her work, and stared at the group huddled quietly in the corner. "Several of the officers who were stationed here are now working with the Red Cross on these displaced persons. The plight of these children simply broke their hearts. They decided to turn their vacated War College into a temporary orphanage."

  I was unsure which question to ask first. "But you can't even understand them."

  One of the other women gave a snort. Rachel glanced her way before replying, "Oh, we have been promised interpreters. We've been promised the moon, for that matter. And no doubt we shall receive them. In time. What matters, however, is how we are going to . . ."

  Rachel stopped as the kitchen door was pushed aside by a dark-haired pixie with flashing eyes. The girl raced over, started to take Rachel's hand, and then stopped. Rachel asked, "What
is it, Annique?"

  The girl was perhaps thirteen or fourteen, quite a bit older than the others I had seen around the ground floor.I had not visited the rest of the house, however. As soon as we had arrived, a harried woman had come racing over and told us to hurry in and start with the kitchen, half of the day crew had failed to show up, what with the snow and it being New Year's, as if the children would understand why they weren't to be fed because the idiots had celebrated too much. The food delivery was late as well, for that matter, so just make do with what we could find. Then she had turned and raced away, her skirts and hair flying.

  Rachel had then said to me, "That is probably the only introduction to the mistress of the night shift that you are likely to receive. Her name, by the way, is Kate." As I stood there, more shouted comments had drifted out from somewhere down the back hall. And I had realized the reason behind Kate's hurried commentary was that Rachel ran the day-shift crew.

  Rachel asked gently, "Do you need something, Annique?"

  But the girl was now staring at me, her dark eyes probing with silent intensity. Then she marched over and grasped my hand. I looked a question at Rachel.

  "This is Annique," Rachel explained. "She was found wandering the streets of Munich, more or less in charge of a group of a dozen younger children. That is all we know."

  Annique gave my hand a tug and said something in an urgent, sibilant tone. Rachel continued, "Annique is something of a guardian angel for the younger children.You'd best go with her."

  I nodded, and allowed myself to be led out of the kitchen and down a long side corridor. Annique was a truly lovely child, despite the shadows and harsh edges that marred her features. She was dressed in a smock far too large for her thin frame, which of course made her look even more emaciated. The fingers and arm that led me were little more than skin and bone, and her face was etched to a fineness that made me shudder to think what she had seen and endured.

  She led me up a flight of narrow stairs that had probably been intended for the servants' use, and stopped before a hall cupboard. She pointed at the door, but said nothing. A soft whimpering seemed to be coming from inside the cupboard. I hesitated a moment, then knocked and opened the door. And my heart melted.

  Curled up on a stack of starched bed linens was a little boy. He could not have been more than four or five. His hair was the color of honey, and his eyes were big and gray and full of tears. He had all the fingers of one hand crammed into his mouth, I suppose to stop his cries from being heard. He gave me a terrified look, and scrunched up into a tighter little ball.

  I reached out my hands to him, but did not touch. Something told me that the first contact needed to come from his side. Annique studied me with an impassive gaze as I spoke words I am sure he did not understand. But I kept talking, and gradually his tears stopped.

  Then he reached out one little finger, and touched my open palm, and for some reason I found myself crying as well. The boy unwound enough to let me reach for him and pull him up and in my embrace. He wrapped his thin arms around my neck with a fierce strength, and buried his face in my shoulder.

  Annique's reaction surprised me. She studied the pair of us, then simply nodded and walked away. I stared after her for a moment before starting back toward the kitchen.

  In the doorway, I halted once more. There beside Rachel was the young vicar. The two of them were unloading produce from a stack of wooden crates. Rachel looked up and smiled, "Ah, there you are. Crisis resolved?"

  Her offhand attitude startled me as much as Annique had. I described what I had found. It was the vicar who replied, "It happens quite a lot, I'm afraid. Goodness only knows what living nightmares these children have endured."

  I shifted the boy to my other side. He loosened his grasp only long enough to become resettled, then curled his arms back tightly around me. "But what are we supposed to do?"

  "Precisely what you are doing right now," Rachel replied.She waited as the two helpers set yet another huge pot upon the stove and ladled in water. "Give them love."

  "They may not understand our words," Reverend Albright agreed. "But they pay the utmost attention to our actions."

  He left while I was still mulling that over, and returned with another heavily laden crate. "I think that's the lot," he huffed. "The shipment was short today by half. Snows kept the produce man from making his deliveries, and the village grocers are almost empty."

  Rachel was already busy dicing carrots and dropping the segments into the big pot. "And what, may I ask, are these children supposed to eat?"

  "The local shops are doing more than their share, and you know it," Colin Albright chided. "Everything we'vebought for the past two months has been on account. It's almost enough to break the butcher. I can only hope the Ministry finally comes through with something more than words." He wrapped the scarf back around his neck. "And now I'm off to get the doctor."

  Rachel turned to him, a stricken look on her face. "Not another child."

  "Two, I'm afraid."

  "Still no idea what it is?"

  "No, but thankfully he's leaning away from calling it meningitis. It doesn't seem to be as serious as he first thought."

  The vicar turned toward me, and in that instant the sun finally managed to break through the clouds. Sunlight lanced through the grimy kitchen window, and fell full force upon Colin Albright's brow. He winced, tightening his face into well-worn lines. He was probably still in his late twenties, but his features were drawn like those of a much older person. He had the grayish pallor of a man limping along the brink of exhaustion. "It is nice to see you again, Miss Robbins."

  I nodded as much as the child in my arms would allow, still unsure what to think of this overly tired vicar. When the door had closed behind him, I observed, "If he doesn't sit down, he's going to fall down."

  "Colin Albright is the reason we have managed at all," Rachel agreed. "I'm head of the day crew in name only. Colin is director, general, and full-time handyman. He is everywhere, doing everything no one else seems to have time for. I have yet to discover when that man sleeps."

  The boy was beginning to grow heavy. I walked over and settled him onto the corner of the long central table. He did not seem to mind, so long as he could keep his arms wrapped around my neck. "I don't understand," I said, and stroked the downy hairs at the nape of his neck. "They just dumped these children on you?"

  "Not intentionally, no. We are supposed to be receiving all sorts of assistance. But until they sort things out, we are forced to do the best we can with what we have." She lifted the ladle and tasted the soup she was making. "Mind you, this whole thing has done the village a world of good, if you'd like the opinion of one old woman."

  "You're not old," I said automatically. I felt the little arms begin to slacken, and watched as the child unleashed me. The face turned up long enough for me to look into eyes that held the depths of one ten times his age. He gave me a tiny smile, then slipped from the table and was gone.

  I stared at the space where he had been. Somehow my heart ached with this sudden passage. I could still feel his arms around me.

  When I turned around, I found Rachel staring at me, a tender smile playing upon her face. "Annique was right,"she said. "You were exactly what the child needed."

  For some reason, Rachel's words left me feeling exposed and uncomfortably vulnerable. I changed the subject."What did you mean when you said this has been good for the village?"

  "Ah," Rachel said, turning back to her steaming pot."That you will have to discover for yourself."

  TEN

  Marissa awoke to sunlight and a ringing telephone. She knew instantly it was her mother. She opened her eyes to see Gran roll over and reach for the portable phone. Marissa pleaded, "Don't tell them about last night."

  Her eyes on her granddaughter, Gran punched the connection button and said, "Hello?" A moment's pause, then, "Good morning, yes, I'm afraid you did. Marissa—"

  "Please," she said, her voice rising an octave.


  "Marissa and I got to talking and stayed up half the night," Gran went on. "No, no, she's doing as well as can be expected. Yes, of course I will, just as soon as she's up and about. Of course, Carol. How is everyone? Lovely. And you're having a good time? Good. That's very good. Well, give one and all our love."

  She set down the phone, and asked, "Mind if I ask what that was all about?"

  "I don't want them to worry," Marissa said, sinking back to her pillow.

  Gran rose and crossed the floor. "How are you feeling today?"

  "About the same, I guess. Maybe a little better."

  "You don't look as pale as last night." Gran brushed the hair from her forehead. "But maybe we should take our breakfast up here today, what do you think?"

  "Okay." It took a genuine effort to raise herself up, stage by stage, until she was standing by the bed. Her grandmother stood ready to assist, but did not reach out, letting her take it as far as she could on her own. Proud that she had managed by herself, Marissa said, "It was hepatitis that they had, wasn't it? The children."

  "Ah, now you're getting ahead of the story." Gran walked alongside her as she headed toward the bathroom."Let me go prepare our breakfast, then I'll come back and tell you what happened next."

  GRAN'S STORY

  That evening I walked down the lane and turned up the river road. Light splashed out of centuries-old cottages, making the snow shimmer gold. The wind was brisk, and the cold air burned my face. Overhead a few stars managed to shine through clouds chasing across the night sky. The loudest noises were the wind and my scrunching footsteps.

  I hesitated a long moment outside the pub's entrance.Once inside, I had no idea what I was going to do. But I could feel the night's icy tendrils creep into my chest, and knew I could stand there no longer.

  I pushed through the door, and entered the smoky warmth. There was laughter and the cheerful talk of old friends. I had heard how pubs were a part of English country life, how locals used them as extensions of their own living rooms. At first glance, I understood why lonely airmen might risk life and limb on icy roads to come here.