Tidings of Comfort and Joy Read online

  A roaring fire crackled in a grand stone fireplace, casting a ruddy glow upon the two rooms. Tables darkened by age and hard use were ringed by padded benches and highbacked chairs. The ceilings were beamed and low, the windows tiny blades of leaded glass.

  About half the crowd were locals, probably farmers, their faces chapped and roughened by the elements. The others wore uniforms and talked in loud American twangs.

  A head at the bar turned my way. I saw eyes widen in genuine apprehension, and recognized the pilot's wings on his shoulders. His gaze grew even wider as I walked straight toward him. My heart was thundering with fear, but seeing how nervous he had become gave me the strength to smile and say, "What's your name?"

  "B-Bob Mclntyre," he stammered.

  I nodded, as though the name meant something to me. I did not introduce myself. Instead, I simply said, "You recognized me from my photo, I suppose."

  "Y-yes, ma'am." By this time, all his buddies were staring openly. "I'm real sorry about . . . "

  I struggled to force away another bloom of pain in my heart. The bartender chose that moment to walk over and ask if I wanted something. I gave my head a little shake, more of a shudder. He shared a glance with someone behind me, and I knew that all the pub was watching and listening.

  I straightened with a determined effort and forced my voice to remain steady. "You know what Grant has done."

  He showed the decency to blush. "Yes, ma'am."

  And suddenly he was just a young lad, far from home and dumped into a situation that was not of his making. I reached over and patted his arm. "It's all right. Well, not all right, but it's certainly not your fault."

  "Grant flew in my squadron for a while," Bob said. He was slender, with red hair and freckles to match. His face was untouched by age or the stress of battle, and he could have easily passed for a teenager except for his uniform. "I never figured him for a guy that'd just cut and run like this."

  "No, neither did I. But he did, and I'm trapped here."I explained the difficulty I was facing, trying to find a ship's berth. "I was just wondering if maybe you could help me find a place on one of your flights."

  He brightened immensely at the thought of being able to do more than apologize for a vanished friend. "Say, now that you mention it, I might be able to at that. Won'tbe easy though."

  "Sure." A taller soldier with airman's wings shouldered his way up alongside Bob. He spoke with a strong midwestern twang. "We've got air convoys coming through here a couple of times a week. They're chock full to the brim with guys headed home from Europe. And there's a long waiting list of fellows around here, just looking for the empty berth." He gave me a friendly nod. "Name'sBradley Atwater, ma'am. The commander stuck me with these bozos, hopin' I'd be able to keep 'em straight."

  "Don't believe a word of it. Brad's the worst of a bad . . . "Bob's flush spread once more, and he swiftly changed the subject. "I bet we could squeeze you in somewhere. That is, if you don't mind waiting around awhile."

  "It sounds like I don't have any choice." I smiled my gratitude. "My name is Emily Robbins. I live in Grant'sold place. Do you know where that is?"

  "Sure, just down there around the corner. We've all been there for . . . " Again he realized where he was headed.Blushing came easy to him and his natural redheaded complexion. He finished lamely, "I know where you live."

  "I'm ready to go at any time," I said.

  Yet the instant I spoke the words, I felt the strangest tug at my heart. I could not explain it, but there was a sense of the words being utterly untrue. I had no idea what was going on. I was four thousand miles from home, and had absolutely nothing holding me here. But I had the clearest sense that I was not going anywhere.

  Bob did not notice this hesitation. He grinned and looked even younger than before. "Don't you worry, ma'am, I mean, Emily. We'll keep an eye peeled for a spot.

  "We'll get the paperwork all ready too," offered his buddy. "Least we can do."

  "And say, the PX out there at the base is chock full of gear. Anything you need, just give us the word."

  "Got all kindsa food and stuff coming out of our ears,"confirmed Bradley.

  "Thank you, but I'm doing just fine for the moment,"I said. Yet again there was the sense of my voice going one way, and my heart another. It was certainly a confusing night. I turned toward the door, giving them a final smile."I'll be ready to go at the drop of a hat."

  I DREAMED OF Grant that night. He was strong and handsome and cheerful as he came back to sweep me up and carry me away. I laughed as I ran toward him, and as I ran I realized that everything I thought had happened to me since my arrival in England had been my imagination. Just a horrible, appalling nightmare. Now he was back, and everything was going to be fine.

  My heart seemed to awaken, lifting up with such joy that it threatened to soar out of my chest. I ran toward him, calling his name, singing it out. Grant, oh my Grant. I was running so fast that all the world became a blur, just colors melting together and sweeping along on both sides. My feet truly had wings. I rushed up and leaped into his embrace.

  Then I woke up. One moment he was there before me, laughing and holding his arms out to embrace me, and the next I was awake.

  The shock was so harsh, so cold and sudden, that I screamed out loud. I rolled from the bed, searching the room not for Grant, but for the dream. Seeing only the dark waiting shadows, the big empty bed, and the snow falling outside my window, I collapsed to the floor. My strength was gone. My heart was broken anew. I just lay in a heap and sobbed.

  The only thing that got me up and moving was the prospect of having to spend a day there alone, with nothing to do but weep. I dressed with numb fingers and went next door. When Rachel answered my knock, I asked, "Are you going to the orphanage this morning?"

  "I go every morning," she said, inspecting my face. She seemed to read there everything that had happened. Even the dream. She took hold of my arm and drew me inside."Come along, my dear. Let me fix you a nice cup of tea."

  I did not object. Anything was better than sitting over there alone, surrounded by what would never be. She led me to the kitchen and into a high-backed chair by the little corner table. Her back to me, she said quietly, "A man like Grant will find his own punishment, my dear. Perhaps he already has, you know, in choosing a life without you.What is important is that you must find it in your heart to forgive him."

  "Forgive Grant?" I felt as though she had reached over and slapped me. "I couldn't. Not ever."

  "Well, until you do, you will not find peace." When I did not respond, she continued in a voice that was very low, very soft. "I did not go back to church for a very long time after Samuel's funeral. I couldn't. Well, I did once, about three weeks after we laid him to rest. As I entered, I heard a voice speak directly to my heart, commanding me to forgive. But I couldn't forgive. Not God, and certainly not the people who were responsible for my boy's . . . "

  Rachel fell silent. She finished preparing my tea, and set the cup down in front of me. She seated herself in the other chair, folded her hands determinedly in her lap, and continued quietly, "Finally I went back because I had to. My heart was a vacuum, a void just waiting to be filled.A lifetime of grief and hatred was a temptation I could not keep away, not on my own. It would have been so easy, so utterly agreeable, to enter the Grim Brigade. But of course, once I did I would have been lost forever."

  I found myself remembering the New Year's Eve service, and seeing those shadowy faces take form. There in her cheerful little kitchen, I had a sudden waking dream.Perhaps it was the force of experience behind her words.Perhaps it was my own grief-stricken state. Whatever the reason, once again I found myself staring through the darkness and the snowfall, only this time I was standing right there in line with the other bitter, hate-ridden faces.

  Rachel was too lost in her memories to notice my shudder. "That was what drove me back to church, not any desire to seek God's comfort. I woke up one Sabbath morning, and recalled the passage in Scri
pture where a demon found the house swept clean and left empty, so he went and gathered seven of his fellows, all worse than himself, and came back with them and possessed the soul."

  I remembered that passage. I recalled sitting in church one sunny morning and hearing the pastor of my youth speak those words. I remembered how comforted I was to be sitting there, surrounded by friends and family, knowing that God was there in His house, and I would be kept safe. And now? I studied Rachel's face, and saw an extraordinary mixture of strength and weakness, age and youth, sadness and joy. And wisdom. There was such wisdom to that quiet voice that it rang like great silver bells within my heart.

  "That morning," Rachel went on, "Colin Albright was giving the sermon. I have no idea what he spoke about. I sat there, and felt that even within the church I was not beyond the reach of all that had driven me from the house.Then, through the fog that had wrapped itself around my mind and heart, one passage managed to work through to me. Eight little words Colin spoke, that's all I heard. But it was enough."

  When Rachel remained silent, I found my voice and asked, "What did he say?"

  She looked at me then, her eyes filled with a sadness that reached across the gulf of years and nationalities and different sorrows. She said, "Even the pagans love those who love them."

  Slowly I gave a nod. I remembered that passage as well. It was when the Lord had said that we must love our enemies.That was what would set us apart from all others. The message was a crushing challenge. And suddenly I was crying.Sobbing without control. I heard Rachel rise and come to me, I felt her touch my cheek, my neck, then slide around to hold me close, offering me a comfort beyond words.

  Finally I was able to regain enough control to accept the handkerchief she offered. I whispered, "I don't know if I can ever do that. Forgive Grant, I mean."

  "I know." Her murmur was almost as soft as my own. "But allow the Lord's gentle grace to enter your wounded spirit, my dear, and He will work the miracle for you Himself."

  ELEVEN

  Oh, do get a move on, Fred," Rachel complained from the taxi's backseat. "I might as well have walked."

  "You can step out and try anytime you like." He kept his nose pressed to the cracked windscreen. Snow billowed and swirled outside, reducing vision to barely a few feet beyond the car's hood. "Don't see how anybody's going much of anywhere today."

  "Don't say that," Rachel said, her tone rising with sudden tension. "The thought kept me awake all night."

  "Heard on the wireless most of the trains out this way have been canceled," Fred went on. "No help from that corner."

  I looked from one to the other. "What's the matter?"

  As Rachel opened her mouth to respond, the snow eased momentarily, revealing the startling sight of the road simply ending in a high white embankment. Fred jerked the wheel around hard. The taxi spun wildly, before doing a four-wheel slide through the great stone gates. "Sorry, ladies. Heard before I left this morning, the council only cleared the roads as far up as the College. Took 'em the better part of four hours to get this far."

  Rachel turned to stare through the snow-spattered back windscreen, and wailed, "But how are the deliveries supposed to get through?"

  "Been asking myself that same question all morning,"Fred said worriedly. He wheeled up in front of the imposing house and stopped. "This is my last trip of the day, ladies. You'll have to ask the vicar to bring you home. That old heap of his has four-wheel drive. He'll get you back safe and sound."

  Rachel paid and stepped from the taxi. She stood and seemed to sniff the air before declaring, "It is far too quiet."

  "The snow's keeping everybody inside."

  "That's not it," she said emphatically, and stumped up the stairs. "Something's amiss. I just know it."

  The grand entrance hall was equally quiet. Rachel slammed the door hard, and hallooed. The sound of her voice echoed eerily. Steps were heard in the distance, a door slammed, another, and then the harried night-mistress came hustling down the back hallway. Kate stopped when she saw who it was, her face falling. "Oh, I hoped it was the grocer."

  "Don't tell me he hasn't been here yet."

  Kate wrung her hands. "Oh, Rachel, it's like our worst nightmare has come to life. I've been on the phone to the Ministry a half-dozen times already. All deliveries north of London have been halted. They're trying to organize something by train, but there's trouble with them as well, something about the snow having frozen hard to the tracks; I wasn't listening by that point."

  "But how are we supposed to feed the children?"

  "Precisely what I've been asking the Ministry. All they could tell me was they were working on it." She snorted. "If it's anything like the rate of progress we've seen so far, we'll still be waiting next Christmas."

  "Don't say that," Rachel admonished. "Don't even think it."

  I asked, "Where are the children?"

  "Oh, they're hiding. They know something's the matter, they don't know what it is, but they're hiding just the same."

  "I haven't heard it this quiet since we ousted Matilda," Rachel said, glancing around. "Well, what on earth are we to do?"

  "Colin's going to try to make it to the next village, bless his heart. He's spoken to the vicar, and they've promised to take up a collection. He's—"

  Footsteps clomped down the stairs. Colin Albright came into view, his feet stuffed into great rubber boots. He was wrapping a long gray scarf around his neck and face. "I'm off. Don't get your hopes up, John was not optimistic. They haven't had any deliveries over there either."

  "Anything you can get will be better than what we have," Kate replied.

  Rachel's face was a mask of concern. "There's nothing at all?"

  "A mouthful or two for each child. Colin brought in absolutely everything the local grocers could spare. We found some old potatoes downstairs in the root cellar, and there are some bitter herbs and a few leeks." The woman smiled tiredly. "Most of these children have managed on far less, I'd wager."

  "Not while they've been under my care," Colin said grimly. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

  "Wait," I said, stepping forward. All eyes turned toward me. "I think I have an idea. Can you drive me to the airfield?"

  "My dear," Rachel admonished, "this is hardly the time—"

  "I met with a couple of the fliers last night," I said quickly. "They offered me supplies from the PX."

  A breathless intake of hope caught them all. "Do you think they really meant it?"

  "He said the PX was chock full of stuff," I replied."Those were his exact words."

  "My truck has no heat," Colin warned. "You'll need to wrap up warmer than that to manage a journey over the Chilterns."

  THANKFULLY, THE SNOW had eased before we left the village behind. Colin Albright's truck was an old army model, short and set up on a high suspension, so that it looked like a landlocked boat. It rocked dangerously over every dip and sway in the road. But the tires bit easily through the snow, and the engine growled cheerfully as we began to climb.

  "Rationing has become such a way of life for us, we can hardly remember anything else," Colin was saying. His voice came out slightly muffled from behind his tightly wrapped scarf. He had instructed me to do the same—not only because of the cold, but because the wool caught most of the moisture so the windscreen did not freeze up so quickly. "I haven't had chocolate in over a year. We got in a shipment just before Christmas, but you know how it is with children. I got more joy out of watching their faces than I could ever have from eating it myself."

  My feet were encased in two pairs of thick woolen socks, then stuffed in those high rubber boots the English called wellies. I wore a pair of men's woolen mittens and my own gloves under them.

  Rachel had found me some woolen underwear, far too excited over the prospect of gaining supplies from the Americans to notice my embarrassment. I wore another helper's sweater, my own coat, and a thick woolen cap and scarf from the orphanage's rummage chest. The layers were so thick my arms fel
t cocked out at angles, like a winter scarecrow. I could scarcely move. The wool itched everywhere it touched—my elbows, under my arms, my forehead, behind my knees, my toes. All that was visible were my eyes.But I was warm, and the drive was exhilarating.

  "The only way we've been able to make this project work is because everyone in the village has pitched in," Colin went on, his tone matter-of-fact. "That is, almost everyone. My petrol is coming off an account with the local station. Everything we use is on account—the heating oil, produce, the canned goods, everything. All the clothes you see the children wear. Our meat comes from local butchers and nearby farmhouses that otherwise would have kept it as extra for their own families."

  Gradually what I was hearing began to sink in. I turned from watching the village drop away below us, and gazed at this tired-looking vicar beside me. Colin continued, "The government has managed to give everybody just barely enough by rationing almost everything. To have a village our size be forced to support three hundred orphans has put a strain on everyone."

  "But the war is over," I protested.

  He smiled. "You'll hear a lot of people around here making the same observation. A lot of good it does them."

  I turned back to my window, sorting through what I had just heard. I then recalled what Rachel had said the day before, how the orphans' arrival had been the best thing that could have happened to Arden. "It must be hard."

  "We manage." His calm tone was belied by the strain and the fatigue in his face. "Barely, but we manage. We keep hoping that the promised help will arrive soon. That, more than anything, keeps us going."

  Outside my window, the road was growing steeper.Snow swirled in lazy clouds, opening every once in a while to reveal vistas of white and black and gray. Trees were simple etchings of stark limbs and ancient trunks. Hillsides were decorated with primitive stone cottages and long lines of hedgerows separating empty fields. Then the snow closed in once more, and all was white. "I can't believe they would just dump all those children on you."