All Good Women (26 page)

The kids were scattered around the room playing games neither she nor they had heard of before landing in England. Ann loved to run the names through her head — rounders, tig, whip and loop, ludo, snap. In the corner a group of girls stood singing. This was a game Mrs Weinstein had taught them and Ann always smiled to hear their perfect English sentences. Esther had told her Mrs Weinstein had cleaned up the jingle a little.

Jolly old sailor took a notion,

For to sail across the sea.

There he met his dearest Susie

Wishing you to marry me.

Weep no more my dearest Susie

Take the dolly on your knee.

I'll be back six months later,

Wishing you to marry me.

Arthur and Robert stood watching
the girls, poking each other and laughing. Ann felt a pang, remembering how the boys had been sent back after six months with their family in Penge because both mother and father had contracted tuberculosis. What must it feel like to be abandoned by two sets of parents? Well, as Esther had pointed out, at least they had each other. Standing against the wall, she tried to divine whether these kids felt happy or at least safe. Did they lose themselves in the games and the Saturday movies of
Hop Along Cassidy
and
Gene Autrey
? As Ann watched two girls giggling in the game, she was surprised by a tug on her skirt.

‘Anna, Anna!'

She looked down at the curly head which caught light in a half-dozen shades of gold. Leah's brown eyes were set in an expression of wide watchfulness. As she smiled at Ann, the eyes disappeared and her cheeks grew pinker giving her a grave vibrance.

‘Honey.' Ann patted her head. ‘How are you doing today?'

‘Better? Is Anna ill?'

Ann considered that Leah had more of an English accent than a German one, but then she had been here for four years. And, like Arthur and Robert, she had spent time with an English­ family before they had to return her to the hostel. Would Leah recognize her German mother, if she ever saw her again? No matter where these kids grew up it would be tough.

‘No, I'm fine now. Just fine. And how are you?'

‘Good now. You're here! Pick me up! Pick me up!'

Ann bent down, studying the child with concern. She saw such affectionate expectation that she was caught between delight and fear.

‘So we play now? Go for a walk?'

‘No, I just got back to work. I came to say hello because Esther said, well, because I missed you too.' She regretted the acknowledgement immediately. She wanted to ask Leah if she remembered Sarah, if she would like to live with her and Mrs Goldman in a nice house with a garden. But she couldn't trust herself this morning.

‘Tomorrow? Tomorrow?' Her dark eyes were filling. ‘You'll come back tomorrow?'

For a six year old, Leah had a remarkable memory. Maybe not; maybe all children were like this, Ann didn't know. But of course tomorrow was Wednesday and she always taught history on Wednesday. Afterwards she and Leah usually went for a walk around the neighborhood.

‘Yes, tomorrow, honey, I'll see you tomorrow.' She set the child down.

But Leah held on to her skirt. ‘You're not still ill?'

‘No, Leah, I promise. I'm better. All better. Now, go play with the others.'

She waved to Mrs Weinstein and turned quickly without glancing back at Leah. Wiping her eyes, she hurried through the dormitory. Maybe Esther was right. Maybe they did belong together. Yes, she did feel love for the child. Clearly it was returned. How could they manage? Well, she could bring her back here every day. And if Mrs MacDonald objected — no, she doubted that would be a problem — but if she did they could find another place to live. Still, was it good for a child to be brought up by a single woman? And what would this do to her own plans of returning to the States and studying and teaching? The questions raised more questions, like scratching after poison oak. Whatever the answers, she knew she could not cope now.

The next morning
as she
arrived at work, she was startled to see light coming from under the door. Since she had made a special effort to get here early, she was concerned as well as curious.

Reuben stood looking perplexed with the tea pot in his hands. Rarely did she see Reuben out of control. She burst out laughing.

‘The tea strainer,' he muttered. ‘Damn thing broke open when I poured. English devices! Never trust them. What a mess.'

‘Easily mended,' she said, relieving him of the pot and dumping the mess in the sink. ‘What are you doing here so early? I thought you were down in Eastbourne until late last night.'

‘Couldn't sleep,' he said. ‘I wanted to talk with you. Didn't want to wake up dear Mrs MacDonald, or gallant Mr Speidel, for that matter. So I knew I could catch you here before Esther came.'

‘Something wrong?'

‘I've been thinking about Leah,' he said.

‘Yes,' she answered slowly. ‘What about her?'

‘She needs a home,' he shuffled over to the window and studied the street below. ‘She's too young for that hostel. Can you imagine the nightmares it will give her when she is older?'

‘Yes, I know. I know.'

‘She needs you.' He spoke quickly. ‘You need someone else to take care of both of you.'

She could think of nothing to say, so she focused on making tea. Each small task required her whole concentration. She understood what he was saying. Yes, she would have to respond, but she was silenced by people from home. Mama in that damn bed in the warm, white room. Teddy, crouched down in the garden. Wanda, peering through the barbed wire. Moira dancing wildly with herself on the living room floor. He knew who she was now, but he did not know where she came from or where she was going. It was far too soon to talk of things like this. She wanted to be rational and explain that she wouldn't really be ‘adopting' Leah, that she couldn't do that until they had official word from the girl's family. But he knew that. He was talking about a foster home. Yes, she needed to make a decision. Leah had made
her
decision. Reuben had made his decision. Now it was up to her.

She held the pot in both hands, feeling the warmth from Reuben's failed tea. Warm and empty. She set the pot on the edge of her desk. She was old enough to make decisions. Despite all her friends, despite the love she felt from Reuben and Leah, she had to make these decisions alone.

Chapter Eighteen

Summer 1944, San Francisco

GENERAL STRIKE IN DENMARK

US FORCES LAND ON GUAM

DE GAULLE ENTERS PARIS

ALLIES MOVE TO GERMANY

MOIRA WOKE AT DAWN
with a heaviness throughout her body. She felt as if she were being pushed through layers of sleep. Much too early for breakfast. Breakfast, that did it. She was at the toilet in a flash, throwing up the remains of the previous night's fish stew.

She wiped her face with a warm cloth. Then she sprinkled Dr Lion's toothpowder on her brush and scoured her mouth, but she could not erase the sour taste. Her watch read 6 a.m. There was still an hour of sleep left, if she could catch it.

Moira tossed on the bed. 6.08. It would still be night in the Pacific. Randy would be asleep in his tent or, God forbid, in some freezing damp trench. Moira would have preferred Europe. She could imagine France or Italy or Germany. But who could imagine anything as huge as ‘The Pacific?' She pulled the blanket closer, as if protecting both of them, and whispered, ‘Be safe. Be warm. I'm waiting.' She remembered his bravado their last night dancing at Pluto's before he shipped out from his recent leave. Out where? Every time she heard about sea casualties, she shuddered. He was in the middle of the blue, on one of a thousand secret islands in the ceaseless ocean. She knew she could communicate better if she were told his location. And if he wrote more. It felt like ages since she had had a letter. ‘Be safe,' she whispered. ‘Keep warm. I'm waiting.' She lay there conjuring his face, a strong face that had grown in character over the years. He still had those teasing eyes, but he had become much more mature, much kinder too. The sort of guy she sometimes supposed her own father was, her real father. Oh, she loved Daddy; but her real father wouldn't have waited twenty-four years to stand up to Mother. Randy had a confidence to him, yet a softness.

Her stomach somersaulted again. 6.14. Must have been that fish Teddy cooked last night. No telling what Bertolis was selling nowadays. She listened to the stillness. Teddy wasn't sick; she would have heard her moving about. 6.20. No use lying around comparing digestive tracts, she decided, but she got up too quickly, felt dizzy, then nauseated and headed straight for the bathroom. She heaved into the toilet once, twice, then leaned against the bathroom wall.

The lav. She recalled one of Ann's letters. Ann said she was sick like this every day of the voyage to Britain.

‘You OK?' Teddy called groggily.

‘Yes,' said Moira. ‘Go back to sleep.'

‘Sure, but what's wrong?'

‘Oh, just the fish. It didn't agree with me.' Moira considered the maddening thing about Teddy was that she
would
go back to sleep.

‘We didn't have fish last night. It was eggs.'

‘Yes, yes,' said Moira. ‘Now go back to sleep.'

Must be losing my marbles as well, Moira thought. And no wonder, worrying about Randy in the middle of the ocean — why
had
it been so long since the last letter — and Ann in devastated London and Wanda fighting coyotes in the desert. The war had become so real she was afraid to read the papers. When she wasn't worrying, she was feeling guilty.

Of course you didn't have to be far away to suffer. Poor Mrs Minelli had died in a flash last month when her four nephews were lost in Europe. Heart attack, explained Mr Minelli, who was supposed to be the sick one. Eggs, sure, Mr Minelli had brought them a carton of eggs from his sister's farm in Petaluma.

Well, she would get up and walk to Vivian's. One less stop for the carpool and the air would do her good.

Moira peered out the window through the fog as she pulled on her overalls. Couldn't see more than 3 feet this morning. Stubborn fastener. She held the pants tighter and accomplished the task. Downstairs she brewed a half pot of precious, rationed coffee. A cup for herself and enough for Teddy. She would skip breakfast. As she left, she grabbed an apple from the sideboard.

Teddy woke again
with the
slamming of the front door. Moira needed more practice playing elf. Yet, even in her irritation, she felt fond of the girl. Although Teddy missed Wanda and Ann terribly, she was never lonely. Moira filled the house with a great vitality. What was it going to be like when Mr Minelli's niece from Cleveland arrived? If she arrived. Mr Minelli had asked them to save the room months ago. Of course, it was him losing out on the rent, but sometimes Teddy felt guilty rattling around a big house when there was a housing shortage in San Francisco. She was also enjoying the time alone with Moira.

Teddy could smell the coffee as she reached the first floor. Sweet of Moira to make her some. No dish in the sink. Had she skipped breakfast again? The kid was going to get sick. Not that she looked skinny. The picture of health, Mom would say, all that color in her cheeks and the halo of red vibrating from her hennaed hair. Teddy smiled now, recalling her distress when Moira confessed she colored her hair. She hadn't exactly confessed. Teddy had found the plastic gloves, stained red, in the bathroom sink and didn't know what to imagine. Moira had laughed at her horror-stricken face and stood with her back to the window, the low winter sun blazing through her curls. Teddy had to wonder at the difference between them — Moira always one step to adventure and herself standing back, surveying the ground, or the sink or the stove. Moira laced the house with surprise. And Teddy looked forward to coming home, especially with Randy gone. He had been perfectly civil to her during his leave in May. Moira was right — he had grown up in recent months. Still, his presence nettled her. This was probably her fault. It was a terrible thought, wishing the war on someone and in fact she hadn't wished anything except that he leave the premises. Moira seemed half-missing when he was around — more ladylike, more cautious.

Teddy wiped up the coffee grounds, poured milk over a bowl of Rice Krispies and sat down at the table. She was glad they had cancelled the morning paper because it always made her reluctant to leave the house. She pulled Wanda's letter from the bread basket, although she had memorized it along with the letters from Virgil and Ann and Angela.

We have better quarters for visitors than when Ann came through. The whole camp is more settled. I still waver every day between believing we'll be leaving tomorrow and planning life here as an old woman.

Teddy promised herself
she wouldn't
cancel the Arizona trip again unless Pop's new tests in the hospital proved serious. She wished Moira would come with her. Moira was always better at social situations. And they would have a lark riding the bus together. But Moi insisted on staying home, in case she missed a letter from Randy. Anyway, it was better to have someone here to keep an eye on Mr Minelli and Mr Rose. Teddy checked her watch, then washed her breakfast dishes with Moira's coffee cup.

The rain poured
as Moira
trudged uphill to the doctor's office. One of those freak summer storms, spoiling the well-being of July. Of course she had no raincoat or umbrella. Unprepared. How can you be prepared for an assault? She thought of Randy, shellfire bursting from behind tropical bushes. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus …' she dredged up the old prayers for him, distracting herself from the hill. Moira could feel herself sweating; sweating in the rain. Just as Daddy complained: San Francisco seemed built on a 90° angle. She was overcome with claustrophobia, queasy and tired. Maybe Teddy could warm up some chicken soup. If she had the flu, this rain would not help. Brushing wet hair from her forehead, she slopped on. For a week now, she had been postponing this visit. A nurse was closing the door as she approached. Moira delivered one of her best Loretta Young entreaties. The woman waved her into the office.

‘Some afternoon,' commiserated the grey-haired nurse. Moira noticed how clean her white coat was, except for some blue scratches by the pocket where she kept her pen.

‘Yes,' said Moira shaking rain from her hair and then thinking better of it.

The woman sat behind a desk. She looked so much like Sister Lawrence. Moira twisted her ring, moving the birthstone toward the palm and summoned confidence. ‘The test.' She tried to forget Sister Lawrence. ‘I came for the result of the test I-I-I took last week.'

‘Yes,' the woman's face softened. ‘And the name? Mrs … ?'

‘Girard,' Moira said to the
doctor
ten minutes later. ‘Girard,' she was aware of the hard, abrupt edges of that name compared to the music of
Fin
layson. Fin
lay
son. Finlay
son
.

‘Yes,' he said.

‘Girard,' Moira raised her voice, irritated with herself for mumbling.

‘I mean,' the doctor spoke carefully, ‘the answer is “yes”.' He pointed to a box on the blue form. ‘You're going to have a baby, my dear.'

Moira's face was flushed and wet. ‘Damn rain,' she said.

‘Would you like to lie down?'

‘No,' Moira looked at him as if he were mad. ‘No time. Thank you.' She made her way to the door, breathing deeply to keep from collapsing.

‘Good-bye, then.'

When Moira walked outside, it was July again, warm and sunny, her favorite month. Two thoughts collided as she hiked down to the bus stop: this explains the french fries; and it isn't fair. He was wearing a sheath. She had watched him peel it off each time. She had suspected something for a month, not because of her period. That was never regular. But because of the french fries. Lately, she was eating massive amounts of french fries doused in vinegar. She used to hate how Mother and Daddy poured disgusting malt vinegar on their chips. Yet for weeks now, she had not been able to sate her appetite for the concoction.

The bus stop was crowded. Vaguely, she recalled Mother's stories of being pregnant and having to stand on the bus — almost fainting from the smell of someone's perfume. Until now, she had suspected such stories were manufactured to induce guilt. Overcome with exhaustion, she leaned on a telephone pole. A young Chinese woman, younger than she, held the hand of a little boy. Next to them, an old Italian couple stood solidly with, yet apart from, each other. To the left, a blond woman, in overalls like herself, held a squirming infant. Moira forced her eyes away from the woman's ring finger. Several more people arrived at the bus top. Christ, this was different from the orderly queues Ann described in London. Here people milled restlessly. Would she get a seat? What was the priority — old people? Women with children? Inside or outside the belly? She was a woman with a child. It wasn't possible. It was entirely possible.

The bus wheezed to a stop in front of them, packed to the gills. Did babies have gills? How did they breathe inside your stomach? People squeezed aboard the bus. They all stood, save for the little boy who charmed his way on to a woman's lap. Moira found herself between the old couple. She offered to change places, so they might stand together, but they both shook their heads resolutely. Were they Russian, she reconsidered. Ann said the buses in London were always crowded — when they came. The little boy was sucking a dried fig. Would it be a boy — lively and tough like Randy? The bus jolted. Tighter, she gripped the handrail. God, she was glad it was Teddy's turn to cook supper tonight. How could she have mistaken her eggs for Teddy's fish? What would she fix this evening? What on earth would she say about this … well, she didn't have to tell Teddy quite yet. She still had Vivian's contingency plan.

The aroma of pigs' feet
slapped Moira in the face as she opened the front door. That's right, Teddy, trying to be inventive with the rations, had promised a real down-home meal tonight. She hung up her sweater, wondering what to do. The very smell made her reach for the arm of the couch. She heard Teddy's voice from the kitchen.

‘That you, Moi?'

Closer, ‘Moira?'

Alarmed, ‘Hey, Moi, you OK?'

Suddenly she felt Teddy lifting her to the couch.

‘That's it; easy girl.'

What had happened? Moira yawned. Had she fainted? Not hardy Moira. Crazy. Crazy. She had imagined the entire afternoon. She wasn't carrying a baby. She was a baby. A crazy baby. Teddy's face swam in and out of focus. She wondered again about the gills.

‘I warned you that you've been running yourself ragged. I said you'd get sick.'

Mother's words. Teddy's voice. Ragged. Tramp. Was she a tramp? Did the woman in the bus line have a ring?

‘I'll bring tea.' Teddy gently settled Moira back against the couch.

She had tried to get up. Tried to face the pigs' feet. It was the trying that counted. A sin is a knowing offense. She had tried not to get pregnant. Did trying not to count as much as trying to? Probably not.

‘So what's up?' Teddy was sitting on the floor beside the couch, her long legs folded to the side of her slim, upright frame. She had set Moira's tea on the coffee table.

‘I'm just a little woozy. Maybe a touch of flu.' Moira considered Teddy closely. What did she know? She needed to talk with Vivian. As soon as possible.

‘Heard you heaving this morning. You shouldn'ta gone to the shipyard.'

‘I think it's a walking flu,' said Moira, blanching. ‘Only hits at odd hours.' What would Mother say?

‘Odd, I'll say odd.' Teddy regarded her quizzically. ‘It's a pity, just when I'm about to serve “Porcine Supreme”.'

Moira held her mouth shut.

‘Oh, sorry, hon.' Teddy's face grew still. ‘I'll bring you some toast — and maybe a little cottage cheese?'

Moira nodded gratefully.

‘Here, this should cheer you up.' Teddy tossed a letter on Moira's lap. Moira kept her eyes on Teddy. ‘Post card from Angela and a letter from Ann. Came this morning.'