—
Twenty minutes after running away from Anna and the drawer porridge, my heart showed no signs of slowing down.
I was slumped against the back of my door, still gasping for air. My hands and feet tingled, the edges of my vision sparkled.
I hated that I’d been prescribed nerve pills—hated that anyone had seen any kind of parallel between my mother and me—and although it filled me with self-loathing, I found myself crawling to my luggage and digging through it, throwing dresses, slips, scarves, and even shoes over my shoulder in my search for the brown glass bottle that I knew held relief.
I found the pills and swallowed one, swigging water straight from the pitcher to get it down. I lay on the bed and waited. After a few minutes, a comforting fog began to settle over me, and I understood, in a way that frightened me, why Ellis and my mother were so fond of them.
I sat up and looked around me. My room was a mess. I’d been living out of my luggage since our arrival, taking for granted that at some point my hanging things would magically be hung, the rest folded neatly in drawers, and my empty trunks and suitcases stored. I realized quite suddenly that this was not going to happen.
After I put everything away, I made my bed, although it was painfully clear that it was an amateur effort. I tugged the corners and patted the surface, but my adjustments only succeeded in pulling it further askew. I decided to quit before completely unmaking it again.
I had run out of things to do. I had some crossword puzzles, a murder mystery, and a handful of books about the monster that Ellis had instructed me to read, but reading was out of the question—not because of dizziness this time, but because my brain was dulled.
I walked to the window and looked out.
The sky was bright, although a solid cloud the color of graphite loomed in the distance. The row houses across the street were a combination of white stucco and pink limestone, with wide brick chimneys. Beyond the houses were hills dotted with sheep, and fields defined by rows of trees. In the far distance were even higher hills, uniformly brown where they weren’t forested, their peaks obscured by cloud.
The cold was insidious, and eventually I pulled a quilt from my badly made bed and draped it around my shoulders. I settled into the chair.
Perhaps Anna had misunderstood. Perhaps Ellis and Hank had just gone on a day trip. Perhaps they were finding a new hotel.
I heard footsteps in the hallway, and from the sound of doors opening and shutting and water running at the end of the hall, I gathered Anna was making up the other rooms. A few minutes after she went back downstairs I heard—and felt—a door close. I went to the window and watched her ride down the street on a dark bicycle with a big wicker basket, her coattails billowing behind her.
Chapter Eleven
I found myself gripping the windowsill, light-headed and weak. The feeling came over me without warning—my brow was suddenly pricked by sweat, and I realized I was going to either faint or be sick. At first I thought it was a reaction to the pill, then recognized it as hunger. The showdown with Old Donnie the night before had left me unable to do anything but pick at my dinner, and other than the egg and few slices of potato Anna had given me the previous day, I’d eaten virtually nothing since we’d left the States.
I’d felt this way before, in my early teen years, and knew that if I didn’t eat something very soon I’d collapse. Because there wasn’t even anyone around to find me, I had no choice but to go to the kitchen and scrounge. I would find the drawer porridge and take just a small slice, the slice intended for my breakfast, to mitigate my crime as much as possible.
Halfway down the stairs, I was hit by the aroma of roasting meat. It smelled so good my mouth watered, and it almost brought me to tears—Anna had made it very clear what my diet would consist of until I produced a ration book.
The front room was empty, so I slipped behind the bar. I was pretty sure I was alone in the building but paused at the doorway anyway, listening for signs of life. I heard nothing and went through.
The kitchen was larger than I expected, as well as bright. The walls were whitewashed, and the doors and window trim were cornflower blue. Copper pots, pans, and ladles hung from hooks over a sturdy table in the center of the room. A large black stove emanated a gorgeous amount of heat, as well as the heavenly aroma. There was a pantry on one side of the room, and in the opposite wall—quite literally—was a bed. It was completely recessed, with paneled wooden doors that slid on a track. They were currently open, showing bedclothes much more neatly arranged than my own. I supposed it was where Mr. Ross slept.
I marveled at the contents of the pantry—jar upon jar of preserved red cabbage, pickled beetroot, gherkins, marmalade, loganberry preserves, Oxo cubes, Polo and Worcestershire sauces, baskets of onions, turnips, and potatoes, enormous earthenware jugs of vinegar with spouts, canisters labeled TEA, RAISINS, and SUGAR—it went on and on, and I could see even more behind the glass doors of cupboards.
It was the basket of apples I couldn’t resist. A bushel basket, full to overflowing. Most of the apples were individually wrapped in newspaper, but a few lay exposed on top, shiny, round, and beautiful. I felt like Snow White, or maybe even Eve; but all thoughts of virtue and drawer porridge fell away when I laid eyes on that fruit.
I was in the act of lifting one to my lips when a female voice spoke from behind me.
“Find what you’re looking for?”
I jumped and spun around, simultaneously dropping my hand and curling my wrist, hiding the apple behind my thigh.
Meg was standing just inside the back door, wearing a thick olive-colored coat and matching cap. She had a cardboard box labeled ANTI-GAS RESPIRATOR slung over her shoulder by a length of string, which she set on a chair by the door. She put her hands on her hips and looked at me.
“Can I help you with something?”
“No, thank you. I was just…”
I swallowed hard and clutched the apple.
Her eyes ran down the length of my arm. Then she looked me in the face. After a pause of three or four beats she turned around and took off her coat, laying it over the back of the chair. “When you have a minute, Angus wants me to show you the Anderson shelter.”
She removed her cap and fiddled with her hairpins, keeping her back to me. I realized she was giving me time to either pocket or return the apple.
I leaned into the pantry and placed it gently on top of the others. “Shall I get my coat?”
“You can if you want, but I’m not taking mine. We won’t be but a minute,” she said. “He just wants you to know where it is so you can find it in the dark. The Blackout, you know. Can’t even use a torch to cross the yard. Although to be fair, using a torch during an air raid would probably not be the very best idea.”
Despite the pill, my heart tripped.