It could all still work out. Maybe it was possible that Mum would one day, indeed, look down on Emmy from heaven and see that she had rescued Julia and made something of herself. Perhaps in heaven, a mother was allowed to feel pride in a child’s accomplishments after her death.
Perhaps in heaven, you could see that your existence on earth hadn’t been wasted.
Emmy just needed to find Julia and to have Mr. Dabney say he’d be fine with Emmy’s coming later and bringing her sister.
But even as she entertained these idyllic thoughts, doubt began to creep into her mind. Today was Thursday.
Mrs. Crofton had written the note Sunday.
She wasn’t going to be returning to the shop for her suitcase.
She had either fled with her cousin to Edinburgh without it, or she’d gone back home Sunday to get some forgotten thing, and the Luftwaffe had found her.
Emmy sank into a chair and dropped her pounding head into her hands.
There was a way to find out whether Mrs. Crofton had made it safely out of London. All she had to do was step inside the nearest Incident Inquiry Point and peruse its appalling list.
But not today.
Emmy could not look at that list today.
She kneaded her forehead with her fingers, wondering how much more she could be expected to take. She had enough food for only a few more days, no ration book, no money, a place to call home for only as long as she could stay undetected.
She had to find a way to search for Julia. But how could she without money? Without Mum?
Mum . . .
Emmy dug her fingertips into her temples. She couldn’t think anymore about having lost Mum. She couldn’t start thinking about having lost Mrs. Crofton. Grief sapped her of mental clarity and made her feel weak. She could not be a companion to it now. All that mattered was finding Julia. Somehow she had to insert herself into the workings of the war effort so that she could be privy to what became of lost or abandoned children. She needed to volunteer somewhere so that she was in the know. With the Women’s Volunteer Service, perhaps. The women of the WVS were everywhere with their official badges, helping to ease suffering, administrating the evacuation of children to safety, serving food to the firemen, assisting the homeless and hurting. But how in the world was she going to pass herself off as an adult who had every right to be on the streets of London on her own in wartime?
Then out of the corner of her eye, she saw the little stack of papers.
And Isabel Crofton’s birth certificate.