They arrived at the school fifteen minutes after the time Mum was told to have them there but their tardiness didn’t seem to matter. The queues of parents waiting to register their children were long and curlicued, and the general feeling, despite the happy sun, was one of quiet desperation. The animated chatter of nervous adolescents was only slightly louder than the agitated voices of parents who wanted more information than anyone in charge was prepared to give them. The billeting officials to whom they appealed sat behind long tables and scarcely looked up from their piles of paper, so intent were they on making sure they didn’t lose someone’s child into the abyss of this second evacuation scheme. The youngest children clung to their mothers’ hands. Some of them knew from the first evacuation what trauma was about to befall them, and they buried their heads in their mothers’ skirts. The oldest evacuees—teenagers like Emmy—gazed about in disbelief, looking for all the world like they wanted to disappear into a separate dimension while the adults played war with one another. Emmy didn’t see anyone she knew, probably because they were meeting at Julia’s school, not hers.
Mum returned from waiting in one of those snaking queues with stringed, cardboard tags for Emmy and Julia, and luggage labels that bore their names, ages, Mum’s name, and their London address. Julia’s tag went promptly around her neck.
“I’m not wearing this,” Emmy said, handing the name tag back to Mum.
“You have to,” Mum said, ignoring her daughter’s outstretched hand. She bent down to attach the luggage labels to the suitcases at their feet.
Emmy looped the name tag around the handle of the gas mask box that all the children were made to carry. Mum stood up, saw that Emmy didn’t have the string around her neck, and huffed.
“Emmy, please. Just do it.”
“I’m not five, Mum.”
“Then don’t act like you are.”
Mum yanked the tag off the handle of Emmy’s gas mask box and slipped it over her head.
“What does this say?” Julia peered at the small typewritten words below her name and Mum’s on the tag.
“Moreton-in-Marsh,” Mum said, straightening Julia’s barrette. “That’s where your train is headed.”
“What’s a marsh again?” Julia furrowed her brow.
“It’s an oozing swamp,” Emmy said under her breath.
“Moreton-in-Marsh is a nice town in Gloucestershire,” Mum said to Julia, after a quick frown Emmy’s way. “It’s a sweet little place, the registrar told me. In the Cotswolds. There are others from your school going to the same place, Julia, so you’ll already know people.”
“And my school? Are there others from my school?” Emmy asked, her voice terse with cynicism.
Mum faced her. “There are plenty of people your age being evacuated, Emmy. Plenty. Look around. Stop making this so difficult.”
Emmy wasn’t making anything difficult. Everyone else was making things difficult. This was not her war. Nothing about what was happening was her doing or had anything to do with her.
A uniformed official speaking through a public address system called for those headed west to Gloucestershire andOxfordshire. It was time to board the bus that would take them to the train station.
Emmy lifted her suitcase and Mum laid hold of her arm. “Don’t let them separate you,” she said, softly but urgently. “If anyone tries, you give them hell. Promise?”
Emmy’s suitcase, the gas mask, and the brides box in her arms suddenly seemed weightless compared to the burden of being forced to release all the good fortune that so recently had come her way. It was as if her dreams were spiraling out of reach, past the barrage balloons that hovered in the sky like enormous dead and bloated fish. Emmy was letting go of so much and yet her heart felt so heavy.
Mum squeezed Emmy’s arm when she did not answer. “Promise me, Emmy.”
“She’syourdaughter,” Emmy whispered, and tears sprang to her eyes. She loved Julia, but she would not have agreed to leave London if she did not have to consider Julia. Mum should be evacuating with Julia, not her.
“And you’re her sister.”
The man called again for their bus.
The little tag around Emmy’s neck fluttered in between her and Mum, lifting off her chest for a second as a breeze ruffled it.
Emmy looked into Mum’s tawny brown eyes. “You ruin everything.” The words fell off her tongue as easy as a song, but the minute she said them, she wanted to pull the words back and shove them to the dark place where they’d been hiding since Mum got the evacuation notice.
Mum arched one eyebrow, just the one, and only slightly so. “I didn’t ask for any of this.” She let go of Emmy’s arm. “None of it. Be careful what you hate, Em.”
Mum now bent forward toward Julia, whose face was awash in uncertainty. “You stay with Emmy, now, and don’t give her trouble, pet. All right?” Mum drew Juliainto her arms. When she let go of her younger daughter and stood, Mum’s eyes were glistening. “Mind the people who will be looking after you. I’ll come and visit you as soon as I can. I’ll write you. And you can write me.”
Julia nodded, pleased, it seemed, to think of writing Mum a letter—something she had never done—and getting letters from someone in the post, also a new and exciting concept. But then in an instant her eyes widened in alarm. “Wait. What about Neville? What if he comes back? He won’t know where I am!”
“Yes, Mum. What about Neville?” Emmy echoed, with none of Julia’s distress but plenty of cheek. Just how long was she supposed to pretend Julia’s father wasn’t dead?
