Emmy had no sooner murmured this promise than the sirens began their dreadful wailing and she was forced to contemplate her options. If she ran outside to join those sprinting for the nearest public shelter, she would be noticed by the local ARP warden whose job it was to account for the civilians in his or her sector. She could run for the nearest Tube station, but those inside would wonder where she had come from that she could suddenly materialize out of nowhere and be in need of shelter in a space they’d been hunkering down in for weeks.
As the first whistling bombs began to fall, followed by the thundering claps of their detonations, Emmy instinctively crawled under the sewing machine. Then an explosion rocked the world outside and she knew she needed something to cushion her against shattering walls, if it came to that. And Emmy knew where she could find that protection. She came out from underneath the sewing machine and stumbled into the dark store, yankingebullient wedding gowns off their hangers as outside the air rocked with violence. She ran back into the alterations room, her arms overflowing with yards and yards of downy fabric. She scooted under the sewing table, then shoved the gauzy, generous gowns all around her until she felt she might suffocate. For the next seven hours, until four o’clock in the morning, Emmy crouched under the Singer as the Luftwaffe pummeled London, every word off her lips a promise to her mother.
When at last an eerie quiet signaled that daylight was not far away, she nodded off, enveloped by bridal gowns.
Emmy awoke midmorning and emerged from her white cocoon. Her head ached from mourning the loss of Mum, and a heavy numbness clung to her, but she still sensed relief that the street and the shop had not taken a direct hit. The toilet still flushed. The hot plate still worked. She could make tea. She found a bottle of aspirin inside a cabinet in the privy and took two.
With her teacup in hand, Emmy ventured out into the main room to steal a glance outside. As she was about to walk past the dressing room and Mrs. Crofton’s consultation desk, Emmy saw a suitcase, standing as if at attention along the wall. A pair of gloves rested neatly on top and a neck scarf was draped over one side. Mrs. Crofton was prepared to go away. Perhaps she would be coming by the shop today to get her suitcase and flee London. Perhaps Emmy could convince her to delay her departure for just a few days so that she could help Emmy find Julia.
Emmy saw a neat pile of documents at the edge of the desk closest to the suitcase, and the unmistakable shape and color of a British passport. The other documents were folded. She picked up the little pile of documents and unfolded the first two. Mrs. Crofton’s marriage license and her late husband’s death certificate. The other three piecesof paper were her business license and her late daughter Isabel’s birth and death certificates. Emmy noticed that Isabel would have been eighteen on the coming Sunday had she lived. Such history bound up in such flimsy pieces of paper. Private pieces of paper.
Emmy put them back where she had found them as her burning cheeks reminded her they were not her documents. A stamped but unmailed envelope lay next to Mrs. Crofton’s private papers, addressed to Mrs. Talmadge, the woman who cleaned the shop on Friday mornings. Emmy reasoned that she needed to read what was written inside because she had to know what Mrs. Crofton’s plans were. She needed to ascertain whether Mrs. Crofton would be able to be of any help.
The letter had not been sealed. Emmy lifted the flap, drew out the single piece of stationery, and read what Mrs. Crofton had written: It was dated Sunday, September 8.
Dear Mrs. Talmadge:
I am closing the shop for a while, perhaps a long while, and leaving London to wait out the war with my cousin and his wife in Edinburgh.
We are leaving Tuesday morning, so I shall not need...
Emmy stopped reading.
Today was Thursday.
If Mrs. Crofton had left on Tuesday with Mr. Dabney, why had she not taken her suitcase? And her important documents?
Had Mr. Dabney not left yet?
In her heart Emmy rushed to believe this was the case, that Mr. Dabney had been detained because ofcomplications from the bombings, and that if Emmy just waited there at the shop, Mrs. Crofton would be by shortly to fetch her suitcase and papers.
Emmy could tell her what had happened. She could offer to wash by hand the gowns she had used for protection the previous night. Perhaps Mr. Dabney would allow her and Julia both to join them all in Edinburgh, once Emmy found her.
Mr. Dabney could write to Charlotte and have her send the brides box to him in Edinburgh.
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 stepinside 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.
