“I will.” If she didn’t, the British wouldn’t know how to develop Gerrit’s maps.
Whilst Joan prepared the powder papers and typed a label forthe box, Ivy washed the glassware and paintbrush, using the water in the jug. Rinsed the evidence down the drain.
At ten thirty, Joan affixed the label to the box. “Let me know when your aunt needs a refill.”
“I will. Thank you.” Ivy set the box in her medical bag, to deliver to the farm on tomorrow’s rounds. Gerrit would be pleased to return to his mapmaking.
After Ivy put on her winter coat, hat, and gloves, Joan walked her to the front door to lock up behind her.
“Dinner was lovely, Joan.” Ivy stepped out into the chilly night. “Thank you for everything.”
“It was a pleasure doing business with you.” A smile quirked on Joan’s lips, but then she frowned toward the west. “Someone isn’t heeding the blackout. That will be a hefty fine.”
A bright light shone yellow-orange past where Queen Street turned into King Street. The light pulsed.
Ivy’s breath caught. “I think it’s a fire.”
“Oh no.” Joan headed down the street.
“Joan, no!” Ivy grabbed her arm. “You don’t have a curfew pass. Or a coat. I’ll find out what’s happening and tell you.”
“Thank you.” Hugging herself against the cold, Joan returned to her shop.
Ivy jogged down Queen Street, down King Street. The light pulsed harder, and the crackle of flames fractured the night air.
What was burning?
Her breath came hard, puffed white before her.
On the far side of New Street, a small crowd formed around a fire engine. Glass shattered, and flames licked from a window.
The de Gruchy department store.
“Oh no.” Ivy came to a stop. For over a hundred years, the people of Jersey had shopped at de Gruchy’s for fine goods, strolled through the sparkling glass-roofed arcade, and dined in the lovely restaurant. Although they now carried little for locals and the restaurant held stores for the Germans, de Gruchy’s had been part of Ivy’s life.
Why was the fire brigade standing there, hoses limp, not doing anything?
“No water.” The mutters rolled from the crowd.
Ivy gasped. The water had been turned off at the mains at seven o’clock.
Despite the heat radiating from the St. Helier landmark, Ivy shuddered. Yet another loss due to the war. When would it end?
chapter
31
St. Peter’s Parish
Sunday, February 20, 1944
Bundled in blankets, Gerrit sat beside Ivy in the doorway to the barn. “Aren’t you tired of drawing your uncle’s cows?”
“Never. See? Today I’m drawing cows in the snow.” She lifted her gloved hand and her pencil. On the sketch pad, two cows held hooves to their mouths.
“Are they eating ice cream?”
“Of course. Jersey cows make the creamiest milk and the best ice cream. And in weather like this...” She shrugged, rubbing her shoulder against Gerrit’s.
