Until We Find Home Page 3

  Claire closed her eyes. What choice do I have? “I once had an aunt in the Lake District. I’ve no idea if—”

  “The Lake District! Why didn’t you say so? Safest place in the Empire!” Captain Beardsley brightened. “Well, if Robert ain’t your mother’s brother!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Bob’s your uncle—that’s what he means.” Gaston popped up, as if he’d been part of the conversation all along, and wiped his sleeve across his running nose. “It’s like ‘Right you are,’ or how they say in the films, ‘Just the ticket.’” He tucked himself beneath Claire’s elbow and thumped his chest. “Stick close to me, mademoiselle. I’ll get you through. I know lots of English.”

  Claire sighed, exasperated and desperate at once. It was no use. She felt she’d fallen down a rabbit hole as deep as Alice’s, and that the hopeful characters surrounding her grew just as fantastic.

  In the early hours of the new morning, as the town clock struck three, Claire caught her breath when a key turned once more in the fishing shack’s lock. Soundlessly, Captain Beardsley slipped through the door. “Grab your coats and we’ll be on our way. Not a word. Not a sound.”

  With no other preliminaries, the captain lifted Aimee in his arms. On tiptoe the group followed him out the door and down the dock in total blackout, one hand on the person in front with Claire bringing up the rear.

  A merciful fog shrouds our fearful band, Claire mused. A close-knit stream on the heels of our Pied Piper leading us through the backstreets of Hamelin. Why is it that everything reminds me of scenes from children’s books I’ve read? I hope this ends better than that story! She bit her lip, drawing blood, from nerves stretched taut.

  Captain Beardsley, a portly man nearly six feet tall with feet to match, padded softly through puddles and wound deftly round corners, cutting through back gardens. At last they slipped through a space in a low stone wall, where a garden gate must once have stood, less than five blocks from the sea. Before the captain reached the cottage threshold, a woman, squat and semi-stout, pulled open the door and beckoned them forward through the drab moonlight.

  The captain pushed the group ahead of himself into a blackened foyer, setting his small burden on her feet at last. Once they were all in and the door closed and latched, the woman opened an inside door, nearly blinding them with light.

  “Come in, come in and lay off your things.” Mrs. Beardsley, her hair silver streaked and her smile welcoming, herded the troop toward the back of the house.

  The cottage smelled to Claire of yeast and freshly baked bread, of soup and that surprise of hospitality that welcomes strangers. Mrs. Beardsley ushered the band into her modest but toasty kitchen, clucking over each face as if they were long-lost grandchildren.

  “I’m sorry we’ve not enough chairs. Here you go, now, take this stool, and perhaps you boys can make yourselves comfortable on the floor with these.” She handed Bertram two woolen steamer blankets. Gaston promptly wrapped himself in one and plopped, cross-legged, near the warm stove.

  Mrs. Beardsley smiled, ruffled Gaston’s unruly curls, then turned to ladle steaming soup into thick crockery. Jeanine passed the heated bowls among the children as Elise handed round a basket of sturdy rolls laced with butter. The kitchen fell silent, except for the steady slurp of soup, the clink of spoons, and deep sighs of satisfaction. Color returned to the cheeks of the ragamuffin crew sitting and standing round the kitchen table.

  At last the faces staring back at Claire looked like the faces of children and not miniature wizened old men and women. Even little Aimee, shy as she was, gave a tentative, baby-toothed smile when Mrs. Beardsley pulled her onto her lap and crooned over her tangled golden hair.

  “Not so much, not so lavish, Wife. We’ll not be keepin’ ’em. Neither you nor they must get attached.” Captain Beardsley sounded gruff, but Claire marveled at the softness in him once inside his cheerfully lit home.

  “What’s this?” Mrs. Beardsley fingered the hem of Aimee’s dress, resting on her lap. “Have you caught something in your hem, dearie?”

  With pleading orbs and worried brow, Aimee pulled her dress from Mrs. Beardsley’s fingers but didn’t answer.

  Mrs. Beardsley hesitated, then patted Aimee’s knee. “Well, never mind. There’s time for everything. We’ve beds for everyone, though they’re only pallets and comforters on the attic floor,” she happily quipped, changing the subject while ignoring her husband’s warning. “You’ll be wanting to get warmed through and fill your gills right here before you snuggle in, as there’s no heat upstairs but the pipe goin’ up from the stove.”

  “We’re so grateful, Mrs. Beardsley. I can’t tell you what it means that you’ve taken us in. Your soup is delicious.” Claire meant every word. She’d no idea what the knuckle of veal and vegetables had cost the Beardsleys in rations, but knew it must have been dear and sacrificial. Even she and Josephine had been hoarding food for ages. Feeding a group like this would have been out of the question.

  “We’re not takin’ you in, nor the blighters neither,” the captain insisted. “It’s just a waylay till I can get those papers. Then we’ll get you up and on your way north.”

  “But as I told you—tried to tell you—Captain, I don’t know if my aunt still lives there. I don’t even know her address.”

  “You know her name, don’t you, and the town where she lives?”

  “Windermere, or thereabouts, I think, but—”

  “Then you’d best be on your way and ask round.”

  “What if she’s not there now? She could have moved. For all I know she could have died.”

  “You’ll figure it out, won’t you?” he charged, and Claire knew there was no arguing.

  “Not tonight,” Mrs. Beardsley intervened. “It will be daylight soon and we all need some sleep. Things will look brighter in the morning.”

  How? Claire wondered.

  “You’ll keep the children quiet upstairs during the day, Miss . . .”

  “Claire Stewart. Claire, please.”

  “Claire, then.” She smiled. “You’ll understand that we cannot be explaining the sudden appearance of five French children to our neighbors. I’ll send some food up through the day and bring the children down one by one to use the water closet when nobody’s likely to pop in, but you must all keep quiet.”

  “Yes, I understand. Have you heard from—?”

  “Not a word.” Captain Beardsley shook his head, not meeting Claire’s eyes.

  “The news from Paris . . . ?” Claire knew better than to ask in front of the children, but she couldn’t bear not knowing.

  The Beardsleys exchanged worried glances. The captain rose and ushered everyone, no nonsense, toward the attic stairs. “There’ll be time enough tomorrow. It will take a few days or more to get your papers. A wink or two of sleep is what’s needed in the meantime.”

  Mrs. Beardsley led them up the stairs by torchlight, keeping the light to the floor. “I’ll leave a torch for you here, but mind you keep the light covered with the muslin and aimed to the floorboards. My blackout curtains are from the last war, I’m sorry to say, and rather moth-eaten. I’d not expected to need them again.” She sighed, pulling back an old sheet hung from a clothesline strung across the room. “Boys on this side and girls on this.” She pointed, cheerful once more. “Tomorrow we can do a bit of washing. Fresh faces and clean clothes will make you all feel better.”

  Claire was glad Mrs. Beardsley took over, for she was too spent to think clearly. Yet, when Aimee hugged her dress to herself, Claire idly wondered what the child had hidden in her hem and how it was she’d not noticed before.

  Mrs. Beardsley showed Claire to her pallet and whispered, “They’re in the Ardennes and have just crossed the Meuse River—that’s all we know.”

  “The Ardennes? But that’s . . . too near.”

  “Not what we expected, not what our boys prepared for. It seems there’s no stopping the ruffians, though God knows our men and the French will t
ry. It’s invasion we’re most worried about now. After France, what’s to stop them?” She squeezed Claire’s arm and held out a blanket. “Be constant for the young ones. You’re their teacher.”

  “I’m not,” Claire whispered. “I’m not constant and I’m not their teacher. I’m not their anything. I was just—”

  “That’s not what they believe, and they need to believe in something.” Gently as Mrs. Beardsley spoke, her eyes insisted. “The captain told me of your young man gone missing. Keep faith, dearie. These things take time and so often pop right in the end.”

  Claire took the blanket and tried to smile in return. But what Mrs. Beardsley had said wasn’t true. Things didn’t pop right in the end, not for her. Everyone Claire had ever loved or thought she loved, even those she’d believed loved her, had died or had abandoned or betrayed her in the end. Why should this time be different?

  Chapter Three

  DAYS TURNED TO WEEKS while the cabin-fevered young folks crowded the Beardsleys’ attic. They’d endured delays in obtaining the necessary forged papers, then listened for news with bated breath during the British evacuation of Dunkirk. They’d rejoiced with Mrs. Beardsley in the belated return of their dear, bedraggled, and war-weary captain and his shell-shocked HMS Miss Bonny Blair.

  Once recovered, the captain declared they must go, no matter that they’d become nearly family to the Beardsleys; it was not safe to delay a moment longer.

  Finally, Claire stood tall in her sturdy, polished shoes and well-brushed trench coat on the rail platform of London’s Euston Station. Mid-June ran balmy, but wearing her coat felt a small armor against all she must face and freed her hands to harness Aimee, the smallest and most wide-eyed of the refugees.

  Elise huddled close to her older sister, Jeanine. Bertram, at nearly thirteen, painted the picture of helpfulness and dependability. But eight-year-old Gaston, with all his cleverness and grins, worried Claire. Can he resist drawing attention to himself? And if to himself, then to us all?

  Soldiers and evacuees swarmed the platform. Duffel bags were slung across soldiers’ shoulders, and gas mask kits were slung across the chests of children, including her five French charges. Because she was not a French native, Claire had not been issued a gas mask in Paris. Though her adult version felt clunky bumping against her side, she was grateful for this British issue.

  Chaos reigned in the general hubbub, in the shouts made by soldiers above the hiss and whistle of the train, in the fearful glances of children and the anxious good-byes of parents.

  The thrill for a great adventure with chums Claire glimpsed in some—mostly older children—contrasted sharply with the shyness and abject misery she saw in others. Fear and forced smiles marked the faces in Claire’s own entourage as they clutched dangling pillowslips or small cases, holding little more than their nightclothes and Mrs. Beardsley’s lunch offerings. They’d been able to bring so little across the Channel.

  Dozens of English children wore the same painted smiles. Bright eyes looked as if tears might spill any moment. And small wonder, thought Claire. Students filed in crocodile lines behind their teachers to individual platforms and tracks, creating mazes of schoolchildren of all sizes and ages. All wore labels tagging them with names and numbers; each carried meager possessions in satchels or pillowslips.

  It looked like Israel’s mass exodus from Egypt centuries ago—at least that’s what Captain Beardsley had said before giving Claire a hearty “Best of luck” and disappearing into the crowd.

  Claire pushed back her worry, resisting the terror that twisted knots in her stomach. She grabbed Aimee’s hand, just as the child stumbled and nearly fell, all but causing a pileup in her wake.

  More sharp whistle blasts pierced the air. Steam surged and billowed from the train before them, engulfing feet, swallowing the children’s knees. Elise squealed. Aimee shrieked, burying her five-year-old head in Claire’s hip.

  “Shh, shh, it’s nothing to be frightened of,” Claire crooned. “Just the noise of the train, getting ready to take us for a long ride.”

  “I don’t want to go on a long ride,” Aimee wailed. “I want to go back to Madame Beardsley. I want to go home!”

  “But we’re not finished with our adventure,” Claire resisted stoutly. “You don’t want to leave until we’ve all taken our grand adventure, do you?”

  “Grand adventure?” Elise asked. “That sounds like a story.”

  “It certainly should!” Claire stood on firmer ground. “‘Second to the right and straight on ’til morning!’ Does that ring any bells?”

  “Ring bells?” Bertram looked confused.

  “Sound familiar.” Gaston pushed forward, his chin firm now. “That’s Peter Pan.”

  “Precisely! And you remember the story . . . they flew to Neverland! All it took was a little fairy dust.”

  “Did they fly home in the end?” Aimee still looked as if she might cry.

  “Yes, they did,” Claire answered gently, hoping that would prove the ending of their adventures too.

  “That’s all right, then,” Gaston affirmed. “We’ll go adventuring with you, mademoiselle. You’ll be our Wendy.”

  “But who will be our Peter Pan?” Elise asked, and all eyes turned toward Claire.

  “I’ve no idea,” Claire admitted. “I’m sure there will be one when we get to where we’re going.” She hoped that was true.

  Captain Beardsley had said the journey should normally take less than a day. But with all the transport of troops, and with the tide of new evacuees—schoolchildren, old and handicapped people, pregnant women and mothers with young children—and with the stops and the sorting of children sure to come, all that had changed. He’d confided to Claire that they’d no hope of reaching Windermere station before sometime tomorrow at best, and advised her to ration fluids. “There’ll likely be no facilities.” Still, it would not do to tell the children that, not yet.

  Claire shifted her bag and Aimee to her right side. Perhaps the little girl would calm down once they’d settled in their seats. How Captain Beardsley had secured seats for them in close proximity was beyond her ken. She hoped she’d sufficiently thanked him and Mrs. Beardsley for all they’d done. Life for weeks in the Beardsleys’ attic with five homesick children had stressed Claire’s resolve and nerves beyond reason, and yet kindly Mrs. Beardsley had maintained such cheerfulness while sharing her home and food. Claire had no idea how that good lady had mustered such a spirit.

  Claire felt a small hand tug the belt dangling from her coat. “I need to visit the toilette,” whispered Elise, mostly in her best English.

  Claire groaned inside, knowing that asking Elise to wait would not work.

  Suddenly the doors of the train popped open, one by one, and lines of children led by teachers poured into every car, all semblance of order gone in a moment.

  Aimee clutched Claire around the leg and Elise tugged her belt all the harder. Bertram hefted the pillowslips and cases for the smaller children. Jeanine grabbed Gaston’s hand, much to his indignation. “Come, children,” Claire insisted, leading them down the platform to their car, pulling the card with their seating assignment from her pocket.

  Elise tugged again, this time more urgently, and said aloud, “I must go to—”

  “Hush!” Jeanine all but slapped her sister, whispering something fierce into her ear.

  “We’ll find one just as soon as we’re settled,” Claire promised, sorry for the child’s teary-eyed misery, and praying this train had facilities. How can I herd them all at once, keep them together and with me every moment, visit the toilet with any child, and make certain they speak no French aloud? Claire narrowed her eyes, trying to see the children as an immigration officer might see them.

  The plan was for them all to pretend they were sleeping most of the time while on the train, or too irritable or miserable to talk. Even if grown-ups asked them questions, they were simply to feign a toothache or, if necessary, abject fear, and point toward Claire, as if
she knew everything concerning them. But will they remember?

  Once they found the correct railcar and climbed inside, Jeanine grabbed the card from Claire and walked ahead with Elise, searching the numbers beside compartment doors. Claire pushed Gaston and Bertram forward and, lagging behind, did her best to keep a grasp on Aimee’s hand.

  Jeanine stopped and waved the card high, throwing a victorious smile Claire’s way and a condescending grin toward Gaston. Claire nodded, grateful for Jeanine’s take-charge demeanor. But from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Gaston shove his fist into his thrust-out hip, stick out his tongue, and fiercely mimic Jeanine’s victory smile. Claire drew a deep breath and rolled her eyes. Heaven help us!

  After a full day of travel and hours of delays, Claire and the children boarded the last late-night train at Oxenholme Station. According to the train schedule, in normal times the trip to Windermere would take a few minutes, but these were not normal times.

  Captain Beardsley, who had followed every lead she’d given him with very little information about her aunt, had assured her that getting from Windermere Station to Lady Langford’s estate should be no problem. “The buses will be running, though there’s no way to know how close they go or if on time. Folks are helping with the ‘vacees’ all over, and mostly glad to do it. You’ll find a lift or walk it. It won’t be so bad—you’ll see. All of Britain’s pulling together, a good example for all.”

  She’d known that last was a dig over America’s refusal to lend a helping hand. After all she’d seen in Paris and the fear running rampant through London, she couldn’t help but agree. Claire shook her head. She couldn’t do anything about her delinquent countrymen, but she must find some way to return to Paris. The wireless at the Beardsleys’ had reported that Germans had marched into Paris on the fourteenth of June. Already, two million Parisians had fled the capital. Swastikas hung from government buildings, including one atop the Arc de Triomphe. Now that the Germans had overrun the city, Claire’s ability to move about more freely because of her American citizenship—a woman from a neutral country—could prove invaluable to the Resistance.