Chapter 44

Mab was used to the sight of air-raid damage, but gazing at Coventry, she realized how much London’s sprawl lessened the impact of the destruction. There, if you saw a house missing at least there were houses still standing on either side; if you saw bomb craters in a street, you saw automobiles swerving busily around them. Coventry, so much smaller and more compact, had been far more comprehensively wrecked. Mab barely counted one building in three that wasn’t either reduced to rubble or sporting boarded windows. The ancient cathedral stood open to the elements, stone floor dusted with snow, medieval windows with their fire-scarred stone tracery stark against the gray sky. “‘Bare ruined choirs, ’” Mab echoed. The Mad Hatters were reading Shakespeare’s sonnets this month.

“The big raid was in November of ’40, ” Francis said, also gazing at the cathedral. “More than five hundred killed. I wasn’t in town, but I knew so many who died. There’ve been two more raids since, but nothing like that one. ” He ruffled a hand through his chestnut hair. “It’s all in dismal condition, but I hope you can see Coventry for what it will be again, after the war. ”

He said it low voiced so Lucy, running ahead through a puddle, wouldn’t hear. “Come back, Luce! ” Osla called, sauntering after in her blush-pink coat. She and Mab had said goodbye to Beth at the BP canteen this morning, then collected Lucy, who had been put on the train to Bletchley in care of the conductor, and they’d all headed for Coventry. Francis had greeted them at the station, a flat box under one arm that he hadn’t yet explained. Lucy had hung back behind Mab, regarding him warily through the fringe of her bangs. “Hello, Lucy, ” he’d said easily. “What would you say to a walk around the city? ”

“No, ” Lucy said. “I’d rather look at ponies than take a walk. Are there ponies? ”

“We’ll see if we can find you ponies. ” Off they went, the four of them bundled in coats and scarves, and Mab was glad for Osla’s easy chatter, which acted like bright paint over Francis’s habitual silence and Lucy’s careful glances. Wait till we see our home-to-be, Mab promised her family silently. When the three of them all lived here together, Lucy would relax and Francis would laugh more and Coventry Cathedral would have a roof again. All it took was peacetime.

“I think it’s a beautiful city, ” Mab said as they turned away from the cathedral.

Francis gave a half smile. He was even quieter than usual, his face paler after months under Scotland’s gray skies. Mab wondered what he’d been doing there. Maybe when they were married forty years or so and none of these secrets mattered anymore, they could tell each other.

“So. . . ” Francis offered his arm. “Do you want to see the house? ”

It was tall, tawny stoned, surrounded by a tangled garden dusted with snow. Mab envisioned roses, no more victory garden vegetables, because when the war was over she would just buy cabbages at the greengrocer’s. The front door creaked invitingly when he unlocked it.

Mab almost tiptoed inside. A flagstone entryway, a grandfather clock ticking at the end. . . Lucy, instantly fascinated, tried to climb in. Mab looked into a parlor with a towering stone hearth—she could see cozy fires dancing in the evening—a dining room for Sunday lunches in a future where roasts and butter were no longer rationed. . .

Francis began throwing blackout curtains open and Mab saw how big the windows were, how the house would look flooded in summer sunshine. “A housekeeper comes weekly to keep things aired and dusted, ” he said. “She’s left us a cold lunch. I’ll put things out, you ladies look round. ”

“Good for sliding, ” Lucy said, running her hand over the polished oak bannister.

“Very good for sliding, ” Mab agreed, following her upstairs. A bedroom upstairs with an enormous four-poster; three more bedrooms. She saw Lucy hesitate in the one with a cushioned window seat. “This could be yours, ” Mab said, and held her breath.

Lucy frowned. “Mum wouldn’t mind? ”

“No. ” Mab’s mother hadn’t been able to hide her relief at the idea that she wouldn’t have to shepherd another child all the way through to majority. No, I don’t mind if you take her on, are you mad? Mab had no doubt her mother loved Lucy in her brusque way, but she was past fifty and tired. She didn’t really want to keep trimming bangs and scrimping for shoes. “Mum won’t mind, ” Mab assured Lucy now. “We’ll go see her every week, but you’ll be living here with me. ”

“Now? ”

“After the war. ”

“Would he live here too? ” A glance through the door, toward where Francis clattered in the kitchen downstairs.

“Yes, he would. ”

Lucy frowned. She was wary of all strange men, and Mab wondered in a surge of bleakness if that was something she’d unconsciously passed to her daughter. “He’s a very nice man, Luce. You’ll like living here with us. ”

“It’s not London. . . ” In Lucy’s short life she’d been uprooted from London and sent to Sheffield, then shuttled between the two depending on the ebb and flow of German air raids—Mab could tell the idea of yet another upheaval was making her daughter balk. But Lucy kept looking at that window seat, exactly the right size for a little girl to curl up in while drawing.

“Let’s call this your room, ” Mab said, and led Lucy downstairs.

Francis and Osla had set the table in the kitchen for lunch—a pot of tea, cold sandwiches, an eggless sponge pudding with raspberry jam. Osla, bless her, was chattering pleasantries while Francis quietly poured tea. He gave Lucy a proper cup, not just nursery tea with hot water and milk, and on her chair Mab saw the flat box he’d been carrying earlier. “That’s for you, Lucy, ” Francis said, sipping.

Lucy pushed back the lid, looked into the nest of tissue paper. . . and her face flushed pink. Mab had never in her entire life seen a child look so happy. “Oh, ” Lucy breathed, and lifted out a pair of tiny, glossy, knee-high riding boots.

“For when you start riding lessons, ” Francis said. What he must have spent in clothing coupons and favors for such a gift! “There’s a riding school not far away. ”

“Really? ”

“Really. ”

Mab looked at her daughter, hugging her new boots and glowing like a small sun as she whispered a shy, ecstatic thank you, and felt her heart shatter. I love you, she thought, looking across the table at her husband. How I love you, Francis Gray.

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