Make a Plan Tomorrow
by Amy L. Hull
Written for rthstewart for Yuletide 2017.
Many thanks for the reminders, line-editing, beta-reading, brainstorming, Brit-picking, and encouragement from GondalsQueen, Hedgebeast, EPett, tzikeh, prepare4trouble, akamarykate, wiliqueen, and OldToadWoman.
Chapter 1: Grief is Great
The telegram came exactly the way Marion had expected it would. No fuss, just an envelope, a casual salute from the delivery boy, and "Deeply regret to inform you" black against crisp paper.
And the cold.
The moment she saw that smart telegram uniform cold rushed through her, a cold as bitter and sharp as Himalayan winter winds.
An hour later, or two, or the middle of the night-she wasn't sure-the kettle whistled. Her hands were like ice, even next to the stove, even pouring a splash of boiling water to heat the pot before spooning in tea.
Colin's voice was warm in her memory, One for you, one for me, and one for the pot.
Marion forced her hands steady as she filled the teapot and set it and one cup and saucer onto a tray. She picked up the next cup and dashed it against the kitchen wall. Then a saucer. And another cup. And another, and another, until all of Mother Williams' wedding gifts were shards on the floor.
It wasn't that she had loved him.
Or, rather, it wasn't that she had loved him like that.
Colin was a man, after all, and this is what men did: they left her.
Her chest ached.
She added a bottle to the tray.
She had finished half the tea and half the bottle when she felt a thump from the next room.
Tiny feet thudded like elephants down the hallway. She moved the tray to cover the telegram and knelt by the coffee table.
Henry launched himself at her. "Mama!"
She rolled with his momentum then kissed his neck while she held him close. He giggled as she blew raspberries on his soft, soft skin.
Holding him above her, she marvelled at the smile on his round baby cheeks. At least he could still be happy.
He just giggled again and put his arms out to his sides. "Aiw-pwane, mama. Like Papa!"
She refused to cry in front of her happy son, so she tossed him above her. She felt warm when he giggled, so she pulled him to her, rolled over to put him down, and tickled and tickled till his giggles turned to peals and shrieks of laughter.
She lay with him on the floor till he tugged at her sleeve.
"Pwane!"
Marion handed Henry the wooden spitfire Colin had carved and painted for the child he'd raised as his own. Henry drove and flew it, humming the whine of German dive bombers.
She poured more tea into her one cup and splashed the whiskey into it.
"A tipple in your tea,"she sang softly, "a tipple in your tea, heigh-ho the derry-o, a tipple in your tea..."
Henry giggled and sang, "Tippy tea, dewwy-o, tippy tippy tea."
Leaving the house required herculean effort.
This wasn't quite as hard as when...he...had left. Or when she'd had nothing in her tiny flat but a screaming baby.
Not quite that hard.
But Colin had been good to her and good to Henry, and she'd been fond of him.
She was so cold. Even in the July heat, even with tea and whiskey, she was cold like she hadn't been since Nepal. Last night she had swept up broken china. She would make a plan tomorrow.
Today her two-year-old needed to get outside before the thud-thud-thud of him running up and down the hallway made her lose her goddamned mind.
Yesterday's clothes would have to be good enough for the Common.
She pushed herself forward on the couch. She pushed again, exhaling as she rose.
"Henry! Henry!"
He hurtled into her leg and bounced off. She held her breath as he landed on his bottom, but he giggled instead of screaming.
"Wanna go-"
Henry was up and running to the door before she could finish.
Marion chuckled. "Let's get your shoes, baby."
All the way to the Common, he ran a house ahead, then back to her, tugging a finger.
Even before the Blitz had tapered off in May, they had been lucky here in Ealing. They had taken little damage, few casualties. She'd been ruefully grateful most raids had been at night. Henry had slept deeply, a warm, limp weight over her numbed shoulder, while she dozed against the cold shelter wall.
The days following air raids had been as hard as this day. The motions felt similar familiar, parenting on minimal sleep, tea, whiskey, and stubbornness.
Henry tugged her hand again. "C'mom, mama!"
At the edge of the Common, Henry let go of her hand and ran. He stumbled, rolled in the grass, giggled, staggered back up, and ran again.
Marion's body was too heavy for her even to imagine that kind of energy. She sagged onto a park bench, closed her eyes, and turned her face toward the summer sun.
Once a minute, she scanned the neat rows of trees amidst green.
Two girls were fawning over Henry. The taller one's pure black hair shone, and the smaller one's blonde braids stood askew as she rolled in the grass with Henry.
While the younger girl held Henry's hands and spun them in circles, the older ran about, leaning to pluck bits from the ground. By the time she sat gracefully on the grass and dropped her handfuls in her skirt, Henry was playing hide-and-seek around one tree after another with blonde-braids.
Small, sweaty palms tugged at her hand, and Marion started up, gasping. Her neck pinched as she moved it.
"Mama! Mama! Queen Su made a cwown! Mama, look!"
Marion blinked. The sun was lower in the sky. Henry was red-faced and beaming, a flower crown perched on his hair and falling over his forehead. The two girls from before had pink cheeks and small smiles. They kept a step back from the bench.
"We're so sorry to disturb you, ma'am." She tucked her black hair behind her ear and clasped her hands together again.
The second girl knelt by Henry. "We had so much fun, didn't we, little prince?"
Su turned sharply, eyebrows furrowed.
Henry turned and flung his arms around her neck. "Queen Lu is fun," he proclaimed.
"Lucy!"
Lucy tipped her head toward Marion. "It's all right, Su. The professor was right; it's in their looks."
Two pairs of bright eyes examined her as Henry clambered into her lap and leaned his head on her shoulder.
Su nodded. "You're right. It's the eyes."
Marion wasn't sure if they were commenting on her lack of sleep, tears, or drinking from her certainly reddened eyes. Her jawline tensed and she pursed her lips, running through comments she could make to young girls with her toddler against her chest. The list was shorter than what she could have fired off at the men she'd spent her life around.
Before she found something, Su laid a hand on her shoulder. "Wars end, ma'am. Dark times cannot last forever, and our losses and griefs become less bitter with time."
Lucy kissed Henry's head. "Courage," she whispered.
Henry stirred, and Marion realized he'd drifted to sleep against her.
When she looked up, the girls were halfway across the Common.
It was time to call Mother Williams and break the news and her heart. Marion hitched up 28 pounds of limp toddler and strode toward home.