Content warning: domestic violence
The Platonic Ideal of Home
December 8, 1941
Yesterday, December 7th, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan . . .
Yesterday, the Japanese government also launched an attack against Malaya.
Last night, Japanese forces attacked Hong Kong.
Last night, Japanese forces attacked Guam.
Last night, Japanese forces attacked the Philippine Islands.
Last night, the Japanese attacked Wake Island.
And this morning, the Japanese attacked Midway Island . . .
With confidence in our armed forces, with the unbounding determination of our people, we will gain the inevitable triumph—so help us God.
- Franklin D. Roosevelt, December 8, 1941
Carl clicked off the radio. Beside him on the couch, Muggins lifted her head, nuzzling into his hand for scritches as he sighed.
"It's very bad, isn't it?" Una asked from her armchair. She had kept on with her sewing all through the evening re-broadcast of Roosevelt's speech, silver needle flashing in the firelight as she stitched the French blue cotton for one of her habits. Carl knew she still had one semester of courses left to complete, but none of them had given her any trouble yet. She'd be dedicated as a Deaconess by summer and wear the veil and habit ever after.
"Depends, I guess," Carl said, giving Mugsy's ears some attention. "The Americans are in the war now, with all their manufacturing and manpower. That will be a tremendous help."
Stitch, stitch, stitch.
"Will they fight in Europe?" Una asked, "Or only in the Pacific?"
"I expect they'll have a finger in every pie. Though I don't know how much they'll be able to do right away."
The attack on Pearl Harbor was terrible, of course, but it was a naval base. The other places on Roosevelt's list were cities and islands populated by civilians. Carl couldn't honestly say that he had paid much attention to the news of Japanese conquest in China over the past decade. Anthony had, though, having a particular friend from seminary who had taken a post at a mission school in Singapore, and had become increasingly anxious these past few months. Perhaps they would evacuate civilians. Carl resolved that he must write in the morning so that Anthony would have something more comforting to read than the newspaper in the coming days.
"As I understand it, there aren't enough British troops in Hong Kong to hold it long enough for the Yanks to mobilize," Carl said dismally. "Maybe the Commonwealth troops can hang on in Malaya and Singapore, but even there . . ."
A knock at the front door precluded further musings. Carl put Muggins off onto a cushion and made his way through the kitchen and down the hall, trying not to guess why someone might call so late on such a frigid evening. Father had been in good health since his bout of bronchitis and Rosemary as well, and if it was anything to do with Faith or Jerry or Bruce, they surely would have rung in advance . . .
Carl might have run through the possibilities for a week without anticipating the scene that greeted him beyond the front door: Zoe Maylock, looking a sorry sight from unravelling blonde curls to mud-spattered pumps, clutching a caved-in cardboard suitcase. A red mark on one cheek promised to be a nasty bruise by morning.
"Miss Maylock?" Carl gawped before remembering his manners and ushering her into the hall.
"Please," she said bravely, "is Miss Una in?"
Una was, at that very moment, bustling through the kitchen, her sewing forgotten.
"Zoe? Whatever is the matter, dear?"
The girl's face crumpled and she was unable to speak for several minutes, sobbing as Una led her through to the living room. Carl hung back in the kitchen, not requiring Una's instruction to assemble the essentials. By the time the kettle was hot and he'd arranged some shortbread on a tray, Zoe was pouring out an explanation.
". . . know where else to go. I would have called but Pop only gave me a few minutes to pack and I don't have any money and he said I'd disgraced the family and . . ."
"Slow down, dearest," Una said, offering a fresh handkerchief. "Why did he make you leave?"
Zoe gulped, swiping at her nose and flicking a nervous glance toward Carl.
Carl cleared his throat. "I gather Miss Maylock will be spending the night here. Why don't I go upstairs and make up the camp bed in the sewing room?"
He balanced the tea tray on an end table and nodded to Una in solidarity. Truth be told, Carl was very glad to escape the scene and took exquisite care to check and re-check every blanket and pillowcase, devoting half an hour to a ten-minute task. Then he sat a while in Una's sewing chair, looking out past the garden to the row of pear trees standing stark and leafless against a luminous moon just a few nights past full.
When the length of his absence became absurd, Carl stomped down the stairs as loudly as slipper-clad feet would allow and came through the hall and kitchen coughing theatrically to herald his imminent arrival. He was pleased to find the tea and shortbread diminished, and Zoe much composed.
"I've made up the bed," he announced unnecessarily.
"Thank you," Zoe murmured.
"I won't tell anyone anything you don't want me to tell," Una said gently. "But Carl and I would be happy to go up to Ingleside with you. There's no need for you to go alone."
Ingleside?
"I don't know whether I can go at all," Zoe choked. "I just can't face Dr. and Mrs. Blythe."
She couldn't face Jem and Faith? Why not? What on earth did they have to do with . . .
Oh.
Oh, dear.
Carl gaped at Una, who gave the barest hint of a nod.
"Mum and my sisters guessed a while ago, when I was so sick," Zoe went on, tears streaming down her face. "They were upset, of course, but nothing like Pop. I told him tonight and he raged something awful. I can't . . . I can't go through that again!"
Surely she couldn't think that Jem would hurt her? But the girl was obviously terrified and every shadow looked longer in that mood.
"Would it be easier," Una asked, "if Carl or I went alone and talked to the Blythes first? Mrs. Blythe is our sister and I know she'll listen. One of us could go up tonight and explain, and then we could all go over together tomorrow."
Zoe blinked big brown eyes back and forth between the Merediths, her indecision twisting Carl's heartstrings. She was just a kid — a kid who had been turned out by her family and didn't know who to trust or what to do next.
Without overthinking, Carl dropped to one knee and spoke to her on the level. "You don't have to tell anyone anything, Zoe. You can stay here as long as you like. But if you do want to to tell Wally's parents anything, I think you can trust them. I know I do."
Zoe blinked once more, searching Carl's face for sincerity. Evidently finding it, she reached a decision.
"I do want them to know," she sniffed. "It's not exactly a secret. The whole choir knows and I'll bet the neighbors heard Pop shouting. But it would be a lot easier if I didn't have to tell them myself. Would you tell them? Tonight? I'll go tomorrow, I promise, but if they're angry, you could warn me . . ."
Carl put out a hand for Zoe to take. "I'll go if you like. Or Una, if you prefer. Or both of us."
Zoe swallowed. "I'd rather not be left alone here . . ."
Carl gave her fingers a squeeze and rose to his feet. "Then I'll be off. Una?"
"We'll be fine here," Una smiled. "Come upstairs, Zoe, and I'll show you where to put your things."
Thus, twenty minutes later, Carl found himself shivering on the Ingleside veranda, still groping for words when Faith answered the door.
"What's happened?" she asked, going whey-faced at sight of him standing unexpected in the winter night.
"Go get Jem," Carl said, stepping inside. "You both need to hear this."
The candlelit dining room of the Hampshire Hotel in Basingstoke was festooned for Christmas: sharp-scented fir woven into garlands punctuated with holly and bayberry tapers gleaming in a softer green. It was not yet late — barely four o'clock by Shirley's Radiolite — but it was one of the longest nights of the year and a new moon to boot, so the candles were necessary as well as festive.
Shirley scanned the rapidly filling dining room only to find that Sylvia had already spotted him and was halfway across the floor. He smiled genuinely at sight of her, looking awfully official in her crisp blue uniform with its double-row of brass buttons and starched white collar and cuffs. If any of the onlookers were scandalized to see an RAF officer embrace a nurse-matron right there among the bayberry-lit tables, they were outnumbered by their more tender-hearted peers.
"I'm under strict orders to slap you, you know," Sylvia said, pulling back from the hug.
"I get that a lot," Shirley smiled back.
She led him back to a round table set for five, as yet unoccupied. This had all been Syl's doing, a dozen letters or more flying back and forth across three counties, trying to find a day when the Blythe Expeditionary Force could all meet for a proper Christmas dinner. As usual, Shirley's schedule had been the most forgiving. The next full moon wasn't until January 2, and he was quite at liberty to spend December as he pleased, provided he made it back in time for his briefing.
The kids had been harder to pin down. Fighter Command kept on fighting, Christmas or no, and it was the thirteenth labor of Hercules to pry both Gil and Rose out of the RAF's clutches at the same time. Eventually, Rose volunteered to cover both the Christmas and New Year's Eve night shifts in exchange for a week's leave in mid-December. She was eager to introduce Gil to her family in Croydon, by which Shirley understood that Gil had passed his exams. The newly promoted Flying Officer Ford was no less enthusiastic about presenting Section Officer Findlay-Stevenson to such members of his family as were convenient.
"This is quite the place," Shirley said, taking a seat by Sylvia's side and appraising the spread of crystal and china.
"I don't suppose fancy dishware goes bad in wartime," she shrugged. "But it does go empty. I had to find a place that would come up with a Christmas dinner worth eating, even if it is mostly made of parsnips and margarine."
It had cost a pretty penny, as Shirley knew well, having insisted on covering the bill and subsequently seeing the quote from the hotel. But it was the least he could do after Sylvia had gone to all the trouble of arranging things, when Shirley certainly wouldn't have bothered.
"Thank you for thinking of this," he said, squeezing her hand fondly. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."
She made a dismissive noise and would have protested more if the kids had not walked in at that very moment.
The Hampshire Hotel was quite used to hosting officers of many nations and ranks. The trio of young officers poised on the threshold were certainly not the most distinguished, nor the most senior, not even on this particular evening, but they were nonetheless striking enough to draw more than a few interested glances. Gil Ford, all gold and blue with the swagger of the hotshot pilot he really was now; Sam Blythe tall and vivid in the brilliant scarlet dress tunic of the Royal Regiment of Canada; Rose between them, her own crisp WAAF blues as impressive as her Cheshire-cat grin. They looked like a Madison Avenue poster for Life itself.
Shirley and Sylvia rose to greet them with hearty handshakes and back-slapping hugs. Gil introduced Sylvia to Rose as a family friend who had been a fixture of Ingleside Christmases as long as he could remember. This was true, technically speaking, but Shirley still gave Syl a reassuring nudge of knees under the table when they reclaimed their seats.
The young fry chatted away, telling of their journeys and their duties and the very successful sojourn to Croydon, which had evidently featured something of a comedy of errors regarding the Findlay-Stevenson spare room that ended with Gil sleeping on a camp bed in Rose's younger brother's room.
"We got on like a house afire," Gil reported. "Though he was awfully disappointed when I told him that if he wanted to grow up to be a pilot, he'd need to buckle down in geometry."
"Not quite what a thirteen-year-old wants to hear when he's dreaming of Spitfires!" Rose giggled.
"No, but it's the truth. I'm sure I'd have flunked trigonometry ten times over if Uncle Shirley hadn't slapped a sextant in my hand one summer and made me navigate the old Flying Boat like bloody Magellan."
Sam threw his head back and laughed. "You always tried to pawn off navigation on Wally until that time we ended up halfway to Labrador. Uncle Shirley just sat there the whole time letting us get more and more lost until we were in real danger of running out of fuel."
They went off on a round of do-you-remembers that was only interrupted by the arrival of a fragrant carrot soup that may have been an economical choice, but was nonetheless a tasty one. Rationing was in force, but the hotel had managed to scare up a scrawny goose and there were potatoes and winter cabbage and flaky rolls made with convoy-carried Canadian flour, along with a small but much-appreciated dish of real butter.
Shirley was more than a little flummoxed when the table unanimously assumed that he would carve the goose, never having been the head of any household.
"I'm sure you'll be better with a blade, Sylvia," he protested.
But she smirked and handed him the carving knife and he managed not to disgrace himself.
Sometime after everyone had tucked into seconds, Gil asked, "What news from Ingleside, Sam?"
It was a predictable question, but Sam rapidly turned a shade of crimson that no wool-dyer on earth had yet achieved, though many had tried.
"Ah, it's the famous Meredith poker face!" Gil teased.
"Meredith?" Rose asked.
"Sam's mum, my Aunt Faith, is a Meredith. So's my Uncle Jerry — the one who's a judge. They're quite famous for turning every shade from cheese-green to the fetching shade of magenta you see before you. Sam here is one of 'em, which would make him a terrible bluffer if he weren't already square as a saltine. Isn't that right, Sammy?"
Sam looked imploringly toward Shirley, who was not afflicted with the Meredith malady of wearing one's emotions like a marquee, much as he loved it. Yet, he was familiar with the tidings from Ingleside and fancied that he saw the shape of Sam's troubles. Ah, well, if someone had put it in a letter to Sam, it probably wasn't much of a secret. Not that it would stay secret for long in any case.
"News indeed," Shirley said impassively. "I understand that there will be a new baby at Ingleside in the spring."
"A . . . baby?" Gil wrinkled his nose. "Whose?"
"Zoe Maylock's."
Gil may not have been a Meredith, but he did an admirable job of adding to the chromatic diversity of the table, face going as pale as the whites of his bulging eyes.
"Really?" Sylvia, far more composed, had clearly not yet heard the news. "And she's at Ingleside?"
"Who is Zoe Maylock?" Rose asked.
"My brother Wally's girlfriend."
"I see," Rose breathed.
"Is she alright?" Gil asked, eyes still round.
"I imagine she's not having the jolliest holiday," Sam shrugged. "But she's safe at Ingleside."
"Does Wally know?"
"Dad says that they wrote to him. But he's at sea, isn't he? It isn't as if they get regular mail call. And even when a letter reaches him, what can he do about it? He won't be home again for ages."
Gil swore under his breath.
"I have no doubt that Wally will do right by Zoe," Sylvia said comfortably. "My understanding is that they were all but engaged last summer."
"But she's at Ingleside?" Rose asked. "That's Wally's parents' house, isn't it?"
Gil nodded, but shrugged his ignorance.
Shirley had had enough of the Socratic method and cut directly to the chase. "My understanding is that Miss Maylock has been turned out of her parents' home. She went to Aunt Una for help because she feared that Wally's parents might be of the same mind. I'm sure there is a long story, but the short version is that they weren't, and both Miss Maylock and the baby will be residing at Ingleside for the foreseeable future."
Sam nodded. "Dad wrote that he nearly had to shut Mum up in the pantry to keep her from storming off to Lowbridge and giving the Maylocks one of her signature explanations."
"It's very good of your parents to take her in," Rose said softly. "Not everybody would."
"Dad would never turn anyone away from Ingleside, especially not family," Sam said with all the confidence of an adoring son. "The Blythes are quite famous for clannishness. You watch — Mum and Dad will treat Zoe just like one of their own."
Shirley felt Sylvia's stiffness beside him and pressed her knee again. She attempted a grateful smile but did not quite manage.
"Are they happy about the baby?" Gil asked.
"Course they are," Sam said. "Surprised, maybe — Dad said he wasn't expecting to be a grandfather before 50 — but I got the impression that Mum and the girls are already fixing up the nursery."
Gil shuddered. "Still. She'll be the talk of both the Glen and Lowbridge. Wally better get his ass back to port and marry her. I wouldn't put it past your Dad to kick him out if he doesn't."
"Nobody gets kicked out of Ingleside," Sam said, buttering another roll. "And I wouldn't worry in any case. Wally's been dead gone on Zoe since . . . well, for a long time. And he'll do the right thing."
"Everyone loves a baby," Sylvia added. "Especially in times like these, it will be good to have a little one in the house."
Gil agreed. "Mum always said that Jims was the silver lining to the Great War."
"Who is Jims?" Rose asked.
The old tale of war babies and soup tureens carried them through pudding, confirming the younger generation in their belief that Ingleside had always held its arms open wide.
*/*/*
Later, when the kids had said a dozen thank yous and gone off to catch the eastbound train with promises that they'd look after themselves and one another and write as often as possible, Shirley and Sylvia walked arm-in-arm toward the 1st Canadian General Hospital. It was a dark evening, what with the blackout and and the new moon and snow flurries blowing in from the west. The task of putting one foot securely in front of the other took most of their attention, with little left over for conversation.
When they reached the hospital, Shirley headed toward the door, but Sylvia steered their steps toward a little garden where the first flakes of snow were already melting into the path.
"I know you have a cigarette somewhere," she said.
Shirley obliged her, lighting one for each of them as they took shelter in a little gazebo.
"I've never been back to my parents' house," Sylvia said without preamble. "It wasn't as bad as it could have been. I already had Aster House. I was never homeless. But still."
"I'm sorry," Shirley said, and was.
"My sister sent me a letter once," she continued. "Just to tell me her kids' names and that my brothers had both married and had children as well. I wrote her back, but never heard from her again. That was, oh, '33? '34 maybe?"
What Shirley wanted to say was fuck them, but what came out was, "They don't deserve you."
She laughed a single puff of smoke. "I can't say Ingleside was always the most comfortable place either. It got better once it passed to Faith and Jem, but it's funny to hear the kids talk about it like it's the Platonic ideal of home."
Shirley took a long drag on his cigarette, the glowing tip providing a tiny circle of light.
"It's only because they don't know Aster House," he said.
Sylvia tapped her ash on the railing and chuckled. "You know, I still feel a little leap of excitement this time of year. It's time to air out your room and drag Mugsy's bowl out of the pantry."
Shirley knew just what she meant. Christmas was something to endure, but the mingled scents of fir and cloves signified the imminent respite of the New Year. Aster House, snug and warm, where he felt like he might understand a little of how Carl felt about fresh Island air.
It was dark enough that Shirley did not scruple to put an arm around Sylvia's shoulder and pull her into the shelter of his overcoat.
"It seems churlish to say I've always been terribly jealous," he said.
"Of who?"
"You, of course. And Di. Of Aster House."
That got a proper laugh that rippled through her chest and into his. "Not of Ingleside?"
"Nah. Jem can keep it."
Sylvia dropped the butt of her cigarette and ground it under her shoe. "You know, when we get home, you're welcome to stay as long as you like, up to and including forever."
"Don't think I haven't thought about it."
Sylvia pulled back far enough that she could reach up and caress Shirley's cheek with a non-slapping hand. It was too dark to see her expression in any detail, but Shirley knew her well enough to fill in the gaps with mingled affection and concern.
"You've got to actually make it home first," she said quietly.
"I will."
"You'd better. You're a damn fool for coming here in the first place."
"And you aren't?"
She sighed. "It's not the same. I spend my days drawing up shift schedules and making sure the men don't get too fresh with the Sisters. God only knows how you spend your time."
He couldn't tell her anything, so he opted for a technical truth. "Reading, mostly."
"I'll bet."
"I do. I've read nearly all of Aesop's Fables in French."
"Ah, well, in that case, you'll have the war won by Christmas."
They looked out at the swirling snow, only dimly visible beyond the gazebo, falling faster now. Somewhere out there, Hong Kong and Leningrad were under siege. Great armies faced off at Moscow and Tobruk. The sleeping giant of American industry had been shocked awake and was just now blundering to its feet. Somehow — after more than two years of work and worry — somehow it seemed like it was only beginning.
Notes:
Today is the 100th anniversary of the 1918 Armistice. I'm in France, attending a memorial ceremony at the Canadian Memorial in Vimy. Thank you all so much for encouraging me as I research and write this universe. I have learned so much about WWI (and WWII) in the past year and it's all down to this community (particularly kslchen - special thanks for all your help and sharing your knowledge and enthusiasm, even now that you are on to happier things).
Thanks to all who have been reading and reviewing, especially Flavia! I'm glad you liked that line from Susan :)
