Diary Of A War Bride. Lauri Robinson

bit the tip of his tongue to stop from sharing other things about himself. She didn’t need to hear his life story, nor want to. ‘What I meant to say is that I know how tough farming can be. How the loss of even a single egg is felt. Even more now that the world is at war.’

      They’d rounded the building corner and rows of leafy green bushes, some he might have recognised if he took the time to look closer, edged the walking path on both sides.

      ‘I can’t deny the world is at war, Mr Johnson,’ she said smartly. ‘But I can assure you, we do not need your money. Norman and Charlotte would not have taken in so many if they did not have the means to provide for them.’

      He’d heard about children being evacuated out of London and assumed some of the children living with her were part of that. Of the nine, only two looked similar, as if they might be siblings. ‘Are they all evacuees?’

      ‘Yes.’

      Something in her tone, a sadness, had him asking, ‘But not you.’

      She glanced his way, frowning slightly. ‘Yes, me, too.’

      ‘Then how do you have the same last name as Norman. Mr Harris?’

      ‘I don’t.’

      Not one to usually make assumptions, he searched his mind to recall if one of the Fowler brothers had said she was Norman’s daughter. He’d been certain they had. Ed had. He was fairly sure of that.

      ‘You assumed I was Norman and Charlotte’s daughter,’ she said, with her heels snapping against the stone walkway. ‘Just as you assumed we needed to be repaid for the food that was damaged in the mishap. Both assumptions were wrong.’ She stopped walking and held out her hand containing the envelope. ‘Now if you’d kindly take this, I shall be on my way.’

      He ignored the envelope again. ‘If it’s not Harris, what is your last name?’

      She frowned slightly, then shook her head. ‘I don’t see how that matters one way or the other.’

      ‘It does to me.’ He couldn’t come up with a solid reason why, so he waved a hand at the trail continuing in front of them. ‘It’s just as far to walk all the way around as it is to go back the way we came.’ With a shrug, he added, ‘And once I know your last name, I won’t have to assume again.’

      When it appeared she might not agree, he added an incentive, ‘The sun is shining, Kathryn, I hear that’s a rarity this time of year.’

      ‘Winslow,’ she said. ‘Miss Winslow.’

      He’d figured using her first name would goad her into telling him. ‘Winslow. Kathryn Winslow. Well, that’s a fine name, Miss Winslow,’ he said while slowly starting to walk again. ‘A mighty fine name. Nothing to be ashamed of.’

      ‘Ashamed of?’ She hurried to catch up with him. ‘I’m not ashamed of it.’

      ‘You’re not?’ He gave his head a thoughtful shake. ‘Well, I assumed since you didn’t want to tell me that—’

      ‘You said if I told you, you wouldn’t assume again.’

      He nodded. ‘I did, didn’t I? Well, then, how about the sun? How often does it shine? Just so I don’t have to assume again.’

      Her sideways glance said he wasn’t fooling her, but the hint of a smile she tried to hide gave him hope.

      ‘It shines often enough, but not as much as it rains. Some people don’t like our weather. They say it’s too dreary. To rainy.’

      He almost asked who, but figured that could be two steps backwards. ‘I love rain.’

      ‘You do?’ There was a hint of disappointment in her voice.

      ‘Back home we had a drought that lasted almost ten years. The worst of it was when I was fifteen. By then, we’d gone so long without rain, it wouldn’t have taken much to dry up every last pond. It was so hot the leaves baked right on the trees. Dried up and fell off so it looked like December rather than July. Except for the heat. Nothing could grow and with no plants or moisture to hold the dirt down, it blew everywhere. We had curtains like you do, nailed to the window frames, but they weren’t to keep the light from getting out, it was to keep the dirt from getting in.’

      Remembering those days had the ability to clog his throat. The windy dry weather was what had given Judy dust pneumonia. ‘I prayed so long and hard for rain, that, even now, almost ten years later, I still love it. Will love rain for as long as I live.’

      ‘How did you survive?’ she asked. ‘Your family. Being farmers.’

      ‘We were lucky in some ways,’ he said. ‘There’s a fair-sized lake that’s spring fed on our property. That year we thought it might dry up, but it didn’t so we had water for the animals and some crops.’ There was a row of tiny purple flowers beside the path and he stopped long enough to pluck one and hand it to her. ‘Much like you, we shared what we could with others. Any neighbour who had a way to haul water was welcome to do so.’

      She took the flower and sniffed it while twirling the tiny stem between her finger and thumb. ‘That was kind of you.’

      Some didn’t think so. They’d claimed his family should be hauling water to those who didn’t have a way to get it. His family couldn’t have afforded to do that any more than the next. And they’d had other things happening. Judy dying. Letting that thought go, he asked, ‘What kind of flower is that?’

      ‘It’s a columbine.’

      ‘Do they grow wild here?’

      ‘Yes. When I first arrived here, I dug up several that were growing among the hedgerows at Charlotte and Norman’s and gave them to my mum to plant in the flower beds at our house in London.’

      She pinched her lips together then and started walking again, obviously not happy about sharing even that little memory with him. Accepting that, he took the subject off her.

      ‘Did all the children living with the Harrises arrive at the same time as you?’

      ‘No. George, Elizabeth and Jennifer arrived several months after I did. They are siblings. Then Phillip, Little George, Patricia and Doreen arrived the following spring. They aren’t related, but were all on the same train. That summer, a billeting officer brought Edward and Audrey to the house late one night. They aren’t siblings either, but had been on the same train and the officer explained no other host family was able to take them.’ Her tone was soft and she’d smiled while saying each child’s name.

      ‘How old are they?’ he asked, mainly just to keep her talking.

      Still twirling the flower, she said, ‘George is twelve and Edward is eleven. Little George is eight and Phillip seven. Elizabeth is fourteen, Audrey thirteen, Jennifer nine, and Doreen and Patricia are both six.’

      ‘That’s a houseful.’

      Her face lit up as and her eyes literally shone. ‘It is, but they mind well, are very helpful and get along with one another for the most part.’

      ‘Even the siblings?’

      ‘Yes, why?’

      ‘Just curious,’ he answered. ‘My brother and I fought when we were young. He’s two years older than me.’

      ‘Do you have any sisters?’

      ‘One.’ He bit his tongue. Even after all these years he couldn’t get used to saying he didn’t have a sister. He’d had one for thirteen years and would never forget it. Judy had been two years younger than him and her death had left a hole in his family. Especially in his mother’s heart. She’d said it wasn’t right for a parent to bury a child and he didn’t want her to go through that ever again. Not wanting to explain more, he asked, ‘What about you?’

      She frowned slightly while glancing his way. ‘I’m an only child, but I have a cousin.’