Secrets of a Charmed Life by Susan Meissner Page B

The animated chatter of nervous adolescents was only slightly louder than the agitated voices of parents who wanted more information than anyone in charge was prepared to give them. The billeting officials to whom they appealed sat behind long tables and scarcely looked up from their piles of paper, so intent were they on making sure they didn’t lose someone’s child into the abyss of this second evacuation scheme. The youngest children clung to their mothers’ hands. Some of them knew from the first evacuation what trauma was about to befall them, and they buried their heads in their mothers’ skirts. The oldest evacuees—teenagers like Emmy—gazed about in disbelief, looking for all the world like they wanted to disappear into a separate dimension while the adults played war with one another. Emmy didn’t see anyone she knew, probably because they were meeting at Julia’s school, not hers.
    Mum returned from waiting in one of those snaking queues with stringed, cardboard tags for Emmy and Julia, and luggage labels that bore their names, ages, Mum’s name, and their London address. Julia’s tag went promptly around her neck.
    â€œI’m not wearing this,” Emmy said, handing the name tag back to Mum.
    â€œYou have to,” Mum said, ignoring her daughter’s outstretched hand. She bent down to attach the luggage labels to the suitcases at their feet.
    Emmy looped the name tag around the handle of the gas mask box that all the children were made to carry. Mum stood up, saw that Emmy didn’t have the string around her neck, and huffed.
    â€œEmmy, please. Just do it.”
    â€œI’m not five, Mum.”
    â€œThen don’t act like you are.”
    Mum yanked the tag off the handle of Emmy’s gas mask box and slipped it over her head.
    â€œWhat does this say?” Julia peered at the small typewritten words below her name and Mum’s on the tag.
    â€œMoreton-in-Marsh,” Mum said, straightening Julia’s barrette. “That’s where your train is headed.”
    â€œWhat’s a marsh again?” Julia furrowed her brow.
    â€œIt’s an oozing swamp,” Emmy said under her breath.
    â€œMoreton-in-Marsh is a nice town in Gloucestershire,” Mum said to Julia, after a quick frown Emmy’s way. “It’s a sweet little place, the registrar told me. In the Cotswolds. There are others from your school going to the same place, Julia, so you’ll already know people.”
    â€œAnd my school? Are there others from my school?” Emmy asked, her voice terse with cynicism.
    Mum faced her. “There are plenty of people your age being evacuated, Emmy. Plenty. Look around. Stop making this so difficult.”
    Emmy wasn’t making anything difficult. Everyone else was making things difficult. This was not her war. Nothing about what was happening was her doing or had anything to do with her.
    A uniformed official speaking through a public address system called for those headed west to Gloucestershire andOxfordshire. It was time to board the bus that would take them to the train station.
    Emmy lifted her suitcase and Mum laid hold of her arm. “Don’t let them separate you,” she said, softly but urgently. “If anyone tries, you give them hell. Promise?”
    Emmy’s suitcase, the gas mask, and the brides box in her arms suddenly seemed weightless compared to the burden of being forced to release all the good fortune that so recently had come her way. It was as if her dreams were spiraling out of reach, past the barrage balloons that hovered in the sky like enormous dead and bloated fish. Emmy was letting go of so much and yet her heart felt so heavy.
    Mum squeezed Emmy’s arm when she did not answer. “Promise me, Emmy.”
    â€œShe’s
your
daughter,” Emmy whispered, and tears sprang to her eyes. She loved Julia, but she would not have agreed to leave London if she did not