foreground. It was Augustus Madison, whose portrait also overflowed the limited space of the staircase.
“I’ve invited the Josephesons for dinner tomorrow,” Moira said after the wine was poured and the soup served. “I do hope that is all right with you, Charles, dear.” Her smile was provocative.
The old man glowered at her.
“Grandpa, don’t be glum,” Phoebe said lightly. “You know you like old Mr. J. You’ve always said how much you do.”
Charles shrugged, but the edges of his mouth cracked under the thin moustache. His granddaughter knew him well. “He’s not a bad sort. Knew him in the war, he was a good lad, then.”
Tension broken, the conversation swirled around. Only the endless barking of the dogs spoiled the lovely evening.
“Why does everyone put up with those dogs?” Elaine whispered to Phoebe. “Don’t they ever stop barking?”
“As soon as Lizzie has the main course on the table, Alan will bring them in to be fed. That should quiet them down a bit. Aunt Moira loves them desperately, so what can we say? If you notice, Grandpa has turned his hearing aid down a bit, and Grandma can hardly hear a thing at the best of times. And the rest of us would never be quite brave enough to drum up the courage to say a word against them.”
A woman had been hired to serve as maid. She wore a black dress with white collar and cuffs tucked under a neatly ironed white apron. The dress stretched across the expanse of her ample hips and stomach to the very edges of its seams. Elaine leaned back to allow her to collect the soup plate.
“I do hope you’re not going to let any of our family secrets into that book of yours, Moira,” Megan said, her thin voice rising above the chatter of dinner table conversation. “Don’t you let her, uh, uh…?”
“Elaine,” Phoebe said, loudly.
“Don’t you let Elaine air our dirty laundry.”
“Oh, do we have dirty laundry, Aunt Megan?” Amber laughed.
“Tell all, please do,” Brad said.
“I intend to tell this young woman the story of my life,” Moira said. “As I lived it. If some people don’t like what I say, then that’s their problem.”
“Yeah.” The boy raised one thumb.
“What’s that? What did she say?” Charles fumbled with his hearing aid. “Something about her memoirs?”
“Aunt Moira said that she’ll tell the truth and that’s that,” Alison said, pronouncing each word with precision.
The maid carried in the platter of roast beef and the table fell silent.
Chapter Ten
On her day off, exploring the countryside on her bicycle, Moira happened upon a traffic incident. A Canadian soldier riding a motorcycle had taken a corner much, much too fast. He couldn’t see around the hedge, but apparently didn’t consider that to be a problem. Fortunately he saw the young girl walking dreamily down the center of the lane at the last possible moment. Instead of killing her, the impact merely dislocated a few bones. On the girl. The soldier spent several months in the hospital regretting his love of speed. Moira jumped off her bicycle to attend to them while a passing farm hand ran for help. The girl was Catherine, the daughter of Burt and Betty the shop owners, and their effusive gratitude was beyond embarrassing.
Moira’s older brother, Ralph, was also stationed in England. She’d heard little from him, the news mostly passed through their mother or grandmother. But at last, in the early spring of 1942, they managed to organize leave at the same time. Moira took the morning train up to London.
The devastation took her breath away. They knew, of course, of what was happening in London and the other great cities of England. They heard the bombers overhead and watched the sky turning red night after night during the blitz. Bert and Betty had each lost a sibling in the rubble of the East End. Moira had seen some of it for herself that night at the movie theater, but she had not been back to London since. That day she realized
“I’ve invited the Josephesons for dinner tomorrow,” Moira said after the wine was poured and the soup served. “I do hope that is all right with you, Charles, dear.” Her smile was provocative.
The old man glowered at her.
“Grandpa, don’t be glum,” Phoebe said lightly. “You know you like old Mr. J. You’ve always said how much you do.”
Charles shrugged, but the edges of his mouth cracked under the thin moustache. His granddaughter knew him well. “He’s not a bad sort. Knew him in the war, he was a good lad, then.”
Tension broken, the conversation swirled around. Only the endless barking of the dogs spoiled the lovely evening.
“Why does everyone put up with those dogs?” Elaine whispered to Phoebe. “Don’t they ever stop barking?”
“As soon as Lizzie has the main course on the table, Alan will bring them in to be fed. That should quiet them down a bit. Aunt Moira loves them desperately, so what can we say? If you notice, Grandpa has turned his hearing aid down a bit, and Grandma can hardly hear a thing at the best of times. And the rest of us would never be quite brave enough to drum up the courage to say a word against them.”
A woman had been hired to serve as maid. She wore a black dress with white collar and cuffs tucked under a neatly ironed white apron. The dress stretched across the expanse of her ample hips and stomach to the very edges of its seams. Elaine leaned back to allow her to collect the soup plate.
“I do hope you’re not going to let any of our family secrets into that book of yours, Moira,” Megan said, her thin voice rising above the chatter of dinner table conversation. “Don’t you let her, uh, uh…?”
“Elaine,” Phoebe said, loudly.
“Don’t you let Elaine air our dirty laundry.”
“Oh, do we have dirty laundry, Aunt Megan?” Amber laughed.
“Tell all, please do,” Brad said.
“I intend to tell this young woman the story of my life,” Moira said. “As I lived it. If some people don’t like what I say, then that’s their problem.”
“Yeah.” The boy raised one thumb.
“What’s that? What did she say?” Charles fumbled with his hearing aid. “Something about her memoirs?”
“Aunt Moira said that she’ll tell the truth and that’s that,” Alison said, pronouncing each word with precision.
The maid carried in the platter of roast beef and the table fell silent.
Chapter Ten
On her day off, exploring the countryside on her bicycle, Moira happened upon a traffic incident. A Canadian soldier riding a motorcycle had taken a corner much, much too fast. He couldn’t see around the hedge, but apparently didn’t consider that to be a problem. Fortunately he saw the young girl walking dreamily down the center of the lane at the last possible moment. Instead of killing her, the impact merely dislocated a few bones. On the girl. The soldier spent several months in the hospital regretting his love of speed. Moira jumped off her bicycle to attend to them while a passing farm hand ran for help. The girl was Catherine, the daughter of Burt and Betty the shop owners, and their effusive gratitude was beyond embarrassing.
Moira’s older brother, Ralph, was also stationed in England. She’d heard little from him, the news mostly passed through their mother or grandmother. But at last, in the early spring of 1942, they managed to organize leave at the same time. Moira took the morning train up to London.
The devastation took her breath away. They knew, of course, of what was happening in London and the other great cities of England. They heard the bombers overhead and watched the sky turning red night after night during the blitz. Bert and Betty had each lost a sibling in the rubble of the East End. Moira had seen some of it for herself that night at the movie theater, but she had not been back to London since. That day she realized
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