In Falling Snow by Mary-Rose MacColl

“How can
we
be ready? Of course we’ll be ready. We’re women. We do things.”
    I looked up from my little fire and saw, out the window beyond us, the heads of pines poking through the snow that now covered the abbey grounds. Back in the kitchen was Miss Ivens in that silly floral gown she’d probably carried all the way from her Warwickshire youth. It was a champion fire I’d set, even Daddy would have said as much. I could be useful here, I thought. I could help. Suddenly, in my deepest heart, I knew I would have to stay at Royaumont, at least a little while. Violet was right. I could write to Tom from here as well as anywhere. The war, as much as I’d seen of it, wasn’t as Daddy had described it at all. If he’d been wrong about that, perhaps he was wrong in worrying so about Tom. If Miss Ivens really did need my help, it couldn’t hurt to be useful while I searched. Lord knew it could take weeks to find one fifteen-year-old boy among all those soldiers who’d come to France. At least I could feel I was doing something while I waited.
    Miss Ivens took the kettle from the fire and as she made the tea, the kitchen filled. Bids good morning were muted; it was too cold for more. Violet was the last to arrive, in her boots and striped flannel pyjamas, her blonde hair falling loosely over her shoulders. “My friend’s,” she’d said of the pyjamas the night before. “Warm as toast.” As I learned later that day, she’d also brought his coat, his driving goggles, his glasses, and his cigarette case. Must be a good friend, I said. Past tense please, Violet said. He’s been moved on now.
    Miss Ivens called us to order. “We have beds of a sort, a working kitchen, and seven hours each day in which we have enough light to work. We must all muck in on the first task, which is cleaning.”
    After a quick breakfast—bacon and eggs with toasted bread; I don’t know how Quoyle managed—Miss Ivens told me to go with Berry and address the plumbing problem. “It’s the drain,” she said. “There’s a blockage.” When I tried to protest that I wouldn’t be much help, she just smiled. “You’re from a farm,” she said. “Initiative.” She asked the doctors to stay behind for a few moments and dismissed the rest of us. I went upstairs for more warm clothes. I walked into the room just as the sun reached the long windows. The light came across the stone floor suddenly. I stood there transfixed once more by the beauty of the place, until others came in the door behind me and broke my reverie.
    Boarding school had accustomed me to dressing in front of others, but I felt strangely shy with these women. Their mattresses were neatly folded, their things packed up, all except for Violet’s and my bed, which was a mess of her clothes and the jumpers and coats we’d slept under. I tidied up—Violet was still in the kitchen finishing her breakfast.
    Just as I was about to go downstairs, she came in. “Let’s make sure we work together today,” she said. “I don’t want to be with Cissy Hamilton. Oh Iris, you made the bed. Aren’t you a darling girl? It’s a bit early for me.” She stretched and let out a long yawn. “I’d like nothing more than to get back in and sleep for a few more hours. But we can’t have that, can we? After all, we’re women, we do things,” she said, in her perfect Miss Ivens.
    â€œI have to go and meet the plumber first,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Apparently, growing up on a farm qualifies me in drainage. I’ll find you.” I went to the tap downstairs in the kitchen, the only one in the abbey that was working, and splashed my face with the freezing water. I met Mrs. Berry in the foyer. She’d dressed and washed before breakfast.
    Miss Ivens had sent me along to interpret, but the plumber who arrived