Page 56 of A Thousand Painted Hours

“I have no idea. Eventually we’ll come to something.”

But it was hard to stay calm when we heard the drone of the planes, on their way, and then directly overhead, and I saw one drop a bomb at some distance. I shoved Nina into a doorway and barreled in behind her. We watched it fall, and another behind it. Nina clutched my arm so tightly I knew there would be bruises. When it landed, the explosion shook the walls surrounding us, and we both ducked, trying to contract our bodies. Nina screeched, her hands over her ears.

The second one fell, a touch closer, and dust shook down on our heads. My heart beat too hard through my neck, and I looked left and right to see if I could find a route of escape. Smoke rose over the roofs of the buildings across the street, and the bells of a fire engine rang out. The planes droned away, followed by the rattling of guns, and I grabbed Nina’s wrist. “Let’s go.”

A man in a heavy blue raincoat ran by. “Shelter this way.”

We ran after him. The planes droned closer again, circling back, and another bomb landed with an enormous clapping explosion. “In here!” the man cried, and we ran with relief into the Tube station, clattering down the stairs in the din.

Nina held on to my hand with a painful grip. “What about the waterlines? Will we drown like those poor people at Balham Station?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But at least we might have a chance down here.”

—30—

When the all clear sounded, Nina and I staggered aboveground, brushing ourselves off, and miraculously found a cab. We were shaken, but all in one piece.

When I arrived home, Mother waited in the sitting room, looking wan but otherwise well, her knitting in hand. A pair of kittens frolicked on the rug, chasing each other.

Her condition was bewilderingly variable from day to day. I felt in over my head trying to predict how to care for her.

“Where’s Betty?” I asked.

“She went out late morning for rations, and I have not seen her since.”

I frowned. “Do you know where she was going?”

“No. She said only rations. She had the coupons with her.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Hours ago. She made chicken salad if you’re hungry. No apples, but the celery gave it an agreeable crunch.”

“I had a good lunch with Nina, so perhaps we’ll save that for dinner.” I peered out the window, hoping to spot Betty in her chintz turban.

“I wouldn’t mind a spot of tea,” Mother said.

“Of course.” I shed my coat, and as I hung it up, I felt the small hard vial of cyanide. I took it out, so evil and so innocuous at once, and wondered what trauma would force me to use it. When the Nazis invaded? When Mother died and there was no more food? The noiseof the bombs this afternoon, exploding and knocking down buildings, came back to me, and I wondered if I ought to keep it on me at all times, in case I was buried alive. How long could a person bear that?

No. I would not give in to such fatalism. Not yet. I tucked it back into the inner pocket, and headed for the kitchen to put the kettle on, lifting lids and opening cupboards to see what might be left from last week’s rations. As I was taking out the mugs, I worried where Betty might have gone. I hoped she’d not been injured.

I checked the drawer to see which coupons she’d taken with her. All of them. A concern, but not yet dire. Perhaps I could nip out and see if the fish monger or the baker had seen her.

Just now, I felt a deep need to paint, to express the tangled emotions stirred up by the raid. I took Mother her tea and headed upstairs to the studio, but even as I ascended the stairs, I fretted about those enormous bombs today, all over the city. Surely Betty had not gone far?

—31—

Days passed, and we had no word of Betty. I didn’t feel I should leave Mother alone to check the lists at hospitals or care centers, and Peter was swamped at work. We saw him briefly for changes of clothes and a quick shower, and then he was back out again.

In the meantime, I had been working for several days to get the paintings ready to be transported to Nina’s. The original plan—to transport them to the country—had been sidelined by a bomb that took out most of the west wing there. Nina had volunteered to put them in her wine cellar, which might not be ideal, but would preserve them better than if a fire devoured them.

My studio was filled with paintings leaning on the walls, piled on tables. Most of them were out of their usual storage places, none hidden as I usually took care to do. I had specially built space in a closet for the ones that would cause ... outrage, grief, offer too great a view into my private world—mostly to keep them out of Peter’s view.

Mother had rallied again, and sat in the parlor. The rain poured down relentlessly outside the windows. A kitten played with a ball of yarn on the carpet. “I want to see your paintings, Elsie,” she said without preamble.

Her eyes were clear and straightforward, and although I’d been caring for her for a long time, when she spoke so firmly, I was again a girl.

“Are there any you particularly wish to see? I can bring them down to you.”