Page 42 of The Book of Summer

It seemed like a lot of training for something so nonmedical. But after four monotonous weeks, Ruby was a certified member of the Red Cross Hospital and Recreation Corps, aka the Grey Ladies, Sconset branch. Together they knitted children’s blankets and clothes and could upgrade to bandage rolling if all went well.

Ruby was pleased to help, even in this minor way. A gal could argue with the war, but she couldn’t dispute outfitting displaced baby Brits. Meanwhile Mary took to it like it was her calling, and how. She delighted in the rigors of training, the long days spent at the Legion Hall, a fraternity of women united beneath a common goal. They were like a military battalion but with less threat of bodily harm, plus infinitely better attire.

“I never realized that other women could be so extraordinary,” Mary confessed late one night, drunk on do-gooding and a little sherry.

It was quite the change of tack for her sister-in-law. To date Mary had approached everything with grim tenacity, even her own wedding. Her demeanor when she believed herself pregnant was precisely the same as when she found out that she wasn’t. But with the Grey Ladies, Mary showed pep, some swing in her walk.

“We are nurses!” Mary trilled, repeatedly, on their first official day. “Isn’t it grand?!”

They were on the veranda, Ruby working on an afghan as Mary knitted baby bunting.

“We are nurses!” she continued to sing while adjusting her jaunty nurse’s cap.

“Not exactly.”

“Oh don’t be such a negative Nellie. We have the certification and pin to prove it. Helping the war effort. I’ve never felt so alive. Isn’t this pure delight?”

“You betcha,” Ruby answered, trying to join a new ball of yarn.

“Delight” was not the word Ruby had in her head. She was a little tired. And bored. And her fingers were already sore as the dickens. Plus, she was getting dizzy trying to concentrate so closely on the pattern.

“Hmmm,” Ruby said, inspecting a dropped stitch.

If an afghan looked bonkers but still kept a person warm, was there room for complaint? Ruby chased the thought away with a blush. The Brits deserved nice things, too. Just as Topper said: a la-la girl indeed.

“These socks!” Mary held up a pair, knitted by some other Lady. “Are they not precious?”

“Sure are.”

Ruby closed her eyes and pictured the British children, those who’d go on to receive the spoils of their work. Poor moppets. Snatched from their homes and spirited to the countryside to live with strangers. Ruby disagreed with the warmongering, but the little ones she could get behind.

“Don’t be so glum, Ruby,” Mary said, and stood. “You’ll improve. Your output won’t always be this terrible.”

“That’s not…”

“Do we have enough?”

Mary began lining up balls of yarn on the table. Twenty Grey Ladies were due at any moment. Though Mary and Ruby had been knitting all day, their efforts would continue past sundown. At least they’d have fresh blood. Even a zippy Mary was half a Mary too much.

“I think we have plenty to work with,” Ruby said. “You’ve stocked us well.”

“Goodness, isn’t this delightful beyond words?” Mary assessed the scene, gobbling up the balls of yarn with her beady black eyes. “It’s so much more fulfilling than playing tennis or acting with the Nantucket players!”

“Yeah, it’s swell.” Ruby sighed.

She’d dropped another stitch, damn it. Ruby was miserable at this knitting business. Plain awful.

“But I’m afraid I’ll miss the tennis,” she said.

“Ruby Packard, you’re such an ingrate! I’ll have you know…”

“Tennis?” said a voice, pure smoothness. “No one told me we’d have to miss tennis.”

A woman walked up then. A right dish. She was a touch older than Ruby, or the same age. Her hair and lips were both fire-engine red and she wore polka dots and a wide smile. Ruby perked up at the very sight.

“Good afternoon!” Mary said, and swept across the patio to meet her. “Oh my! What a kicky outfit! Trousers even. I’m Mrs. Philip E. Young. And you are?”

“Hi-ya, Mrs. Young.”

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