Grace looked up to find Mrs. Weatherford wearing Colin’s old clothing, now dirt-stained from their many toils in the garden as they dug for victory. “Have you seen the gloves?”

“They’re in the Andy with the trowel and watering can.” They really ought not use the Anderson shelter for a gardening shed, but setting gardening tools on the bench inside was quite convenient, especially when the floor was practically flooded by the recent rain and no use for anything else at that point. And with only the two of them in the townhouse, there was plenty of room for a few tools inside.

There had been air raids from time to time, yes, but they all had been without cause. A friendly aircraft mistaken for a German plane or something of that ilk. Most people didn’t even go to their shelters anymore. What was the point?

Grace pulled the quilt from her lap in preparation to join the older woman in the garden. “Let me change and I’ll help.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, love.” Mrs. Weatherford waved her off. “You’ve done more than your fair share lately, and I only need to do a bit of weeding and watering.”

Grace gave her a grateful smile and settled the blanket back over her legs, nestling deeper into the cushioned seat of the sofa to resume her reading. However, she did not get far into the next page when a horrendous shriek came from outside. In the rear garden.

Mrs. Weatherford.

Grace darted from the chair in a tangle of quilt, nearly tripping over the book she dropped in her haste, and bolted toward the kitchen’s back door.

Had the Germans arrived?

There were rumors of how parachutists had dropped into the Netherlands dressed like nuns and policemen before shooting citizens where they stood, using trust as their greatest weapon. Granted, the rumor had been told by Mr. Stokes, but Grace would take no chances. She paused on her way out the kitchen door to grab a large knife.

Mrs. Weatherford stood several paces from the lettuce bed with her gloved hands curled in front of her as she stared in horror at the plants.

“What is it?” Grace rushed to her side, blade extended toward the garden.

Mrs. Weatherford let out a long, slow breath, closed her eyes and shuddered. “Worms.”

“Worms?” Grace asked, incredulous. She had been expecting Nazis in the garden, machine guns at the ready to do their worst to the people of London.

“I went to see why the lettuce was wilting...” A shiver racked through Mrs. Weatherford. “I’ll go fetch the leaflet on pests,” she said weakly and turned back toward the Anderson shelter where the public informationals to encourage Dig for Victory were neatly organized in a blue painted tin.