Mr. Churchill's Secretary by Susan Elia MacNeal

heaped on top of the whole contraption.
    Under the hot cerulean sky, the girls surveyed the garden,tied pinafores around their waists, and picked up their shovels. They’d marked off the area to dig; now they just had to do it.
    Chuck groaned. “Of course it
had
to rain this morning. Makes the dirt even heavier.”
    “All right, ladies,” Paige declared, scanning the directions with the same take-charge attitude she’d used for party planning. “We’ve marked off the proper dimensions. Let’s start digging!”
    Clarabelle and Annabelle exchanged a look and then started giggling. Although they weren’t that much younger than Maggie, Paige, and Chuck, with their pixielike physiques and tendency to laugh, they seemed like children sometimes.
    Paige was not amused.
“What?”
    Annabelle, the slightly taller, firstborn twin, often spoke for the two of them. “It’s just that … you sound just like one of our schoolmistresses.”
    Clarabelle began. “Miss—”
    “—Poulter!” Annabelle finished. “Isn’t she just a dead ringer for Miss Poulter?”
    Paige narrowed her eyes.
    “Oh, Miss Poulter was really quite nice—” said Annabelle, sensing Paige’s annoyance.
    “—and
very
pretty. And smart. Like Jo March in
Jo’s Boys
—” Clarabelle chimed in.
    “—or Anne Shirley in
Anne of Avonlea—
”
    “—and not at
all
like Miss Minchin in
A Little Princess—
”
    Chuck glared. “The fucking Nazis are going to drop fucking bombs on us, and all you two twits can talk about is fucking
books
?” She grabbed hold of a shovel, stalked off, and began digging with a vengeance.
    “She’s still annoyed about the dish situation,” Maggie explained. “Maybe … if you two could wash up a little more often?”
    The twins exchanged exasperated glances. Then Annabelle whispered, “She’s just so—”
    “—bossy,” Clarabelle said.
    “And
loud
!” both twins said simultaneously, setting off a fresh explosion of giggles.
    “And her
language
sometimes,” Annabelle said.
    Maggie’s lip twitched; Chuck was indeed bossy, loud, and prone to using profanity. Still, she had her reasons. “Just do your dishes,” she said gently. “And I’m sure everything will be fine.”
    They turned back to digging. After months of the “bore war,” the threat of bombs wasn’t just hypothetical anymore. Overhead, Hurricanes and Spitfires roared by in V-shaped formations of three, on their way to France, most likely. German Messerschmitts and Heinkels could be on their way to London any day. Some of the port cities had already been bombed. It was just a matter of time for London.
    Shovels in hand, they all ripped up the sod, rolled it back, and then began digging in earnest. The earth smelled damp, rich, and loamy, warmed in the sun. A hundred years and a gallon of sweat later, the five had barely scratched the surface. The back of Maggie’s blouse was soaking wet, and beads of sweat stung her eyes.
    They rested on the back steps leading up to the kitchen, gulping glasses of cool water as the sun’s rays slanted and deepened. As Chuck lit a cigarette and pushed back a brown curl, Paige ventured, “You know, I’m sure if we called the boys, they would—”
    “No!”
Maggie exclaimed. Then, in a more reasonable tone of voice, “We can do it ourselves,” she said, rubbing her sore forearms. A blood blister on her forefinger was starting to ooze. “Eventually.”
    The twins sighed. “We don’t really need an Anderson, do we? We could always just go down to the basement.…”
    “And be crushed if the house collapses?” Maggie asked. “Or burned to a crisp if a bomb sets it on fire?”
    The twins looked at the house and shared a chagrined expression, realizing Maggie’s logic.
    “I don’t know how you can stand it, Chuck,” Annabelle said, leaning back and swatting at a buzzing fly. “With Nigel enlisted in the RAF now.” She looked at Chuck sideways. “Any idea where he’s going to be sent? And