A/N: I was inspired to write this story when I found a souvenir I bought in England, a copy of a wartime ration book. Accordingly, the title of this story was taken from a British war pamphlet from 1943. If you've read my other story about the Pevensies' parents, "Children Do Grow Up," you'll notice that in this story they have different names. Yes, I am purposely trying to confuse everyone. But actually, these are two separate universes--Helen and David here are very unlike Malcolm and Julia in "Children Do Grow Up." Personally I'm a little more attached to Helen, since she's more developed as a character, but you can decide for yourselves.

How to Keep Well in Wartime

The queues are long today. I hope that Susan has started dinner; I don't want Edmund and Lucy to go hungry. I roll onto my tiptoes and lean out of the line like an anxious child. I'll be here for another hour at least. But it's nearly Susan's birthday, and I need the sugar to make a cake for her and Peter. There wasn't enough when it was his birthday, and I'm determined to give him a little celebration too. I don't think Susan will mind sharing with her brother. She never has.

I sigh and thumb through the ration books, trying to calculate if I'll have enough sugar for a cake and Edmund and Lucy's tea. Peter and Susan have given up sugar in their tea. David would want the younger ones to give it up too, but I don't have the heart to make them. Poor things—they have to give up so much already, and their father's away. The least I can give them is some sugar in their tea.

"How many ration books have you got there, eh?" a woman growls behind me. "Five? That can't be right."

Behind me the women are looking mutinous and suspicious. I know they think I bought books on the black market. Probably half of them have done the same, but it won't matter if I get there first. I cast an anxious glance down the queue, hoping that they don't run out before I get to the front of the line. Two weeks ago they only had three rations of meat, and I couldn't bear to see Peter forego his portion. Susan tried to give him half of hers, but he wouldn't hear of it.

"You can't have three children," the woman persists. She has grizzled hair sticking out from under her bonnet and a tucked up chin because she's missing her teeth. "You're only a slip of a girl."

"I have four children, actually," I correct her, twirling the wedding ring on my finger. "My husband's away at the war."

She looks so suspicious I think for a moment she'll ask me their names and their birthdays just so I can prove it. But at the mention of a husband at war, there are sympathetic clucks from all the nearby women. "Your husband away and four children to feed! Poor dearie—it must be hard taking care of the little ones." This woman is much nicer looking. She has a round face and kind blue eyes.

I smile. "They're not so little anymore," I tell her. "Peter—my eldest—just turned fifteen, and Susan's going to be fourteen." I always mention my children when I can. All mothers do this, but few have a right to be as proud. They could not be better, especially Peter and Susan.

"Did you get married when you were fourteen?" a middle aged woman asks with a teasing smile. She chuckles a little. I notice her hat is in the newest style, and I wonder idly if she got it on the black market. My own hat is set to fall apart; I've stuck it with a hat pin so many times a piece of the felt has fallen out and I've had to patch it. But then I notice that this woman can't really be much older than me even though she looks older. I try not to appear smug, but inside I am thinking that it's better to have an old hat and a young face than a new hat and an old face.

"Seventeen," I say, laughing too. Then I try not to be sad because I remember David the night before he left running his fingers through my hair and saying I was still the girl he married all those years ago. I try not to think of David too much because I always miss him when I do. And if he were here he would scold me, chuck my on the chin and say "Now my girl, it won't do to be sad. Too much to do, eh?" He's right after all, I tell myself as the line inches forward.

Thank goodness there is enough sugar. I can see that the stores are running low when I get to the counter, and the women behind me won't be thinking sympathetically of my four children and my husband at war when they can't get their sugar. I've been doing the shopping all day, and I would leave the coupons with the merchant and have Susan go to some of them, but I don't want her to have to face the dark looks of women who will be so angry for her taking five rations. She's too gentle for that. Maybe if I send Peter with her…

I lug all the shopping home, and just as I get to the door I can hear Peter shouting. Before Edmund even replies, I know he will be shouting back. Peter never shouts at the girls, but he and Edmund are always at odds. I sigh as I turn the key in the lock.

"You'd better apologize to Lucy," Peter is in the middle of saying "or when Mum gets home--"

"I don't care!" Edmund shouts, and then he sees me over his brother's shoulder.

I wish I had missed this fight entirely. I hate it when the boys fight. Peter's usually right but he's always a bit hard on Edmund, and Edmund—he's so moody. I don't know what's gotten into him. But now I'm here and I have to handle it or David would be very upset indeed. "What's all this about, boys?"

Peter twists his mouth, and I can see him deciding whether or not to tell me. My return was a threat, I know. He doesn't want to see his brother get in trouble. Upstairs, I can hear the faint sound of Lucy crying.

Susan comes from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron. She glances between her brothers and sighs. "You'd better tell her, Peter."

He sighs too and for a moment I stare at the pair of them, so adult, acting as though they are the parents. "Lucy spent all afternoon drawing a picture for Dad, and then Edmund ripped it."

"It was an accident!" Edmund protests.

"Only at first," Peter retorts. "When she got mad you did it on purpose." When David is angry his voice grows sharper, like a dog barking. Peter growls, and it is more intimidating even though he's hardly out of boyhood.

"Edmund," I begin, and I do not need to try and sound disappointed. I truly am. I know he can be a better boy, but he chooses not to. I don't know why, or how to help him.

"Never mind!" Edmund yells. "No one listens to me anyway!" he stomps upstairs and I can hear the boys' room door slam.

Peter is still standing in the center of the room, his shoulders tight and his face red. I watch him as I pull off my gloves. Sometimes I worry that Peter will have his father's temper. Most of the time he's the sweetest boy, but when Edmund gets him angry he can look exactly like David in one of his rages. At the moment I want to see him calm down; an angry man makes me nervous. I come forward and touch his arm. "Peter, why don't you see if your sister is alright," I say.

Thank goodness he's easier to divert than David. The moment I mention Lucy, Peter softens. "Are you sure you don't need help with the shopping, Mum?"

"No, no. I'm fine. Susan can help. Go take care of Lucy." I turn him about and give him a tender little push up the stairs. He's so big already, I almost can't remember when he was a little blond haired baby with such serious eyes and such a sunny smile. He glances over his shoulder at me and gives me a nod before going upstairs.

I smile at Susan. Together we'll smooth this all over. "Come on, my dove. Let's get this shopping put away." She nods automatically and steps forward to take some of the parcels. We bring them into the kitchen, where there are several pots already simmering on the stove. "You started dinner," I say, pleased.

"You were gone so long I thought you might be tired when you got home," she explains, her cheeks pink.

I kiss her cheek. "That's my girl. It smells wonderful."

She blushes further and concentrates on putting the groceries away, then turns back to the stove. I watch her as she works. Her face right now is serious and troubled, but she is such a pretty girl. David called her his princess when she was little, but I think I must have cultivated that in her. She was always so extraordinarily pretty I wanted her to look her best. And I liked having a girl to dress up and whose hair I could brush and braid. She's much more beautiful than I ever was, but a mother is only proud, never jealous. If she were my girlfriend I would be terribly unhappy about it, but I can only beam that my daughter is so lovely. I don't tell David the boys are already starting to notice her.

I pass my hand over her hair and notice that the curls are a bit limp. "We'll shampoo our hair tonight and I'll help you set it, alright?" I give her a smile.

She smiles in return, but her face is still pinched and worried. "Alright, Mum."

I squeeze her shoulders. "Don't worry, Susan. It will be alright. Peter and Edmund always make it up." I do my best to sound cheerful. Every day I worry whether it will ever be alright again. Who knows if there will be an air raid. Even if there isn't, my husband is God knows where and I have four hungry children to feed and not enough of anything. Five ration books is not a lot when there are five mouths to feed. But I cannot let the children see this worry. That is one promise I make.

She swipes her cheek with her wrist and sets her shoulders with a sigh, giving me of smile. I am proud of her, even though it's a bit stiff and I know she's pretending not to be worried. "I know."

The best thing is to let her manage herself alone, so I give her a kiss on the cheek and say "That's my girl. I'm going to check on Edmund—will you be alright down here?" She nods easily. I don't have any doubt. At fourteen, Susan is such a capable little woman, a mother's pride and joy.

I go upstairs slowly. As I pass the girls' room, I can hear Peter and Lucy talking softly. I know he will cheer her up like no one else can. I pass on and go to the boys' room, where I rap on the door softly, and call "Edmund?"

"Go away!" he replies, and though he tries to sound angry, to me he only sounds hurt.

I shake my head and slip inside. In the moment it takes me to enter, he has picked up a book and pretends to be reading, but his cheeks are still streaked with tears, and he gives a tell-tale sniff. His black hair is all sticking up on end and he is so pale that all his freckles stand out. I sit on the edge of his bed.

"Go away," he repeats. "I'm not saying sorry." He won't look at me.

I make a shushing noise and shift so I can stroke his hair. He tries to shy away and push me off, and though I insist and stroke his hair all the same, I can't help but feel a little pang that he doesn't want me to touch him. Poor Edmund. I never had enough time for him. I remember when he was a toddler and he wanted to come and cuddle on my lap but he couldn't because I was so pregnant with Lucy I didn't have a lap anymore. I remember how he used to whimper and reach for me, and David would tell me not to indulge him. I feel like there were only a few precious months where I was able to baby him, and the only time we really had together just for us was when I was in the hospital after he was born. Then I had no other children to take care of, just my black haired boy with his inscrutable eyes. Sometimes I think that even though he is surrounded by people all the time, Edmund is lonely. He wants to be loved, but he doesn't know how to ask. He wants to be understood, but he doesn't let anyone in. So I stroke his hair stubbornly, just as stubbornly as he tries to shake me off. Even if it's not enough, maybe it's at least something.

Sometimes I think Edmund's dark tempers are my fault, that I haven't taken care of him enough. I told this to David once, and he said not to be silly, I do wonderfully well for having four children so close in age. I feel bad about David too. I don't think he ever wanted a big family, or one so soon after we were married. But before I had even perfected a Sunday roast I was pregnant with Peter, then Susan came right on his heels, so close that I can't even remember a time when I had only one baby.

Although I stroke and smooth his hair, Edmund doesn't relent. I wish he would, so I can fold my arms around him and rock him. He's still a little boy, however much he tries to pretend that he isn't. "There was a letter from your father in the mail today," I tell him. "Maybe after dinner you can read it aloud to everyone—if you've apologized to Lucy." I make this stipulation because I feel David watching me, and I so want him to approve of how I've taken care of the children while he was gone. I'm certain that giving Edmund the treat when he's made Lucy cry would fall under the category of spoiling him. I only want Edmund to be happy, and know that he is loved. If I am truthful, I also want to make him happy so he will smile at me, and be my little boy.

His eyebrows flicker upwards, but that is all. Edmund doesn't smile much, and he certainly hasn't smiled at me in a long time. I know that there's nothing else I can say, so I give him one parting kiss, for my own comfort more than his, and leave. I hope that he will do the right thing and apologize. I hope that Peter will be able to convince him, somehow.

I go to the girls' room to check on Lucy and Peter. Peter is sitting on the bed talking quietly to his sister, who is curled up on his lap. I cannot help but smile—Lucy is such a darling. If Edmund is growing away from me, and Peter and Susan are growing up, I know I'll always have Lucy. She's still a little girl who thrives on cuddles, the sunniest nature I have ever known. I wonder sometimes if she is purposefully sweet to counteract Edmund, and I know that she could easily have provoked him. The more Edmund pushes Lucy away, the more she wants him to notice her. He's the only one who can resist her, and I think that brings out her stubborn streak.

Curled up as she is in Peter's lap, no one would believe me if I told them my baby was stubborn. David won't believe anything bad about her. Even if I know she is a girl just like any other, at this moment I am as drawn to her as everyone else is. Everyone who meets Lucy loves her. I crouch down and touch her nose. "Hello, darling."

She wrinkles her nose and leans forward to kiss me. "Hello, Mummy." I notice though that she stays in Peter's arms. She adores him, and he showers her with attention. He talks to Susan, but he spoils Lucy. And sadly, he fights with Edmund.

"What's all this, then?" I ask, brushing her tear-stained cheek.

"Edmund ripped my drawing," she says. Peter gives her a nudge, and she adds, smiling up at him "But we're going to fix it. Peter said he'd help."

I smile thankfully at Peter, who nods once.

"It's almost time for dinner, darling. Why don't you wash up and then come downstairs and help lay the table. And then after, we can all read Daddy's letter."

She gasps and her face brightens. Even Peter smiles at the news, and Lucy slides off his lap and runs into the bathroom. She does little more than splash some water in the sink; next thing I hear is her running down the stairs, shouting the good news to Susan and chattering away with her sister.

I look to Peter. I think that I should probably say something about his altercation with Edmund, but he's so…adult. He meets my gaze levelly, and I cannot scold him. Instead I say "Thank you for taking care of Lucy."

As it happens, I didn't need to say anything. He shakes his head. "I'm sorry I shouted at Edmund. I shouldn't have. I'll try not to."

I reach forward and pat his shoulder. "Good man." And he is. Peter is the best son a woman could ask for. He is hardworking and honest. He tries his best to do the right thing always, even if he loses patience with his brother sometimes. He is handsome and kind, and honestly, I cannot believe he's my boy or David's. I love David, but he can be petty and angry sometimes, and when I think of that Peter shines in comparison. Everyone who knows Peter loves him, just like Lucy, but it is a love of a different sort. Lucy adores him; Susan is devoted to him. Even Edmund watches his brother with hungry eyes sometimes, as if he wants to be part of Peter's circle at the same time he moves away from it. I wonder if Peter is too good for us, if somehow I wound up with a prince by mistake and I should give him up to be raised by a princess, like Moses' mother did. I never say this to David—he doesn't even like for me to mention the Bible much, and I think he wouldn't like to know how much I admire Peter. More than him, even.

Edmund does read the letter aloud, and though it is short he lingers over it. Afterwards, the children pass it around, drinking in their father's words. Peter and Susan bend over the letter together, leaning towards each other, each of them holding an edge of the paper. Then Lucy takes it by the fire and stretches out on her stomach poring over it. But at the end of the night it is Edmund who tucks it into his pocket, keeping it safe.

The pity is that David is a man of such a few words, and they aren't any of them demonstrative. I know that he is as proud of Peter and Susan as I am, as tender towards Lucy, as concerned about Edmund. He understands Edmund, at least better than I do, but he doesn't know how to say so. The pity is that Edmund needs to hear some words of understanding so much.

Peter plays a game of checkers with Lucy while I curl Susan's hair. Edmund curls up in his father's armchair reading a book, but I think I see the thin leaf of air mail stationary over the top. I watch each of them in turn, my fingers moving mindlessly through Susan's dark tresses, twisting without thought. Four children in five years. Four mouths to feed in wartime, and a husband away fighting. Four children who I love more than my own life, four mouths I remember holding to my breast when they were four little babes. Peter, grave one minute and smiling the next, and Susan, always bonny. She was the quietest of the four as an infant, and always calmest when she was with her brother. Our flat was so small then we had to put them both in the same cot, but they didn't ever seem to mind. When I would go in to check on them, they would be curled up close together. Sometimes Susan would be holding Peter's hand. And one time when I came in because she was crying, Peter was patting her back (although perhaps a bit too vigorously; he was still a baby himself at the time) and imitating the shushing noises I made to her. Then came Edmund, demanding and enigmatic, but to feel him curl against me and sleep peacefully was the best reward I ever had as a mother. I used to like to watch him sleep; there was nothing so peaceful in the world. His face was so full of expression, his brows often drawn low in a baby scowl or his little red mouth in a pout that he hid what a beautiful baby he was. Last was Lucy, always gurgling and giggling. Nothing could cheer her like a cuddle, and she was never short on them. Susan was fascinated with her sister from the first; Peter fretted over her if she cried. I remember bringing her home and sitting with Lucy to feed her, and whenever I did, Susan would come over to watch and stroke her sister's bald little head. She watched Lucy so closely that she was the one to tell me Lucy would be blond—I almost think she saw the first golden hair come in. I watch them now and think they are not so very different from when they were babies.

There is enough sugar for the cake, and even enough butter for a little dollop of frosting, so that I can ice their names and "happy birthday." I start to bake after they have all gone to bed—I want this to be a surprise. As I beat the ingredients together, I turn things over in my head. I want the best for them. I want them to be safe. In his letter to me, David says to watch out for them.

I keep an ear out for the sirens, ready at a moment to hustle the children out of bed and into the bomb shelter, but all is quiet. They are bombing another part of London tonight. But tomorrow? Who knows?

They talk of evacuation, sending the children to the countryside to stay with strangers. Can I do that to my children? Is it right? If David charges me to watch out for them, can I do that if I am not with them? Can I bear this war alone? I have not known a quiet house in fifteen years. I've barely been alone in fifteen years.

But if they go, they will be alive. They will be safe. They won't have to run for their lives to the Anderson shelter every night. I remember the first night the bombs fell, when none of us knew what was happening. A mother never wants to see her children so terrified. They should be worried about monsters under their bed and the mean children at school, not explosions in the sky that could tear their house down around their ears. I remember their faces. I remember Lucy's tears, and Edmund huddling up small, and Peter—Peter trying to gather everyone together, though the fear was in his own eyes as well. His fear made him so strong he carried Edmund downstairs that night.

The cake goes in the oven in two round little pans, and I start to whip up the frosting. It's not the same without icing sugar, but there is a little cocoa powder. That's something. As I beat the butter and sugar together, I think how I want to be a good mother. I never wanted more than to be a good wife and a good mother. The trouble is I don't know what being a good mother means in wartime. Does it mean sacrifice and separation? It must, because that is what husbands and fathers are doing all over the country, picking up and saying goodbye to fight for the right.

I worry, though. Who will take care of them? Who will stroke Edmund's hair even when he doesn't want to let anyone? Who will cuddle Lucy when she is scared or lonely? The answer comes the very next second. Susan and Peter will. They will take care of the younger ones. When they were little mites themselves they called Edmund and Lucy the babies. I would hear their childhood promises. On his first day of school, Peter charged Susan to take care of the babies. They reminded each other not to cry in front of the babies. As for Peter and Susan, I know they can take care of each other. Peter has always been there to protect Susan. He was the first one to hug her when she cried as a girl. Susan has always been there to take care of Peter. When they were apart that first day of school, and on so many other days that first year, Susan played housewife to her brother, making him special treats, assuring herself that he would be comfortable. I know they will help each other. I know they will take care of the younger ones.

The cake is cool, and I start to put it together. As I spread the frosting, I know what I must do. They have to go to be safe. But when I get them back will they be my babies still, or will they be too old for birthday cakes?