“But you love Harrods,” Grace protested.
“It’s exciting.” Viv dropped her hands to her lap. “Or at least it was in the beginning. So few women care about fashion right now. Those who do still come in tell me of their struggles. They’re all so anxious about their men who have been sent off to war and their children being cared for by strangers in the country. Some of the letters these women receive are just terribly sad. Little ones wanting to come home, swearing to be good so they aren’t sent away again.” She looked down at her hands. “I just want it all to be done.”
The quiet of the house on a rainy day was shattered suddenly by a choked cry.
Viv and Grace startled, met concerned gazes, then leapt up from the table to investigate what had caused such a sound. Mrs. Weatherford was by the front door with a cascade of envelopes scattered at her feet, her fingers pressed to her mouth. Colin stood in front of her with the sleeves of his white collared shirt pushed past his forearms, an open letter in his hands.
“What is it?” Viv asked.
“Are you all right?” Grace rushed to Mrs. Weatherford.
She didn’t even acknowledge Grace as she continued staring at Colin with wide eyes behind her glasses.
Grace looked to Colin, who didn’t flush at their entrance for the first time, his expression fierce where it remained fixed on the letter. He swallowed and his sharp Adam’s apple bobbed at his slender throat. “It’s finally happened.”
He turned the correspondence toward them, showing the bold typeface at the top displaying “National Service （Armed Forces） Act, 1939” from the Ministry of Labour and National Service. Saturday, November 11th was stamped in blue ink for him to report to the Medical Board Centre for evaluation.
“I thought yours was to be deemed a reserved occupation.” Mrs. Weatherford shook her head, her eyes falling on the orders with apparent disbelief.
“They only said they would try, Mum,” Colin replied patiently. “There was never a guarantee. I can’t stay here while the other men are off fighting.”
Mrs. Weatherford’s eyes sharpened. “Did you volunteer?”
“No.” He turned the letter toward himself once more and set his jaw. “I know you don’t want me to go, Mum. And I know you were trying to keep me here. But I can’t ignore it. I won’t.”
Grace studied Colin as he and his mother spoke, the paper in his large, gentle hands trembling ever so slightly, despite the way he’d squared his shoulders with determination to do what was right. And her heart broke.
Men like Colin were not meant for war.
“They’re calling you up on Armistice Day.” Mrs. Weatherford smoothed her hands down the blue flowered dress that Viv had sewn for her. The action was one Grace had seen before, when Mrs. Weatherford fought to control her emotions.
“Your father died to make that day possible,” she continued. “How could they call you up then of all days?” Her voice pitched high with fear and hurt.
Grace reached for Mrs. Weatherford again, but the older woman brushed her off. “I must call Mr. Simons. He told me he submitted for you to be an essential employee. He’ll be able to—”
Colin stepped toward his mother to stop her. Mrs. Weatherford finally stilled and looked at him with wide, wet eyes.
“I’ll do my bit, Mum.” He lifted his thin chest. “Our country needs me.”
Emotion burned in Grace’s throat. This young man who was so tenderhearted and kind, who still carried elements of his adolescence with his naive sweetness, displayed such bravery.
She couldn’t imagine the townhouse without him any more than she could imagine Mrs. Weatherford existing without her son. Not when she doted on him with such adoration or how she watched him with eyes that shone with pride and love.
Mrs. Weatherford’s chin trembled. She pressed her lips together, but it didn’t stop, nor did the rapid blinking of her eyes. “Do excuse me,” she choked out. “I…” She quickly fled up the stairs.
Her bedroom door on the second level clicked shut a moment later and a wail cut through the silence, sharp with raw pain.
Colin lowered his head, hiding his expression.
Grace put a hand to the soft cotton of his sleeve. “Go to her. I’ll put a fresh kettle on.”
He nodded without looking at her and went up the stairs with slow, heavy steps as Grace led Viv back into the kitchen. As soon as they were alone, Grace pressed her hands to her chest where a dull ache had begun.