Mrs. Weatherford closed the door with an automatic movement, her gaze fixed on the orange envelope. Grace approached carefully, but the older woman didn’t acknowledge her presence.
They both waited a long moment, neither one of them speaking. Neither one of them even breathing, locked in a suspended moment that might change the rest of their lives.
Grace should offer to read it, and yet there was a part of her that was too much of a coward to see the print on the telegram within.
Mrs. Weatherford took a deep breath and slowly let it out so the envelope fluttered in her shivering grip. Guilt pinched at Grace, a whisper of an emotion by comparison to her fear, but enough to nudge her response. After all, to expect Mrs. Weatherford to face the task was cruel.
Grace braced herself for what she was offering and whispered, “Do you want me to open it?”
Mrs. Weatherford shook her head. “I should—” Her voice caught. “We have to know.”
Her hands quivered with such force, it was a wonder she could slide a nail under the flap and draw open the envelope. Before she even realized what she was doing, Grace held on to Mrs. Weatherford’s arm, clinging as the message inched out to reveal the words “Deeply regret to inform you…”
Mrs. Weatherford sucked in a sharp inhale and slowly unveiled the remainder of the telegram.
The message was written in a strip of white, the letters in bold capitalization as it declared the words that would change their lives irrevocably.
“Deeply regret to inform you that your son Pte Colin Weatherford is now reported to have lost his life in the attack at Dunkirk—”
The envelope and telegram dropped from Mrs. Weatherford’s hand and swirled to the floor. It didn’t matter. Grace didn’t need to see anything else.
Colin was dead.
“My son,” Mrs. Weatherford whimpered. “My son. My son. My sweet gentle boy.” She looked at her trembling hands, now empty of the letter, as if in disbelief it had ever been there.
The aching knot at the back of Grace’s throat balled tight, choking her with bitter tears.
The enormity of his loss gaped like a chasm inside her. Anger and sorrow and helplessness, all overwhelmed her. Colin shouldn’t have died in such a manner. He was too extraordinary to merely be one of the 30,000 lost.
Never again would he bring home another wounded animal to heal or greet her with a shy blush. Their dark, dark world needed his light, and now it was forever snuffed out.
A low keening filled the room as Mrs. Weatherford fell to her knees, blindly grabbing the envelope and crumpling it in her fist as if it could somehow keep the earth from flying out beneath her.
All around Britain, thousands more women were getting similar telegrams where a few typefaced words would rip into the tenderest places in their chest, forever altering their lives with gaping loss.
More so now than ever before, Grace found herself wishing to hear from Viv and George, to know they were safe in the face of such uncertainty and sorrow.
Grace was the only one moving about the townhouse the following morning as Mrs. Weatherford remained in bed. The older woman’s freshly washed teacup was absent from the strainer where it usually was drying by the time Grace rose. After an attempt to bring Mrs. Weatherford tea went unanswered, Grace set a small tray by her door in the hopes it would be of some comfort.
Perhaps Grace ought to have telephoned Mr. Evans and begged off work that day, but she didn’t want to be trapped at home under the weight of her own thoughts and grief. They had been poor company through the night, burning in her chest like the fire inside the Italian café and heavy with the crushing blow of Colin’s death.
She wanted her day to be filled with ordering new books and engaging in conversation with the customers of Primrose Hill Books. The day was already warm, the air dry against her gritty eyes, which still appeared red-rimmed and swollen despite an extra swipe of mascara and a pat more face powder.
Mr. Evans looked up when she entered and immediately straightened from where he was bent over his ledger. “What is it?”
“A telegraph.” It was all Grace could muster.
His mouth set in a hard line. “Colin?”
Grace nodded.
Mr. Evans’s eyes closed behind his spectacles and stayed closed for a long time before he blinked them open. “He was too good for the likes of this bloody war.”
Grace’s throat went tight with the familiar ache of mourning.
“Go home, Miss Bennett.” The tip of his nose had gone pink. “I’ll cover your wages for the next week.”