In the morning, the newspaper boy gripped his bicycle handles and pedaled over to the Leamington Courier, a squat, square building that smelled of grease and ink. Next to the rush of the mechanical printers, the publisher, with his first three buttons open and sweat stains darkening his shirt, handed over the daily papers. His frown was deeper than usual. Every day, even in the heat, the newspaperman puffed on his daily cigar and pulled from the half empty bottle of Scotch on his desk. He needed the Scotch, he'd say, after reading the day's headline. After today’s headline, he’d likely finish the bottle.
The newspaper boy handled the stack, tied with brown string, and dropped them in his basket. When he caught a glimpse of the headline, his dreams of running the Leamington Courier ended forever. He didn’t know it then, but he would never fall in love, never get married, never become a father. He would never get to tell his children about that moment, the moment he became a man—or at least wanted to become one.
He pedaled down the street faster even than the cars, throwing papers toward marked doorposts as he went. As the news made its way through the village and surrounding countryside, mothers clung to first-born sons eager to prove themselves, fathers dug out old letters from their brothers, and uncles who died in the Boer War. Flags snaked up their poles; trumpets drowned out the singing of birds; churches assembled—some praying for peace and others for glorious victory. Father Carmichael, while sipping his coffee, read the morning paper and wrote a letter to his brother, wishing him best of luck and a safe return. In the envelope, he enclosed a rosary.
Mrs. Lavinia Bell went without breakfast that day and met her husband where he was sorting mail at the post office. In hushed tones, they discussed their future, during which Lavinia threw the paper in his face and stormed out in tears.
On the way home, she stopped by Baker’s Sweets, where the newspaper still lay on the doorstep below a sign that read Closed, Away at Baking Competition. Lavinia unlocked the door, walked through the shop, and put the paper on the kitchen table, where a week’s worth of mail waited for her sister’s return.
Across town, Mrs. Margie Stoker prepared a hearty English breakfast for her husband. Out of habit, he frowned at his empty plate and rolled his replacement wedding ring. From the kitchen, Margie brought out a plate of toast, tomatoes, blood sausage, and bacon. While he started in on breakfast, Margie went to the door and fetched the daily paper and post in her robe. As she went back inside, she sorted through the stack of letters to find a note from Rodney, now stationed at Shorncliffe Barracks with the Royal Warwickshires. Margie kept the note and handed her husband the paper. His eyes boggled at the headline and then wandered to the war souvenirs he'd mounted on the wall—his grandfather’s rapier from the Napoleonic Wars, his uncle’s cap from British India, an Damascene sword his father snatched during a battle in Egypt, and a silk board pinned with medals. His chest swelled with pride. Although he had missed a chance to serve God and King, his own son would soon march off to battle, sure to return victorious and with treasures of his own to mount on the wall. He wiped his eyes and returned to the table to cut into his tomato. The red juice ran into the orange bubbles of grease, which he mopped up with the toast and washed down with coffee.
Outside, a parade was stirring. Just like in Leamington, people in the surrounding villages of Blackdown, Offchurch, Clubbington and a thousand others across the land paraded down the streets, walking or riding and waving the Union Jack for all to see. Young boys ran along the parade route and wrestled with each other, while older ones stared up at propaganda posters, confused at what they saw and what it meant for them. Beggars asked around for the locations of recruitment offices. Mothers and daughters huddled together, realizing it could be the last days they would spend with their fathers and brothers. Factories rolled out guns, ammunition, and artillery shells that clinked together like heavy coins. And from the woods and plains of Warwickshire, to the lakes and the bleak highlands up north, and to the chalk cliffs of Dover down south, every part of England echoed the same refrain: England at War with Germany! And across the waters that tossed black and cold with unterseeboots lurking in the deep, hundreds of thousands of the Belgian elderly and the children and the wealthy made their way to hospitals and schools and brothels and other shelters where they could take cover from the German artillery. They left their lives behind, while soldiers bled out in their beds, used their kitchens and toilets, slaughtered their livestock, and dug trenches through their ancestors' graves.
Watching Luther roll truffles was like, I don’t know, maybe like watching a monk pray. Yes. Like that. Luther was a monk, chocolate was his religion, and the truffles he created were his prayer beads.
Before he started, he was no different than the other chefs. He melted the chocolate over boiling water, lightly mixed in the crème, and stirred until his eyes narrowed. But then everything changed. Once he reached into that bowl to start rolling the chocolate globes between his palms, his eyes emptied and his body acted on its own accord. He rocked back and forth on his heels as he worked, lips slightly parted. He was a force of nature, a river flowing unrelentingly to the sea. A breeze ruffled his hair, a bee buzzed by and landed on his arm, a rival baker dropped a pan and let out a string of hushed curses, but Luther did not waver. I’d look away and he’d already have ten truffles done.
Other chefs stared at us from their tents, red-faced, running hands through their hair, shouting orders to their various apprentices. Luther, by himself, had already covered his table in truffles.
In front of the individual contestant’s tents, spectators and judges watched from rows of white garden chairs. They whispered to one another and nodded at Luther, ignoring the other chefs. One of the judges glanced down and flipped open his great, silver pocket watch.
“Chefs be warned, five minutes remain on the clock,” he announced.
Luther didn’t look up from his work. He had covered two tables with truffles.
The other chefs panicked.
“Forget the ganache, Matthew, there’s no time! Help me plate the truffles!”
Just before the judge called time, Luther selected a set of perfect truffles and with lightning-fast fingers, arranged them on his favorite display plate. It was a work of art. And by the time the judge called time, Luther had three tables of truffles. He took a step back, smiled at the audience, and held up his arms. That was his trademark, and the audience responded with their polite little finger-claps.
The judge held up his bullhorn and called out, “Please observe a one-hour judging period.”
Slowly, the audience stood and conversation rose, like an intermission.
“Great job, love.” I kissed Luther on the cheek and rubbed his back.
He smiled his wide-dimpled smile and flapped his hands. Suddenly, he realized what he was doing and stuck his hands in his pockets. I didn’t even have to tell him anymore.
“Did you see how many I made?”
“Yeah, but don’t start bragging. Nobody likes a bragger, remember that.”
“Why don’t people like braggers?”
“They talk about how they’re better than everyone else.”
“Yeah, but why do they talk about how they’re better than everyone else?”
“I don’t know. It’s because they don’t believe in themselves, I guess.”
“Yeah, but why don’t they believe in themselves?”
“I’ll tell you later,” I said, knowing we’d both forget in ten minutes.
From afar, I noticed three women from the audience walking up toward our tent. All dressed up in lovely floral dresses and fancy hats, they were probably related to some earl or minor royalty. They carried umbrellas. Umbrellas. On a warm sunny day in the middle of summer. As they drew closer, I could tell they were in their twenties—probably close to Luther’s age. The smile dropped from my face, and I put my guard up.
“Are you Luther?” one of them asked, “The No-trifle Truffler? The Mozart of Marzipan?”
He nodded, face red. They giggled to each other.
“What do you want?” I asked. They frowned at my bluntness, but I would not allow Luther to be toyed with.
They exchanged glances and, then one of the girls said, “We only wanted to ask Luther about his baking. We go to your sweet shop all the time. We love it.”
Paying customers. Posh customers. But I didn't recognize them and said so. “Well, that’s lovely to hear, but I afraid to say I don’t recognize you. Luther and I work very hard to make sure everyone enjoys our sweets, and we always try to remember our frequent customers.”
One of the girls, the one who looked to be the leader of their little pack, spoke up. “Oh, well, we do love your sweets, but it’s usually one of the kitchen staff that actually goes to the shop. You see, I am a ward of Lord Brooke, the Earl of Warwick, and I’ve been staying at the castle. Cook tells me that our dessert chef is nearing retirement age, and we”—she looked at Luther—”she is looking for a new one. And we thought, well, isn’t there a famous baker right in our back yard?”
I gasped. I couldn’t help it. A job? A job for Luther? If I could get him to be self-sustaining, to take care of himself so I wouldn’t have to worry about him when I’m gone…
She turned to Luther. “Of course, Chef would have to give you a proper interview, but we’ve all tasted your work. Even Chef says its very good and she does love her sweets.” The other girls laughed and commented on Chef's sweet tooth.
My life would be complete. I’d always planned for Jim to take over the store and take care of his brother, but that didn’t work out. Now, if Luther had a real job, I could get struck by lightning tomorrow and it wouldn’t matter, so long as he could support himself. But, wait. What if it didn’t work out? What if dealing with strange people in a strange kitchen would be too much for him? Would he be able to handle himself away from me?
“We would love the opportunity,” I finally said, slowly. “Luther is, after all, the best candy maker in central England. And he loves to try new recipes and create new desserts. I don’t think you could find a better person for the job.”
“Good.” The girl turned to Luther. “How would you like to work in the castle, Luther?”
“The castle? I would like that.”
She smiled up at him. “Excellent. You should stop by the castle next Monday at at 10 o'clock sharp. Go around back to the kitchen entry and ask for Chef. There will be an interview of sorts, but I think it’s probably only a formality.”
Luther looked at me and then back at the girls. “Thank you,” he said. “I like candy very much.”
With that, the girls floated back over to the audience, where they joined their friends.
Luther won the contest. It was his tenth blue ribbon, and no one was surprised when they called his name and passed out his truffles for everyone to eat. That was mostly what they came for—the hundreds of truffles they knew Luther would make. I hid the prize money in my slip, and we took the train back home to Leamington.
On the train, I resolved that Luther needed to take the job. It would probably be the only job offer he would ever receive. I knew they would provide him with room and board, but would they be nice to him? What if something happened that he couldn’t deal with? I pictured him flapping his hands and running around the formal dining room while the Earl of Warwick looked on in horror. But maybe since Warwick wasn’t far from Leamington Spa, he could live at home and bike to the castle every morning.
“How do you feel about working in the castle?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” He stuck his hands in his pocket again and looked away.
“Yes, you do. Spit it out, I won’t get mad.”
“What if they’re mean to me?”
I put my arm around him, and he hugged me. I felt his his heart thud in his chest. A full-grown man, twenty-six years old, still curling up next to his Mum. Even if I could, I wouldn’t have changed a thing about him.
“There will always be mean people,” I said. “Some will disguise their meanness with big ideas, like politics or business or economics or whatever else. But they don’t last. They never do.”
“Why don’t they last?”
“Because goodness always wins in the end.” At least that’s what I’d been trying to tell myself these last few years. “And if you have an idea as small and tender as a crumb and you hide it inside your heart, nobody can take it away. They’ll might try to reach inside you and drag it out—” I poked him in the chest. He laughed. “But it will be so small, you see, that it will always slip through their fingers.”
When the train arrived at the station back home, we were surprised at all the activity. We carried our suitcases down the street, and right away I noticed the giant signs with blue and red lettering.
As soon as we unpacked our suitcases, Luther and I headed over to Lavinia’s. On our way, we passed the crowd of boys and young men standing in front of Carraway’s Pub, which now boasted a sign that said “Recruiting Office.” It made sense that old Mr. Carraway, the veteran that he was, would be eager to loan his place of business to the army.
At Lavinia’s, she ushered us into the drawing room and poured tea.
“Have you read the news??” she asked.
“No. Honestly, we were so busy with the contest and it seemed so far away until now.”
“Germany demanded passage through Belgium, and they refused, so Germany declared war and invaded. Under the Treaty of London, we’re obligated to join the fray to protect Belgium. Now, it seems the whole world is on fire!”
“What about Mark?”
Lavinia’s back straightened. “Mark’s a man of peace, which is why I love him so. Some ladies gave him the white feather yesterday, but he doesn’t care. He said the postal service is reorganizing for the war with the Royal Engineers. It means he’ll be doing his duty sorting letters to and from the soldiers, probably in London.”
We were both quiet for a moment as we sipped our tea.
“London’s not too far,” I said. “It’s better than a battlefield.”
She nodded, took a sip, and then looked at me. “Have you heard anything from Jim?”
I could feel my own back straighten and the color rise in my cheeks. “You know how I feel about Jim.” I tried to keep my voice even. “He turned his back on this family when he left school and disappeared. Sending word now and again about a job here or there does not make up for that.”
Lavinia sighed. I knew she still had a soft spot for Jim. “So you haven’t heard anything at all?”
“No.” I’d flipped through the mail when we returned home, but there was nothing. I wasn’t even going to confess that I looked for a note. I told myself since the war had broken out, maybe he’d write to say he’d enlisted, finally done something right. But, no. Nothing. “But I have news about Luther,” I said to change the subject. “He’s gone and got himself a job offer. At Warwick Castle, no less.”
“Luther!” Lavinia squealed with delight and gave him a big hug. “You are full of surprises!”
We chatted about the castle and what working there might be like and then Lavinia suggested we stay for dinner. Mark would be working late at the post office helping to get things organized for the war effort, and I could tell Lavinia didn’t want to be alone.
“I’m a terrible hostess, though. I’m afraid I’m out of everything. I don’t think I’ve been to the market since all this started.”
“No matter, we can all walk down together. We still have the whole afternoon.”
Lavinia smiled. “Then it’s settled. I’ll get my hat.”
On the way to the market, we had to pass the recruiting office, and I could tell all the hubbub set Luther ill at ease. As we wandered the aisles, he followed along picking up fruits and vegetables as if feeling them in his hands grounded him amidst all the noise and excitement. Lavinia and I planned a shepherd’s pie and gathered all the ingredients, plus a few extra staples we both needed. While I was at the potato stand, I suddenly realized Luther wasn’t behind me. I turned around and couldn’t see Luther anywhere.
I grabbed Lavinia’s arm. “Where’s Luther?”
She looked around as if suddenly noticing he’d gone missing. “I don’t know. He was here just a moment ago.”
My heart thudded in my chest even though I tried to reassure myself. “He’s probably gone to the baking aisle.” When Luther was younger, I would never dream of taking him to the market. There was simply too much noise and activity and colors. Too many people. The few times I did take him ended in a minor disaster. But after he discovered the truffles, everything had changed. Now he usually went to the market with me and, although he stayed close, I knew he was more at ease, people knew him, and he never made any trouble. Yes, I told myself, he’s probably just over checking the price of sugar and flour.
I saw the apples down the aisle from where Mum was looking at potatoes to make the dinner pie and the apples looked good to eat so I went to look at them. But I didn’t eat the apples because Mum always told me not to take anything because stealing was bad. I tried it once and people yelled at me and I got in trouble so I didn’t take the apples. But the apples were so red and I knew how juicy and crunchy they would be if I bit them with my teeth. I could almost taste the apple and I started to pick one up but then remembered not to and that’s when Mr. Stoker came up and said I will buy an apple for you. Mr. Stoker was happy and shook my hand and he had a hard handshake and dry hands and I don’t know why. I said I’m not sure if I should eat the apple because Mum wouldn’t want me to and I got in trouble before but he told me it wasn’t stealing because yes he was going to buy it for me. That was a nice thing to do. Yes please I said and he bought me an apple and I ate it. I told him I couldn’t find Mum because I turned around and she was not there. Mr. Stoker said he will take me to Mum and I said thank you and you are being very nice. I wonder why. Mr. Stoker told me he heard about my awards I got for making candy and said he was very proud of me and I said thank you but I didn’t brag because Mum told me nobody likes people who brag about things they do because they act like they are better than everyone else because they don’t believe in themselves. That’s what I told him. Mr. Stoker smiled and asked about Jim I told him Jim went to a school where they learn things but he didn’t finish school and is living in a town somewhere but I dod’t know where but I miss him because he always took care of me and Mr. Stoker told me how Jim always got in trouble when he was a kid and how he was a bad friend for Rodney and made Rodney do bad things to get him in trouble. Mr. Stoker asked me if Jim got in trouble with Mum a lot and I said I don’t know but I was really thinking about all the times Jim and Mum fought with each other and got mad. Mr. Stoker asked if I remembered hitting Rodney. I said I don’t know because Mum told me never to tell anyone about it or I would get in trouble. Mr. Stoker said Jim was a bad brother for me and that Jim did not know how to be a man and that he tried to help Jim become a good man but could not help him be a good man. I didn’t know. He said he wanted to help me be a good man and teach me to stand up for others and help the country and one day have a family that would be nice for the God and the King. He asked me if I wanted to do that. I said I don’t know. He said don’t be shy now and I said I guess and he said he would help me do that and he walked me to the line of boys standing in the street all lined up in front of a door. I asked why they were lined up and Mr. Stoker said it was because they were going to help the country and become men like he said I said I wanted to. He said I said I wanted to become a man and help. I asked how were they helping and he said the country was fighting an army that was killing people. I said that was sad and asked if they would hurt Mum and Jim and Mr. Stoker said yes it is sad and they will hurt everyone if we don’t stop them including Mum and Jim. He said if I wanted to protect them like a man I would sign up to be a soldier. I didn’t know what Mum would say to that and looked around but he said I could go back if I wanted but look at the big crowd of boys lined up here to do the right thing and be men and they all looked at me and I didn’t want them to look at me because there were too many of them. Mr. Stoker said I could turn back any time I wanted but there were too many people so I asked will you take me back to Mum and he said as soon as I signed my name to the paper he would take me back to Mum and she would be proud of me so I stood in line even though I don’t know how to write my name on the paper and the room was so full and there were too many people so I wanted to write my name on the papers so Mum would be proud of me and I could go find her and so Mr. Stoker helped me go to the front of the line where there was a man who asked me questions like my name and where my dad was born. I said I didn’t know my dad and he asked me how old I was and if I was married and my job. I said I made sweets for the sweet shop but that I was going to get a new job and make sweets in the castle and they said not anymore. Some of the questions I didn’t know, so Mr. Stoker whispered me the answer in my ear and then they measured how tall I was and asked me to cover my eye and look at something. Then I was supposed to write my name on a paper but I said I couldn’t write my name so Mr. Stoker wrote my name for me and the man said it was okay because he made two shillings and sixpence per recruit. Then I had to put my hand on a Bible and repeat after what the man said and then it was done and I was a man who helped the country and I was happy how I was finished and it was time to go find Mum and she would be proud of me. But Mr. Stoker laughed and said he didn’t know where Mum was so I had to go find her myself.
“What the hell did you do to my son?” I’d pushed and shoved my way through the line of soon-to-be soldiers filling the street in front of the pub, and marched up to the desk of the recruiting officer.
“I asked you a question! What the hell did you do to my son?”
The man opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“You just signed up Luther Baker. Show me his papers.”
He finally found his voice. “I can’t do that. The papers are confidential,” he said quietly.
“How much money do you want? Just name it; I will give you anything.”
“I repeat. The papers are confidential.”
“Do you have a wife? A child? Someone you must protect at all costs?” I demanded.
“Madam—” He stood up.
With a sweep of my arm, I knocked all the hundreds of neatly stacked documents off his desk and sent them fluttering to the ground. All noise of conversation from the crowd of young boys at the door immediately died down.
“Enough!” Father Carmichael’s voice sounded from the door. The old man entered with a parcel under his arm. He must have been on his way to the post office. Lavinia was with him. “What in the world is happening here? Mrs. Baker, explain yourself.”
“They tricked him into enlisting!”
“Tricked who?” Then his eyes widened in understanding. “Luther?”
I nodded, unable to speak. Lavinia wrapped an arm around my shoulder.
“God in heaven. What is wrong with you?” Father Carmichael approached the recruiting officer.
“What’s the problem, Father? I’ve enlisted dozens of young men today alone. For the defense of our country.”
“Yes, but Luther isn’t right in the head. Everyone in Leamington Spa knows that.” Father Carmichael said, trying to take a diplomatic approach to the problem. “He would never qualify to be a soldier. Why sometimes he can barely even talk, let alone follow orders. It’s best you correct this mistake before your senior officers find out.”
“Well, if he can’t follow orders, then … yes.” The man looked at me. “I apologize, ma’am.”
“Just find his papers and tear them up.” I choked out, then watched him bend down to find the correct paper.
“Stand down, soldier!” A voice called from the entrance.
Mr. Stoker.
I turned slowly, as if time itself had had fallen away and all that remained was fear. And disbelief. And rage.
“We must maintain the strictest discipline when it comes to military matters,” Mr. Stoker announced, striding through the crowd as if he was the prime minister himself. “I understand that a priest—a man of God—and a worried mother might oppose sending a young man to war, but no one is exempt from making sacrifices to protect the nation. And, Father Carmichael, I’m sure you will agree that this is a matter of state, not for the church to interfere.”
Father Carmichael looked down at the recruiter. “Luther could very well be a danger to his fellows if he’s sent to the front. You could be putting other boys in harm’s way if you don’t tear that paper up.” The recruiter looked up at the priest and then redoubled his search for Luther’s paper. Father Carmichael drew himself to his full height and turned to Mr. Stoker. “And you jolly well know Luther is in no way prepared to fight on behalf of our country.”
“I know nothing of the sort,” Mr. Stoker sneered. “He can carry a rifle the same as any of these boys,” He turned and swept his arm out to indicate the room full of gawking boys. Then he turned and looked straight at me. “I daresay Luther can push his way through the ranks if need be.”
My knees buckled and my sight narrowed until all I could see was Stoker’s smirk. Lavinia’s grip was the only reason I remained upright. And then the recruiting officer found Luther’s paper and held it up.
“Here it is,” he said and scrambled to his feet and then started to rip the paper in two.
“Not so fast.” Mr. Stoker now stood directly in front of the recruiter. He held his hand out to take Luther’s paper.
The recruiter looked to Father Carmichael, then to me. He hesitated.
Stoker cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Surely you don’t want to jeopardize your career.” His voice was a quiet menace. “I will be forced to report your actions if you neglect your duty and turn away a willing, able-bodied young man. Despite what this priest says, Luther is able bodied and, therefore, is able to serve. Now, I want to see you gather up all those papers and get them submitted. Come, let’s not make a scene of it.”
That was it. I struggled free of Lavinia and reached for Luther’s paper, but Father Carmichael grabbed my arm.
“Don’t interfere, Mrs. Baker. Perhaps there’s another way. I will make an appeal up the chain of command.”
“This can’t be happening! Don’t let them take him away!” I struggled to break free from Father Carmichael, but he held me tight.
“Take heart, Mrs. Baker,” Stoker said looking down at me. “Your feminine emotions and attempt to shield your son have long clouded your thinking. Luther will do his duty and pay the price for freedom. As we all must.”
I was vaguely aware of the recruiter as he gathered the rest of the papers from the floor, stuffed them in an envelope and dropped them into a locked box on his desk.
It was over. Luther was going to war.
Luther didn’t understand what was happening when they put him on that train. As the boys lined up and their names were called, he kept asking when he could make truffles again and why wasn’t his mother getting on the train with him and were they going to another baking contest? And then when the train left the station, it was like Constance’s spirit left, too. She made herself smile and kiss Luther goodbye, and I don’t know how she held it together as I was crying so hard I could barely see.
I had watched the world treat my sister unfairly for so many years. I had watched her fights with our mum when Mum had too much to drink and lashed out, had watched her fret when she realized Luther was not like other boys, had watched her mourn when James died, had watched her do everything she could to keep running the shop while caring for Luther and putting all her hopes and dreams and aspirations on little Jim. While others talked behind her back, I had tried to shield her, help her, protect her. But now it was like she was all emptied out. Mum had lashed out at her, then Father, who had tried to protect us, died. James, who loved her so completely, had died too young. Luther had tried her patience. Jim had abandoned her. Stoker had betrayed her. And now Luther was gone and there was nothing I could do to fix it.
I tried to tell her that Father Carmichael had written to someone in London to tell them about Luther’s problems and about his talent as a baker. He hoped maybe he’d be stationed at some general’s headquarters making truffles for senior staffers rather than carrying a rifle in some trench somewhere. But with Mr. Stoker’s connections, I held out little hope. He had obviously nurtured his grudge against Luther all these years and had seen his chance for revenge. And now Constance held out no hope at all.
After the train left, I followed Constance to the cemetery on the edge of town, where she knelt at her husband’s grave. I don’t think she’d been there in twenty years.
Oh James. What would her life had been like if he had lived? Jim had been a constant reminder of his father—he looked just like him—but caring for Luther alone had been the biggest burden of James’s death and a constant reminder for Constance of what she had lost.
Of the life she might have had.
She said nothing at the graveside and then said nothing as she rose and walked back to the house. The shop was dark. The house was empty. And so it remained for many weeks after.
August ended with high enthusiasm for the war, and it was the only thing anyone would talk about. Constance had finally opened the store again, but because sugar and milk was rationed, it was hard to get supplies enough to make big batches of anything. He heart wasn’t in baking anyway. The only times she ventured out was to buy groceries, and the customers who did stop by noticed the corners of the shop were dark and dusty.
The bell above the door would tinkle and a customer would enter and see her at the counter, head rested on her palm, leafing through the paper but not reading it. One toffee, please, they might ask. That’ll be sixpence, she would reply. Yes, here it is, thank you. And the customer would leave, bell tinkling behind them.
September and October were the same. Everything was the same—monotonous, thoughtless. I noticed how she would forget things, like how much sugar she needed to buy or how much flour to add to her recipes. Ethyl Brand, the sweet little girl who once played the piano at my wedding, now twenty-three and studying to become a nun, started visiting. She and Constance would speak, but I know not what of.
Town had emptied out, and the only men left behind were too young, too old, too infirm, or too posh like Mr. Stoker, God forgive him.
Mark was working at a post depot in London, and we wrote to each other every day. Sometimes I went down to visit. He joked that he handled my letters in the bin at work while he was sorting and, being a postman, took the liberty to deliver his own post to himself.
Sometimes I wrote to Jim. Constance would not hear a word about him and refused to ask after him. I thought he might’ve enlisted, but he said he had a factory job making guns in Birmingham and that he had a flat there. I thought maybe I would go see him one day. He never forgave his mother for sending him away and she never forgave him for leaving school. Both were too stubborn to make amends, but Jim and I had always been close, and I hoped someday things would change between mother and son.
I couldn’t believe he was grown already. Every day I felt myself becoming an old woman. I rose in the morning stiff and cold, seeing in the mirror the silver strands of hair that appeared suddenly at my temple. The years were passing so quickly. First, I’d come to Leamington Spa for Constance, then I became a young wife, and, unable to have children of my own, I helped raise Luther and Jim. I do not believe I succeeded.
I approached every day with the gentle step of a kindly granny, half out of the fear that I was becoming old and needed to act the part, half out of the guilt that comes with making it this far when so many others had paid a higher price during the war—or paid the ultimate price.
I thought to myself, I will write again to Jim. I will ask him to come home. And if he says no, I will go visit him, too.
The lights were out in Baker’s Sweets. Fingerprints smeared the toffee jars. The pink wallpaper and cherry-stained shelves had aged grey with dust and scuff marks; they hadn’t been scrubbed in weeks. The ledger book sat on the counter next to a cup of cold coffee.
Today’s Sales:
A single period sat on the line where I had pressed pencil to paper, paused, and then put the pencil back in the drawer.
Upstairs, I got getting ready for bed. Still wearing the day’s clothes, I sat heavily on the mattress. The springs squeaked. I untied my apron strings, flung the flour-stained garment over the end of the bed post and watched it float to the ground, where it landed on top of a pile of dirty clothes littering the floor. An old book on business management lay half buried under last week’s cardigans, a book James had loved. I'd always meant to read it; I had begun to read it a dozen times. Perhaps I could do a bit of reading before turning out the light. But then, like every other night for the past few months, I decided against it. I glanced at the drawn curtains and entertained the idea of looking down on the street before bed—maybe the rain had finally turned to snow—but decided against that, too. I leaned back on my pillow and stared up at the ceiling. Where are you, Luther? Please be safe. Please, God, let him be safe.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
My eyes flew open. Somebody’s at the door. Something’s happened to Luther!
Knock! Knock! Knock!
No. They wouldn’t come to deliver bad news this time of night. If I ignore it, they’ll bugger off. I shut my eyes again.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Yawning, I pulled my cardigan off of the floor and descended the steps, bare feet on cold wood.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
A man was at the door, cap down over his forehead, cupping his hands around his eyes to see through the glass panes, nostril fumes fogging the glass.
“Mum!” the man called, “Mum!”
“Luther,” I breathed.
I fumbled with the jingling keys, threw open the door, and pulled him in for a hug before anyone could take him away again. And then I stopped. Luther should’ve been taller than me.
“You’re not my son.” I tightened my grip on his hands. The cricket bat was at the other end of the room—too far away to grab. My words seemed to shut him up. He was unshaven—a woolen brown fuzz softened his chin and jaw.
“Oh, come, now, Mum. You know me.” He gave a weak smile and reached out to finish the hug. I held up an arm, stopping him. By the yellow light of the electrical street lamps that glared through the shop window, I noticed his knuckles were red and blotchy. I touched them. He knit his brow.
“How?”
“Factory laid me off—roughhousing during work hours or something like that—but it’s not important. Lavinia wrote and told me what happened to Luther.”
Lavinia. He used to call her Auntie Lavinia. Now he calls her Lavinia.
“You’re three months late.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been getting drunk and street brawling, that’s what you’ve been busy with. You’re an irresponsible child.”
He rolled his eyes and laughed. “I don’t even get a hug?”
He said it like it was a joke, like I was required to hug my son after he dropped out of school, wasting my hard-earned money so he could wallow from slum to slum and job to job.
“No.”
He looked at the ground, and the smile left him.
“You’re here for a job, aren’t you? You have nowhere else to turn, so you’re back here as a last resort.”
Jim’s eyes roved around the shop taking in the empty display cases, the unswept floor, the unopened mail. Judging it, like he had a right to judge anything. With his shoe, he toed today’s mail, still on the floor where it had fallen through the slot. He raised his brow at me when he saw a letter from the government that I refused to open.
“I’ve not been good to you, Mum,” he muttered. “I know I wasted your money with school and all—”
“I worked myself raw for that tuition,” I whispered, voice shaking. “I put all my hopes and dreams in you and you couldn’t even—”
“Lavinia tells me you could use some help around here.”
“Not from you. Never from you.”
He opened his mouth.
“Get out,” my voice cracked, and I was afraid I’d start yelling. Or weeping. “Just get out. I won’t put my faith in you again.”
Some valve inside him must’ve broke because his face flushed red and hot. I didn’t care. I shut the door in my son’s face, locked it, then wandered to the kitchen, stepping over a pile of newspapers. I cleared an empty sack—not sure what it was doing there—off of my chair at the kitchen table and sat. Propping my face on my palm, I stared at the table while the soft rain whispered on the siding and the wood beams creaked overhead. Those beams were from the 1700s when the Baker family built the house—three stories of Georgian terrace that had seen plenty of happiness and plenty of sadness in its time. Especially sadness. And loss.
Jim. Jim. He thought that I needed his help. Thought that since he was grown man, he could take care of himself, while I was some weak old lady. But all he knew how to do was mess up. And refuse. Refuse everything I’d ever offered him. He couldn’t tell me a single thing in this world he actually wanted, yet was so quick to refuse a life, a family, this house, the whole shop. Jesus Christ, he was still the same six-year-old boy who fought—and lost to—just about every other boy in town. He made it his duty to retaliate against everyone who made fun of Luther until the only thing the boy knew was fighting, playing at fighting, and being angry. I thought sending him away to school would put him on the right path, but I was wrong. Seems like with Jim, I was always wrong.
I sat that way most of the night, my thoughts running in circles, always coming back to my youngest son. My chest tightened until it hurt, and I wanted to hit something, to break something. But I didn’t. Eventually, I fell asleep. It was an angry, hot-blooded kind of sleep. I dreamed Jim died of a heart attack, and I went to his funeral with Lavinia and the Prime Minister, and we laid him down in the earth next to his father and Luther, who was already dead and gone. An unusual dream, no doubt; some might think it disturbing, even. I cried in it, cried till I had no more tears left, but when I woke, my eyes were dry.
It’s alright. It’s alright; doesn’t bother me a bit. I’m fine. When people wrong me, I get back at them. I always did, and I always will. That was me—calm, cold, and savvy, witty even, when the whole world was on fire. What was she thinking, refusing my help? She was proud, too proud. Couldn’t admit she was a wreck and had been a wreck ever since Luther left. God damn Stoker, thinking he could fool Luther like that. I took a piss on their front door sometime around midnight, hoped he’d enjoy that.
Then I tried for Lavinia’s house, where I was pretty sure I’d get a warmer greeting. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. Sleeping, no doubt. I kept knocking, rap rap rap rap rapping on the wood for about a minute. I knocked with varying intensity, trying to avoid periodic sounds a sleeping person might mistake for beams creaking in the wind. Finally, footsteps sounded inside. I pressed my face to the glass and looked through the cracks between the curtains. Inside was the floral sofa, the coffee table, the radio, and the kitchen table through the doorway in the far back of the house. I gave a rapid-fire knocking. Finally, a lightbulb flashed in one of the upstairs windows. I stepped back from the door, smoothed my hair, and cleared my throat.
The doorknob clicked, and the door swung inward. I started to smile but then frowned when I didn’t see Lavinia there.
“Hey, Mark.”
“Jim? That you? You in trouble? It’s late.”
Mark yawned, setting down his cricket bat.
“So tell me, does everyone in Leamington Spa answer the door with a cricket bat?” I chuckled.
He tilted his head, confused.
“Can I come in?”
“Is it just you?”
“Yeah, of course.”
What kind of question is that?
I stepped inside, out of the rain. An orange ember sat in the hearth under the ashes, and I smelled coal. Mark motioned toward the couch, and I took a seat on the cushions I had napped on so many times in my youth.
“You home for good?”
I nodded. “Heard you’ve been at work in London for a while.”
“Still am.” He rubbed his neck. “Every once in a while, I get a day or two off to visit home. They’re decent folk.”
“I haven’t met too many of those.”
I noticed Mark was wearing a woman’s bathrobe—satin, pastel green. Must’ve been so tired he grabbed Lavinia’s on the way down.
“You’re too hard on folks, Jim. Especially yourself,” Mark said. “Did you lose another job?”
“Lavinia suggested I come home and help out Mum.” Then, in a quieter tone, “And yes, I’m also out of a job.”
“Well, I’m sure Lavinia will be happy to see you.”
“Is she not here?”
“No, she’s here.”
“Well, I’m anxious to see her, too.” I looked around.
“Please, Jim, it’s,” he squinted at the clock over the mantle, “a quarter after midnight.”
“Oh yeah, of course. My mistake. I’m sorry.”
“You can sleep on the sofa for tonight. She’ll see you in the morning. Hungry? Thirsty?”
“Yeah, have anything to drink?”
“Water.”
“No thanks.”
“But you just said you were thirsty.”
“Changed my mind.”
Mark shrugged. He went to the linen closet, pulled out a few blankets, set them down for me on the sofa, and tiptoed back up the stairs. He left the cricket bat beside the door.
So that’s it? A fine welcome for the prodigal son.
Popping my shoes off, I lay down on the sofa. The springs squeaked under me. It was nice, really, like when I was kid. I looked around the room at the familiar pictures—etchings of great-grandparents, blotchy wedding photographs that had been colorized with fake rosy cheeks and a blue sky. I found myself standing in the background, a dark-eyed five-year-old standing next to … Ethyl Brand? Wow. I looked pretty good as a five-year-old. And so did she.
When I opened my eyes, the light shined gold over the Georgian eaves. The little row houses on the cobblestone were darkened by last night’s shower.
“Jim? Jim?” A familiar voice came from the top of the stairs, and I heard rushed footsteps on the wood steps.
There was Aunt Lavinia in her satin bathrobe, arms stretched out. She rushed over and covered me in a hug, warm and soft.
“My prodigal nephew has returned!” She kissed my forehead. “Slaughter the fatted calf.”
She took me into the kitchen, where Mark soon joined us. Together, they made a quick breakfast by cracking three eggs on the pan, throwing in sliced tomato, and putting on a kettle for coffee. The plates and forks and cups clacked as we pulled open drawers and cupboards, and soon we were at the table. Mark ate quickly, swallowing his whole coffee in two takes.
“Have to get to the station for an early train. Got to be in London by noon. Sorry I can’t stay too long, Jim.”
“It’s alright. Thanks for letting me sleep on the couch.”
“So what are your plans for today?” Lavinia asked me. “Have you spoken with your mother yet?”
“Eeh, I’ll tell you about that later. Right now, I’m just looking for work, I guess.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Mark mumbled. “Plenty of factory jobs nowadays for making bombs and bullets.”
I shrugged. Bombs and bullets were not my favorite things.
“What kind of job do you want?” Lavinia asked, picking a forkful of egg from Mark’s plate. He smiled at her and touched her hand. Still fond of each other after all these years. Amazing.
“What kind of job? Hmm … how about high pay, low hours, where I don’t have to talk to anyone, yet I get lots of credit.”
“Doesn’t sound like any job I know,” Mark laughed. “How about the REPS?”
“The what?”
“The Royal Engineers Postal Service. We handle all the mail to and from the front. They’re always hiring, and plenty of local mailmen get picked up by them. I’d put in a word for you.”
“I’d have to work with people?”
“It takes lots of people to sort the volume of mail we handle. It’s often solitary work, but yes, there are lots of us on the job.”
“That’s alright.”
Mark shifted in his seat and looked at me. “Why not? I’m basically guaranteeing you a job.”
“I can’t explain it. I just don’t like people.”
“Alright, then,” Mark said, leaning back in his chair.
We returned to eating in quiet. I had just finished my egg when Mark piped up again.
“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but—”
“You’re wrong.”
He continued. “I think you want people to turn up their noses at you.”
Who is this guy—Sigmund Freud?
I ignored him and continued eating. Pretty soon he checked the clock.
“Oh, time to go.” He grabbed his coat and put on his hat. He gave me a curt nod and kissed Lavinia on the cheek. “Till next time, dear.” Then he closed the door behind him and the house was quiet.
“Well,” Lavinia said after a moment, “now that we’re alone, you simply must tell me about your mother. And I won’t take no for an answer.”
“It’s nothing terrible. I just stopped by the house last night, and she was pretty upset. She’s definitely not interested in my helping in the shop and—”
My throat closed on its own accord, and I couldn’t speak all of a sudden. I cleared my throat to make it look like an intentional cough. It was strange because I swear I wasn’t sad; my body was acting for me. Blinking a few times, I picked at the threads of the table cloth and then looked out the window, away from my aunt.
“I’m sorry to hear it. Did you make your case?”
“I tried to apologize.”
“It’s much too late for that.” She shook her head, stirring her tea. “You need to actually do something. You might not ever be able to recreate the sweet shop in all of its glory, but you can at least recreate your family.”
“You think I should get married? Because I don’t have much a history with women.”
“Jim, I asked you to come back because your family needs you. Is that why you’re here, or is it just because you got yourself fired again, and you’ve nowhere else to go?”
The words came out quickly with clipped consonants. I paused. That was not the Aunt Lavinia I remembered. I set my napkin on the table and stood. “I have to go look for a job. Thank you for breakfast.”
Lavinia opened her mouth to speak but said nothing. Instead, her tongue clicked on the roof of her mouth. I grabbed my coat to leave.
“Fine. You get your job, Jim, and when you get it, half the money is going to your mother.”
“She wouldn’t take it,” I chuckled, “I can see it now—”
Quick as a flash, Aunt Lavinia was out of her chair with a pointed finger in my face. “You shut your mouth about your mum,” she hissed. “Last three months, I’ve watched my sister turn into a recluse. She sits in that dark house all day with no one. She’s lost her husband, one of her sons is at war, and the other wants nothing to do with her even after all she tried to give him every opportunity.”
I felt myself shrink back, my mind go blank. She had scared all of my thoughts away, and all I could do was look at her. I’d had everyone else yell at me, but now Aunt Lavinia?
“She’s dying inside, Jim.” She smack her hand on the table, probably wishing it could’ve been the side of my head. “Leave your resentment in the past and stop behaving like you’re six years old.”
“Yes ma’am,” I said quietly.
“You’re a grown man. It’s past time for you to act like one.”
I left the house with a somber step. It was about 9 o’clock, and the day’s business was just beginning. First thing, I walked to Bath Street, where I turned left. I kept my hands in my pockets and my collar up against the cold. There was the paper boy on his bicycle, delivering the Leamington Courier. Paper boy didn’t sound like too hard of a job; an hour or so of work each morning, and I’d have a little pocket change. I added that to my list. Well, I didn’t have an actual list with me, so I just remembered it. I put it on my mental list, how’s that?
Midway through the street was my house. Three stories of Georgian façade—six windows, ground floor with glazed white brick. The discolored wood ran around the shop window, where we’d show off our twelve flavours of bonbons, each one with its own jar. Baker’s Sweets, said the faded letters just above the window. I peeked inside; nobody was at the counter. I touched the doorknob, turning it so slowly that nobody would hear the click, and then pushed door open slowly, inch by inch, so the bells wouldn’t jingle. I was a professional; I’d done this hundreds of times as a boy. Once inside, I stepped over the squeaky floorboard, over to the jar of bonbons. Looking around, I slipped a hand in and pulled out a handful of the little pink pebbles, dusted in flour and sugar. I fit one in my mouth and pressed my teeth into its soft chocolate shell. There was that familiar chocolate-coconut paste that I had to work my jaw for. Just like Mum always made it.
I had no idea where she’d gone out to, but I figured she’d be back soon. I could’ve slipped right back out the front door, but instead found myself wandering toward the kitchen. I saw the unopened pile of mail, now on the kitchen table. Hmm. The letter from the government was still there. Had she even looked at them?
His Britannic Majesty’s Government
Interesting. Postmarked from London in late October, I picked it up, sliced open with my pinky, pulled out the contents, and unfolded the slip of paper.
Dear Sir,
This Christmas, Her Royal Highness Princess Mary will endeavor to send more than two million Christmas tins to the soldiers, sailors, nurses, and other military personnel who have put themselves at risk for the defense of our homeland. The tins will contain an assortment of gifts, such as cigarettes, tobacco, stationery, and sweets. As the project is privately funded, donations are always needed. However, Princess Mary is calling on all sweets producers across the British Isles to send in sweets, namely chocolates and butterscotch, en masse. Major producers Cadbury and Callard & Bowser were initially contracted to do the work, but due to the immense volume of sweets required, the Princess is now requesting the help of independent sweets producers. Your place of business will receive payment in the following weeks to produce two thousand butterscotch candies by December 10th, 1914. Please bring the product to regional shipping centers with the appropriate forms filled out. Regional shipping centers are listed on the attached page.
The letter continued, but the words swam.
Two thousand! I whistled.
“What have I told you about eating the bonbons, Jim? They’re for customers.”
She didn’t sound angry this time—just tired. I turned to see Mum in the doorway, shrugging off her coat. I hadn’t notice it last night, but it was obvious now that she’d lost quite a bit of weight.
“Looks like you got a big order.” I held the letter up. “Why don’t you read your mail?”
“I read the mail,” she snapped, “just not that letter. I must have forgotten it.”
Maybe that was true, but there was still a whole pile of unopened letters. I decided not to ask any more about it, afraid it would set her off.
“So, I’ve been trying to get a job,” I said. I hadn’t really tried at all yet, but still. I was planning to start any moment.
“Oh?”
“Maybe as the paper boy or something. There’s so many jobs out there, you know.”
“Hmm.”
She didn’t care.
“I’ve decided I should give half the money to you. You know, since I owe you and all.”
She gave a single, high pitched ha. “I don’t need your money. I have my own business. I’m doing just fine.”
“What can I do for you, Mum? How can I help?”
She tilted her head, as if suddenly realizing I was serious. She headed toward the shop, paused in the doorway, and turned around to look at me. “Bring Luther back.”
“You want a job as a paperboy?” Mr. Surrey of the Leamington Courier asked, leaning over the counter, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a cloth. He had his sleeves rolled up, forearms dotted with ink from the rushing printing machines.
I put my hands in my pockets and peered around the building. There was a warehouse in the back with all of the printing machines and then a few offices for the journalists and administrators clicking away on their typewriters.
“Yeah, I think so. Paperboy sounds nice.”
“You’re not a boy, though. How old are you—twenty-five, twenty-six?”
“Twenty-four.”
Mr. Surrey chuckled, shaking his head.
“If you’re that desperate for a job, why don’t you just join the army? You know they’ve set up a recruiting office in old Carraway’s Pub.”
“Eh, I don’t know.”
“Okay, then the navy, the engineers, the munitions factories.”
“I did work for a munitions factory, actually. But they let me go. We had some disagreements.”
Mr. Surrey stopped laughing, tilting his head.
“Wait a second, I know you from somewhere. You’re someone’s kid—the sweet shop. Why don’t you work there, with your Mum?”
“We’ve had disagreements, too.”
“I could see that. Working with family can be tricky. Well, sorry,” he shrugged. “We don’t have anything for you here.”
“So we have a disagreement?”
Mr. Surrey frowned. “What? No. No disagreement. I’m just not hiring another paperboy. Especially a 24-year-old one. So best be on your way.” He turned away and that was that.
By noon, I was hungry, but only had a few folded-up pound notes in my pocket—a couple days’ worth of meals. If I wanted to stretch it out, I’d eat breakfasts and dinners at Lavinia’s and spend money on outside meals only when necessary. So I didn’t eat lunch and instead took a smoke sitting on the curb next to the church. Much more economic. And good for the lungs. I’d been sitting there a few minutes, replaying the conversation with Mum in my head. Bring Luther back? I wished I had a decent comeback. What—you want me to slip across the Channel, evade all the U-boats, find Luther’s regiment, and somehow just bring him back home. Sounds easy enough.
The businessmen in bowler hats strolled down the cobblestone, and an automobile grumbled by, spewing smoke. A flutter, and a little robin landed a few feet off, hopping from brick to brick, picking up pieces of straw in its beak. I remained steady so as not to scare it.
Click. A silver ten pence landed on the pavement, the noise scaring away the bird. I realized one of the passersby had thrown the coin to me. Did I look like a beggar? I definitely hadn’t shaved in a month, and my pants were threadbare at the knee, but I was no beggar. Not yet. I swept the coin between the sewer gratings, where it splashed into last night’s gurgling rain runoff. I stood up.
“Excuse me, sir.”
There were two girls, around the same age as me, dressed in all black—hats, lace, gloves, handbags.
“What do you want?”
“Enlist for your country, coward,” one handed me a white feather. The other girl nodded behind her.
I flashed them a grin.
“I’ll wear it as a badge of honor.”
I tucked the feather in my chest pocket. They turned their chins up at me and marched down the street. Once they’d disappeared around the corner, I quickly left because people were staring. I headed past the church, under the train bridge where it was dark and damp amidst the rubbish bins. Tearing the white feather out of my chest pocket, I dropped it in the rubbish and touched the glowing end of my cigarette to it. It smoldered, each end glowing orange and then slowly curling up black and crusty. I set the feather atop a crumpled newspaper in the rubbish bin, which flared up in flames. Uh oh. Soon, the whole bin would be alight and burning—what was I thinking? I spotted a puddle where the cobblestone sank in. Grabbing the bin in both hands, I dumped the contents—brown apples crawling with maggots, mud-matted twine, wet cardboard, all of it—into the puddle, which gave a puff of steam before going out. I left the scene.
I was passing in front of Doc Abbot’s office, collar up, hands in pockets, when I saw a group of four men coming down the road, from lunch at Carraway’s Pub, no doubt. They were all well to do—sleek suits, gold chains and pocket watches, paisley satin cravats. Were they lawyers? I turned the other way; one of them had a black eye.
“Oy,” Mr. Stoker called, “You there!”
I considered turning into the alley to run but realized I’d be giving myself away.
“Yes?” I turned around. “Do I know you?”
“I knew I’d recognized you,” Mr. Stoker said deep and slow. “Jim Baker.” He looked me up and down appraisingly. “It’s been a long time, Jim. How are you?”
“Unemployed.”
A frown flickered across his face. He pulled me aside, putting an arm around my shoulder, and told his lawyer friends he would meet them later.
“Jim,” he began, “I watched you grow up alongside Rodney since you were a boy. Now, it’s no secret you were quite a rascal then, but it cannot carry on any longer. I say this from concern; the road you’re on is obviously leading to a dark place. I’d like to see you become a man—strong, bold, proud. I could help you—”
“What happened to your eye?” I changed the subject.
“Oh, nothing. I was out in the country. Equestrian mishap.”
“A horse kicked you in the eye? Wouldn’t you be dead? It looks more like someone slugged you.”
“Well, I did come across a ruffian in the streets the other night, but I—” he froze in mid-speech.
“Well, I just got here this morning, but I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for ruffians.”
He gave me a long, considering look. “You’re not listening to me. You must aspire to achieve more with your life—greatness, Jim, greatness! Why Rodney is on the Continent right now, and—”
“Alright, I’m done here. Get your arm off me.”
“Jim, I know you never had a father figure, but I …”
He kept talking on and on in that mythical, elevated tone about greatness and history and something about Sir Francis Drake. I glanced behind us; the lunch-goers had all returned to work by now, and the street was empty. We were just passing under the shadow of the train bridge, where the pile of rubbish I’d dumped still smelled like smoke.
Grabbing Mr. Stoker by the shoulders, I shoved him hard against the brown brick, and he gave a grunt of struggle. I figured I’d been in more fights in my 24 years than he’d seen his whole sorry life. He was flabby and full of himself, while I was taut and lean and knew my limits. He didn’t dare move.
“It was you,” he whispered, touching his eye.
“Bring Luther back. You know he’s unfit to serve.”
“Tell that to a court of law, and they’ll bring him back, all right. Back and straight to the asylum for him. We both know what Luther did to Rodney. You’re lucky I don’t turn you both over to the constable and press charges for assault. Unhand me!”
“I see you’ve found a new wedding ring. Wonder if Mrs. Stoker knows what happened to the original.”
His nostrils flared, and I tightened my grip on him.
“Unhand me, Jim.”
I stepped back. “All you had to do was ask nicely.”
He brushed his sleeve and straightened his coat. “You know, Jim, there’s talk in Parliament of enacting mandatory military conscription by Christmas. Objectors would not be treated kindly. As a distinguished lawyer, I would have more than enough reason to hand in your name.”
“Why does everyone want me to fight?”
“Maybe everyone thinks you’re a bum.”
I scowled. “Maybe I don’t care what everyone thinks.”
“This is an opportunity, Jim. Think of it. I don’t have the power to bring Luther back, but maybe you can ensure his survival. Travel to the front, and save him yourself. Travel to the front, and win the respect of all your peers while building the empire up to greater heights than any of our ancestors could have ever imagined.”
I looked at the ground and noticed the puddles jiggling with concentric waves. Soon, the stone bridge started vibrating above us—a train was coming.
“Got a job offer already, so you can just bugger off,” I muttered.
“What job?”
“The Royal Engineers, they offered me a position, and I said I’d take it. Delivering Christmas gifts to the troops. So I don’t know what you’re talking about when you say I’m a bum.”
The train tooted its whistle—faint, but growing louder.
“Well, I—I apologize. You should have said something.”
“Just remembered.”
With the train passing right over us, the thundering pistons and roaring furnace drowned out my words. The whistle shrieked as I brushed past Mr. Stoker, knocking him against the overturned rubbish bin. He tripped, lost his footing on the slick cobblestones, and slipped onto his arse. His yelp of surprise was drowned out by the train, and I watched as he struggled to his feet. He didn’t notice the small packet of letters that dropped out of his coat pocket, but I did. After he left the tunnel in a huff, I picked them up. They were from Rodney.
December 17th, 1912
Mother and Father,
I do point out that this letter may take a while to reach you at home, for my pals tell me the mail from India is inefficient, to say the least. But all matters aside, my days in India are now coming to a close. I have enjoyed them tremendously—I have seen elephants and tigers and thick jungles and have tasted many exotic foods. However, the officers have received orders to return from our colonial duties back to England in light of German aggression, as you have likely read about in the paper. We will be stationed at Shorncliffe Camp for training in the coming months, though beyond that, I cannot say. Perhaps you could come visit while I am there?
Some of my pals are making bets that Britain will go to war any day now, and we are filled with both great excitement and great dread. You remember Bill Moore, right? He’s told us all that if war is declared, he’ll buy beers for the whole battalion. I would love the chance to prove my mettle and would likely have a good many adventures if we do end up fighting on the continent. I presume the fighting would be a little more intense than we saw in India, but then again, I would be more experienced than any of my opponents.
This is an exciting time to be a young man serving God and King. I pray often that the Lord is pleased with us.
Your loving son,
Rodney
August 4th, 1914
Mother and Father,
And so it begins! I am terribly excited, fortified with courage and feel the strength in my arms. I am ready to fight; I have trained with great success at Shorncliffe. Although our instructors are tough, I know it will be necessary for discipline during the chaos of fighting. Already, our battalion has been summoned to man the east coast near Yorkshire in case of a German sea-to-land invasion, or even a zeppelin raid, God forbid. We leave by train on the 8th, so I hope that you will come visit me at Shorncliffe before I leave again.
Your loving son,
Rodney
August 20th, 1914
Mother and Father
We did not stay long at Yorkshire, for the navy has the area staked out pretty well with mines and whatnot. Right now, I am cramped in with about a hundred other men on the train down to Southampton, where we will join up with some other battalions in the 10th Brigade. We will all join the other brigades for the 4th Division of the Expeditionary Force. It doesn’t smell very nice here on this train with all these sweating soldiers, so we have opened the windows to smell the nice countryside.
I will admit that sometimes I have dreams about combat, and they always end up with me being killed by Germans or whatnot. However, I face these thoughts with courage and a stiff upper lip, as you have taught me, Father. Once we reach We are set to leave for France on the 22nd and help out those poor fellows being chased out of Belgium. I pray to God for a safe passage across the channel, for the thought of the German under-sea boats lurking beneath fills me with terror. But through the grace of God, the strength of my mind, and my excellent training, I know I stand a better chance than most.
Father, I would let you know that you have had a profound impact on my life and have instilled in me courage and morals of the highest order. Mother, I would let you know that your words bring me comfort and tranquility, even in my greatest terrors. I will see both of you soon, and if all goes well, the war will be over before Christmas.
Your loving son,
Rodney
August 22nd, 1914
Mother and Father,
My regiment departed from Southampton this morning aboard the SS Caledonia. Do not worry, the trip is already over, and it was a success. I am currently safe in Boulogne, awaiting deployment to Belgium. As I write this letter, I am lounging in my camp tent on a farm outside the city. I have a full stomach and am relatively warm, so life is good. During the passage across the channel, not a single under-sea boat harassed us, although several of the men vomited from the sea sickness. I was not among them because I am used to long sea voyages, having sailed to India and back. I hope the two of you are well and receive my letter. It sounds like you did not receive my last letter, so I am currently in the dark.
One thing I have noticed is that there are quite a few brothels in Boulogne. Many of my pals—I will not say who—frequent them and often invite me to come along. That is the reality, but I refuse them and instead stay at the camp. That is, in fact, why I’m alone at the camp now. I recall, Mother, what you said to me before I departed, and I assure you I have never stepped foot inside a brothel. Father, I hope I have lived up to your example of decency and maintained my honor.
Your loving son,
Rodney
August 27th, 1914
Mother and Father,
Just a few days ago, we had a run in near a little town called Harcourt (or something like that, I don’t know how the French spell it). Once again, don’t worry. I got off with quite a few bruises and a bullet brushed my leg, but I’m able to carry on just fine. I can’t speak of the battle in detail; I will only say that many of the younger recruits died Once again, don’t worry. I got off with quite a few bruises and a bullet brushed my leg, but I’m able to carry on just fine. I can’t speak of the battle in detail; I will only say that.
Even that sounds like too much detail. Neither of you could understand what true combat is like, and it sounds so out of place for the words to be spoken with home and my old life in mind. So that is all I will say of the imagery. Do not ask me about it.
We were ordered to march out with all our wagons to set up a defensive line out in a field, but the Germans were also on the move with too many numbers. We were ordered to retreat, but by the time we reached a little town called (I think) Harcourt, command changed orders again, telling us to dig in and fight, which made everyone a little flustered because we hadn’t set up the artillery in time and were being fired at. The only option was to entrench ourselves. So we dug like mad until we had linked enough foxholes together to run the entire length of the ridge. The trenches are an odd sort of place. I watched a good many boys die that way, and when the Germans stopped to reload, we left cover and finished setting up the guns, where we entrenched ourselves and prepared to fight. Some of the other divisions were manning lines at other nearby villages, all of them along the ridge. Most of the fighting happened at La Cateaux (pardon my spelling) and Audincourt and Troyville and several other towns, so luckily, we took the left-over end of the fighting. They say we knocked up the Huns pretty well, but it didn’t seem that way to me. When the sun set, we retreated and didn’t stop our march until after it was dark and we reached the town of St. Quentin, where I am currently camped now and am writing this letter. I was terribly exhausted and had gone several days without sleeping. My eyes closed while I was marching, and for the first time, I experienced what they call “sleeping on your feet.”
But I repeat that I am well, and you should not worry for me. I hope everything is going well in Leamington.
Your loving son,
Rodney