Edmund was not what one would call a joiner. The sociability that was required as shopkeeper and postmaster far exceeded his inclinations, so although most would call him “a good sort of fellow,” this was often followed by “a bit of a loner,” which to many was regretful, a cause for suspicion. That he had Miriam in his life was an unacknowledged but accepted blessing by those in the village, for she, too, was often described as one who kept to herself but was more connected, more likely to stop and go through the exercise of asking after one’s family. They were friendly, mildly inquisitive, knowledgeable, and on the periphery of the village goings-on; they did not lean into gossip, or make a regular night at the pub, or sit on committees to plan the village fête or cricket derby with a neighbouring village.
A Responsible Job for a Responsible Man. The sign in the village hall drew him in. The Ministry had posted them around to attract more air raid wardens, keeping the recruitment drive on as a precaution. News of the chaos in Bristol, where it was reported that half the gas masks distributed didn’t fit properly, and in Birmingham, where arrangements had been made to evacuate 300,000 citizens but with no arrangements made to cater to them, was the talk at the recruitment office.
Many were surprised when Edmund signed up, could not envisage him walking the village, reporting on blackout misdemeanors, training youngsters and old widows on how to wear a gas mask. But if anything, it was Edmund who was most surprised, and though he had mentioned it in passing to Miriam, even he couldn’t fully fathom what had pulled him across the threshold of the village hall.
When he was orphaned at fourteen, he worked at the shop he would eventually inherit, under the supervision of his uncle, who had reluctantly stepped in to take over. Theirs was a tidy life—regimented meals, silent evenings spent reading, going for a walk, catching up on house repairs. His only interaction with others was at the shop, and his uncle would press upon him that there was a steady but modest affluence that separated them from the villagers, and so he learned not to look down upon them but to respect the difference in their status. It was as though his uncle had created a class for them on his own, which Edmund understood and kept on. The separation of class could have been his uncle’s method of protecting them from requests for credit, or it may have been his attempt to shove them closer to gentry. But this separation remained throughout Edmund’s life so that he didn’t have friends as such, but a series of interactions at the shop that he interpreted as a good substitute for friendship. Still, at times it didn’t seem quite enough.
Bloody fool, what have you got yourself in for? he muttered on the way home, clutching pamphlets, a steel helmet, and a gas mask that smelled of old tires. Already it seemed like too much responsibility.
He didn’t believe in the war, didn’t believe that all the fuss would ever amount to much, but he’d been reading about the preparations in London, not just the distribution of gas masks, but the digging of trenches, the building of bomb shelters, and there seemed to be an accelerated energy around these activities, an added vibrancy that he saw he could be part of. He had been caught up in the moment, he now realized. They were forming a “report and control room” for the district, to be based at the police station. They would need air raid wardens to advise people on precautions and enforce the use of blackout curtains so that no artificial lights were visible from the air. They would work with other personnel—firefighters, rescue and first aid, a plotter, a runner. He’d seen the ordnance map of the district that filled one wall so that they would be able to place pins where activity took place.
He had thought it might be good for him. To talk to people outside the shop. To be out in the village with a purpose, to see and be seen in a new light. He could feel himself getting easily agitated these days, what with Miriam taking up flying. He needed something that would direct his attention elsewhere.
That man Thompson who’d come into the shop to post a letter the other day.
“How’s Mrs Thomas?” he’d asked, an easy smile that unsettled Edmund. What was he getting at exactly? “Saw her at the airfield last week,” the man pressed.
“She’s learning to fly.” Edmund dropped the change into the man’s hand.
“She’ll be in the RAF soon enough.” Again that smile.
Edmund had decided it was a game they were playing. That’s what he sometimes did when he couldn’t follow the intent or direction of a conversation; it somehow took the pressure off.
“Pity they won’t have her.”
“Well, she may have her own ideas. The war’s off for the moment, but it’s hard to let go these days.”
Edmund had watched the man leave and rushed to the door, locked it, and put the closed sign up. Was Miriam planning for war? Is this what this was all about? The race? The flying? It was all so far away. Germany. Poland. Czechoslovakia. They’d already had their war. It didn’t make sense to do it again. He went to the cupboard and opened a pack of cigarettes he kept there along with a flask of whisky and stood at the back door, looking up at the sky. He took a swig from the flask, coughed as he drew from the cigarette.
He was committed now. A warden. He had to hope he was right and the war would not materialize. As he approached his home, he saw that the lights weren’t on and remembered that Miriam was at a meeting with Audrey. He went inside, hung his steel helmet and gas mask on a coat hook, and put the kettle on.