The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(25)

The attempt to go to a theater had been an equal failure. They’d forgotten their gas masks, a common occurrence of late, and were turned away. While their return home had been uneventful, it had been met with a lecture from Mrs. Weatherford on the importance of gas masks and why they shouldn’t have been left in the first place.

Besides, Grace had had enough of venturing into the blackout. Between her terrible experience the first week, nearly being run down together after the cinema and all the reports of muggings and assaults in the newly darkened city, they had decided against risking going out later.

Still, Grace hated the idea of Viv being so painfully bored.

“They’ve added white paint to the curbs.” Viv smoothed the lapel on her suit, yet another new dress she’d sewn. There had been at least one every two weeks or so, not only for her, but for Grace and Mrs. Weatherford as well. “And I heard ARP wardens wear luminescent capes now.”

Grace stirred her tea, and the silt at the bottom kicked up into a small whirlpool. “Yes, and still over a thousand people have been hit by cars. It’s so dark at night, dock men are falling into the water and drowning.”

A flicker of lightning flashed outside the windows. Two months ago, they might have both jumped for fear it was a bomb. Now, they remained as they were without even a stutter to their pulses.

Viv was right; there was nothing going on with the war—or rather, as it was now being called, the bore war.

“I think...” Viv tapped a glossy red nail against the curved lip of her teacup. “I’m considering joining the ATS.”

Grace dropped her spoon where it clinked against the side of her cup. The Auxiliary Territorial Service was a women’s branch in the British Army, one that would require Viv to attend training and most likely be assigned somewhere other than London. “Why would you do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Viv lifted a shoulder. “The women are being used as clerks and shopkeeps from what I hear. I’d be doing something similar to what I’m doing now, but at least I’d be helping end all of this.” She waved her hands in the air to imply the entirety of their current situation. “I’m ready for the war to be done, so we can go to cinemas and dances without fear of being run over on our way home. And maybe meet a handsome stranger once all the men come back from war, perhaps even go on a date. I want to stop worrying about the idea that bombs may drop or that we’ll be subject to rationing. I want life to be normal again.”

“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.