It was just me and my sister by the time the war started; entrusted with the care of my younger sibling Gerri, and the bakery that was run by my parents before me. My days were now spent kneading and baking loaves that consisted mainly of sawdust; making ends meet with whatever step necessary to ensure survival.
I wasn’t proud of it—by the hells—I was even against the practice at first. But with the rising cost of grain, and the rent of our little spot by Main Street remaining a menace on our expenses, I was left with little choice.
The war has been raging on for more than a year now, the effects of which started slowly; first came the initial draft, then another once the army demanded more men, then the supply shortages. It wasn’t until the first bodies were returned to their families when people began losing hope that the war would be over after a few skirmishes.
“We need to maintain a stiff upper-lip,” I told Gerri then. “We are the backbone of society, without us, who else would there be left to feed the people?”
It was a lie of course, to keep her from panicking—to keep myself from doing so too. Yet with each passing day, rumours of the advancing army spread across the Capital like a persistent tumor; growing stronger by the day, stabbing its toxic tendrils deep inside our minds until it swallowed the very whole of our thoughts.
I suppose we were all waiting for it, hoping that it’ll soon just blow over, but knowing that it won’t. A constant edge that pierced through the fickle sense of normalcy that all citizens of the Capital desperately clung to, and I was no different.
It became a habit almost. To always be prepared, to flee at a moment’s notice, for your neighbors to shout that the enemies have now breached the safety of our city. Gerri was barely sixteen and already I taught her what she needed to do if we were to be separated in the chaos.
“Nothing is worth more than your life,” I said just the night before. Over the flickering candlelight, I whispered words that no child should be hearing. “Give them what they want. Do not fight, do not resist, just let them be and stay quiet. And if anyone makes an attempt to harm you…”
I handed her the hunting knife our father once owned. The steel had blackened over the years, the blade now dull, and the simple wooden handle worn down into the familiar grip of our father’s hand. Not once had I even used it, and now it fell into the unblemished hands of my sister. “Do not hesitate to use it, it may be old, but it will do the job.”
Her plump features hardened at the sight of the knife; a curious but careful gaze cast upon it. Once youthful green eyes, now shadowed by the reality of what I was preparing her for. She seemingly considered what she might say next, tucking a loose strand of her reddish hair before breathing in a long and weary sigh.
“Okay,” was all she said. Not once did she meet my eyes.
Now she stood behind the counter, making polite conversation with Mrs. Havindish from two doors down, her smile nearly as empty as her words. Mrs. Havindish’s haughty little laugh was audible even in the kitchen; gossip, it seems, was always appropriate despite the times.
“Oh and Mr. Fulton’s son, the odd little lad, was seen scurrying away in the middle of night!” she exclaimed. “Wandering around Innsland Yard! Of all places, really, he has no business heading over there. Especially since he is not employed in the police force nor in the service of the crown!”
Her wails of scandal continued as I placed a fresh batch of non-bread over on the display cases. Despite my attempt at appearing indifferent to whatever frivolous news Mrs. Havindish often brought along with her daily purchase, I couldn't help but stare at her; dressed in clashing patterns, an oversized hat, and pinned with red peonies where she saw fit. She looked as if she was a walking bouquet.
“I’m sure he had his reasons,” Gerri replied, eyes wavering momentarily to me before snapping back towards Mrs. Havindish. “Jericho was a bit of a troublemaker back then, but I doubt even he would risk arrest for breaking curfew.”
“You know what they say, once a troublemaker, always a troublemaker. It’s a pity that Mr. Fulton is left in the care of such a callous young man, truly a pity.” The older woman tutted, face red with indignation. “It’s truly wonderful to see a young man like you Mr. Bingsley, taking care of his sister with such earnestness, perhaps it is time for you to form your own family.”
She turned her attention squarely at me, a prickly smirk slashed across her lips, and eyes wide with all the hopes and dreams only a mother could carry. We all knew she had two unmarried daughters, and with the war calling away most eligible men to the frontlines, there was little left for the debutantes to pick as suitable husbands; apparently I was still in the running.
“As much as I appreciate your compliments Mrs. Havindish, unfortunately marriage is the last thing on my mind right now,” I answered, which earned a poorly hidden snicker from Gerri; who was far too amused at Mrs. Havindish’s sly attempt to pair me off with one of her daughters again. “My hands are quite full as is with the bakery .”
I glanced at Gerri to help emphasize my point—which quickly transformed her smile into a scowl. Now it was my turn to chuckle.
“Taking a wife now would be an unwise decision,” I added, taking a few loaves and hastily stuffing it in Mrs. Havindish’s basket. “But enough about me, I’m sure you have other things you must get to, other errands that call for your time. We always appreciate your business Mrs. Havindish, you have a good day now!”
She was out the door before she even realized what happened; arms full with the basket of bread, face painted with the color of confusion, and a gentle push from me as I showed her the way out; all done with a smile on my lips and a polite wave to signal the end of our rather interesting interaction.
Gerri, on the other hand, finally released her pent up laughter with a flurry of giggles; cheeks tinged pink, eyes wet with tears, and the light-hearted sound filling the small confined space. It annoyed me, yes, but I couldn’t deny the relief I felt at seeing her act like herself again—even if it was just for a fleeting moment.
“You would think she would get the hint by now,” she gasped. “She’s been pushing you to marry one of her daughters since the day you took over the bakery.”
“Can you blame her?” I said, attempting to resume my regular duties around the bakery. “She is merely a widow trying to secure the future of her children.”
“I’m sure you will be much more willing if it was Harietta that she wishes to match you with.”
My brow twitched at the sudden mention of Mrs. Havindish’s eldest daughter. “You laugh now, but wait for the day you start receiving proposals of your own,” I turned to face her when I spoke. “I imagine Jericho will be the first in that line.”
Her laughter stopped at that, face now contorted into a caricature of pure horror—a look I often see when I tease her about the Fulton boy. So of course I continued. “I find it rather suspicious that—”
“We’re just friends!” She yelped, cutting me off, and said in a tone that was far too defensive.
She seemed to realize this also, so she quickly composed herself and straightened the creases of her shirtwaist; further busying her hands with the contents of the till. “Just friends alright?” She reiterated, voice much calmer now.
“Alright, alright. Whatever you say,” I smirked, hands raised in mock surrender. “Anyway, I have some errands I have to get to myself, so you man the battlements, I’ll be back in a few.”
I swapped out my apron for the cap and tweed jacket that hung by the door. It wasn’t much but it was presentable; barely even noticeable once mixed within the faceless crowds of brave citizens that chose to stay in the Capital. Gerri gave a mock salute as a goodbye, and I returned the gesture before heading out.
The clamber in the city remained constant; heels clicked against the paved roads, carriages clambered up-and-down the main avenues, and cacophonous voices echoed from the markets and squares—yet not a sound of it was pleasant.
The instinct to be ready, to be prepared, persistently tugged at the edges of my thoughts; and I wasn’t the only one. All around me, men and women on both sides of the social divide, bore the same look. It wasn’t panic, not quite yet, but a lingering sense of urgency that coloured the manner in which we all dealt with our day-to-day lives.
Steps were quickened, conversations kept short, and focus kept solely on the immediate task at hand. Those that had the means already fled the Capital—out into the countryside and away with the perils of city life.
For those of us who stayed, regardless if we intended to or not, we had little choice other than to proceed as usual. The papers announced that we are safe and secure under the protection of the King’s Army, but with the supply shortages, inflated prices, and now a steady stream of dead soldiers coming in near weekly—the lie was beginning to wear thin.
Perhaps that was the greatest tragedy of all, that even those proclaimed to be safe, are robbed of the comfort offered by peace. But what else could we do? What else can we do? Other than to keep calm and to carry on.