It was just me running the bakery today. Gerri volunteered to do the day’s errands, far too enthusiastically I’d say. At first I objected, the idea of a child like her wandering alone in a city full of the desperate; the thought didn’t exactly inspire comfort.
Still, she pestered and begged until I finally relented with a long and weary sigh. “Alright then,” I said. “Here’s the list, just tell Mr. Murray and Mrs. Callins to add it to our debt. We’ll make an attempt at a payment by the month’s end.”
“An attempt?” She asked, brows raised curiously—then likely realizing I could do it myself—she shook her head. “Nevermind,” she added. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
My ears pricked at that. “A few hours? It would only take you—”
“I’ll see you later! love you!” She was out the door before I could even say anything more, eyes narrowed and head scratched at her sudden burst of independence. Gerri walking alone wasn’t an unfamiliar sight, as much as I disagreed with it; often she would go on early morning strolls while I worked on the day’s bread. Yet, an incessant sense of oddness prevailed—she did her hair differently, curled and fashioned in the manner most society ladies did theirs, and she wore one of her better kept dresses with the puff sleeves.
True to her word, it has been a few hours since she left; and I was still at the bakery, fiercely feigning understanding at one of Mrs. Havindish’s well-acclaimed tangents. A series of ‘ahs’ and ‘hms’ that allowed me to continue working while keeping the pretense that I was even remotely interested in the vapid topics that left her mouth.
It did not escape me that she has yet to make any purchase. Despite our increasingly smaller array of breads and pastries, I would rather her make a contribution to my livelihood before she talked my ear off—halfhearted as I was at listening.
“Mr. Bingsley,” a voice said, accompanied by a gloved hand waving in my direction. “I asked if you had any intention to join the Civilian Defense Force?”
It was Harietta, dressed in a gauzy white dress and a simple boater’s hat; cheeks flushed from the morning, and eyes wide with the color of honey. I wouldn’t be hard pressed to admit she was the prettier one between her and her sister.
“Mr. Bingsley?” She asked again.
I felt the warmth of embarrassment creep up my cheeks; which seemed to amuse both her and her mother. “I’m sorry, the what?”
“Poor Mr. Bingsley, you’ve been cooped up in this bakery for far too long. You ought to seek company outside of your business,” Mrs. Havindish teased. “Perhaps you really ought to join the defense force, plenty of young men your age are joining—at least those that can’t join the Royal Army.”
“Mother!” Harietta threw her mother a sharp look before turning back to me, a hard smile pressed on her lips. “Please don’t mind her, she has a habit of forcing people into things with the sheer force of her will.”
“I don’t see that as a bad thing dear,” Mrs. Havindish chuckled from the other side of the bakery. “Afterall, that’s how I got your father to marry me.”
“Mother!” Harietta said again, this time more scandalized in tone—faintly reminiscent of her own mother’s manner of speech. “I don’t think Mr. Bingsley wishes to hear about you and father’s marital bliss.”
As her answer, Mrs. Havindish pushed Harietta aside and placed the basket full of bread on the counter. “Oh how the youth have grown more prudish in time,” she bemoaned, much to the horror of her daughter beside her.
The pair slowly devolved into a bickering mess; words of propriety and marriage flitting about the room as I slowly added up the total of their purchase. As often as they did, I couldn’t bite back the smile I felt trailing along my lips, eyes flickering over to Mrs. Havindish’s flushed cheeks and Harietta’s composed retorts.
It was an unusual thing, to be privy in the private interactions shared between mother and daughter. It’s been so long since I’ve witnessed it myself—I wondered if my own mother would act in the same manner with Gerri if she were still here.
Harietta’s gaze passed onto mine, my smile being mirrored along her own lips; a wordless apology for how her mother acted. I merely shook my head, as if to say, ‘it’s quite alright.’
“Total is 17.50 crowns,” I tallied, handing them the receipt. “The price of flour went up again, costs 5.75 a pound now.”
“This war has gone on for far too long,” Mrs. Havindish lamented, as she handed me her payment. “Mrs. Kremp has told me that there has been growing unrest amongst the farmers in the countryside. Her sister writes to her you see, and she mentioned—”
The door violently opened, the bell attached, singing its shrill metallic song offtune. I half-expected Gerri to come bursting through, but instead two soldiers appeared; standing tall and proud in their uniforms, bodies built for conflict, and faces expressionless beneath their kepis.
I looked at them with confusion, as both Mrs. Havindish and Harietta were stunned into silence; eyes sharp and hands instinctively clasping one another’s.
“We are looking for a Mr. Arthur N. Bingsley,” the gruffer one said, his voice deep with duty.
Tentatively, I raised my voice. “Yes, has something happened?”
My thoughts immediately drifted to Gerri—has she been detained? Arrested? Was that the reason for her prolonged disappearance? But these were soldiers who wore the royal insignia of the King’s Army. If she was detained, it would’ve been the police who came.
“No ser,” the other soldier finally spoke, he sounded younger than he looked. “We are here under the orders of the crown.”
Before another word could be uttered, Mrs. Havindish—seemingly regaining her senses with a released sigh—practically dragged poor Harietta out the door; excusing themselves with a curt ‘goodbye’ as their footsteps chased after them. leaving me to face the two soldiers alone.
“What orders?” I questioned them, finding this entire interaction suspicious.
The soldiers said nothing, instead they handed me a small letter; unopened, wrapped in a stiff envelope, with the army’s insignia pressed into the wax seal. My throat tightened at the sight, eyes flickering between it and the two men before me. I didn’t need to open it to know its contents.
“They said I couldn’t serve, I failed the medical exam, the doctors said I had a heart murmur.” I only heard the words after they left my mouth. “Why are they drafting me now?”
When I am barely able to keep our bakery afloat; barely providing for both myself and Gerri.
“By orders of the king, all eligible men must serve in the army,” the younger one answered. “Regardless if they failed the medical examination, so long as they are stable of mind.”
I couldn’t answer them, try as I might to form any tangible response, my mouth ran dry with the sinking feeling of dread—then anger.
“Understood,” I said through gritted teeth, the envelope crumpling within my grasp. “How long until I leave?”
“A fortnight,” the gruff one said. “If you do not report to your recruiting master, you shall be tagged as a deserter. Have a good day, ser.”
I watched them leave, their polite valediction, a cruel reminder of just how thin the pretense we have been living in truly is. I wanted to scream, to yell, to release the pent up fury I felt towards those that held power; whether it be the King himself, or his many generals, they simply cannot treat us like cattle to be sent to the slaughters as if we were mere numbers on a board.
I thought myself free from the burden of military duty. As hard as life is now, I can’t deny the fact that I’m still amongst those lucky enough to escape the initial draft. Those that didn’t, well, often they came back in caskets. And sometimes, those were even empty.
Gerri finally returned not long after the soldiers left. Her hair much wilder in appearance now, dress muddied along the hem, and hat held tight between her fingers. Gone was the cheery disposition she had earlier today, in its place, was a look of worry and mild panic. Yet none of that registered in my head, what came instead was an intoxicating fury that pulled from multiple sources within my burdened mind.
“Where the hell have you been?” My voice strained against my throat, a failed attempt at restraint. “Do you realize what time it is?”
She ignored my question. “What were the soldiers doing here?” She asked, pacing around the bakery, eyes occasionally peering out the window—until she noticed the letter I held in my hand. “And what’s that?”
“None of your business,” I answered. “Don’t try to wiggle out of this Gerri—where were you? You were supposed to go to market and be back home. Speaking of which, where are the items I asked you to purchase?”
“They ran out,” she said quickly, “What did they want? I believe I have the right to know what they wanted from my—”
“Geraldine!” I yelled, accompanied by my fists being slammed against the counter, eyes buried deep into the now stunned figure of my sister. “Where the fuck did you go to?”
“I met with Jericho,” she admitted, her voice much smaller now. “It was only for a little while.”
The revelation did little to alleviate the growing irritation I felt bloom in my chest. She was a child in my eyes, but to society she was already a young lady—who was just accompanied by a young man, unchaperoned, to God knows where. Doing God knows what.
I couldn’t even look at her, to think she had the gall to lie to me about it too. “Go to your room,” I muttered, jaw tense, and fingers quivering with suppressed emotion.
“I swear I was going to market, I just ran into him, then he wanted to—”
“Go to your room,” I repeated, my gaze firm on my fists; now blotched red and prickling with a steady tingle.
I felt her eyes linger on me for a moment longer, before finally running up the tight stairway that led to our apartments upstairs; likely realizing that my anger wasn’t going to subside so quickly.
How can I leave her like this? So irresponsible and juvenile in her thoughts and actions, without a care for the consequences that may follow. I thought her capable, seeing that she could handle the bakery on her own whenever I ran out to do errands—but that was only for short moments of time.
The call of war lasts for months; perhaps even permanently. What would she do then? The Fultons and the Havindishes may help in whatever way they can, but they cannot easily support another mouth to feed.
The door opened again, this time it was a customer. A forced smile crept along my features, easing myself back into the rhythm of the masquerade of civility all citizens abide by. But my thoughts lingered on the crumpled letter; its contents, fully understood without a word of it read.