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.

Grace reached for Mrs. Weatherford again, but the older woman brushed her off. “I must call Mr. Simons. He told me he submitted for you to be an essential employee. He’ll be able to—”

Colin stepped toward his mother to stop her. Mrs. Weatherford finally stilled and looked at him with wide, wet eyes.

“I’ll do my bit, Mum.” He lifted his thin chest. “Our country needs me.”