The smile fell from his father’s face as he unfolded the paper. “Good God.”

Mother’s eyes widened.

“They’ve bombed London,” Ollie’s father said, showing her the paper.

“Those poor people,” Mother said.

Ollie stepped to his parents and stared at the newspaper headline: Nazis Strike! German Planes Raid London! He took a deep breath and exhaled.

“The Nazis took France in just over a month,” Ollie’s father said. “Without our help, they’ll take Britain in a year. And before we know it, we’ll have a regatta of U-boats in Casco Bay.”

Ollie crossed his arms as another debate about the war began to dominate their conversation. It usually started with the newspaper but always ended with his father’s proclamation of their British heritage.

“FDR says we’re going to stay neutral,” Mother said.

“We’ll be in this war eventually.” Ollie’s father tapped his thigh. “If I didn’t have a bum leg, I’d have a mind to walk to Montreal and join the Merchant Navy. At least the Canadians have the guts to stand by Britain.” He lowered the paper. “Our family may have lost our accent . . .”

“But our blood is, and always will be, British,” Ollie said, cutting off his father. “We know.”

The porch turned silent, except for the creek of the swing and the caw of a crow in the potato field.

“I suggest that you never forget it.” Ollie’s father dropped the paper, retrieved his cane, and stood.

“Dad, I didn’t mean to . . .”

Father raised his hand. “Your mother and I have errands to run.” He turned and went inside, the screen door banging against the frame.

Mother sighed and looked at Ollie. “Have you forgotten how your father lost his brother?”

“I’m sorry,” Ollie said, recalling the uncle he had never met. Uncle Henry was killed in the Great War, two years before Ollie was born. Each year on Henry’s birthday, Ollie’s father honored his brother’s memory by going salmon fishing, their favorite childhood sport in northern England. Ollie often joined his father for the day, fly-fishing in the solitude of the Saco River’s rippling waters. Although his father spoke little of the details, Ollie had managed to piece together that a cloud of chlorine gas had forced Henry to abandon his trench in exchange for machine-gun fire. Henry died, and so did a piece of his father, in a French field on the Western Front.

“You should be more respectful of your father’s feelings about the war. And mine.” Mother paused. “Want something to eat?”

Ollie shook his head, feeling as if his stomach was filled with clay.

“You and your father can continue this discussion when we get back from town.” Mother stood. “And I expect you to apologize.”

“I will.”

She placed her hands on her hips.