Vivian shuffled her feet, anxiously twirling hair around her fingers.
It was nervous behavior, but she could not quite understand why she was nervous. It had been certain for a long time that this was going to happen, set in stone from the moment the non-descript letter had hit the doormat several months ago.
No matter how hard she tried, she could not bring herself to care about the problems overseas. What did it really matter if one country disliked another and wanted to wipe it out? How did that effect her right this moment?
She still got up in the morning, still brushed her teeth. Still packed the children off to school and went grocery shopping. The food needed cooking and the pots washed. Real life continued regardless and, Vivian thought, wasn't that all that mattered? Normality?
Sure, there had been the odd siren out in the town square, the assemblies in the town hall. People had expressed concerns and voiced their opinions. There was a great divide between the residents then those that agreed with what was happening and those that hated it.
The radio crackled every night with reports of the atrocities unfolding in places Vivian never even thought existed. Who went to the south of France anyway? She was certain it was a nice place when there was no gunfire and trenches and bodies everywhere, but it was not something she thought about.
In her cottage, she was Queen. The children were well behaved and the groundskeeper efficient. She had lived in her village her entire life, and leaving had just never been an option. There was a status quo to Vivian's life, and she truly despised that it was now being broken.
On the table near the fireplace, the newspaper fluttered with the draught from the chimney. Tales of Churchill and The Front quivered and flapped, the headlines making no impression. She cared that England needed to win, but she did not like that she had to be involved in the winning. There was no love for war in her house, no love for fighting.
And now, this war, this Front, would claim the only thing that held her life together. She heard Eric bumbling around upstairs, slowly but purposely packing his things. What would he need over there? Would they give him a toothbrush? Something to read?
How would the military chef know how he liked his eggs in the morning?
He would be alright, she thought as she stopped twirling her hair and unconsciously began pulling it. He was a farmer and farmers can handle things like machinery and guns and big problems. She tried to think of the farmland equivalent of a Nazi, something similar so she would know he could cope with those as well. Livestock, perhaps? The radio always said the Hun were no better than animals.
Eric could handle animals.
Vivian refused to think about tomorrow. The tasks required to run the farm were well beyond her grasp and to think about how to deal with those now... No. Now was about Eric, her sweet, gentle, loving Eric with his unkempt dark hair and calloused hands.
For the briefest of moments, she imagined those hands around the throat of a German soldier, choking the life from his evil flesh in order that Eric himself might survive. It sent a cold shiver down her spine, the intensity of which she had never known.
How dare these people take him away from her, she thought. How dare they make their stupid fight last this long, reach so far that the government had to draft their farmers. Their farmers! Her farmer!
The door pushed open slowly, and Vivian looked up. She had been staring, unfocused, at the fire for what seemed an eternity and, now her eyes had a job to do, they were slow in reacting.
Eric stood in the open frame of the doorway, looking every bit a soldier in his new uniform. He looked so efficient and important, but there was a worried glint in his eye that betrayed how he really felt: vulnerable, worried, terrified.
"I have to go now, kid," he said, forcing some power into his voice.
Vivian could not find the words, so stood and embraced him instead.
Over his shoulder, through the window, she saw the autumn leaves littering the yard. They'll need tidying tomorrow, she thought.
When she realized she had no idea where the rake was, that it was Eric's job to care for the farm, and he wouldn't be there anymore even for such a mundane task... Only then did she start quietly weeping into his neck.