One was Charlie’s call-up papers requesting him to attend the recruiting office in Kingswood two days hence where he would be assessed and his preferences considered. Charlie was still sitting at the table having polished off a second breakfast of two rashers and two eggs after only having had toast earlier that morning. Getting the bread in the oven always came first. ‘I’ll get the bike out. Won’t take me long to get there.’ He sounded very casual when he said it, as though he were only going for a leisurely ride, not taking the first steps into danger, into war. The old Douglas motorcycle was his pride and joy, locally built so strangely apt to be heading towards the factory up in Kingswood where it was made. The legs of Stan Sweet’s chair squeaked as he pushed it back and got to his feet. The news they’d all been expecting had arrived and he was having trouble coping with it. Head bowed, he squeezed his son’s shoulder on his way through to take the bread from the ovens.
