The sharp clamor of the ivory door resounded against the walls. Father had left, and the last tatters remnant of my youthful hours had flittered along, yearning to forsake me in the staleness of reality.

I had always been less mature than people my age. Some of them were audacious enough, like father, marching off to war with lustre in their heaving chests like Achilles in the Trojan War; some of them, maybe uncapable of fighting, remained in London’s snugly haven. Yet during this epoch of grimness and gloom crammed with the pungent reality, it was already extraordinary to have accepted the truths.

Yesterday morning, Poland surrendered. Britain wished to recruit more men for the war. A government official visited us.

“Morning ma’am. The army is expecting an extra draw of men to enlist in the army from London,” His face was taut with solemnity, “You know, things are not going well.”

I couldn’t see Aunt Eleanor’s face, but she must be puzzled, so the man added, “Are there any men capable of fighting here in your residence, ma’am?”

“There is one, sir, though maybe not exactly in the age for battle.”

“As long as they aren’t crippled.”

“He’s 48, if you would like to know-”

“Is he physically or mentally disabled then?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“Show him to me. I’ll see.”

Aunt Eleanor’s glance flickered from the man to me. There was a wisp of fluster in her eyes, reflected in mine. Father was the only man in the household. He would be hardy enough to be recruited, for he exercised regularly.

My torso faltered in the faintest motion. It was probably the heart that trembled, for me to have groped upon this very fact and vacancy was aroused in my chest. I knew the official’s intention, and I knew what it meant to a family. Troops of men had been convened from every nook of Great Britain from the moment the war initiated, combatting for the odes and laurels that would shroud upon them after they return. But I hadn’t anticipated this day when father would have to enlist, when the generals were deprived of the rights to select their soldiers.

Aunt Eleanor turned to look for father, but father’s footsteps on the quivery, wooden stairs came resonant before she could move.

“Take me,” he said, his face resolute as boulders on headlands. And I couldn't be more clear what would his departure mean.

Father was always trotting, his hands and feet tangling as he bustled in the house in strides, snatching up his accounts book while welcoming the customers. Guilt arose in me whenever I pondered about his job, a dominating stream of remorse wavering in my throat. He was a genial man and yielded sincerity, managing the business with good conscience and a valuable naivety; those were his principles golden and had become more golden as the war proceeded.

My knowledge about sweets were meagre, confined to only concocting simple recipes; thus I did odd jobs. They were a fixed routine of random tasks like sweeping the floor or whisking the eggs, circulating day by day in tedium as I had grown almost disgusted with them. But I couldn’t imagine working in the shop doing something else than those tasks, like Father, or Aunt Eleanor, and would never be able to. I detested arithmetic, couldn’t keep household accounts, and loathed obscurity. Aunt Eleanor spoke roundabout during reception, but she was instead a candid woman, every word she blurted a whetted sword aiming true at my chests. But that was what being a business owner would require: shrewdness and craft.

Moreover, ingredients were limitd. Sugar was rationed and our production was limited --- sweets were not essentials for their prices during an adversity where starvation and poverty could befall at every tick of a clock. I thought that was why sweets were made, as a solace, to mollify and unravel the entangled world of commotion, tingeing the dreary void of warfare with color; but people didn’t seem to comprehend their significance.

I thought father would stay, his naivety retained, imparting delight to Victoria Lane with the sweetness we strove to produce out of the simple ingredients available. But father left without reluctance. We were left with no man in our household, and I would succeed him.

The flesh of my convulsing heart dislodged as I mulled over the abrupt transition of my position, left hollow and overloaded with a massive lump of boulder thrusting my chest. Without any hint father departed, adamant with patriotism to scuffle with young fellows haughtier and more superior in build. For the past 16 years I had been complacent about being confined in the cozy retreat my father and aunt had struggled to construct, my head marveling over the reveries of childhood I still adhered to. The war arrived in sudden, but before I would realize its cruciality it emerged right before my eyes.

Flurrying, I caught Aunt Eleanor’s senile, anchored gaze. “Mabel.”

“Your father had told me about the inheritance of the business,” She began, the words gurgling out idly.

I didn’t answer. 

“Your father had placed his hopes on you,” She advised, “He expected you to succeed him.”

Expecting a lecture, I didn’t respond. Her mouth was shut, her eyes murky without the specks of golden ardor, the only remnants of her own glittering youth. Yet her desire to harangue had withdrawn from her face, sluggish with wrinkles and the slackening skin; her face unreadable in a genial composure. But I understood her subtext, and I felt the reality hauling me out of daydream.

“Would you go to the station for me?” She inquired as if this was one of my fixed routines, so genuinely that I hadn’t realize she feigned it.

“We were allowed for some extra eggs and milk,” She continued, “I'm surprised that you don't know.” I was slightly enraged by her same artless tone gliding out of her mouth so innately. Yet I nodded, fetched a basket, the coupon, and went, as if the only thing I was capable of was to obey commands.

I whispered, “You would not doubt my will.”

Father’s teachings had long lingered in me and imprinted upon to gradually become an extended part of me: to invigorate people, and to impart warmth. This was half my soul, and half the intention of my existence, a resolute creed never neglected. As if it was infused in me from the moment I was born, and I was determined to embody the conviction with zest and devotion. My existence was oblivion without it. I would die to adhere to it. Even if I was caught off guard by the plight, I would force myself out there --- to confront the truths I never had to confront, even if it meant embarking from childhood.

My strides trudged out a path in the crowd. Peasants scattered around the town at this point had converged, boisterously babbling about gossips and war news, and thronging like flocks of young, untamed lamb to the station. Jostled to the front of the stations, I caught a glimpse of the freights stowed in the warehouse behind: mounded heaps of white sugar, butter, vegetable, and fruits.

Quickly I fetched the rations, exchanged the coupons, and trotted home, eager to evade from the peasants pouring incessantly from the corners of Victoria Lane. I thought of Aunt Eleanor and my anger blazed.

“What cost you so long?” She asked, “We're already late today. Now hurry."

With the fury restrained I nodded in compliance. She then continued, “Get ready for some baking. You would be making some sweets today.” She tossed me an apron and ushered me into the kitchen.

At that instant a torrent of sweet, syrupy aroma cascaded into my nostrils. It rushed from every corner of the kitchen in an unfamiliar mellow combination of chocolate, fruits, and sugar; I binged on the fragrance, my heart reveling in the shower of sweetness, blushing with relish. The kitchen was spacious, each of the sections expanded appropriately for operation. And above in the mahogany cabinet ---- obsolete with smudges over the moldering years--- containers of various sizes were aligned in immaculate harmony.

It was long past since I had last visited the place, where once the most intimate to me. The giddy touch upon the burnished mahogany, the stealthy tug of the grip, and a tender hand extending to approach the lollipops perched in the recess of the cupboard, I recalled, the drifting rapture fluctuating on my infantile lips mumbling desire.

Yet I could no longer sought reminiscence in the newly composed odor of artificial saccharine, though it was gentle as usual, sugary too; and the past, vanilla-flavored and buttery, was long forgotten as the seasons alternated, year by year.

“It’s not the time for nostalgia, Mabel,” Aunt Eleanor reproached as if she could read my mind, “Our ingredients are limited, and we will do what we can.”

She collected a handful of sticks from a forlorn cabinet concealed at the far end of the kitchen and a basket of apples, about a dozen, radiant with ruddy allure. Candied apples, I speculated. Fruits were the sole ingredients we could operate with in a rather liberal extent after the proclamation of the rationing policy ---- and candied apples were indeed sensible choices for a wartime recipe when luxuries like caramel and gelatin were nowhere to be acquired.

“Would you rinse the apples?” Her questions were not intended to inquire or solicit. They were absolute commands, requests of esteemed superiority. The uplifting tendency of her voice insinuated not interrogative aims, but wont of reverence accustomed through authority, in her keen, piercing voice.

I crammed the apples into a basin. “Do you see the sticks? Fix the apples to the sticks after you are finished.” Without turning I could perceive the attentive inspection of her eyes, my scorching skin chafed against the uneasiness of the space. My sinews taughtened.

Attaching the sticks to the rinsed apples, my feet budged uncomfortably across the marble floor. “Finished?” She drew one apple from the tray and frowned, “Now observe my steps because you would have to do it yourself.”

Into a blotched saucepan, medium-sized, she sprinkled two cups of white sugar, the white crystalline crunching against the smudgy base, and poured in one-and-a-half cup of water, obtained from the teapot aside. From a greasy jar labeled “corn syrup” she ladled out a spoonful of viscous, amber-colored liquid, and swung it from the spoon with a stick into the pan.

“This is corn syrup, in case you don’t know,” She indicated at the stringy liquid, fiddling the spatula. Back and forth the mixture shifted, and the three discordant colors were blended into a transparent gradation of gingery brown, enfolded by a dense tier of gloss. Fetching an apple from the tray, she instructed, “Now I would dip the apples into the syrup. Every corner needs to be covered. Then bob’s your uncle.”

She dipped an apple into the mixture and clenched it by the craft stick. Tempting its fragrance was, luring with the sensual relish of extreme sweetness. Like a palisade the tawny syrup clambered up the rind, immersing the apple with an ample layer of sugary shimmer. I repeated the procedure for the rest, first bulkily, and soon grasped the skill. 15 candied apples in total were laid in the tray, glamorous, dripping with honeyed syrup. I heard myself swallowing.

I carried the tray to the glass exhibition shelf in front of the reception table and pulled out a marker for labelling. “How much do we sell them for?”

“Blimey, why do you ask me? I am not in charge.” She needled.

Pricing was unfamiliar for me, but I remembered how father priced. His rapt face soddened with concentration under the incandescence, scribbling down on revenues his account book, calculating the profit, and plunged into contemplation while I sat inquisitive on his brawny laps, my hands pinching his thighs. Undisturbed by the prickle he worked, his face was imbued with an unfamiliar sternness under the dull illumination. Just then I was ignorant; but how much could I have grown? Not much, I reckoned.

I flipped open father’s account book, forsook on the grimy table beside the glass windows. He wrote in a consummate cursive, the texts perfectly aligned in parallel lines consisting of numbers and series of product names. And in one of the front pages I found father’s price list. Most products were sold around 8 cents.

6 cents would do, I assumed. I scribbled down the price on father’s account book.

“Good morning Mabel,” I trembled at the shrill screech of the door clattering against the walls, and was astonished to hear my own name. Perhaps I was still half-dreamy in my own hallucinations of pleasure, I wasn’t certain; but for the first time I perceived the weight of my obligations.

“Morning, Perry!” Perry was the son of a baker, whose bakery settled next to ours. Through mutual support our families had constructed an intimate bond, even before our birth. Imposed by multiple burdens the fathers embarked for war, and the connection would likely to advance further, by the camaraderie fostered during the long march of battle, if only they would return. Perry, their son, was in the best age for battling, yet spindly and scrawny he was, thus was rejected by the army. He had been my closest friend, and the only friend I confided with, for he too had an unrestrained mind soaring in imagination like mine that bystanders were skeptical of.

“What are you selling today? Mother told me to grab something to munch on.” He asked; this was his habit every morning, to collect a piece or two of sweets and displaying his habitual grin. His beamed, his lips florid on his delicately porcelain skin, extending wide into the shape of a canoe. I had always been obsessed with that face, always suffused with joy.

“Candied apples,” I replied, leading him to the glass cabinet, “You like them?" The day was a bright day, rather sparse here in London, the sun drizzling down on the glass from the window. I couldn’t help but noticed his blond threads of hair dazzling with vernal splendor.

“Why, sure I do,” He beamed again, “I’ll take two”

I hesitated a moment, “6 cents.”

“6 cents?” Specks of disbelief glimmered in his cheerful eyes.

“Well, I-I guess. Anyway, you can have a discount. 5 cents for one apple.” I stammered to redeem my casuality.

“Don’t worry, I will pay the full price. We all need money, don’t we?”

I paused. “What about you?”

“I brought a piece of bread," he said, "for exchange." Grinning, he revealed a bulky piece of garlic  from his hand, “7 cents for one.” I consented for two.

We exchanged the money, and his glowing blond head vanished from sight. Abashment surged within me, a fusion of remorse and shame. He bequeathed me his aspirations, but by my hands his fortress of earnest belief had toppled down, into desolate ruins of self-delusion. I deemed that his renown would be clutched in his own overpowering hands; but his fortune lied in me. Yet my carelessness had contorted his fate. Already I could visualize his eyes misty with regret, veiled by an undecipherable layer of distrust. 

“4 cents would be enough. An apple doesn’t cost much.” Aunt Eleanor said.

I flipped open the account book and scribbled down the new price.

The sole customers in the afternoon were Perry, who revisited to comment on the apples, and a vagabond.

Perry never disapproved of anything, “These isarenice. It would be better if you sprinkle some nuts on there...” He would sing his accolade of compliments, for the crunchiness of coated sugar, the crisp of the apples, in his mellifluous, hymnally voice ascending and plunging. To some it sounded like flattery, but I know it wasn’t. It was utterly genuine and wholly derived from what he had perceived --- which, already, differed from others.

Both Aunt and I were astonished when the vagrant roved in, with tatters of scruffy rags draping down from his hunched loin. His beard, a thicket of clustered black thorns entangling, was a dirty black color, uncropped, grimy with blotches.

“What do ye ‘ave over ‘ere?” His voice was hoarse, as if sacks of sand are poured into it. I paused to comprehend him.

“We have some orange flavored gummies over here, though they were from yesterday,” I replied, “but those candied apples are fresh.”

He glanced at the glass cabinet and sighed, “The war ‘ad arrived. Happy times are gone.” From my deficient knowledge I couldn’t recognize his nationality, nor the indications behind his sorrow. Back he turned and attempted to leave.

“Wait! Don’t leave yet!” Something prompted me on, colliding against me and goaded me to sympathy, as his downcast shadow dangled on the floor, “Take this and enjoy. Feel free to come again tomorrow.” From the cabinet I fetched a candied apple and handed it to him.

He beamed widely, his lips drawn up into a vibrant smile. “Thank you.” And he left.

The man never came back again, but Perry’s pleasant, sing-song odes lingered in the dreary room, detached in the comfy nooks of Victoria Lane, his almost-flattering praises. Children, mostly below the age of 10, loitered about before our doors at the enticing exhibition closet flaunting the variety of flamboyance-wrapped sweets, ushering their parents in, whose visages were distraught with impatience. Their exultant squeaks resounded, and jammed the room with pleasurable voices of naivety. “Naivety”, I often contemplated the word and the half-English, half-French pronunciation of it, while the youngsters prattled with ignorant bliss. Did my father indicate the children?

I liked children, and somehow their visits assured me of my own position as a shop owner. They hailed me as, “the sweets lady” and Perry as “the bakery boy”, who often loitered in the store to chatter. Older children buoyant with puberty were more intrigued in gossipy matters. They would banter, "Are you a couple?" I would turn scarlet, and I did not dare looking at Perry.

Soon the children’s blitheful squeals dissipated from the candy store as their interests diminished; the surrounding air continued to drowse, in its monotonous slumber. The plight endured for a few days, in intolerable dullness. Finally Aunt Eleanor burst, “There had been no customers, not a single bloody one, in three whole days, except for Perry! Mabel, go empty that basket!"

She tossed me a basket, stuffing it with about a dozen of candied apples, all wrapped in fancy package papers, and jolted me out before I would resist her vex. It was near dusk, the sky a tawny cerulean, with cirrus above trailing wisps of hazy mist. Dusk was not a busy time of the day where hordes of people swarm into the streets like hornets in pursuit of a nosy venturer glancing into the hive, but was instead, shrouded in serenity. A few people still straggled, but was too immersed in their own aims to had noticed my existence, and my gaits looming upon them, my shadow magnifying in size.

“Evening, mister,” I found myself approaching the nearest man I had caught, a youthful man in his 20s, donned in grayish-blue trousers with braces, “Would you bother for some sweets? Candied apple, fresh from the morning- “

“Sorry,” He flitted past. Veering, I rambled towards a youngster, probably a newspaper boy, on his head a lovely crimson beret, “Care for some sweets? Fresh candied apples.” “No, thank you… My mother would be waiting for me. I’m late for dinner!” Off he darted to a bike moored under a canopy.

I came up to more people, but mostly were vain toil, and nighttime had mantled over the overcast ---- two apples were sold, at a price of 5 cents per piece, but the rest were bestowed, for free. At last, I knocked on the bakery’s door.

“M-Mabel! What are you doing? It’s late right now.” Perry responded the door.

“Long story,” I exhaled, “Aunt Eleanor told me to empty this basket by tonight, and obviously, I couldn't bleeding do it-"

“I’ll take five of them. “

“What?”

“I’ll take five.” He clasped from his pocket five coins, and flung them to me.

“No, no, Perry, you don’t have to,“ The weight of the coins pressed against my palm. 

“Take it. Your aunt would flay you if you don't sell them all. ” He indicated at my basket, still jammed with apples, and I chuckled.

“Ask me for another one next time I see you,” I said, “I'm owing you too much.”

“May I take an extra one for free, then?"

I pondered and the ghastly image of Aunt Eleanor flaying me and gorging my flesh frisked into my head. The last time when I offered the apple to the vagabond she was on the fringe of detonation, a deranged sort of anger and dismay.

“Sure,” I consented.

My head hung low as I exited the door, apprehensive of the forthcoming tirade I would be receiving, for I had not accomplished my mission. The moment I looked up, a bulging pair of eyes met mine.

“I saw. You offering those apples for free.” She said. Her voice was undecipherable as usual, frigid as splinters of stones on a headland.

“I told you not to,” I tried to analyze her tone, but all were vain, “You still do it.”

During her lectures I was not allowed to retort. But my indignation soared up high and was striking against me in gushes so vehement, my chest was bursting with a manipulating sensation of fury.

But she continued, “We are not doing charity. The only reason you are here to take the responsibility, is your father’s intention. He left his business to you, but you disgraced him. His fortune lies in you now. And was that how you deal with his aspirations? The war does exist, Mabel, get out of your daydreams. Your father and I worked for years to get this business on track. You sold twelve of them, yes, you emptied the basket. But you gave ten of them for free. You are a squanderer. Your father would be disappointed."

Something spurted out of me before I could restrain it. It seemed to had walloped out of my chest like a seraph.

“Do you not comprehend why nobody bought anything? Just observe, and you would know! They could not even afford their own meals, and you expect them to spend 4 cents on a bloody candied apple? Can't you just stop caring for yourself once and look at the world around you to see how miserable people are? What you are doing is to empty people's pockets and make them all poor wretches, but you never know father's purpose of opening up a candy shop. I have the right to determine how we dispose of these candies, as the owner of the confectionery and the inheritor of father, not you, aunt! I'm not the one disappointing him, for I know he would be doing the same if he were here..."

I darted out of the room, breathless and my gait faltered as if the earth were jolting. At the instant, I raised my head up and spotted a florescent lamp hovering above, dispersing alarming lights of red and sapphire. People overflew from the tight brick houses to the nearest shelters but I didn't want to turn back. The ground trembled, and all lights went off. I followed the crowd.