St. Saviour’s School. Surely someone would know where that was. And indeed, one gentleman she encountered did. He graciously tipped his hat, stroked his respectable mustache, and volunteered that he had been a student there himself, before telling her the way. Although he seemed puzzled at her query, since St. Saviour’s School, as he informed her, was only for males.
“My brother,” said Molly. “I’m meeting him there.”
The man smiled and said, “Ah, well then,” before gliding away.
Well, that was the first lie I ever told.
And Molly was surprised at how satisfying it had felt to carry it off.
She hurried off in the direction of St. Saviour’s but never arrived there. As she was passing the mouth of an alley, she happened to look down it and saw the green awning that Charlie had described. Now, to be fair, she knew there were a great many green awnings in the city. She rushed down that way and gave an exclamation of pleasant surprise — like one does when one receives the actual present one wanted for a birthday instead of the gift the giver believed the person wanted.
There it was, plain as the day. And that meant Charlie had not lied to her, which made Molly feel quite comforted. But she was also confused.
Proprietress? Surely Charlie had said...
When she peered through the dirty glass and saw the jumble of books, Molly was immediately taken aback. She had been in many London bookshops, and none had looked like this. Had the war simply changed everything? She hoped not. There were standards, after all, that should be observed.
As he had put her on the train to the country, her father had warned her, “Anarchy must be avoided at all costs.” The Germans preach about efficiency and method, he had said. This pertained to their trains, their uniforms, even their Blitzkrieg, which Molly had understood to be war in a hurry against a far weaker foe. But what the Nazis really wanted, according to her father, was anarchy. Anarchy of the soul, he had further explained, which was the very worst anarchy of all. And then he had kissed her on both tear-stained cheeks, patted her head, smoothed down her braids, and seen her off. That was the last time she had ever been with her beloved father.
Her mother had been too distressed at Molly’s leaving to accompany them to the train station. And that was probably a good thing. There were so many mums and dads saying goodbye to so many children with identification labels pinned to their coats, and gas masks in hand and small bags over quivering shoulders holding all that they possessed. It was a necessary flight of innocents from coming evil, to be sure, but certainly one of the saddest in all of history.
She opened the door to the shop, the bell tinkled appreciatively, and Molly entered The Book Keep of I. Oliver, with the unwieldy comingling of trepidation and hope in her heart.
A Second Visitor
Molly took a few moments to look around and concluded that her second impression of the shop differed from her first. Yes, it was cluttered, but it was jumbled like one’s mind was when one had too much to think about. That was not always a bad thing, was it? She actually found herself smiling as she took in the swollen shelves and the teetering towers.
The next moment the curtain parted and there he was.
“Yes, Miss, may I help you?”
He looked kind and eager and not remotely like the “strange bloke” Charlie had described.
She began crisply, “You are Ignatius Oliver?”
“I am.”
“I understand that you know a boy named Charlie Matters?”
He lifted the hinged countertop and came to stand next to her.
“I do know him. May I ask the reasons behind your inquiry?”
“He helped me do something and I promised to pay him. But then he was off before I could. I was hoping that you could tell me where he lived, so I could follow through with my pledge of compensation.”
Oliver took off his specs, cleaned them on his sleeve, and replaced them. “I could see why that would be a predicament for you, Miss...?”
“Molly Wakefield.”
“And your home is in London?” he asked.
“Chelsea.”
“Yes, of course.”
She frowned at his words. “What do you mean by that?”
“Just that it’s a fashionable area, and you yourself are clearly fashionable.”
“I suppose,” she replied, looking down at her very proper and expensive clothing.
“Charlie is a good lad.”
With a sideways glance at Oliver, she said, “From the looks of it the war has not been kind to him.”
“As it has not been kind to many.”
“That’s why I want to pay him what I owe. It was a half crown.” She took it from her pocket and held it out.
“That is a small fortune these days to someone like Charlie,” said Oliver, admiring its shine. “And do you live with your parents?”
She frowned again, and decided to answer less than truthfully. “I live with my mother and father and my nanny.”
“Your parents are well?”
“My father works very long hours. The Ministry of Food,” she added, as though that would explain all.
“And your mother?”
“Is a bit under the weather,” Molly replied cautiously.
“As many of us are.”
“Is it just you here, then?” she asked, deciding to learn some things about the man.
“Yes.”
Molly glanced around and saw the photo of the woman with the funeral crepe. “Is that...?”
“My late wife. As I told Charlie, this was her shop.”
“Ah, that’s why it says ‘proprietress’ on the glass,” noted Molly.
“Yes, the I stands for ‘Imogen.’ After she died, I took over running it. I haven’t done such a good job, and the war certainly has not helped.”
“I’m sorry about your wife. May I ask what happened to her?”
“The war happened to her, unfortunately.” He followed her gaze as it swept across the shop. “I see you are an avid reader,” he noted.
“How did you know that?” she asked in surprise.
“The eyes of a bibliophile are competent guides. They essentially sparkle when they alight upon books, as do a gourmand’s when he samples a chef’s fine creations, or those of a wine connoisseur when he is presented with a row of dusty Bordeaux bottles.”
“Do you read a great many books?”
“Imogen read positively everything. And she would tell me about all that she read, in the greatest detail. She would also read aloud to me, in the most vivid voices. So, through her, I guess I am remarkably well-read, yes.”
“I do love to read books. And you evidently have a great many here.”
“With little organization, I’m afraid. This was Imogen’s doing. I like to be a bit more orderly. But do you know what she once said?” he added eagerly.
“Tell me.”
“If you know where everything is, there is never a sense of surprise or discovery, which she believed were the most delightful sensations. Hence, the jumble here. It allows people to be freed from their areas of comfort, I suppose.” He eyed her nervously. “Am I rambling on?”
“No, not a’tall. I agree with getting out of one’s comfortable surroundings and discovering new things. I mean, isn’t that what life is for?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Getting back to Charlie, do you have his address?”
He took up a fat pen and wrote something down on a slip of paper and handed it to her.