“Please. You couldn’t possibly have known.”
“Then I guess I won’t be able to see my mother,” said Molly.
“You really should speak to your father about this,” urged Oliver. “I’m certain that even though he is terribly busy, he would perhaps make a call to the Institute and let you talk to the doctor, or even your mother, if she is able to. Or he could possibly arrange a trip there with his government contacts.”
“Yes, yes,” said Molly dully. “I... I will talk to... Father.”
“Good,” said Oliver, although he looked puzzled by Molly’s clear lack of enthusiasm at his quite sensible suggestion.
“Mr. Oliver?” she said. “There’s one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“I know this will sound quite silly, but it seems that, what I mean to say is, there might be people watching my house. And following me.”
“Following you?” he exclaimed.
“Yes. When I first came here to see you, two men in a car followed me. I’m sure of it. And I’ve seen another man watching my house. And so has my nanny.”
“And don’t forget ’bout the bloke that took your picture at the park and then run off,” interjected Charlie.
“Took your picture?” parroted Oliver.
“Well, at least I think he did,” said Molly.
“Have you told your father about this?”
“I... No, but I suppose I should.”
“Yes, Molly, you absolutely must. It might be nothing but, then again, one can never be too careful. Particularly these days.”
“Of course, yes, I will tell him straightaway.”
“Good.” He turned to Charlie. “And how are you, Charlie?”
“I’m fine, guv.”
“And what brings you here?”
“I... saw your door was all banged up.”
“Yes, it seems that someone tried to break in. I didn’t see who. It was a group of boys, I think. It turned quite tragic. You might have heard about it? Two people died after being hit out on the street by a passing lorry.”
Molly exclaimed, “Oh dear, do you mean the constable and the boy? Charlie and I did read about that in the paper.”
He glanced at Charlie. “I have no idea why out of all the shops around here they would choose mine.”
“Maybe they weren’t all that smart,” said Charlie, while looking away. “Or maybe they might have wanted books, you reckon?”
“Perhaps,” said Oliver. “But surely you didn’t come here for that. You would have only seen the state of my door when you got here. What was the reason for coming in the first place?”
“I... I...” Charlie glanced at Molly. “I was wondering if you had a pencil.”
“A pencil?”
“Yeah, so’s I can write in the book you give me.”
“But don’t you have a pencil for school?” asked Molly.
“Yeah, but you have to leave it there. They won’t let you take it home.”
“But don’t you have schoolwork to do at home?” she persisted.
Charlie looked at her crossly. “Readin’ and such. But not writin’.”
“I have something better than a pencil.” Oliver walked over to the counter, opened a drawer, and withdrew from it a pen. “This was the pen that my wife used to write with before I bought her a new one for our first anniversary.”
“You don’t want to give that away, surely,” said Molly.
“Let’s just call it a loan, shall we, Charlie? When you’re done with it, or have acquired another writing instrument, you can simply bring it back.”
He held it out to Charlie, who did not reach for it.
“It’s okay, Charlie, really. I would like you to have it.”
Slowly, Charlie took the pen and curled his dirty fingers around its glistening skin. “Thank you,” he mumbled.
“I’m sure that whatever you write down will be important,” said Oliver.
“I doubt that,” said Charlie.
“Even if it is only important to you,” amended Oliver. “Which is often the most important thing of all.”
“Very fine thoughts,” said Molly.
“It was Imogen who said them.”
“I’m sure you miss her terribly,” she said.
“Something more than terribly, actually,” replied Oliver, looking away.
“Was it the bombin’s?” said Charlie. “How she died?”
“Charlie!” said Molly in an admonishing tone. “That’s none of our business.” Of course she had previously asked Oliver the very same question.
“No, no, that’s all right. What I will say is, it was the bombings, but it also wasn’t the bombings. And more than that, I just can’t... reveal. I feel like it’s as much as I know, frankly.”
In a lighter tone, Oliver added, “Anyone care for a cup of tea now?”
A Fresh Plan
Three nights later, Charlie peered straight up at the ceiling of his cupboard and wondered about things. It had rained on him coming home from a nighttime excursion where he had cleaned debris from a boat docked on the Thames for two shillings plus a quarter-loaf of bread and a wedge of cheddar to line his empty belly. He had dried off as best he could so Gran wouldn’t know he’d been out. He doubted he could use the lice excuse a second time.
He eyed the journal with the thought of transforming it into five quid. Would Miss Virginia Woodley of King & Chauncey still give him the money? If he went back there full of remorse with a packet of glib lies to tell?
From his pocket he drew out the pen Oliver had given him. It was a fine thing, firm in his hand, quite pretty and delicate with a golden nib. That might be worth something, too, he thought, but then quickly chastised himself.
You’re not sellin’ his dead wife’s pen, you git. It ain’t yours.
Charlie’s thoughts had turned back to selling the book because things were quite desperate now. In two days’ time, they would no longer be able to live in the flat, and Gran had so far failed to find another place for them to live. She had begun boxing up her few possessions and agonizing over what was to become of her vanity and chair. She had gone off to her room tonight grim-faced and stiff-limbed. Charlie had had no such issues about his possessions. He had nothing, really, to box up other than a few odd bits of spare clothing.
So he would go directly to King & Chauncey in the morning after cleaning himself up and making sure his clothes were presentable. Then he would plead his case to Miss Woodley, get the five quid, rush back here, and wait for Gran to return home from work and announce grandly that the sale of the book had saved them. He would hand her the five pounds, and the half crown earned from Molly, along with the shillings from cleaning the boat, and he would see the smile break across her face like the sun did coming through the clouds. And they would be all right again. And it would be Charlie who provided for them after only being a burden to his grandmother for ages and ages.
With a roof securely over their heads, Charlie would seek gainful employment. At very nearly fourteen he was strong with lots of energy. He could surely do things worth real wages.
Charlie shifted slightly in his box. He had to sleep diagonally and curled up, and still he felt the wood on his head and toes.
The rain had started to fall even harder now; he could hear it beating against the darkened panes of the window in the other room. It would be chilly and damp tomorrow, and he worried about Gran getting the cold in her chest. Most medicines were going to the soldiers, as was proper. He would have to watch her carefully. And maybe with some of his future wages he could buy her some cough syrup from the chemist down the street.
Then his thoughts turned to Molly and their meeting with Mr. Oliver. She had lied to him, Charlie believed. Her father wasn’t at the Ministry of Foods; he was gone, Charlie was convinced of that. So even with her very fine home and her nanny, and a Singer, she had no parents, really, while Charlie at least had Gran. Still, Charlie put a hand over his eyes and thought about how nice it would be to have parents. Maybe Molly was lying awake in her bed thinking the very same thing. It forged a definite bond between them, he suddenly realized, which was startling because they came from such different worlds.