They headed off. The sidewalks were fairly empty because a thick fog was filtering in; the air was bracingly chilly. They each had a gas mask with them, and they used the white paint on the curbs, trees, and lampposts to see their way.
“So an auxiliary... what was it again?” he said.
“A nurse auxiliary.” She explained to him about her medical experiences in Leiston.
He shook his head. “My goodness, Molly, to do that sort of work at such a young age. I’ve never heard of another such case as that. And the way you dealt with that injured man? It’s remarkable, truly.”
“Young people are capable of a great deal if the need is there,” she replied with spirit.
“Quite so, yes.”
“And you must write that letter to Matron Tweedy tonight.”
“I promise that I shall.”
After a considerable walk resulting in tired, pinched feet, they reached Dapleton Terrace. Inquiries made within to several of the residents revealed that not a single one had seen Charlie since his grandmother had been taken away. They also learned that while the flat had been let, the new tenants had not moved in as yet.
They walked up the stairs and down the hall to Charlie’s old home.
She glanced at him. “You never told me how you knew where Charlie lived.”
“I dropped off something for him. Something he had lost near my shop. It included this address. But I have not been inside. Have you been here before?”
“Yes, once when Charlie and I went on a picnic, and a second time when we came looking for the book that you gave him. He had accidentally left it behind.”
“I see. And this Lonzo chap nicked it, you said?”
“Yes.”
The door was unlocked and they quietly entered. Oliver snicked on a light, and the feeble illumination allowed them to look around.
Molly showed him the cupboard where Charlie had his bed box.
Oliver stood there for a few moments looking down at the compartment that was barely large enough for a toddler much less a lad Charlie’s age.
In Gran’s bedroom Molly saw the photograph on the wall. “Surely, he would want that.”
“Yes,” said Oliver, drawing closer. “They look to be his parents.”
He took the photograph off the wall and slid it into his coat pocket.
“I would imagine his grandmother had a purse or some such,” said Molly. “But I don’t see it anywhere. Or the ration books. I should have thought to look for them when I came here with Charlie the last time, but he was so upset about Lonzo taking his book that it never occurred to me.”
“I’m afraid that both her purse and the ration books are long gone by now.”
“Do you think he could have gone back to where I lived?”
“There would be no reason to. He obviously already went there to search through the rubble and found the items he left at the shop.”
“He did mention that Lonzo had been, well, expelled by the families that took him.”
“Where did he live, then?”
“Charlie never said.”
He looked around despondently. “I’m afraid, Molly, that unless we are quite fortunate indeed, we might very well have to wait for Charlie to return to us.”
Her face fell. “But what if he never does? What if he tries to join the army, like Lonzo?”
“Charlie would know that would be impossible. This Lonzo might have been able to pass as a young man of volunteer age, but Charlie simply cannot.”
They found a bus that would take them back to Covent Garden. When Molly had admonished him over the price of the tickets he said, “I’m tired, my feet are very sore, as I’m sure yours are, and I still have to make my air warden rounds tonight. And you are going to work in the morning. And I have a letter to write for you. And then I have another letter to write.”
“Who is the second letter going to?”
“A chap I know in the War Office. He might know something of your father. I would ring him up on the telephone, but he never answers it. Against strict regulations or something. Quite annoying.” He gave Molly a weak smile.
They settled back for the ride to Covent Garden as the rain began to fall and the wind to bluster; the chill scooted right inside the bus and clutched them tightly.
Molly watched as Oliver pulled his thin coat more snugly around him, tipped his hat downward, and shut his eyes.
She and Charlie had never found out what Oliver was doing with the man who had German papers in his flat along with a funny machine. Yet Molly could not believe that Oliver was involved in anything criminal.
If I can’t believe in him, who can I believe in? I have no one left.
The Hiding Place
Charlie blew on his hands and ignored the ache in his stomach. He’d just missed the closing time of a nearby mobile canteen, although the lady there had taken pity on him and slipped him a wedge of National cheddar and a days-old ginger biscuit that tasted quite foul but he devoured, nonetheless.
He now lay on the cracked leather back seat of the Singer and huddled into his coat. He had thought about where to stay after leaving The Book Keep. There weren’t many choices, but he had settled upon the Singer. If he couldn’t drive the car, clearly the next best thing would be to sleep in it. Only he had thought it would be much warmer.
For a moment he fantasized about starting the car and turning on the heater, but that was no good, he realized. It would make too much noise.
Around about midnight — he knew by the ringing of a nearby church bell — he decided that lying here cold and hungry was not the best-laid of plans. He locked up the Singer and slipped out of the garage.
After a long, weary walk, he arrived at Gran’s old bakery shop, the one that had cut her wages in half and then failed to pay her what she was owed.
He nimbly picked the old lock on the back door, filled his pockets with all the rolls he could, and also swiped a jar of honey and one of jam. He had never thought of robbing this place while Gran worked there. Now he felt like he was doing it in her memory. But he really wasn’t, because Gran would never have approved of him stealing.
As he sat under an awning in an alley and devoured two large rolls with honey and jam smeared over them, his belly grew less annoyed with him.
Charlie decided he could not stay in the Singer night after night. He would have to find new digs. And now would be a good time to address that need. He dusted the crumbs off his britches and ran off into the rain.
Lonzo and Eddie’s old place was a bombed-out building in Stepney, near the docks. Or where the docks used to be. He turned the last corner as a bolt of lightning shattered the sky. The resulting rumble of thunder followed him as he ran along the darkened streets.
He crouched at a corner and warily eyed the half-destroyed building. It had just occurred to Charlie that the police might be watching the place. He waited there for half an hour, shooting glances all around. He also peered into the shadows looking for the silhouette of a burly bobby, or someone who looked like the stout copper at The Book Keep.
Finally, concluding there was no danger about, he slipped through the rear door, or where a door had once been before the Luftwaffe had come and forcibly removed it.
He knew that the space Eddie and Lonzo had used as their digs was at the very top of the building. Lonzo explained that the air was nicer up there, and the rats didn’t seem to want to venture that high. Charlie had been here many times before, when they had been out hunting together late at night. They would divvy up their spoils before Charlie had headed back to Dapleton Terrace.
Charlie looked down at the twin berths on the floor, no more than wads of filthy cloths, blankets Eddie and Lonzo had nicked, and two burlap sacks with balled-up newspapers in them for pillows. He sat next to one of the beddings and imagined Eddie by his side, starkly alive with his brooding eyes and quiet, resourceful manner.