This broke the ice as all the ladies tittered over her response. Molly rolled bandages for several hours, actually teaching the women a quicker and more efficient way to do so.
“Marvelous,” opined the lady who had queried Molly on her age. “How clever. Where did you learn to do that?”
“In a hospital in a town called Leiston. It’s in Suffolk.”
“Well, I’ve never been there, but they seem quite up-to-date with the modern ways.”
“Yes, they are.”
After a hasty lunch in the clinic’s canteen, Molly followed another nurse on rounds. Molly could tell that the woman gave her specific tasks and watched her closely to gauge her level of skill and knowledge.
Later, she said, “You have a nice touch, and quite a bit of experience, Molly, and a good bedside manner. You instill confidence, which is really half the battle.”
“These patients have very serious injuries,” Molly said.
“Yes, they do. And if the hospitals weren’t completely full up, they would be there. And we only have the two doctors making rounds.”
“Only two?” said a surprised Molly.
“And they’re both quite old and don’t know the new ways and such. The young doctors are full-time at the hospitals, or else in uniform. Or else they were killed in the bombings. It’s terribly desperate.”
“But they have nurses, like you,” said Molly stoutly.
“And like you, Molly,” replied the nurse kindly.
Later, an exhausted Molly, having finished work for the day, walked slowly back to The Book Keep, where Oliver was shelving some newly arrived tomes.
“How did it go?” he asked, looking over her shoulder and seeing Desdemona Macklin staring at them through her front glass. He waved at her and she hesitantly waved back.
Molly looked that way. “Charlie mentioned that that woman was very observant.”
“Her name is Desdemona Macklin, and yes, she is. Imogen couldn’t stand her. She doesn’t miss much. She’d actually make an excellent intelligence officer,” he added, drawing a sharp glance from Molly.
She said, “Well, today went very well, at least medically speaking. But the patients there are quite injured and sick. And the resources we have to help them are far from adequate.”
“Molly, I think you have just accurately summed up the whole of England’s chief problem,” said Oliver. “But let me put the kettle on. There are few experiences in life that a cup or two can’t help. Do you want dinner?”
“No, I ate at the clinic’s canteen. Can I make you something?” she added doubtfully. “Although I’m quite hopeless in the kitchen.”
“I’m fine.”
“And thank you for the letter. It was very well written.”
“Imogen must have rubbed off on me,” he called back as he disappeared behind the curtain.
Molly set down her bag in which she had placed the clothes she had worn to the clinic and took off her cape, hanging it on a peg next to Oliver’s threadbare coat.
It continued to bother her that Oliver seemed to be forever channeling his deceased wife’s thoughts and opinions, rather than sharing his own. That he held Imogen out to be this perfect fount of knowledge and wisdom while belittling his own accomplishments and talents. Her mother had been obsessive with Molly; that was now clear to her. But was Oliver obsessed with the deceased Imogen? Was that healthy? Molly didn’t think so.
And what was he doing with the odd chap that Charlie had seen, and who had a strange machine and documents in German in his lodgings? Molly knew she should try to find out more about this, but the fact was, she was afraid to. Not that she thought she would find out anything unpleasant or corrupt about Mr. Oliver. But that discovering the truth might somehow cause her to lose him as a friend. Right now, he was all she had. It was an awful feeling, to be so dependent on one other person.
But then Mr. Oliver might feel the very same about me.
Molly looked around the bookshop, and the disheveled landscape was still quite comforting to her. She took out a book here and there and read off a line or two. Then she looked up and spotted a volume by George Sand. She glanced at the curtain, but she hadn’t heard the kettle purr yet, so she would have time. She plucked the book off the shelf and opened it. She was both relieved and disappointed to see that it had not been gutted like the book Charlie had found.
“Looking for a good read?”
She glanced up to see Oliver at the curtain.
He said, “Tea will be ready shortly and I have a few biscuits.” He came forward. “Ah, George Sand.”
She watched him closely to see if there was anything strange about his expression, but she couldn’t decide if there was or not.
“I’ve never read it.” She glanced at the title. “Little Fadette?”
“La Petite Fadette in the original French. It’s a complicated tale of twins in the rural French countryside. Writers often have a fascination with twins. Shakespeare, for example — twins are littered throughout his work. Twelfth Night immediately comes to mind. And the American Mark Twain often wrote about them.”
“Interesting. Has Mr. Sand written other novels?”
“George Sand was actually a Frenchwoman named Amantine Dupin. She wrote in the nineteenth century.”
“Why use a man’s name then?” asked Molly.
“I suppose in that time writing was not thought to be a suitable endeavor for a woman. As Imogen once told me, for most of history ‘Anonymous’ was a woman.”
“If I were ever to write a story I would do so under my own name and be proud of it. I imagine it is a great deal of work.”
Oliver glanced at the door to his wife’s study. “I can attest to that.” He added hastily, “But only because Imogen often spoke of what the ordeal entailed.”
Molly frowned at his once more bringing his wife into the conversation. She decided to finally speak up about it.
“Mr. Oliver, do you realize that you always seem to talk about Imogen as though you have no thoughts or opinions of your own, but only your recollections of what she said or did?”
He seemed struck by this observation, and at first Molly was unsure what his reaction would be. Anger, perhaps?
However, his expression softened and he leaned against the wall. “Do I?” he said wearily.
“I think you know that you do,” she said firmly. “You told me you were rather good with numbers. That is quite a unique talent. I suppose you were better at that than Imogen.”
This seemed to give Oliver pause. He looked down. “I... am quite good with... math and such. I don’t think Imogen had any interest.”
“Perhaps because she wasn’t as good at it as you are.”
He did not reply to this.
“But one can’t be good at everything, can one?”
“No,” said Oliver quietly. He glanced up at her. “I appreciate what you are trying to do, Molly. But when you have loved someone as much as I loved Imogen, and then you lose that person?” He shrugged, his expression one of the saddest she had ever witnessed. “I think the one thing you try to do, above all, is to keep that person alive in your thoughts and words. You... you want to make sure that the person resides with you at all times. So...”
“So you have no opportunity to forget them?” said Molly.
He nodded and said, “And when one also feels guilt about another’s passing...?”
“Why would you feel guilt, Mr. Oliver? I mean, I don’t know how she died, but there was nothing you could have done, was there?”
“There is always something one can do, Molly. Always. In fact, if I had acted, she might still be alive.”
A startled Molly blurted out, “What do you—”