The following morning Molly readied herself for work as Oliver prepared her breakfast. He had insisted, despite the canteen at the clinic, on making her breakfast and dinner each day.
Molly’s mind could not stray far from their very candid conversation from the previous night. Imogen Oliver had killed herself because the truth had fully come around and she couldn’t accept “things.” And Oliver felt guilty. And he might have been the reason she had jumped off that cliff in Cornwall. It was all so bewildering.
She ate her breakfast, put on her nursing cape and hat, and left the shop.
Mrs. Macklin was outside sweeping the cobbles. Molly sensed she had been waiting for her to leave for work.
“Off to nurse the sick and injured, are we?” Macklin said with a hint of sarcasm.
“Yes, I am.”
“Least no more bombings for a bit.”
“Yes, thank goodness.”
“How is Ignatius?”
“He’s fine, quite nearly healed.”
She was about to say goodbye and walk on, when Macklin said, “Just so’s you know, I saw that lad around here again.”
Molly froze and turned back around. “What lad?”
“The lad that was here with you. Seen him in the shop with you and Ignatius. I talked to him before. He said he wanted a job with Ignatius, but I don’t think he was telling the truth.”
“When did you see him?”
“Oh, a while back. Weeks it was. Do you know him?”
“I... I don’t know if we’re talking about the same person.”
“See, the thing is this Inspector Willoughby, I believe was his name, came by to see me, probably the same time he talked to Ignatius. There was a lad and a bobby killed down that way, you know, like we was talking about before. That inspector was keen to find one of the lads. Said his name was Charlie... Matters, yes, that’s right. Could have sworn he was the same one in there with you and Ignatius. Fit the description and all.”
“I’m sure a lot of boys look alike, Mrs. Macklin.”
“What’s your lad’s name then?”
“Tommy, Tommy Barnwell,” said Molly immediately. It was the first name that came into her head. It was actually the name of a boy she had met in the country, the son of a farmer, with a thick shock of red hair.
“So where is he now?”
“He left us and we haven’t seen him since. So it’s quite surprising that you saw him outside the shop. I wonder why he didn’t let us know he was here.”
“Yes, yes, that is quite puzzling,” said Macklin slowly. She clearly did not believe a word of what Molly was saying. “And where is he from?” she asked.
“Um, somewhere around here, I believe,” Molly said cautiously.
“Really? The boy told me he was from the East End.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right. I got mixed up.”
Macklin gave her another incredulous look. “Thing is, this last time I saw him, the boy had on one of them messenger uniforms.”
“I’m sorry, messenger uniforms?”
“You know, the telegram lads? Riding their bicycles around in their smart uniforms and pillbox hats, with the pasteboard flapping around their necks saying, ‘Why don’t you send a telegram to your cousin in Brighton for a shilling and make him smile.’ I know who’d be smiling, all right. It’d be the one with all them shillings.” She looked wistful. “I haven’t sent a telegram in years. Have nobody to send one to. But they do a nice business with the war and all, so I’ve heard.”
“Oh, well, are you sure it was Tommy?”
“I just know it was the same lad what was there before. I can’t tell you his name.” She looked sharply at Molly as she said this.
“Yes, well, thank you, Mrs. Macklin. I hope you have a good day.”
“It will be a good day, if the damn Germans don’t show up and ruin it.”
The War Office Roars
It was Saturday, and Molly had the day off, though she was due to work on Sunday. She had planned to get up early and make breakfast for Oliver, but he had beaten her to the pan and kettle. She had earlier told him about Charlie’s peering in the window, and about Macklin seeing him wearing a messenger’s uniform.
“That certainly narrows things down for my search,” Oliver had said. “I just wish he had talked to us.”
“He’s probably afraid he’ll get us in trouble.”
“No doubt.”
Now he was standing by the cooker wielding a skillet.
“A real fried egg, and bacon and ham sound good?” he said. “And a pint of cold milk. Not condensed or powered, mind you. The liquid that comes from actual cows.”
Molly looked astonished. “Bacon and ham? And a pint of real milk? And a real egg? For one meal?” Ever since she had come to live here, Molly’s expectations for food had been radically altered.
“New rations for the week and a bit of a flutter. I mean, why not?”
“Sounds lovely. If you think it’s not too much.”
“I wish I could provide you with a lot more food, Molly, particularly with the important work you do. The troops get hot, fresh food in cookhouses when in camp. On the front lines that’s not possible. They have to rely on preserved food in Bully Beef tins and the like. Well, I consider you to be part of the war effort, and you must be fed properly.”
“And you too, with your air raid duties.”
He smiled. “Well, I might have a bit of the bacon and ham then, too.”
They sat and ate. Molly swallowed a mouthful of eggs and looked at him keenly. “You know, you, Charlie, and I, we’ve all lost people we loved.”
“Your nanny’s death was truly tragic, but your father may turn up. And your mother is in Cornwall.”
“I seriously doubt my father will ever return home, Mr. Oliver, if the charges against him are true. And he might not even be alive.” This was a statement that Molly could not have even contemplated uttering a short while ago. But with everything that had happened, it just seemed the practical thing to do was confront the real possibilities life threw at you.
“He might not,” agreed Oliver.
“As to my mother, I’ve done some research into the medical terms that were in the letters from the Beneficial Institute using books that are at the clinic. It is extremely unlikely that she will ever fully recover.”
“I am very sorry to hear that.”
“But if I hadn’t happened upon Charlie, and we both hadn’t found you, I’m not sure what would have become of us.”
“I can say the same, Molly. My life was terribly lonely. For around a year now it has just been me. And... and memories of Imogen. I can see now that that is not the healthiest manner of living. And it was you and Charlie who helped me to see it. That I had more to give, additional friendships to form. I mean, if life doesn’t contain that, what is the point of existing, really?”
“Please don’t say that that was something Imogen told you.”
He smiled in a self-satisfied way. “No, that bit was actually all mine.”
The tinkle of the bell interrupted their pleasant breakfast a few minutes later.
Oliver looked at his watch. “I wonder who it could be at this hour on a Saturday?”
They passed through the curtain and stopped abruptly.
Through the window they could see a man in military uniform standing outside the door.
“H-has someone... died?” said Molly with dread in her voice.
“It’s my friend from the War Office, Major Scott Bryant. The one I wrote the letter to about your father.”
He let Bryant in.
The major was tall, broad shouldered, and inflexibly constructed with a trim mustache and a proper gloved grip, which he extended to both Oliver and Molly. He carried an attaché case and held his official cap under the same arm.