Charlie sprinted down the alley and then stopped as he saw a slender woman, whose gray hair was curled into a bun, wielding her broom at the curb of the shop across from The Book Keep. Over the top of her head and bolted to the wall was a sign that read THE SECRET GARDEN. Displayed in the window were teas and cakes and other things that Charlie dearly loved but could not afford.
He doffed his cap. “Hello, Miss.”
She turned and eyed him with an unfriendly look. “Hello, boy.”
“I was just wonderin’ ’bout the gent at the bookshop there.”
“What about him?”
“Tall, thin fellow with glasses? I. Oliver?”
“That’s right. Ignatius Oliver.”
“He must like books.”
“I suppose he does, running a bookshop,” she said conde — scendingly.
“Has he been here long?”
She straightened and held the broom in a defensive posture. “Why? What’s it to you?” She ran her gaze over him. “Wait a mo’, where are you from?”
“London.”’
“Don’t be daft. I meant what part.”
“East of here.”
She gave him a knowing look. “I thought so, though you don’t exactly talk like your kind.”
This ruffled Charlie. “Right, Miss, East End, part that got bombed.”
“We all got bombed, Mister Cheeky, thank you very much.” But she shivered a bit. “My younger brother worked at the docks. He was killed in the Blitz.”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Charlie quite sincerely.
She shivered again, and looked at the slice of sky visible in the alley. “Let’s hope we never see the likes of that again.”
“So, is Mr. Oliver nice, then? See, I was thinkin’ ’bout askin’ him for a job.”
She squinted at him. “A job? You’re still in school, aren’t you?”
“I’m all done. Have to make my own way now.”
“Then you can go work in a factory or on a farm.”
“No farms round London, least that I’ve seen. So, is he a nice bloke?”
“Nice enough. I mean, he’s not what you would call outgoing. But I’ve seen him smile now and then. Today, that counts as downright loquacious.”
When Charlie looked at her funny she added, “Means ‘talks a lot.’ He’s also one of them air raid wardens. Goes out in his tin hat, with his torch, and cape all glowing, and looks out for planes and bombs and helps folks what needs it. Takes ’em to the bomb shelters and like. Knows everybody’s name hereabouts. Has to so’s he can keep track of who’s in the shelters and who’s not. Tries to roust me every time, but I usually stay in my basement when the sirens go off. He’s quite brave. Won the George Medal. Pulled some folks from a bombed building that caught fire. He’s still got the burns from that. Then he managed to turn off the gas before it took the whole block out.”
“How come he’s not in the army? He a conchie?” asked Charlie, referring to a conscientious objector.
“He’s too old.” She pointed to her face. “And his eyes aren’t so good. Wears the specs. But the war keeps going, they’ll come for the likes of him, blind or not, I imagine. Won’t be no men left here, young or old. Bloody Hitler. I know the wireless says we’re winning now, and the war might be over soon, but it don’t seem like it.”
“Has he had the shop long?”
“Oh, it wasn’t his shop.”
“No?”
“No, it was... Oh, here he comes now.”
Charlie looked to see Oliver turn down the alley. He said quickly to the woman. “I best be gettin’ on.”
“I thought you were going to ask about a job?”
“I am. But I need to get cleaned up first, put on my best shirt and all.”
“Well, good luck, though most of us aren’t hiring, I’m afraid. Few customers and not much to sell to the ones we do have. But we get by.”
“And don’t tell him ’bout our little talk, Miss. It might be bad luck, for me.”
She watched curiously as Charlie flitted down the alley.
The Book Keep
Ignatius Oliver waved to the tea shop owner.
“Hello, Desdemona,” he said.
“Morning, Ignatius,” said Desdemona Macklin. “Where you been off to?”
“Oh, I took a walk over to Bethnal Green. Had an errand to run.”
“Bethnal Green! Well, you were up and out early then. It’s not half eight yet.”
“Yes, it was quite early. How’re the teas and cakes selling?”
“Oh, it’s bloody wonderful,” she said, her voice liberally doused with sarcasm. “Why, if I knew it was so good for business, I’d wish we were at war all the time.”
“Well, we must do our part.”
“That was a bad bit of bombing the other night,” she said. “You look like you made it through all right.”
He rapped his knuckles against the wooden door. “For luck,” he said.
“Saw you had a late-night visitor last night.”
He turned to the woman. “You did?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Sharp eyes, you have,” he said, unsmiling.
“Isn’t that what the government tells us? Lots of dodgy things going on in wartime.”
“Yes, I suppose there are.”
“Funny time for a bloke to be wanting a book, considering it was after midnight. Little stout bloke. Saw you open the door for him before I nipped off to bed.”
She waited for him to respond.
“Yes, well, he’s a collector of sorts who came into town late, from the north. He was leaving very early this morning and last night was the only time he could meet.”
“So he was after a book, then?”
“They’re the only things I sell after all,” he replied.
She sniffed and didn’t look convinced. “Book blokes are funny, aren’t they?”
“I consider myself a ‘book bloke’ and I’m not at all funny. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
He lifted a set of keys from his pocket, inserted one in the door, and opened it. The bell tinkled and the door closed behind him.
Charlie waited until Macklin returned to her shop and then hurried back in time to see Oliver take off his jacket, hang it on a peg, lift the hinged countertop, and disappear through the curtained doorway.
Charlie squatted there, trying to decide what to do. He could leave here and purchase himself shoes and a coat, and Gran a hat because hers was disintegrating on her head. And fresh spectacles because she told Charlie she had the cataracts. And Charlie could take her around to the pub near them and they could have a meal prepared by someone else for once.
Yet how would he explain to Gran where the paper pounds and coin had come from? Gran was old, and there were things he could get away with, but she wasn’t stupid.
But there was one thing Charlie needed to know first, which was why he had come back here.
He slid over to the door and, wary of the tinkling bell, slowly opened it just enough to slide his nimble fingers through and stifle the ringing before it could commence.
He ventured near the till. Next to it was a framed photo he hadn’t noticed the previous night. The woman pictured was quite pretty, with large, intelligent brown eyes, full lips, and an angular face, which all promised goodness in abundance, if features could actually manage that. The clothes she wore were like what Charlie’s mother had worn. Oliver’s wife, maybe?