Page 58 of Strangers in Time

“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 aloan, 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 FRESHPLAN

THREE NIGHTS LATER, CHARLIEpeered 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.

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