Page 61 of Strangers in Time

He had no gran.

He had nothing, really, except himself, and what was that worth, he thought.

Charlie’s mind, for some reason, could recognize all this, yet it appeared to have no effect on him emotionally. He hadn’t cried. He hadn’t fallen to the ground paralyzed. He hadn’t really done anything, and he felt terrible guilt for not viscerally reacting properly in the traumatizing wake of Gran’s passing. Her death had deserved far more from him, and yet he had failed to live up to his responsibility to her in death, just as he had when she’d been breathing.

He had not gotten her the hat and specs, or the rent money. He had never really given her anything, except trying times. And she had left this life probably thinking that her only grandchild never would make anything of himself.

He returned to their flat and gathered the only clean formal dress that his grandmother had. He collected her stockings and underthings and her church shoes, though neither of them had been religious after his mother’s death. But these constituted her burial clothes and they had to be proper. He put them all in an oilskin bag he pulled from under the sink in the kitchen.

He put on his coat and his cap and left the flat with her things in the one bag and all his possessions in another.

He walked out onto the street where the rain had mercifully ceased, at least for a bit. He hoped they had gotten Gran’s eyes to close. It didn’t seem right that they remained open if she couldn’t see anything with them.

He hoped the four shillings and six pence were enough for a proper burial, but something told him it would not be. And then what would happen to Gran?

Charlie ran down the street to the only place in all of London he could think to go.

A GATHERING OFPARTICULARS

YES?”

Mrs. Pride stared at Charlie, who looked back at her with an oilskin bag slung over each slender shoulder. The rain had begun to pour again halfway here and he was soaked through. He put down one bag, doffed his cap, and said, “Please, ma’am, I was wonderin’ if Miss Molly Wakefield was here.”

“Supposing she is, what would your business be with her?”

Before he could answer, the door opened wider and Molly appeared.

“Charlie?” she exclaimed. “What’s wrong?”

“You… you know this…boy?” said Mrs. Pride.

“Yes. He’s my friend. Come in, Charlie, quickly, it’s starting to rain harder.”

She reached past Mrs. Pride, gripped Charlie’s arm, and pulled him, wet as he was, into the front room.

Mrs. Pride closed the door and looked askance at what she no doubt considered a nearly drowned street urchin in her mistress’s fine home dripping all over the Wakefields’ handwoven carpet.

“I’ll take things from here, Mrs. Pride, thank you. Wait a moment, though, Charlie, have you eaten?”

He simply shook his head. He had given the bread and cheese the woman had handed him to a pavement man he had passed on the way here. It was the only time Charlie could ever remember giving food away. Now his hunger was painful.

“Mrs. Pride, can you prepare some breakfast for Charlie, please? And put the kettle on?”

“Yes, Molly. If you’re quite sure,” she added, glancing questioningly at her.

“I’m absolutely sure.”

As a thoroughly flustered Mrs. Pride hurried off, Molly turned to Charlie. “How did you get here?”

“Run,” he answered.

She looked astonished. “All that way? In the rain?”

He nodded.

She studied his stricken features. “What’s happened?”

Charlie pointed his face down like the weight of the world was tugging on his chin. “My gran. She… she died this mornin’.”

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