Page 122 of Strangers in Time

“My word, what happened? Did you fall off your bike?”

Charlie looked up at him. “Do all them telegrams read the same, Mr. Benedict?”

Benedict gave him a funny look. “What telegrams are you speaking of, son?”

“The… the ones that… tell the family that their… that he’s dead.”

Benedict closed up the till and came over to Charlie. “Did you deliver one of those telegrams? There were quite a few in the bin for today.”

Charlie nodded.

“Is that how you got scraped up, then? I suppose I should have told you. But I guess I was afraid you wouldn’t want to deliver the damn things, and they have to be delivered. Familieshaveto know.”

Charlie simply looked at him without speaking.

“Yes, well, the fact of the matter is, Ignatius, that there are so many such… messages… that… well, the government apparently believes that someuniformityis… necessary.” He glanced nervously at Charlie. “In other words, yes, they pretty much all read the same, except for the names, of course.” He paused. “Your father… You said Dunkirk. So your mum received… one?”

Charlie was no longer listening. He turned and walked out, leaving Benedict to awkwardly study his hands.

SORRY, EDDIE

CHARLIE RODE THROUGH THEdarkness to his new “home.” It was in the basement of a partially collapsed building. It was near the telegram office, and off a street that had once been a busy thoroughfare, but that had gone quietly dormant during the war.

He rolled his bike down the steps and pushed open the door. A painted sign warned of dangerous poison gas inside. He’d found the sign in a dustbin by the river and figured it would be a good way to keep curious people away from his digs.

For his dinner he had bread, cheese, a link of fried sausage he’d bought from Peter Duckett for a few pence, a raw carrot, and a cup of water from an outside hose pipe. Then he carefully unfolded the wax paper and looked down at the boiled raisin cake, popularly known as War Cake. He carefully measured out a slice equal to the width of his thumbnail, took one bite, and then another, and let the lump of confectionary rest in his mouth until it was almost dissolved with his saliva. He believed it was real sugar in there. He wrapped it back up and put the remainder in his bag. He’d purchased it from a Sainsbury shop clerk using some of his mileage money. Before the war Charlie had once had a bit of Jaffa Cake and he had thought nothing could be better than that. But the War Cake had come close, if only because his expectations had diminished so.

It was after ten now, and his legs were tired from pedaling andhis face still hurt. But the young woman who struck him had lost her husband. His wounds would heal; hers, he figured, never would.

Charlie lay on his bedding and took up his book and the pen that Oliver had given him. He opened the journal and looked at the words Lonzo had written on the flyleaf.

Sawree, Edee.

Yeah, sorry, Eddie, Charlie thought.You should still be here, mate.

He had filled in many pages of the journal already. He usually wrote at night, since sleep never came easily to him. By candlelight, with the sounds of the city just outside his door, Charlie usually labored for quite a long time, as though he desperately needed to get things out of his head and onto the paper where he could make better sense of them, perhaps.

When he was done, he looked over what he’d written and found nothing exceptional amid the poor spellings.

But you ain’t special, Charlie, six a shillin’ you are. Everybody says so, ’cept for Gran and Mum. But they’re dead now. So…

He supposed that Mr. Oliver and Molly might think him somewhat special. After Gran’s death he would have been lost without Molly’s help. And he and Molly would have been living on the pavement or else chucked into an orphanage without the aid of Mr. Oliver. The three of them together seemed to have a chance to make it. And yet now he could never be with them again. And that hurt far more than Charlie thought it would. He had always assumed he could get along fine all by himself. Yet he also supposed that people weren’t really good at being alone, at least not all the time.

Via an interior staircase, he ventured to the top of the damaged building. There Charlie looked down onto a city that was so different in parts it actually seemed to be several countries haphazardly stitched together. He could ride past Buckingham Palace as free as he liked, but he would never be allowed inside. And men in suits and fancy motorcars could go to the East End to throw someone out on the streets who was behind in his rent. But these men would never beaccepted or liked or respected in the East End. The war had brought folks together for a bit, but it wouldn’t last, thought Charlie. Then things would go back to his lot, as always, being on the short end of pretty much everything.

Unless we’re all talkin’ German.

LOST& FOUND

HELLO, MIGHTIHAVEa word?” said Oliver as he walked into yet another postal office in his ongoing search for Charlie.

Arthur Benedict turned to look at him. “Yes, sir, is there a problem with something?”

Oliver approached the counter. “No. I was just wondering about your telegram boys?”

Benedict’s expression turned apprehensive. “What about ’em?”

“I was actually trying to locate one.”

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