Page 13 of Strangers in Time

Oliver said, “And thank you for returning the money. It’s very fortunate you found it. In fact, I would imagine a finder’s fee is in order.”

Charlie stared at the money, but then he held up the book. “You give me this. And thanks for fetchin’ my tag back. Must’a dropped it round here.”

“Exactly where I found it, around here.”

“Saw a short, fat bloke here. Was he buying books?”

“He was a friend with a manuscript for me to read. I’m afraid it’s not very good.”

“Well, goodbye,” said Charlie, wondering if the same man had given Oliver another manuscript, whatever that was, earlier that morning.

“Goodbye,” said Oliver, not looking pleased.

The bell tinkled freely as Charlie left Ignatius Oliver and his shop.

A moment later he slid his head back inside the door. “And I ain’t bloodyhonorable.”

“Well, you were today, Charlie.”

A GIRLCALLEDMOLLY

MOLLYWAKEFIELD WALKED OUTof Liverpool Station and gazed around at a city she had not seen since 1939. All these years later, London was in an unrecognizable state, shocked by war, and perhaps stunned at its own resilience. You never really knew what you were capable of, Molly believed, until the moment came to be capable of it. Since leaving London, Molly had had a great deal of experience along those very lines.

She had gotten up especially early this morning to begin her long journey back. There were three rail stops in between the coastal village where she had been sent to live at the start of the war and her hometown of London. She should have been exhausted, but was far too excited to succumb to weariness from the long trip.

Molly had traveled to the country after the war had broken out in a scheme set up by the Ministry of Health and given the unofficial name Operation Pied Piper. Well over a million people—more than half of them children—had been evacuated to the countryside during this process, though most had returned long ago, she knew.

Molly, who would turn sixteen the following year, had not seen her family during the whole of this time. She had been smiling until the train slowed and started winding its way through the outlyingsuburban areas and then into London proper. All she could see were jagged remains of toppled buildings that looked like shorn and blackened fingers reaching skyward, stacks of rubble, grimy and litter-strewn streets, few cars, and anxious men and women walking with singular if cautious purpose. A twisted double-decker bus was wound around the remains of a structure whose roof was gone, its insides open to the bleak, overcast skies.

There were no cabs in line outside the train station, so she carried her cloth satchel with her as she walked down the street, hopefully in the right direction.

She saw a church with its front all gashed open, the pulpit visible from the street. Despite that, a wedding was taking place inside. Molly stopped to watch the ceremony happening amid all the chaos of war. The sight brought a hopeful smile to her face. She then left and continued her journey home.

On a side street a family of four sat on a pile of smoldering bricks. The little girl was staring at a partially crushed and singed dollhouse, which had obviously been pulled from the wreckage. Molly stopped and asked if they were all right. They looked back at her blankly and didn’t respond. Molly could not know that a squadron of German Junkers and Dorniers had stolen into London during the night and reduced homes on this street into drifts of shattered building materials perched at odd angles. When she saw the smoke rising from the wreckage, Molly realized that the residual heat from the exploded bombs was the only thing keeping the now homeless family warm.

She hurried on, using various familiar landmarks as her guide. While London was the city of her birth, this was not an area in which she was all that accustomed to being. And the interceding years of devastation had severely altered how the city looked, at least to her.

A group of ragged children was gathered around a brazier in which a small fire was burning, warming themselves. They looked curiously at the primly attired Molly as she marched along, as though she were a ghost from the distant past when the world was at peace.

Sandbags were stacked all over, and it seemed every substantial building had a sign out proclaiming it as a designated public air raid shelter. The windows were uniformly painted black with scrim tape crisscrossed over the glass.

The pubs were open and doing a brisk business. Mostly old men or younger ones missing limbs and displaying medals and ribbons pinned to coats spilled into the cratered streets with their pints and pipes, gossip, and grousing.

Molly saw a troop of perspiring soldiers working hard clearing debris from the streets, their smart tunics draped over a low wall.

She passed several storefronts that had “business as usual” cards taped on window frames that no longer had any glass in them. One blackened, gutted structure, which she remembered as being a well-known emporium, had a sign out front saying it wasREOPENING IN A WEEK’S TIME, NAZIS OR NO NAZIS.

There were lines of housewives in queues outside the butcher and bakery shops with their open baskets, pinched, impatient features, and short lists.

In her village, Molly had been told little of what had occurred here. But she had glimpsed snippets of wartime events in London in local newspapers. She had also heard things on the wireless in the home where she lived with her hosts, the Coopers. The BBC’s news programs also gave updates on the war. For years the prognosis for Great Britain’s survival had been bleak. However, lately, the tide had seemed to turn.

The Coopers had received eight shillings and sixpence each week from her father as a billeting allowance while she stayed with them. Her father had also sent at yearly intervals fresh sets of clothing for his daughter as she had grown. The Cooper children had watched in envy as Molly had opened elaborate packages from Harrods and Selfridges filled with costly outfits Herbert Wakefield had selected for her. In turn, Molly had given her old clothes to the younger Cooper girls.

The family had treated her very well, even providing her a modest birthday party each year. Mrs. Cooper was a schoolteacher and a most capable one. Molly had been precocious from an early age, withher mother and her nanny reading with her regularly. And she had attended a private girls’ school before leaving for the country. Mrs. Cooper had followed that up with a rigorous education over the course of Molly’s time there, in addition to her regular schoolwork. A great many books were read, extra lessons learned, and boxes of stubby pencils used up putting both thoughts and mathematical calculations to paper. Mr. Cooper was a vicar and quite scholarly, with a well-stocked library. And he had delighted in expanding Molly’s academic horizons. Being naturally bright and curious, Molly had flourished in such an environment.

The vicar’s spinster sister, Eleanor Cooper, was a highly trained senior nurse. Transport ships carrying men injured in the war routinely docked at the coast two miles from Leiston, the largest town very near Molly’s village. Wounded soldiers were then transported over land to the hospital facilities set up in Leiston. Eleanor had gone to one of the hospitals each day to help care for the wounded. Then, when Molly turned fourteen, she began taking the girl with her.

At first, Molly was only allowed to roll bandages, clean up sick, and help with the parceling out of food and the cleaning of beds, laundry, and toilets. But because there was a shortage of medical staff, Eleanor began to rigorously train Molly on how to help with the wounded. Due to her age and relative inexperience, Molly was at first only allowed to help with those men who had lesser injuries. But as it became clear that, in addition to being exceptionally bright, she had a distinct aptitude for this sort of work, Molly was given a great deal more responsibility.

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