Page 15 of Strangers in Time

He frowned. “Folks think the Yanks are the ticket. That we can lay down our guns and let them win it for us. Well, it’ll take all of us to beat the bloody Germans, from what I seen.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”

“So how was it in the country, Miss? Was you bombed out there?”

“We never were although I heard that Leiston had been on several occasions. I never even heard any of the bombs strike, though. They came at night, apparently.” Molly hesitated. Part of her wanted to tell him about her job helping the wounded. But she felt certain that he had seen far more horrors than she had, and had suffered a great deal. She simply added, “And I’m very glad to be home.”

“And whatdidbring you back, then?” he asked.

Molly didn’t know exactly how to answer that straightforward query. The fact was the billeting allowance was no longer being paid by her father. The Coopers had offered to keep her on in spite of that but, after all this time, Molly had wanted to come home. She had written to her parents with the date she was returning. Molly was worried because she had not received a reply and no one had come to greet her at Liverpool Station.

“It was just time, I suppose.”

She sat back and wondered what would be awaiting her in Chelsea.

MUMMY

FROM HER PURSEMOLLYretrieved a letter her mother had written her. It was full of love and anticipation for her homecoming.

Dearest Molly,

Your father and I will only feel like a real family again once you are home. It still breaks my heart that we allowed you to be sent away. You know we didn’t want to do it, Molly, dear, but your father said it was for the best and he’s very nearly always right. Still, I can only count each minute until you arrive back safe and sound into your mummy’s arms. My mind can venture to think of nothing else. Until I hold you once more and cover your sweet face with kisses,

All my love,

Mummy

Molly carefully folded the paper and slid it back into her purse.

Despite the kind, loving thoughts in the letter, there was oneelement of it that truly disturbed Molly. The letter was fromnearly five yearsbefore, fairly soon after Molly had left home. She had received none since from her mother, though her father had corresponded with her infrequently. In the interim, she had written to her mother whenever the Coopers had been able to buy stamps. Her mother had never once replied.

A year ago, Molly had gone into the village and called her home in London from the phone box in the square. Her father had answered, informed his daughter that her mother was resting, but that he would tell her of the call. Her father instructed her to keep up her courage, and to not be any bother for the Coopers. And then he had rung off before she could ask him why he had not brought her home after all this time.

Molly fingered the chain necklace she wore that held a locket. She took off the necklace and opened the locket, revealing a small photograph of her mother. She wondered how much she would have changed since Molly had last seen her. And clearly, she would be astonished at the change in Molly over the last five years.

She put the necklace back on as the cab turned onto a main road and drove at a sedate pace through more wreckage and ravaged streets until they reached her neighborhood. Here, there was damage, but not nearly as much as Molly had seen previously. Still, there was a silent and omnipresent gloom in the air that she could understand if not yet fully identify with.

The cab pulled to a stop in front of a large white-painted brick two-story home. Twin pilasters painted alabaster bracketed the eminently respectable front door with its brass knocker.

“Nice place, Miss,” said the driver. “Only been to Chelsea to drop folks. No other reason to, you see.”

He carried her satchel as he limped behind Molly to the front door. She was surprised that it looked shabbier and far more worn than Molly had remembered. The scratches and cracks and missing paint surely hadn’t been there before. And the brass knocker, too, was not nearly as shiny as she recalled. The small patch of grass wasnearly all dead, and there were no flowers in the cracked pots on the small porch. The windows were grimy and the curtains behind them appeared the same.

Yet at least the door was still there, and her home along with it. She knew there were many in England who could not claim that.

Molly Wakefield drew a long, excited breath.

“Here you go, Miss,” said the driver, setting the satchel next to her.

As Molly turned to look at him, her gaze carried across the street. A man in a long coat and hat was staring directly at her with what seemed a strange expression. As she focused on him, he turned and hurried off.

How very odd, she thought. But maybe London had become quite odd what with the war.

Molly turned back to the door and prepared herself for what lay on the other side.

HOMEAGAIN

MOLLY KNOCKED AND WAITED, for she did not have a latch key.

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