Page 18 of Strangers in Time

Molly gasped. “Asanatorium?”

Mrs. Pride dropped her hand. “It’s a place where people with unsettling troubles travel to get some peace. It’s in… it’s in Cornwall.”

“Cornwall! Are there no sanatoriums in London?”

“Well, London has been right hard hit, and though they don’t come every night like they used to, the Germans do still come. There was an odd bombing or two last night, in fact.”

Molly felt her throat tighten. “I want to see my mummy straightaway.”

“Yes, I suspected you would want to do that. The fact is, Molly, your father should be the one talking to you about this.”

“Is she all right, Mrs. Pride? Please tell me.”

The woman finally met her gaze. “The war has been hard on all, Molly, from the King on down. But it has been far harder on some, and unfortunately, your mother is one of them.”

And on that rather ominous note, Mrs. Pride fled the room.

A GLIMPSEDURINGUNEASYQUIET

MOLLY HEARDMRS. PRIDEtake to her bed later that night. Her nanny’s steady tread was still recognizable to her even after all this time away.

Molly lay in her nightclothes with the bedcovers pulled up to her neck. The fireplace yawned empty of coal or wood. And though she listened for it intently, she never once heard the latchkey followed by the creak of the front door announcing the return of her father from his official duties at the Ministry of Food. Nor had Mrs. Pride offered any explanation for his absence other than saying, “It’s the war, Molly. Everyone works such long hours. Not to worry.”

This was certainly not the joyful homecoming Molly had anticipated.

The long journey and accompanying fatigue finally overcame her anxiety and Molly fell asleep. Later, she awoke with a start and looked to the window. She had heard something out there, or at least she thought she had.

She rose, parted the heavy blackout curtains, and looked out. A glowing light emerged from across the street. As Molly continued to watch and her focus sharpened, she saw that it was a man with acigarette. She kept observing, expecting to see him walk off, but he never did. He just stood there.

Was he watching their house? Of course not, she concluded.

You’re imagining things, Molly. You’re tired and confused and is it any wonder after the day you’ve had?

A moment later she sensed movement to her right. When she looked that way a lanky boy a couple of years younger than Molly appeared and secreted himself behind a small row of hedges on the Wakefields’ tiny patch of dirt. Molly next turned her head to the left and saw a police motorcar pass by. The boy waited until it was gone before stepping into the open. Then he glanced upward, and Molly saw his face. She drew back a bit because he seemed to be looking right at her. The next moment he was running off in the direction opposite of the police vehicle.

She thought,He looks quite thin.

As she peered at the dark sky, filled with barrage balloons, a few clouds, and the luminous moon, Molly reflected on having never heard the roar, whine, and screech as explosive-laden metal fell to earth with a gravity-fueled fist. As she had told the cabdriver earlier, she had never even heard a bomb explode. She wondered if the boy had experienced those things. He looked as though he might have.

She went back to bed, but could not sleep. She was used to complete quiet in the country, but no matter how late the hour, the great city, with some of its teeming millions scurrying on their way at odd hours, could never truly be silenced.

Molly finally sat up and made a decision. She dressed and, after checking to make sure her father was not in his bed, ventured downstairs.

She carefully opened the front door and closed it just as quietly behind her. She found the spare latchkey where it had always been kept—under the statue of a mournful cocker spaniel with a cracked right paw that sat at indifferent attention on the top step. She had not thought to use this key when she had come home, but rather had wanted to knock on the door and see the happy faces of hermother and father when they appeared. At least that had been her plan, a dashed one now.

After locking the front door, Molly looked around and wondered how she would get to where she needed to go. She had no idea where the Ministry of Food even was. She of course knew where the nearby Downing Street was. But that was where the prime minister worked. Then there was Whitehall. That might be a possibility, since lots of government types labored there.

She knew London well, at least certain parts. Before she’d been sent to the country Molly had gone on a great many picnics with her parents. They had either walked with their basket or else been driven by Mr. John in the well-appointed Singer. They had gone to Regent’s Park and also to nearby St. James’s, Green, and Hyde Parks. She especially loved the Serpentine in Hyde Park, the “upside-down tree,” and all the beautiful statuary. Then there had been boat rides on the Thames, visits to the British Museum, plays in the West End, concerts at the Royal Albert Hall, and chocolates and teas at Fortnum & Mason in Piccadilly. And, of course, there was Harrods, where one could purchase positively anything. Much to her poor mother’s horror, Molly had become lost for a time in the labyrinth of the store when she’d just topped five years old, and had thought it quite the best adventure of her young life. And there had been lunches at Claridge’s in Mayfair, with broad, colorful hats and frilly frocks and vast stacks of delectable delicacies served by the most professional of staff.

Thus, she knew London. The amusing parts. The expensive parts. But as she looked doubtfully up and down her street in Chelsea, she began to feel that such a London no longer existed. This place, this world, had surely been transformed over the years she had been gone.

And so must I be, thought Molly with some trepidation.

BOYMEETSGIRL

HULLO?” SHE SAID SUDDENLY, having just now spotted him once more, lurking this time behind a sickly, leaning maple instead of a hedge.

The same boy turned to stare at her.

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