Page 92 of Strangers in Time

REVEALED

FIRST CAME THE BOAT, or schooner, or whatever the man called it. What Charlie called it was filthy and the man paid him and other lads half a crown each to shovel things off it and let them fall into the Thames to join the other sludge.

After that Charlie ate an apple that happened to tumble off a stand outside a shop with a bit of a nudge from him. Then he collected horse manure from the hauling wagons and carried it in burlap bags to community garden allotments for fertilizer. That brought a few more shillings. And he later received a crown from a grateful father with two small children in exchange for Charlie’s crawling through the rubble of their bombed-out house to find a puppy half buried under stone and dirt. The thing was very much alive and miraculously uninjured. It was so happy to be rescued that it gave Charlie a slew of licks on the nose and clutched tightly to him, clearly unwilling to be alone again. Charlie had never had a pet and was reluctant to give it up until he saw how thrilled the dog was to be reunited with its family. He watched them carry it off, all now happy as could be despite no longer having a home.

Charlie rinsed his face, hands, and clothes at a tap, and followed up the puppy rescue by nicking a pair of handsome leather drivinggloves and a nearly brand-new Homburg hat from an unlocked Rolls-Royce that was parked at the curb in front of an elegant mansion in very tony Belgravia. He sold the items to a shady chap in an alley near the BBC building next to the Langham Hotel, who Charlie knew conducted a good business in “found” items like that. That put three whole guineas in his pocket.

Now Charlie had somewhere to go that had nothing to do with shoveling sludge or nicking for money.

He hitched a ride on the back of a lorry and jumped off very near Chelsea. He walked the rest of the way to where Molly’s home used to stand in luxurious elegance.

Charlie searched through the debris and found the Conway Stewart pen wedged between two pieces of split brick. It was in surprisingly good shape and he pocketed it. After that was revealed a curved cherrywood pipe. Some coins, and pounds wrapped with a rubber band, were in a tin box that was under a mound of debris. They went into another pocket. He was quite surprised to find them because usually after the bombs dropped, blokes like him or else the firemen, wardens, Heavy Rescue men, or coppers made off with items like this. There was a hairbrush that he thought he recognized as one Molly had used on him. And finally he found a photo in a frame with the glass cracked.

In it were Molly and, he supposed, her mother and father. She looked, to Charlie, to be around six years old. He wiped it as clean as he could on his trousers and thrust it into another pocket.

He looked up and was surprised that he had not noticed it before.

The garage behind the house had not been damaged. This was akin to a miracle, but Charlie was used to such things. He had been in a building one time when the bombs fell. Both structures on either side of his had disappeared, while his building remained undamaged with nary a window shattered.

He made his way over the rubble to the garage and peered through the window. There was the Singer, yellow with a black top and a long, boxy bonnet.

He looked around and, seeing no one about, he used his tool to defeat the door lock and slipped inside. It smelled of oil and petrol and dampness. There were elaborate spiderwebs spun in all the garage’s crevices. He approached the noble Singer with reverence, as though he were in the presence of a divine monarch.

He ran his eye along the long bonnet and then drew up the courage to touch the metal husk. It felt cool and solid. Charlie opened the driver’s-side door. It smelled of old leather, and the buttons on the dash gleamed like stars in the sky. He sat and gripped the steering wheel, his fingers curling and uncurling around the sphere. He didn’t know how to drive a car, but here Charlie Matters was sitting at the wheel of a Singer!

He eyed the back seat, where he imagined Molly and her parents would ride, perhaps with a picnic hamper next to them full of wonderful things to eat.

He opened the glove box and fumbled around until his fingers touched something metallic. He drew out the key to the car and another key that most likely was to the garage door. Goggle-eyed, he looked at the ignition and the starter button, but then his courage fled. He did pocket the keys because he knew some bloke would happen along here who had the skill and courage and the Singer would be long gone.

He got out, used the key to lock all the doors, and left the garage after securing it, too, using the other key. He hopped onto the rear bumper of a delivery van and rode it halfway to Covent Garden. When he finally reached the alley he spied the man talking to Oliver. He saw him show Oliver something that Charlie couldn’t make out. Then Molly appeared from the other end of the alley and they both spoke with the man.

While staying out of sight, Charlie clearly heard his name mentioned several times. And then the nameLonzo Rossicame up.

The man had the look of a copper. Charlie had seen enough of them to know. Lonzo had surely told on him.

After the policeman left, and Molly and Oliver went inside,Charlie slunk forward and peered through the window into the shop. Molly and Oliver were talking and looking very worried, and he could understand why. His shameful secret was now fully revealed to them. He was a criminal, a murderer in fact, destined for the gallows.

Only a few minutes before, thrilled with the money he had earned and the possessions he had recouped for Molly, and the excitement of sitting in the Singer and imagining all sorts of possibilities that did not include a noose around his neck, Charlie’s spirits were now full the other way.

He rushed off into the growing darkness.

Charlie wasn’t sure where he was going to go, but he could not go back to The Book Keep. He could not meet the eye of Mr. Oliver and especially Molly. He remembered what she had said after reading the news account of Eddie’s and the constable’s death.

Well, I hope they catch those other boys. And I hope they feel terrible about what happened.

I do, Molly, I surely do. But I can’t do nothin’ about it now. Eddie’s dead. Lonzo’s nearly dead for sure. And I’m next.

He had never felt so lost, or miserable. He had thought his mother’s death followed by his grandmother’s passing would be the worst things that ever happened to him. But now that his own survival was at stake, the fear in him was all-consuming. And he felt terrible guilt for being so selfish that his own life was more important to him than his dear mother’s, who would have willingly sacrificed hers for his without a second thought.

You ain’t even worth a farthin’, Charlie. Honorable? You’re no better than you ought to be. You’re no better than Lonzo. You steal and you get folks killed. You deserve the rope.

Even as he thought this the tears leaked from his eyes and his throat constricted, as though the hemp was already around it.

You’re not a boy, Charlie. You’re a man. Act like it.

But though he said the familiar mantra in his head, it did nothing to change how he felt, which was scared, cold, and hungry. He had money in his pocket, but he could never spend it on himself.

He made a sudden decision and crept back to The Book Keep. He gave a searching look through the glass to make sure no one was about.

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