Page 24 of Strangers in Time

A S ECOND V ISITOR

M OLLY TOOK A FEW moments to look around and concluded that her second impression of the shop differed from her first. Yes, it was cluttered, but it was jumbled like one’s mind was when one had too much to think about. That was not always a bad thing, was it? She actually found herself smiling as she took in the swollen shelves and the teetering towers.

The next moment the curtain parted and there he was.

“Yes, Miss, may I help you?”

He looked kind and eager and not remotely like the “strange bloke” Charlie had described.

She began crisply, “You are Ignatius Oliver?”

“I am.”

“I understand that you know a boy named Charlie Matters?”

He lifted the hinged countertop and came to stand next to her.

“I do know him. May I ask the reasons behind your inquiry?”

“He helped me do something and I promised to pay him. But then he was off before I could. I was hoping that you could tell me where he lived, so I could follow through with my pledge of compensation.”

Oliver took off his specs, cleaned them on his sleeve, and replaced them. “I could see why that would be a predicament for you, Miss…?”

“Molly Wakefield.”

“And your home is in London?” he asked.

“Chelsea.”

“Yes, of course.”

She frowned at his words. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just that it’s a fashionable area, and you yourself are clearly fashionable.”

“I suppose,” she replied, looking down at her very proper and expensive clothing.

“Charlie is a good lad.”

With a sideways glance at Oliver, she said, “From the looks of it the war has not been kind to him.”

“As it has not been kind to many.”

“That’s why I want to pay him what I owe. It was a half crown.” She took it from her pocket and held it out.

“That is a small fortune these days to someone like Charlie,” said Oliver, admiring its shine. “And do you live with your parents?”

She frowned again, and decided to answer less than truthfully. “I live with my mother and father and my nanny.”

“Your parents are well?”

“My father works very long hours. The Ministry of Food,” she added, as though that would explain all.

“And your mother?”

“Is a bit under the weather,” Molly replied cautiously.

“As many of us are.”

“Is it just you here, then?” she asked, deciding to learn some things about the man.

“Yes.”

Molly glanced around and saw the photo of the woman with the funeral crepe. “Is that…?”

“My late wife. As I told Charlie, this was her shop.”

“Ah, that’s why it says ‘proprietress’ on the glass,” noted Molly.

“Yes, the I stands for ‘Imogen.’ After she died, I took over running it. I haven’t done such a good job, and the war certainly has not helped.”

“I’m sorry about your wife. May I ask what happened to her?”

“The war happened to her, unfortunately.” He followed her gaze as it swept across the shop. “I see you are an avid reader,” he noted.

“How did you know that?” she asked in surprise.

“The eyes of a bibliophile are competent guides. They essentially sparkle when they alight upon books, as do a gourmand’s when he samples a chef’s fine creations, or those of a wine connoisseur when he is presented with a row of dusty Bordeaux bottles.”

“Do you read a great many books?”

“Imogen read positively everything. And she would tell me about all that she read, in the greatest detail. She would also read aloud to me, in the most vivid voices. So, through her, I guess I am remarkably well-read, yes.”

“I do love to read books. And you evidently have a great many here.”

“With little organization, I’m afraid. This was Imogen’s doing. I like to be a bit more orderly. But do you know what she once said?” he added eagerly.

“Tell me.”

“If you know where everything is, there is never a sense of surprise or discovery, which she believed were the most delightful sensations. Hence, the jumble here. It allows people to be freed from their areas of comfort, I suppose.” He eyed her nervously. “Am I rambling on?”

“No, not a’tall. I agree with getting out of one’s comfortable surroundings and discovering new things. I mean, isn’t that what life is for?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Getting back to Charlie, do you have his address?”

He took up a fat pen and wrote something down on a slip of paper and handed it to her.

Molly gazed down at the writing:

The Honorable Charles Elias Matters, Flat 4a, 13 Dapleton Terrace, Bethnal Green, London E2

“I understand that Bethnal Green has been badly damaged by the bombings.”

“Yes. The whole of the East End was heavily targeted during the Blitz,” noted Oliver.

“At least the bombing is not so bad as it was. I heard that on the wireless.”

“But the planes do still come. And people still lose loved ones. And along with them, perhaps they lose hope as well.”

“Charlie seems to have hope,” said Molly.

“I think Charlie has more hope than anyone.”

“Do you know him well, then?”

“Some people you can read more easily than others. But you also said just now that you heard of the bombings lessening on the wireless ?”

Molly explained, “I was residing in a small village in Suffolk very near the water. I was sent there during the evacuation scheme. I’m just back.” When he looked puzzled, she added, “I know most have long since returned, but… but my circumstances were a bit… different.”

“As you say,” he replied graciously.

She gazed around at the wealth of books once more.

He said, “Please, set forth and discover. Imogen always said that there can never be too much reading of books. It’s like saying that too much bracing air to breathe is a problem.”

“I will take a look around, thank you.”

“And now, would you like a cup of tea and a piece of toast with Golden Shred? I had just put the kettle on. I know tea in the morning is not condoned by the Ministry of Food, but I have quite a lot of it. We purchased it before rationing,” he quickly added. “So I don’t believe I am breaking any laws, at least in spirit.”

“No, you needn’t—” Molly paused as her belly rumbled. “Well, toast and a cup of tea would be wonderful. Thank you. And how do you know Charlie again?”

“Well, he dropped by one night.”

“One night ?”

“Yes, you may have noticed that he quite likes the nighttime.”

“I have noticed that.”

He disappeared behind the curtain, leaving Molly to browse.

She slowly made her way around the place, turning books over, flipping through pages, reading snatches here and there, and twice reciting out loud a particular passage.

She eyed a stout wooden door down a short flight of steps. She went to it and turned the knob, but it was locked. She ventured back to the main floor of the shop and recommenced her wanderings. A book finally seized her attention.

When Oliver came back in with the tea and toast she said, “I’ll take this one.” She held it up. “How much is it?”

“My gift to you, Miss Wakefield.”

“No, really, that isn’t necessary.”

“Oh, but you came here with good intentions for another. So please, it would make me quite happy.”

“Well, thank you.” She pointed to the locked door. “What’s in there?”

“A special room,” he said. “For special moments in time.”

“So, you have books in there, and such?”

“And such.”

“It’s a Jane Austen,” she said, holding up the book once more.

He handed her the tea and plate of toast, then squinted at the cover. “Ah, Mansfield Park .”

She nodded. “I’ve read several of her others. I think she’s quite good.”

As Molly drank her tea and munched on the toast and marmalade, she said, “While I believe I understand Austen’s intended irony, I do not care to endlessly speculate about whom I shall marry one day.”

“I think as you grow older the sharpness of her wit, the refreshing satiric quality of her barbs, and the sophistication of her underlying meanings will impress you far more. And I think you will find some commonality with this particular story, since, as you are just back in London, it deals with a young lady in unfamiliar territory.”

“So, you’ve read it?” said Molly.

“Imogen read it to me. She had of course already read them all herself.”

“What, all these books?” Molly said in amazement.

“As she said, what else does one do with books besides read them and then wonder about what one has just read? And, even more pleasurably, what one will read next ?”

“Well, she was the proprietress of a bookshop, so she could sell them.”

“Ah, and Imogen was very keen on this. She said, ‘Without reading them first how shall I decide what is worthy to sell and what is not?’”

Molly thought about this. “She makes a fair point.”

“I always thought so,” said Oliver—a bit sadly, concluded Molly, who also thought it a little disturbing that the man seemed only to echo his wife’s philosophy of life rather than espouse his own. Perhaps Charlie had been correct that Mr. Oliver was a strange bloke .

“Then I shall visit Charlie and make the required payment.”

“Is that the only reason you seek him out? To pay him his wage?” asked Oliver.

“Well, no, not the only reason. I think… we could be friends.”

“I believe you may well be right about that.”

“He looks like he might need a friend, actually,” noted Molly, glancing at Oliver hopefully.

“And if you permit me to say so, I think you may as well.”

“Thank you, Mr. Oliver. I hope that we shall meet again.”

“I am almost always here.”

She turned to the door but then looked back at him and held up the paper with Charlie’s name and address. “Why do you refer to Charlie as ‘Honorable’?”

“Because he has the potential to be,” replied Oliver. “As do we all.”