Page 32 of Strangers in Time

C EDRIC

I GNATIUS O LIVER HAD FIXED the front door himself because he could not afford a proper repairman. He also took the bell off the inside of the door and screwed it onto the outside wood. The police had questioned him about the attempted robbery. They had told him about the accident with the lorry and the two deaths. And about the pair of boys who had gotten away, one taller and older, one smaller and younger.

He kept the door locked now with a handwritten sign on the glass to ring the bell if you wanted service. He didn’t think he would have many such requests. There had been unsettling word from the BBC that the Germans might soon commence their regular bombings again, day or night. It seemed Hitler was becoming increasingly unhinged with the war turning against him and had decided to kill as many people as possible before all was lost.

How a single madman could do so much damage to the world, Oliver thought. God was indeed testing them all.

Oliver religiously listened to his wireless, an old Philips radio that sputtered and buzzed, but the BBC still came through with sufficient clarity. If he had the choice between sleeping and listening to the wireless, he would choose the latter. Folks would fixate on the BBC weather forecast with as much intensity as they did their King’s speeches, to see if a bombing seemed imminent.

Yet it wasn’t all bad tidings. They had programs to lift the spirits and make folks laugh, which was quite important, for otherwise there was nothing much at all to find funny with the world at war.

Later, he took his ration book around to the shops and collected his food for the next few days. Back at the bookshop he dusted off some tomes and replaced them on the bulging shelves as he thought about his duties as an air warden.

The shelters provided refuge for those terrified of the bombings. But they were often not safe places, and it had nothing to do with the Germans. The air was unhealthy with so many bodies packed together. There were also mosquitoes, lice, and rats; scabies outbreaks were numerous. And other germs that spread in those places were sometimes more deadly than the bombs. There were also always some men who filled up on pints before going there and who often brought hostility and active fists to the congregations. Oliver had had to break up many fights in the shelters, often getting pummeled in the process. People were simply not designed to sit calmly and peacefully while others were attempting to kill them with bombs dropped from the sky.

And then there was one poor young woman who always showed up at the same shelter with the same doll in hand, to replace the daughter she had lost in the war. Oliver would sit with her and stroke the doll’s hair and talk to it at the woman’s urgings, to keep her “child” calm during the raid. Oliver didn’t know if he was actually hurting or helping the woman by doing so, but he did as she asked.

Folks brought electric fires, and also wirelesses and sometimes hand-cranked gramophones to the shelters, so they could listen to something other than bombs exploding. Little boys with “medals” and Home Guard bands on their slender arms would run around with their tiny air guns playing war and always convincingly defeating the Germans. Nurses would come to some of the shelters and instruct new mothers on how to properly knit clothing, while their newborns were safely tucked away on overhead bins.

As the bombings went on, some stations had planks put over the tracks to accommodate more people, and other stations even added bunks for folks to sleep in overnight.

Oliver would sometimes perform simple magic tricks for the youngsters to keep their minds off what was going on above them. White lies were also told to try to make the experience easier for the kiddies. Yet Oliver had seen that once the children passed the age of five, those lies and distractions no longer worked.

And the worst task of all: helping to compile the list of victims that would be posted on government buildings in the area so that people would know what had happened to loved ones.

The bell tinkled, interrupting these thoughts, and Oliver looked up to see the man there through the window. He walked quickly over and unlocked the door, looking across at the Secret Garden tea shop where Desdemona Macklin, as always, was watching through the glass. She was smoking a cigarette. She was always smoking a cigarette, it seemed. He couldn’t imagine how she managed the ration book on her Player’s brand of tobacco.

Oliver smiled at her and waved. She waved back, but her interest was clearly piqued. And not in a good way. At least for Oliver.

Once a busybody, always a busybody. And she had already questioned him about that late-night visit. He didn’t care for that, not at all.

Oliver locked the door behind his visitor and drew the short man out of Macklin’s line of sight. He was the same man Charlie had seen in the shop right before Charlie had nicked the money and the biscuits from Oliver.

He said irritably, “, I didn’t expect you today, and certainly not at this time of day. It’s not safe. And Desdemona saw you when you came by last time. And just now as well.”

“Desdemona?”

“Desdemona Macklin. She runs the tea shop across the alley. She asked me about your visit. She was suspicious. It’s not good. She’s quite the nosy one.”

“It could not be helped, Ignatius,” said with a shrug and a significant look in the direction of the tea shop. From a compartment of his long overcoat he lifted out a sheaf of papers and handed them to Oliver and said, “Things have accelerated. You need to take great care and deal with this in the usual way.”

Oliver locked the papers away in the same drawer as before. “Exactly what has accelerated?”

“The war, Ignatius. You English have shown more pluck than we anticipated. And the Americans have become something more than bothersome. We have reached a critical point.”

“I thought it all critical, every moment of it, except for the funny parts, of course.”

“You will have your little joke. So what do you have for me? You are always prepared. That is what we like about you.”

In answer, Oliver walked over to a bookcase, reached up, and plucked a tome off a high shelf. “This is quite a good one. I think you will enjoy it.” He handed it over.

took the book. “ Consuelo by George Sand?”

“Many consider this her best work.”

“ Her? But the name is—”

“George Sand is a pseudonym. Her real name is Amantine Dupin, a Frenchwoman. She died in the last century.”

“French, eh?” said , looking mildly disgusted. He opened the book and looked at the papers secreted inside the space where the pages had been cut out. They contained numbers, symbols, and letters in long columns. “My superiors tell me that your encryption technique rivals that of Enigma in its cleverness, Ignatius.”

“High praise indeed.”

“It is fortunate for us that you chose to work for our interests. Cheers, as you English say.”

“I’ll see you off,” said Oliver, holding the door open for him. When disappeared down the alley, Oliver glanced over at Macklin. She was behind the counter completing a purchase for a customer, but her eyes were directly on Oliver. He smiled and waved again.

She smiled back, but there was nothing save suspicion behind it.

When she finished with her customer she came out to the alley and said, “So your collector is back in town, I see.”

“Yes, yes he is.”

“Another book then?”

“He’s quite fond of certain French writers.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Oh he is, is he?”

“He is,” said Oliver. Then he went back inside his shop and locked the door.