Page 34 of Strangers in Time

T HE L AST I NKLING OF D REAMS

T HEY HAD EATEN THEIR dinner, the remains of a meat pie, tins of dried fruit, and a small potato each, all fortified by cups of strong tea. Then Imogen had pulled out a bottle of port from a cubby that Oliver didn’t even know they had. She had poured out small portions into two glasses, and they had sat in this very room swirling the amber liquor and leisurely talking about things that did not seem of any particular significance: the weather, the assortment of books that had just come in, the disreputable state of the kitchen. Next, the loud cat in the alley. Then the odd bit of gossip each had heard about this or that person. Lastly, how Desdemona Macklin was not very nice, although he recalled that the word his wife had actually used was “cow.”

And then Imogen had wanted to talk about dreams. Oliver had adjusted his specs as she ventured into that subject. He was a mathematician by training, so dreams that had nothing to do with numbers—and what dreams really did?—were not part of his experience or interest.

He had taught at a private boys’ school in London right up until the start of the war, when it had closed. Because of his abilities with numbers Oliver had been recruited to work for the war effort in various official capacities, before being offered a full-time position at Bletchley Park, where the English were attempting to break the German encryption system. But that would have realistically meant being away for years from Imogen, and thus he had, with some reluctance, declined the offer.

He had instead, over Imogen’s protests, become an air warden. He had gone to duty at his warden’s post waiting for the sirens to erupt. Yellow alert meant the bombers were twenty-two minutes away and the red alert—known colloquially as the “Wailing Winnies” or “Moaning Minnies”—cut that time nearly in half. When the yellow alert came the wardens would put down their darts and cards and rush to help folks to shelters. However, as part of their duties and long before any sirens sounded off, wardens would also patrol their official sectors to check and see that windows and doors were covered and up to snuff, that logbooks were up to date, and that the latrines in the shelters were cleaned and water canteens in place, even ensuring that lending libraries located there were well stocked. As the husband of a bookseller, Oliver enjoyed performing that particular task.

Oliver had very nearly died in the course of his warden duties, and he still felt he wasn’t doing enough. However, others obviously thought he was performing up to snuff, and had even honored him for his service to King and Country.

He opened the drawer of the desk and withdrew the George Medal. On the face of it was King George the Sixth, who had originated the honor to commemorate civilians who had shown exemplary bravery during wartime. On the obverse side was the eponymous Saint George slaying the dragon. The ribbon to which the medal was attached was crimson with five blue stripes. It was to be worn on the left side by men. Oliver had never worn his after it had been given him by the King, because why him and not others, especially those who had died? He put it back in the drawer.

He had looked at Imogen that night and said, quite sincerely, “I am living my dream by being here with you, my dear.”

She had smiled tenderly at his words and said that dreams were such starkly contrary things. He asked her what she meant.

“Dreams are never in context, are they? That’s the point of dreams, of reaching for something so impossible, so impractical, often something so undeserved, that the act of wishing for it defines more about us than the actual dream does.”

“But people can work towards their dream,” he had said. “You are writing a novel. That is your dream. You work very hard at your craft, to realize that dream. Thus, if you do, you are certainly deserving of it. And that, my dear, puts the whole thing into the context which you argue is lacking.”

Oliver knew that his wife possessed a first-rate intellect, and was a superb debater, a skill she had demonstrated when they were at university together. Thus, he well knew his argument, however sound or well-intentioned, would not carry the day.

“My novel may be the best writing in the world, but if someone who can manage to have my jottings published does not like what I have written, my dream will never be realized. However, if what I have written is utter drivel, but lands in the hands of someone influential who loves such deplorable writing, I may see my book read by a great many. My dream will be realized, but so what? It’s all dependent on the whimsy of others.”

“You think too deeply of things, Imogen,” Oliver had responded, trying to draw his wife back from one of her moods . “Dreams, either asleep or awake, can be silly and happy, or sad and sometimes frightening, but they are part of what makes us human. I daresay it can make an unbearable life at times tolerable. Is that so wrong?”

She had finished her port before answering. “It is not simply a question of wrong or right, Iggy.” This was her nickname for him, which he loved, because of the intimacy it implied. “It is a question of honesty. To dream is often to deceive oneself. We may dream so often about another sort of life that we forget to live the one that we already possess.”

“There is nothing wrong with aspiring to better things,” he had countered.

“And that is where the context is lost, because who is rightfully to judge what is better? Will a million pounds make things right?”

He had smiled. “Well, I, for one, would not decline such a sum if offered.”

She had glanced at the tin box and, he understood, to the pages within. “I do not wish to live an uninspired life. I also do not wish to live a life not of my own making. I do not want to spend my time seeking something because someone else tells me that what I have is not good enough.”

“But you enjoy writing,” he had said.

“Does anyone really truly enjoy anything?”

He was about to make a flippant remark in order to ease the increasing tension he was sensing from her when he, instead, finished his port and replied, “I see exactly what you mean, Imogen. We must make the best of what we have. To seek out something different merely because it is perceived better by standards laid out by people we may not even know? I would say that is the height of self-deceit.”

She had gripped his hand and given him an imploring look. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes, Imogen, I do.”

It was sometime later that she had had another conversation with him, in this very room. It was a talk that had changed his life dramatically. No, that word was hardly potent enough. It had changed everything about him and his world. And, most critically, his relationship with Imogen.

Not too very long after that, she was dead.

And he had acceded to what turned out to be her final wish, fully and completely.

So, as he did every time he came in here, Oliver rose and left the study, locking the door after him, without having added a single word to the work in progress that constituted the only thing of his wife he had left.

Oliver did not dream anymore, either while sleeping or being wide-eyed awake. He apparently no longer had the stomach for it.

And perhaps that was why it was impossible for him to add a jot to his wife’s unfinished work.

He used his Alberti’s Disk once more to nimbly encrypt a message that represented all that he felt, and all that he had endured every second of his life since her passing.

I will forever love you, Imogen. And that love is matched only by how deeply and terribly I miss you.