Page 50 of Strangers in Time

T HE T RUE B EGINNINGS OF S OMETHING

I T WAS DAWN AND Oliver had barely slept. Wearing a tattered robe, he moved through the shop touching this book and straightening that one. He removed a bit of dust from a shelf, and a finger mark from the front window with his sleeve.

He then looked down and saw water coming in under the door as the poorly draining cobblestones flooded from all the rain and then sought a pathway into his shop. He hurried to the toilet, seized an old towel, and stuffed it against this gap.

He next walked down the flight of steps, moved over to the doorway, took out the key, unlocked his wife’s study, and went inside.

Some writers preferred early mornings to work their craft, others were inspired with the lateness of night. Still other ambitious scriveners wrote all the time.

Imogen had preferred the late afternoon or early evening to work on her novel, when a day’s other labor had been completed and the events during that time and her corresponding thoughts comingled into a stream of inventiveness that would make the prose resonate, the characters compel, and the story spark. This did not always happen, she had told him. Indeed, it often didn’t, but that did not defeat the logic of her approach.

Writing is often drudgery, she had told him. And no matter how long you did it, the process never became easier. It simply became more bewildering, as though you knew there was a secret to it all, and you’d come close to finding it at times, but right when you thought you had it, the bloody thing just skittered away into the dark recesses of your mind, like the remnants of a slippery dream. But, she had said, in that perplexity and frustration one could sometimes see growth, improvement, and a desire to keep going, which was more than ample reward. Though she had attended lectures where prominent writers claimed to always be in a “perfect” state of self-confidence, Imogen had noted, “such a foolish conviction is like a loaded gun to one’s head, and you are but a single false belief away from never placing credible thought to paper again.”

Overconfidence in his storytelling abilities was not something with which Oliver was the least bit concerned.

He sat down at the desk and stared at the blank page in the Crown typewriter, his longtime nemesis. Having the presence of two children with him now had no doubt added to his anxiety to produce something of worth.

He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, where directly overhead Molly and Charlie were hopefully in peaceful rest. It was quite ironic. Imogen had never wanted children, perhaps more out of insecurity than anything else. She had confided in him her utter disbelief that she could ever measure up to the standard her mother and father had set with her.

Oliver had wanted to be a father, but he wanted Imogen as his wife even more. And now he had a son and a daughter. At least for a bit.

I suppose it’s fortunate that they’re not small children, as you would be sorely out of your depth. But people their age are not an easy lot to deal with, either. Indeed, they are infinitely more complex than the youngsters. They make the most intricate encryptions pale by comparison.

He stared at the paper and it stared contemptuously back. In desperation, Oliver turned to the tin of typed pages and picked up the first few.

The early chapters had been riveting. The war, the struggles and hardship, the deaths, the unending anxiety from looking to the sky every few minutes awaiting the shriek of the air raid siren and then later the scream of the falling bombs.

Further into the story, he read about families divided and lost. Hope gone, day-to-day survival with a dwindling amount of resources available. Anger and dissatisfaction grew, particularly among those who had never felt the government, even in peacetime, could do anything worthwhile. If the state could not help when its citizens most needed it, what use was it? That was a straightforward and thus powerful argument, and was thematic throughout the unfinished novel.

Imogen had taken on that issue deeply and sensitively, and ultimately pushed back against the notion that anarchy or dictatorship was better than a government made up of the will of the people. They had both heard the talk at the shops, pubs, church, and in myriad other places where one listened and learned about what was on people’s minds. There were more than a few here who grudgingly admired the brutal efficiency of the German war machine, the superficial advantage of having one strongman dictate everything for all, in lieu of the unwieldy ebb and flow of compromise required in a democracy.

But for Oliver, as even a casual observer of history could say with complete confidence, such one-man governing structures never ended well for anyone, not even the strongman.

Humans make poor gods. We’re just not up to it.

Imogen had written that as the opening lines in Chapter Eight. It was one of his favorite epigrams.

But then, both of their lives had been transformed in ways Oliver would never have imagined. And maybe that was why Imogen had never finished her book. Yes, that clearly was the reason she had not. And it was also the reason she had died.

He put the pages on top of the tin box and sat back in the old, worn, and uncomfortable chair. This was intentionally so. Imogen did not like to write in comfort. She wanted to feel on the edge of pain as she wrote, so that she could authentically transfer that emotion to the story.

Pain was a universal connection; everyone felt it at some point in their lives, physically, mentally, and/or emotionally. No one, rich or poor, young or old, was exempt from its claws. However, the resulting ache in his back from the unyielding chair prompted no grand ideas from Oliver. His fingers did not even reach for the typewriter keys. He felt inadequate and overwhelmed.

Distracted and dismayed, he looked up at the doorway to see Molly and Charlie staring at him, their faces puffy from disturbed sleep.

He clumsily rose as they entered Imogen’s old sanctum.

Looking around before settling her gaze on the Crown typewriter and the stack of pages Molly said, “Are you a writer?”

Oliver came around to the front of the desk and perched on the edge, blocking their view of both the machine and the pages. For several reasons he felt deeply invaded, a long-kept secret abruptly lost.

“My wife was. A very good one, in fact.”

“Are any of her books here? I’d love to read them.”

“She was writing her first when she died.”

“Oh,” said Molly.

“I didn’t think you’d be up this early,” said Oliver.

“The rain woke us,” said Charlie.

“Really? I found the sound quite relaxing,” said Oliver, though he was, of course, wide awake.

“I mean the water was drippin’ on my head,” explained Charlie.

He and Molly were sharing the small spare bedroom that held twin cots.

“Ah, yes, I’ve been meaning to fix that leak for ages.”

“This is a very nice room,” said Molly timidly, as though she sensed they had disrupted a treasured privacy. But then she stared at the typewriter and her expression changed. She edged forward.

“Yes, I like to come in here. Usually not this early, but…”

“Are you… have you been trying to finish the book for your wife?” Molly drew still closer to the desk, saw that it was indeed a typewriter with a blank page wound in, and her features relaxed.

“What… um, no,” he fibbed. With far more candor he added, “I have neither the talent nor the discipline to do so. I’m much more comfortable with numbers. They are what they are, and they always add up the same way. I prefer that sort of consistency. I do not like unpredictability in the least. Yet that seems to be all there is anymore, which is why the world is so bewildering to me presently.” He stopped abruptly as though chastened by the fact that he had revealed so much of a personal nature.

“Could I read what she has written?” Molly asked.

He put a hand protectively on top of the pages. “That wouldn’t be fair to Imogen. I mean, a story only half finished?”

He led them from the room, closed the door, and locked it.

“Now, would you like some breakfast? I have two eggs, a strip of bacon and a slice of ham, and some bread and margarine and Golden Shred. I’ll need to go to the shops today with my ration book for more provisions. While you’re eating I can take a look at that ceiling. I think a well-placed cloth or two will suffice. Or perhaps moving the cot?”

He went off to the small kitchen to prepare their meals.

Molly said, “I’m not sure he was being truthful. But that was a typewriter.”

“But that don’t mean he’s not doin’ somethin’… bad.”

“But he just doesn’t strike me as the type. And he said he worked for the government. He knows about this Secrets Act thing.”

“I can’t figure it out,” admitted Charlie.

“Do you think we should go to the police? I don’t want to believe that Mr. Oliver is… doing anything illegal. But we do have a duty as British citizens.”

When she had mentioned the word “police,” Charlie had involuntarily glanced at the door where the towel was now soaked through.

Molly followed his gaze. “I wish you’d tell me what’s bothering you.”

He shot her a look and his face reddened. “Right now, everythin’s botherin’ me. We got no parents. We got nothin’.”

“But we’re here.”

He pointed to the door. “There’s a lady over there what runs that tea shop. She’ll find out quick enough that we’re livin’ here and then what do you think she’ll do?”

“What?”

“Call the coppers. She knows Mr. Oliver ain’t got no children. They’ll put us in an orphanage.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“I do bleedin’ know that!”

“Well, maybe an orphanage wouldn’t be so very bad,” she retorted.

“They are, too. I got mates what got sent to them.”

“What mates?”

“Never you mind about that. Just mates.” And now one of them’s dead , thought Charlie. And he had no idea where Lonzo had gotten to. Maybe he had joined the army as Lonzo had suggested at their last meeting.

Charlie couldn’t know that Lonzo would try to do so, only it would go horribly, horribly wrong. For both Lonzo and him.