The Shadow of I. Oliver
T HE S HADOW OF I. O LIVER
T HOUGH HIS SCHOOLING HAD ended prematurely, Charlie’s reading and writing skills were acceptable, even if his spelling wasn’t the best. And despite their poverty, Charlie’s mother had always managed to have a few books in the flat. And after she got off from work she would often take Charlie to the small library near their home, where they would sit and read together, if only to have a place with some warmth, quiet, and comfortable chairs. Afterward, when the twilight was commencing, they would occasionally venture to a café near the library, where Charlie would have a small cup of steaming cocoa while his mother would indulge in a pot of tea. And they would split a thick buttery scone when buttery scones were still possible.
He passed where that library and café had once stood. All that was left was a pile of bricks, twisted metal, charred timbers, and the mingled smells of doused plaster and bomb particles, along with a lingering melancholy.
Charlie spotted a milkman, wearing a cream-colored jacket and carrying his metal rack of full bottles, scampering nimbly over the wreckage with a practiced artistry. Charlie and many others felt, however improbably, that so long as the milk kept being delivered, the world was not going to end.
Across the street a woman sat on a three-legged stool painting on a large canvas the scene of destruction in front of her. Charlie learned that these folks had been hired by the government to capture the devastation for “posterity,” whatever that meant. But he had to admit the artists he’d seen were quite good, even if the grim objects they painted made him quite ill.
As he kept walking, Charlie passed motorcars that jerkily dodged obstacles in their path, their tailpipes emitting smoky breaths. On the side of one bus was an advert for Doctor Carrot, a campaign devised by the Ministry of Food that was meant to remind folks, particularly children, to not only eat their carrots, but like them. The only time Charlie had ever heard his gran use a foul word was when they had been out walking and she had seen a sign for Doctor Carrot. She told Charlie that while she liked carrots and they were good for you, she didn’t like the “wily” Ministry of Food trying to pull the wool over the eyes of its citizens.
“They want us to eat carrots and the like because they’ve muddled up the food supplies so badly, Charlie. Bungled the whole thing, so to speak. See, they don’t have to bring the carrots in from somewhere else. Now, I don’t mind sacrificing and we’ve all done our share of that, but don’t lie to me. Don’t treat me like I’m a damn fool. Tell me the truth, even if it does make you look the fool. Otherwise, we’re all thinking one thing: What else are they keeping from us? Trying to make us believe everything’s tickety-boo, when we all can see it’s not. Do they think we’re all bloody doolally? Right, Charlie?”
“Right, Gran,” he had said back, as he always did after one of her little tirades against the government, particularly the Ministry of Food, a popular target of hers.
Even short journeys in the city involved detours, traffic blocks, rubble piles, and cratered streets. The walkers bested the motors pretty much every time. Up ahead he saw Oliver gliding along the pavement, as he passed a soldier guarding the personal inventory of a bombed building that had been piled on the street.
Charlie fell in behind Oliver and followed the man down one street and then another on the long walk back to Covent Garden. When Oliver turned into a narrow lane, Charlie became puzzled, because this was taking the man in a different direction from The Book Keep. Perhaps he was just combining another errand with his visit to Charlie’s digs. Oliver stopped at a ragged doorway, rapped on the wood, and was admitted.
Charlie waited in hiding, and when Oliver came out, he was putting some papers in his pocket. In the opening stood the same short, squat man who had been at The Book Keep the night before.
I wonder what all that’s about , thought Charlie.
As Oliver reached the main street again and turned back in the direction of Covent Garden, Charlie decided to take a shortcut, quickly making it back to the mouth of the alley where The Book Keep was located. This was possible only because the last quarter of the journey he nimbly hung on to the back of a blustery, fast-moving double-decker Covent Garden–bound bus while evading the eye and grip of the conductor, as well as other passengers, who didn’t much care for those who took advantage when they had to pay the full fare.
Charlie sprinted down the alley and then stopped as he saw a slender woman, whose gray hair was curled into a bun, wielding her broom at the curb of the shop across from The Book Keep. Over the top of her head and bolted to the wall was a sign that read THE SECRET GARDEN . Displayed in the window were teas and cakes and other things that Charlie dearly loved but could not afford.
He doffed his cap. “Hello, Miss.”
She turned and eyed him with an unfriendly look. “Hello, boy.”
“I was just wonderin’ ’bout the gent at the bookshop there.”
“What about him?”
“Tall, thin fellow with glasses? I. Oliver?”
“That’s right. Ignatius Oliver.”
“He must like books.”
“I suppose he does, running a bookshop,” she said conde–scendingly.
“Has he been here long?”
She straightened and held the broom in a defensive posture. “Why? What’s it to you?” She ran her gaze over him. “Wait a mo’, where are you from?”
“London.”’
“Don’t be daft. I meant what part.”
“East of here.”
She gave him a knowing look. “I thought so, though you don’t exactly talk like your kind.”
This ruffled Charlie. “Right, Miss, East End, part that got bombed.”
“We all got bombed, Mister Cheeky, thank you very much.” But she shivered a bit. “My younger brother worked at the docks. He was killed in the Blitz.”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Charlie quite sincerely.
She shivered again, and looked at the slice of sky visible in the alley. “Let’s hope we never see the likes of that again.”
“So, is Mr. Oliver nice, then? See, I was thinkin’ ’bout askin’ him for a job.”
She squinted at him. “A job? You’re still in school, aren’t you?”
“I’m all done. Have to make my own way now.”
“Then you can go work in a factory or on a farm.”
“No farms round London, least that I’ve seen. So, is he a nice bloke?”
“Nice enough. I mean, he’s not what you would call outgoing. But I’ve seen him smile now and then. Today, that counts as downright loquacious.”
When Charlie looked at her funny she added, “Means ‘talks a lot.’ He’s also one of them air raid wardens. Goes out in his tin hat, with his torch, and cape all glowing, and looks out for planes and bombs and helps folks what needs it. Takes ’em to the bomb shelters and like. Knows everybody’s name hereabouts. Has to so’s he can keep track of who’s in the shelters and who’s not. Tries to roust me every time, but I usually stay in my basement when the sirens go off. He’s quite brave. Won the George Medal. Pulled some folks from a bombed building that caught fire. He’s still got the burns from that. Then he managed to turn off the gas before it took the whole block out.”
“How come he’s not in the army? He a conchie?” asked Charlie, referring to a conscientious objector.
“He’s too old.” She pointed to her face. “And his eyes aren’t so good. Wears the specs. But the war keeps going, they’ll come for the likes of him, blind or not, I imagine. Won’t be no men left here, young or old. Bloody Hitler. I know the wireless says we’re winning now, and the war might be over soon, but it don’t seem like it.”
“Has he had the shop long?”
“Oh, it wasn’t his shop.”
“No?”
“No, it was… Oh, here he comes now.”
Charlie looked to see Oliver turn down the alley. He said quickly to the woman. “I best be gettin’ on.”
“I thought you were going to ask about a job?”
“I am. But I need to get cleaned up first, put on my best shirt and all.”
“Well, good luck, though most of us aren’t hiring, I’m afraid. Few customers and not much to sell to the ones we do have. But we get by.”
“And don’t tell him ’bout our little talk, Miss. It might be bad luck, for me .”
She watched curiously as Charlie flitted down the alley.