Words of a Feather
W ORDS OF A F EATHER
A T DINNER THE NEXT night Molly could barely stay awake. Oliver filled their plates with what he had managed in the way of food. Their teacups were up to the brim at least. Charlie looked as tired as Molly. His eyes were half-closed as he forked some potato and then a sliver of parsnip into his mouth.
Oliver sat down and eyed them both. “Rough days, I take it?”
Molly stirred. “Three patients died today, and I would be very much surprised if we didn’t lose a similar number tomorrow.”
“That is awful, Molly,” said Oliver.
“I delivered four more ’a them telegrams,” said Charlie. “‘We deeply regrets to inform you…’” He put his fork down.
“Did the people have someone with them when they got the messages?” asked Molly.
“One didn’t. She went right down to the floor. I hugged her till a neighbor come along. Couldn’t think ’a nothin’ else to do.”
“I’m sure it was of great comfort to her, Charlie,” said Oliver.
Charlie shrugged. Next, he rose and did something he had never done. He left the table without finishing his food. He went to the room he and Molly were sharing and closed the door.
“He’s upset,” said Molly.
“He has a right to be. He’s lost his entire family to this damn war. And look at what you have to confront on a daily basis. It’s not fair. None of it.”
“War doesn’t care about what’s fair. It’s like a virus. It only wants to invade and do harm.” She put her fork down. “I do have a question.”
He settled an anxious gaze on her. “All right.”
“When you told me about Imogen and the decisions that she had made, it caused me to think about what my father had done, the decisions he had made.”
“And what exactly did you think about?”
Molly composed herself and told Oliver about her mother being savagely attacked by the men in the bomb shelter.
“God. What a bloody, foul thing. People coming for safety and finding just the opposite.”
“Perhaps… perhaps he killed the soldiers because they represented the government that refused to help him,” she said, glancing nervously at him for Oliver’s reaction to her words.
“That could have been the case. But killing innocent people is never right, Molly.”
Her features crumpled. “I know. And he blamed himself for what happened to my mum, I’m sure of it. Poor father.”
“A terrible, terrible guilt to have to bear,” noted Oliver quietly.
“Do you… do you think he might have gone off to… kill himself, like…?”
Oliver looked deeply troubled with her query. “I really have no idea, Molly. Any answer I could give would be based on pointless speculation.”
“I mean, it would explain why he’s been gone all this time. Why he’s never written or tried to contact me.”
“People are very complicated. And your father had your mother and her maladies to worry about, and your welfare to think about, too. And remember that he did work for England and from what Major Bryant told me, he was very good at his job. Very brave. It’s just that—”
“—he made the wrong decision.”
“As did Imogen,” replied Oliver.
“But she tried to make amends, while my father—”
“Yes,” said Oliver. “Quite so.”
Later, Molly got into a pair of old pajamas that had once belonged to Imogen, and went to her room. Charlie was lying, still fully dressed, on his cot, staring at the ceiling.
“Charlie, it’s late. You need to go to sleep.”
He said nothing, as was usual when he was like this, she knew.
She sighed, got into bed, and turned off the small lamp.
Later, she awoke and noted the glittering of a light.
It was coming from a candle resting in a holder on the table between their cots.
Charlie had his pen, and his journal, and he was writing in it.
Molly had seen him do this before. “What are you writing tonight?” she said sleepily.
He glanced at her. “Just this and that. Muckin’ round.”
“Will you ever let me read any of it?”
He glanced at her with a smile. “You need to stick to real books. They’re better for you. Learn thin’s.”
“Yours could be a real book one day that I learn from.”
“I doubt that. I can’t even spell good,” replied Charlie.
“Someone can spell everything quite nicely and it still wouldn’t be worth reading. I’ve read books like that. Or tried to.”
Charlie grinned as he looked at her again. “You got a wonderful heart, Molly, like my mum. I’m glad we’re friends.”
She smiled warmly in return. “Comparing me to your mother is an amazing compliment, so thank you very much. And we’ll always be friends, Charlie. No matter what happens.”
She turned over and fell back to sleep.
Charlie looked at his page and silently read what he’d written.
Of awful messages delivered to families unprepared to receive them. But as Arthur Benedict had pointed out, the families deserved to know, and it was Charlie’s duty to bring them that information. He supposed he should feel good about that, but he really didn’t.
Later, he put his pen and journal away, and picked up the photo of his mom and his dad that Oliver and Molly had brought back from his old flat.
“Good night, Mum. Good night, Dad. Love you both.”
Four hours later the phone rang.