1942

Cigarettes and Evening Strolls

"He's doing it again!"

Jenny was mistakenly convinced that the kitchen was soundproof as she was caterwauling in her hysteria, confident that Charlie wouldn't be able to hear her. But her frantic ramblings snaked through the open window, making it easy for Charlie to eavesdrop if he positioned himself underneath it. "He told me it was 1942 and was scolding me about rations, Molly! What on Earth am I supposed to say to that?"

Charlie couldn't see Molly, Jenny's unexpected confidante, but he could picture her heart-shaped face framed by mousy curls, sheared into a pixie-cut that tickled her chin, her hazel eyes snared in a moment of sadness, no doubt nudging a cup of tea into Jenny's hands to calm her down, resting a hand reassuringly on her back. Charlie didn't like imagining her downhearted for she could make his day just by smiling, showing off the dimples in her cheeks and the smile lines creasing her eyes. Charlie couldn't help childishly despising  Jenny for making him appear insane to a girl he wanted to make a good impression on. If anybody was crazy, it would be Jenny. Charlie listened to whispers following him in the street about how grief can twist a person, can make you forget and dream for things that aren't there. Jenny missed her son, John, Charlie understood. Forgetting it all seemed dangerous, however, and Charlie felt the need to bring it up with Molly, who was a nurse. 

"I think you should just go along with it," Molly said soothingly, her voice husky yet gentle. "He doesn't need anymore confusion."

Charlie tilted his head back to soak up the last rays of the weak November sun before it nestled into the horizon. He'd lost his seat at the table as soon as Molly appeared, wearing a sombre expression that didn't match her adorable fluffy coat. Jenny knew that Charlie had adopted a nasty habit of eavesdropping and sent him outside like a dog to a kennel, wrongly assuming that would prevent him. Instead of sulking however, he'd gripped onto his elated mood by tucking into a cigarette, watching as the smoke dissipate into the pale blue depths of the skies. He imagined the billowing white air being a material thing, snagging on the naked branches of trees and getting caught on chimneys; the thought was strangely therapeutic. It even helped him to forget the discomfort of leaning against the rough, ancient brick of the house and of his lanky legs bent at odd angles as he sprawled them across the patio stairs.

"How can I?" Jenny wailed.  "I'm not exactly a history fanatic... I don't know anything about 1942. He'll know, he'll figure it out. We may as well tell him."

History? Perhaps she meant that these dire times would go down in history; everyone would talk about the Great War for many future centuries. Maybe she was still confused; he imagined her mind to be a disorientated timeline, ordered by a delusion. Charlie reasoned unconvincingly to himself that it could be naivety due to living deep within miles of country and forests, fields and crops, far away from the metallic danger that tolled like a bell elsewhere. Everyone knew of the danger that dwelled in the city. Charlie himself had been evacuated from his birth parents to live with Jenny when he was 13, three years ago. He knew it was to keep him safe from the bombs but, now, every time he tried to conjure up an image of his mother and father, all he could imagine was a faded photograph with the faces scratched out with purpose and anger. He didn't dwell on it. The war would be over soon and he'd be able to see his parents again – all would be well... A tiny voice whispered that the evacuation was to save him from those faceless people. He banished it, pinning it down to a lack of sleep.

"I know its hard," Molly cooed, "but you have to at least try, for him."

Charlie simply told himself that Molly must be following her own advice. She would be following Jenny's delusion, as not to remind her that her son was in a different world, where mud formed the ground and slipped away beneath them, leaving him helpless to a vicious tirade of weaponry. Molly must know how she felt, the dread, the constant panic, those 3am wake ups wondering where they are – her brother was fighting alongside John.