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“Have you seen Young and Innocent before?”

“Years ago. Right when it came out in ’37. My brothers and I snuck off to the cinema as often as we could earn the money. We rarely missed a Saturday matinee for years. You?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t see my first film until I moved into the boardinghouse a few years ago. Mum didn’t have any interest in going when I was young, and there wasn’t a lot of extra money regardless. How many brothers do you have?”

A silence falls between us. “I had two.” He stares straight ahead. “I still have a sister.”

“I’m so sorry.” I reach out to touch his arm but pull back before I make contact, uncertain if the touch would be welcome or too forward.

Charlie doesn’t notice. His focus remains fully on the road before us. The only telltale sign of any emotion is the flicker of a muscle in his jaw.

I sit unspeaking and unmoving, unsure of what to say, as there’s a fine line between shared pain and pity. Acknowledging one is fine, but crossing the line to the other feels unendurable. We “poor wee” evacuees from London felt that way for years.

“Me too,” he says with quiet finality. “They were good brothers, good men. I was the youngest. Of the boys. My sister’s the baby of the family.”

“The one who moved to her own flat.” I repeat his words to show I was listening and to try and impart how much I understand his loss and his mum’s sadness. “How old is she?”

“Twenty-two.”

“My age.”

“It’s funny how those few years made such a difference then but none now. Just four years older, I turned eighteen in ’42 and enlisted right away. Holly turned eighteen the year after the war ended and was furious she missed out. Good thing she did, or I promise you she would’ve signed up for any division that would have taken her. All spit and fire, that one, and it would’ve been the end of Mum.” He glances over at me. “Do you have siblings?”

“I’m an only child. I was sent to the countryside in ’39 and got back home in early ’45.”

“That’s a long time away.”

“Almost six years. Everything was different when I came back. I was obviously older, but my dad was gone. Died, I mean, in the war. He’d already left us years before that. But Mum was different too. Weaker. Sadder. She passed away soon after I came back.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorrier for you.”

“I’m not sure one can be sorrier,” he remarks dryly. “Doesn’t it feel like all new friendships have to start here? You ask, ‘Who’d you lose? What was the war like for you?’ It’s not a comparison or a game or anything; it’s just the starting point we can’t get past. I sometimes wonder how long it will last, because five years on, it’s still how we greet every new acquaintance. Do you think we’ll be able to meet someone someday and not ask?”

I pull the wool blanket tight around me. “I hope so.”

“Me too . . . Enough of that.” Charlie throws me a smile. “I did not invite you out tonight to get maudlin on you. On to happier subjects.”

We spend the rest of the drive to Chipping Norton and deep into a very good roast with gravy at the King’s Arms chatting about his work, with one especially funny story of chasing a pig while on duty. And I share a few happenings from the general store and life since I moved to Great Rollright. The conversation is easy and lively and means nothing, but in its delightful minutiae means everything too.

Charlie is easy to talk to, and his eyes remind me of a storm in winter. They’re dark grey tonight in the firelight, with hints of bright only when the light touches them at just the right angle. And they stick. They are intense. He stays fixed, never flitting his gaze about the room as if something, anything, might be more interesting than what’s right in front of him.

Tonight, I’m right in front of him, and his focus gives me a happy, heady feeling, and although the dinner is very good, his attention steals away most of my appetite.

Chapter 11

When we reach our seats in the theatre, Charlie helps me off with my coat and rests both our coats onto the seat next to him. The theatre isn’t too crowded so we have a little space around us and keep talking.

He edges closer as the opening adverts and short films begin. “I was serious before. I hope you’ll let me know if you catch any of those ‘inconsistencies’ you mentioned.” He says the word with an emphasis, as if I’ve promised to share top-level secrets with him.

“Oh no.” I balk. “I’m not blithering on and ruining the film.” I try to say the words with a light confidence, but they come out thin and weak because I’m serious too. I desperately don’t want to ruin this—I want Charlie to ask me out again.

His expression changes. I see it in the lights from the screen. His eyes narrow as he whispers, “Tell you what? Don’t say a word. Every time you see something, squeeze my arm. I’ll try to remember the scenes, and we can talk about them later. A squeeze on my arm isn’t going to ruin the film for anyone.”

“It might for you.”

“Not if I’ve asked you to do it.”