After he finished reading the story, a burly man with a flushed face walked over, clapped Lionel on the shoulder, and handed him a glass of dark beer:
"Well done, kid! That story was damn interesting! My treat!"
Lionel thanked him, took a sip of beer, and his throat was moisturized, alleviating much of his hunger and fatigue.
With drinks flowing, the atmosphere became more congenial, and Lionel, at everyone's request, read some other contents from the newspaper:
A bizarre theft case in the East End, several product advertisements and missing persons notices, some scandals involving high-ranking government officials and nobles...
His voice was clear, his delivery fluent, and the occasional short comments he interspersed seemed insightful, earning him unanimous praise from the drinkers.
The owner was very satisfied with Lionel's performance.
As soon as Lionel finished reading, he immediately counted out a sixpence coin, placed it on the bar with a clink, and then brought him a simple meal from the back kitchen:
A large slice of black bread, a thick piece of fried bacon, and a bowl of steaming potato soup.
The owner grinned:
"Here's your pay and dinner. Kid, interested in making this a regular thing? I think you're much better than Jim!"
Lionel thanked him while taking a bite of the bread; his hunger made the simple food taste exceptionally delicious.
Just as he was thinking of how to politely decline the owner's long-term offer, an old regular, who had been listening particularly intently, approached him.
He was an old man dressed in old work clothes, with a face full of wrinkles, clutching a worn-out hat in his hand, looking somewhat self-conscious.
The old regular spoke timidly, with a heavy accent:
"Sir, I see you are literate and a learned man... I wonder if you could do me a favor? When Old Smoker Jim was around, he often helped us write letters too..."
Lionel swallowed the food in his mouth and looked at him:
"You want to write a letter?"
The old regular nodded eagerly:
"Yes, yes, to my son. He's in India, serving the Queen.
I, I can't read or write, and I'm slow-witted. I want to tell him everything is well at home, so he doesn't worry and serves well, but I can't write it myself..."
Lionel looked at the old man's pleading eyes, then at the sixpence coin on the bar, and hesitated.
He had originally planned to leave as soon as he finished eating, but the old man's hopeful gaze made it impossible for him to refuse.
Finally, he nodded:
"Alright, I'll help you write it after I finish eating."
Seeing this, the owner brought a small folding table and a chair from behind the bar, setting them up in an out-of-the-way spot next to the bar.
Then he placed an ink bottle, a stack of stationery, and a bald quill pen on the table.
The owner smiled and said,
"These were all left by Old Jim; his family hasn't come to collect them yet, so just use them."
Lionel sat down, unfolded a sheet of paper, picked up a quill that seemed usable, and dipped it in ink:
"You speak, I'll write. What's your son's name? Do you know his unit number?"
The old man excitedly rubbed his hands and began to dictate disjointedly.
The content was nothing more than everything being fine at home, his mother being strong and healthy—actually not so good; his sister about to get married—the fiancé's character was acceptable.
Telling him to be safe out there, eat well and dress warmly, not to worry about home, serve the Empire well, and strive to earn merit...
The language was simple, even a bit jumbled, but it was full of the most unadorned emotions of the common people and their concern for their faraway son.
Lionel listened attentively, writing furiously.
He did not fully replicate the old man's original words but organized the fragmented information into coherent and appropriate language.
He retained the genuine paternal affection in the old man's narrative, removed some overly trivial and repetitive parts, and added a touch of elegant expression and blessings.
His handwriting was clear and beautiful, so the entire letter read both intimately and exceptionally dignified.
After writing the letter, Lionel read it back to the old man.
Listening to the fluent and warm sentences, the old man's eyes welled up slightly, and he nodded repeatedly:
"Yes, yes! That's it! Sir, you wrote it so well! Even better than what I had in mind!"
He tremblingly fumbled in his pocket for two pennies, which he solemnly handed to Lionel:
"Thank you, sir! Thank you so much!"
Lionel initially wanted to decline but accepted when he saw the old man's persistent and grateful gaze.
These two pennies seemed even heavier than the sixpence he had received earlier.
This scene was observed by others in the pub.
Soon, another young customer, looking like an apprentice, timidly approached the table, his face flushed with shyness and nervousness.
The young man's voice was very soft:
"Sir... could... could you also help me write a letter?"
Lionel looked up and asked gently:
"Of course. To whom?"
The young man's face turned even redder, and he stammered:
"I... I want to send it to my cousin in Southampton... to... to propose to her.
But I'm slow-witted and can't think of any passionate words... I'm afraid I won't write it well enough to move her..."
Lionel looked at the love-struck young man, smiled slightly, unfolded a new sheet of paper, and picked up the quill:
"No problem, what's your cousin's name?"
——————
"The sea breeze of Southampton is as gentle as my longing for you at this moment."
"The smile beneath the brim of your hat is brighter than all the lights in the harbor."
"These ordinary moments, like scattered pearls, are strung together in my memory into the most precious necklace."
"Every moment I spend polishing parts and tightening screws, I think that I must work harder to build a warm home for us."
"I have no vast fortune, only a pair of hands and a heart full of you."
"I don't know how many storms the future holds, but I long to be the one who shelters you from them."
...
As the apprentice read the love letters that, though flowing from his heart, had been refined, his eyes instantly reddened, and his lips trembled, almost to the point of crying.
He tightly clutched the letter, as if holding the most precious treasure in the world, thanking Lionel repeatedly and pressing two pennies, warm from his palm, into Lionel's hand.
Then, as if afraid the letter would fly away, he carefully cradled it and practically ran out of the tavern.
With these two successful examples, other customers in the pub were also moved.
They might not have had letters to send immediately, but Lionel's writing was truly beautiful, and his handwriting was too elegant, completely incomparable to "Old Smoker" Jim's.
Jim's education only reached the first year of middle school; he could barely read the newspaper, his handwriting was crooked, and his letters were much like his spoken words.
This ignited a desire to confide that was deeply hidden in their hearts—
After all, this young man seemed only to be staying here for one night, and it would likely be difficult to find such a high-caliber ghostwriter again in the future.
Soon, a dark-skinned worker sat down in front of Lionel, his tone awkward:
"Sir... could... could you help me write a letter to my old mate Tom?
He moved to Manchester the year before last... I just want to tell him I'm still alive, that London Tower Bridge has been renovated... that work has been good lately...
The 'Old Eel' tavern where we used to drink has closed down... Sigh, I wonder how he's doing..."
Lionel nodded, unfolded a new sheet of paper:
"Of course, please speak slowly."
Unbeknownst to anyone, the customers in the tavern had stopped their loud clamor; even when they won a card game, they would only clench their fists and wave them in the air.
The owner watched all of this and poured Lionel another drink, this time fine brandy.
(End of chapter)