Hide in Time (9 page)

The sound of the sea attracted her and
she turned towards daylight, the end of the tunnel and the shore. The
tide delivered a wave to the edge of the cave and sank it into the
sand with a hiss. She must hurry. What time was it? She looked at her
wrist. Why had she done that? There was nothing there except a band
of pale skin; had she been wearing a wristband? Had she escaped from
an institution? “Escape” – that word rang true. She
dodged the waves to keep her neat, leather lace-up shoes dry and,
noticing the sandy beach further to the right, she laboured across
mounds of seaweed and onto the dry, white sands beyond.

She turned to look at the sea. The sun
was to her left. Did that mean it was morning or afternoon? Was she
facing north or south? Or the east… Where was she? She turned
around to see the high, chalk cliffs imprisoning her. She hugged her
bag. Gosh, she was hungry. Tucking it under her left arm, she
instinctively edged closer to the cliff and felt along the chalky
wall with her right hand. Why was she doing this? But it worked. Soon
a cave, made invisible by the abundant growth of bushes clinging from
the cliffs, revealed a set of narrow steps hewn out of the chalk.
Again she gave into instinct and her right hand remained on the cliff
walls to steady herself. Her left grasped her damp, clinging, sandy
skirt and her bag. She counted the steps as she ascended the dank
shaft.

The seventy-seventh transferred her to
scrubby grass enclosed by wild, high thorn bushes. Beyond was rough,
tussock grassland; but how could she reach it? There was no way
around and certainly no easy way over the thorns. She inspected her
prison. Tunnelling. What about tunnelling? She knelt on the grass and
studied the ground. There was a slight gap between two bushes. On the
other side it looked as though an animal had tried burrowing. A fox,
maybe. Carefully she deposited her bag on the ground, grasped the
base of the scrubbiest bush and pulled hard. It lifted more easily
than expected, she fell backwards and was showered in earth and tiny
thorns. Out of prison in seconds, she retrieved her bag, replaced the
bush, and busied herself with brushing off the dirt. Where was she?
Despite the extreme effort needed to attempt an answer, she refused
to relent. She’d come from the bottom of the cliff, to the
left. Wearily she looked around. Nothing but grass. Tall grass, a
foot or more. She listened intently. There was only the sound of the
waves gently lapping the shore and the occasional breeze whistling in
the tussocks. She wondered how many miles it was to the nearest town
or village and took a few steps away from the cliff edge. A small
tree in the distance caught her eye; a few leaves had turned yellow.
It’s autumn, she thought, and the breeze is increasing. Could
it be an autumn afternoon? Where was the sun? Ah, yes, slightly lower
than when she’d first looked. But she was slightly higher. She
wondered if this made a difference. If it is the afternoon, and the
sun is to my left as I face the sea, then this is a north-facing
coast. But what use was this information?

A distant noise caught her attention. A
racecourse. She was near a racecourse. The unmistakable pounding of
hooves was coming her way. She picked up her bag, and the hem of her
skirt and leapt over spiky tussocks, ditches, scattered lumps of
chalk – until she reached a muddy track. Thundering towards her
was a coach and four horses.

“Whoa, there,” barked the
man with the whip that had been flailing perilously close to the
scarlet-liveried man standing guard at the back. “Whoo, whoo.”
He brought the horses to a halt and bellowed, “Get out of the
way, woman. Are you weak in the mind!”

“Great flumpleducks, girl; what
are you doing here?” A woman, wearing a long, grey skirt, brown
shawl tied around her shoulders and a white mobcap, stepped down from
the coach onto the track.

Instinctively, Xandra put her hand to
her head and felt her own cap with the lacy scarf still tied around
it. If she could have answered, she would have, but she wasn’t
at all sure what she was doing here.

The horses restlessly pawed the ground
and tossed their heads. “Get her out of the way. We’re
already late,” called the driver.

“You mind your manners. You’re
charging a king’s ransom to take us to Canterbury tonight, so
you just…”

“What is it, Martha? What causes
the delay?” A man in clerical garb alighted from the coach. To
say he was amply proportioned would do his physique insufficient
justice. He approached Xandra. “Are you in distress?”

Xandra looked down at her wet, sandy
shoes and the hem of her dress which hung damp, heavy and close
around her ankles.

“Flollops! Of course she’s
in distress. Can’t you see she’s all wet and wobbly?”

Parson Emmanuel Raffles looked both
annoyed and abashed. “Martha, you are to be my kitchen maid,
not my mouthpiece.” He sighed and muttered, “God forbid.”
Drawing in his breath, he boomed, “Return to the coach
immediately.” Waiting to see that she did so, he turned to
Xandra and, in a concerned tone, said, “You do indeed appear to
be in need of assistance. May I offer you the limited comforts of
this…” he sniffed loudly and raised his eyebrows,
“coach. We are bound for Canterbury but you may not wish to go
that far, of course. This being a mail coach, we cannot deviate from
our route.”

Xandra responded in a similar vein.
“Thank you, sir, I should be most grateful.”

“Who’s paying?”
called the coachman.

“I will settle with you at
Canterbury,” Parson Raffles said peremptorily.

Once all were seated on the shabby,
brown upholstery, Parson Raffles rapped his walking stick on the
front of the carriage and the coach resumed its journey.

At least, thought Xandra, I know we are
near Canterbury and that means we are in Kent.

Parson Raffles leaned forward a little,
“Vous etes Francaise?”

“French? Certainly not. Whatever
makes you think…”

“Forgive me. You appear to be
wedded to a travelling bag, you are wet, and you are miles from
anywhere save the shore. Have you been at sea?”

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

Parson Raffles was seated opposite
Martha and Xandra and he took up almost the entire back of the
carriage. He spread his hands to either side to steady himself as the
coach hit a boulder in the road. With resignation he submitted to the
coachman’s bellowing of profanities before continuing, “You
don’t think so?”

Xandra pondered for a moment before she
replied, “No, I can see that my hem is wet, but I cannot think
why. The rest of me is dry.” Had it been raining? Had she had a
raincoat over her? She looked at the two travellers. Well, maybe a
cloak or a cape? Oh, hadn’t she been on the beach? Yes, that
was it. She’d almost forgotten. They clearly had reservations
about her as they still had not introduced themselves properly. She
had learned their names, little more, and the questions kept coming.

“You’ll be a stranger to
these parts, Miss?” said Martha gently.

Xandra looked at the little woman
sitting next to her. She was maybe in her late thirties, small and
cuddly, with a few teeth missing. Xandra wasn’t sure how to
reply.

“It was raining earlier, Miss.
Cloudloads of the stuff, all tipped out at once. That’ll be why
you’re a bit wet. Been through a puddle and lost your cloak by
the looks of it.”

“Where do you wish to alight?”
interrupted Parson Raffles.

Xandra managed only an anxious look.

“The coach will make a stop at
Merrygate,” he added.

While Xandra was trying to decide
whether Merrygate or Canterbury would be preferable for a homeless
person, Martha leant forward and tried whispering to her new
employer.

“I find it difficult to hear with
that ear, Martha. Is this not something that can be said aloud?”

“I was wondering, Mr Raffles, if
she knows much about anything?” Hastily to Xandra she said, “I
don’t mean that unkindly, girl, but you look like you’ve
had a bit of trouble and maybe we could…”

“Acquaint your family?”
Parson Raffles clasped his hands in front of him, peered over his
spectacles, and awaited an answer. When none came, he asked, “Your
name? What is your name?”

Xandra could not answer. She thought
for a long time before saying in her low, soft voice, “I cannot
remember my name.”

“You need to sniff rosemary,”
Martha said as if she were the fount of wisdom.

“Rosemary? Who is Rosemary?”

Martha and the parson exchanged worried
looks. “For weakness of the brain, girl, that’s what
you’ve got.” There was a significant pause before Martha
added, “Probably,” with an exaggerated nodding.

The parson did his best to silence
Martha with a look then smiled compassionately at Xandra. “Rosemary,
the herb. Some say it helps the memory and others that it is to show
we shall not forget someone. Surely you remember your Shakespeare?
Rosemary for remembrance?”

“Yes, yes, I do. From Hamlet, I
believe.” Xandra momentarily looked hopeful then pressed
Martha’s proffered cotton handkerchief to the corner of her
eyes.

“Oh there’s lots of hamlets
round here, girl, but Merrygate’s bigger, more of a town.”

“You mistake my meaning…”
Then Xandra thought again – an explanation would be lost on
Martha and unnecessary for the parson.

“Have a look in your bag, girl,”
Martha said kindly. “See what you’ve got. It might remind
you.”

Xandra had been quite unaware of the
tight grasp she had on her bag and, embarrassed, she looked down and
liberated it from under her left arm. With a returning sense of
security she said confidently, “The answers are all in here. Of
this I am sure.” She opened it a little, endeavouring to keep
Martha’s prying eyes out of its depths. Several sheets of paper
fastened by candle wax lay on top.

“Ooh that letter smells nice,
girl. Never smelled sealing wax with a scent before, I ain’t.
It’s come from a lady.”

The scent was familiar to Xandra. It
reminded her of someone. Who was it? She turned the letter over and
read aloud, “Adam Leigh-Fox, Esquire, “Foxhills”,
Torwell Bridge.”

“Torwell Bridge!” exclaimed
Martha. “I knew she couldn’t be a hated Frenchie.”

Parson Raffles chuckled, “Why, we
are going there ourselves. Not to “Foxhills”, of course,
but we shall see you are safely conveyed there.”

“Have you got something with your
name on it in the bag, another letter perhaps?” asked Martha
with an attempt at a little more decorum and an encouraging smile.

Parson Raffles suddenly threw both
hands in the air, “Martha, Martha, we are staring at it. Her
family name is engraved on the inside. Miss Mulberry, do forgive us,
from now on we can address you correctly.”

“You’re from good stock,”
said Martha feeling the leather.

“I am quite alone; of that I feel
sure.”

“You been orphaned?”
Curiosity overruled propriety.

“Martha! I should like you to
stop your impertinent inquisition now, and please, if you need to
speak, address Miss Mulberry correctly.” Turning to Xandra,
Parson Raffles said by way of explanation, “Martha has just
lost her husband in the war. I have conducted his funeral and she is
returning with me to Torwell Bridge.”

War? Xandra wondered what war. Their
clothes, the mode of transport, the mention of the ‘Frenchies’,
all clues. If she played this carefully she could find out what year
it was, maybe even the full date.

“My condolences to you on your
sad loss, Martha. Was your husband a soldier?”

“Sailor, Miss. Sailor. Round
here, most are.”

Xandra noticed the parson’s
inquiring eyes upon her, though he seemed mostly concerned with
keeping himself upright.

“I don’t travel well, Miss
Mulberry. I pray you will excuse me whilst I leave Martha to engage
you in polite conversation.”

Xandra nodded in assent and turned to
Martha. “How goes the war?”

“Never seems to stop. All this
killing; ’tain’t right.” Martha thought for a
moment before saying, “You not had much news of the war then?”

“I fear I remember so little.”

“Well that Napoleon, he’s
been sent to some island or other, so things are getting better. Well
they should be, girl, er, Miss Mulberry. I do beg your pardon. Then
there’s more war in America…” Martha chattered on
until interrupted by Parson Raffles.

“We are nearing Merrygate. Hush
now, Martha.”

Martha cast a sheepish glance at the
parson before peering out of the window.

Napoleon exiled. 1814. The year was
1814 and it was an autumn afternoon for sure – more trees with
yellow and browning leaves confirmed this. Xandra was reassured to
realize that she might have lost the memory of her own life but she
had not lost her memory of life in general. There must be many widows
like Martha. Xandra looked at her own left hand. No sign of a ring
having been worn.

Hide in Time ~ Anna Faversham

The coach rumbled to a halt and the
post horn rang out enthusiastically until, sounding more like a
strangled cat, it finished abruptly as the driver jumped down,
rocking the carriage and calling, “Canterbury Mail.” The
liveried guard stowed his horn, leapt off and flung open the carriage
door. “Short stop at the inn – just time enough to change
the horses. We’ve got some catching up to do.” He slammed
the door after they had all left, and endeavoured to deter a drunken
man intent on securing passage to Canterbury. Xandra heard the
beginnings of a row but hurried inside the inn.

Upon her return, the man was slouched
across the entire seat facing the front where Parson Raffles had been
sitting; Parson Raffles was remonstrating with him. “My good
man,” said the parson in a manner that conveyed doubts about
his own choice of adjective, “I feel I should apprise you of
the fact that I am a poor traveller and I need to face the front.”