Shadows Gray (21 page)

Dad takes my arm and begins to steer me towards the street.  Though the wind does not blow, the air is still and cold and I wrap my arms around myself, Dad’s hand in the crook of my elbow.  I am wearing what I put on to go to sleep in last night – last night which was at least a hundred years in the future, judging by the fashions on the corseted lady – and I must look a sight in my second best nightgown.  Of course my feet are bare, as are Dad’s, and they feel nearly frozen trudging through the slush as we cross the street.  I feel strangely uncurious about our surroundings, about our new home here.  I don’t care that it may be exciting to live in England so long ago, I don’t care that we could have landed somewhere much worse, I want instead, to pout and be sullen over the loss of my old life.  The loss of Elvis Presley and Gladys and the Blue Beast and cheese in a can.  Who wants to live in a century without frothed milk and art shows and Stevi Nicks?  Not me.  I refuse to look around me and admire the architecture or the local.  Not yet anyway.  It feels disloyal somehow.

We are headed in the vicinity of what I know now to be Prue.  She is standing at the other end of the street, not alone, and as we approach I can tell she is arguing vehemently with the person.  Home sweet home is my Prue, I think.

“It was bloody well your fault, boy, and you know it!” Prue berates a boy, maybe twelve or so, who looks quite terrified.  He is hopping from one foot to the other, as though he is warming up his legs in order to take off at a moment’s notice.  Either that, or his feet are as cold as mine, though I doubt it in his boots. I eye them longingly.  It is usually Israel that begs, borrows, or steals clothes for us all in times like these and I mentally beseech him to hurry before frostbite kicks in. 

“I didn’t, mum, not exactly!” he wheedles.  “I didn’t mean to knock into you like that, I didn’t!  It’s just now I’ve lost them veg and if I don’t bring something back to show for my trouble, my employer is going to have my hide!  It was your fault as well as mine, mum.  You gotta help me by paying for your share!”

Although I don’t know what this boy is blathering on about, I have to give him respect for taking on the likes of Prue.  He’s either remarkably brave or extraordinarily stupid.

“That’s a laugh, boy, you came runnin into me!  Me, an old lady!  Now you want to exploit me for the damages!” Prue snorts and humphs and makes a general show of her displeasure.  I haven’t figured out her game, but she’s playing at something, I’d bet on it.  “Do I look like I have any money?”  She gestures to her nightgown, with her favorite apron tied on top.  The boy reddens up and looks away.

“Well, I can’t go back empty handed,” he mumbled. “Gotta have some story at least for why I lost all the veg. Can’t just admit I knocked it in the river, can I? Cook will kill me if the master doesn’t beat her to it.”  He looks quite miserable.  Even his feet quit their incessant dancing and he holds still morosely, staring at the river to his left as though willing his missing vegetables to bob to the dirty surface.  It must be the River Thames and it looks like nothing so much as slow moving sludge, as thick as cake batter and dark as chocolate in places.

“Cook, eh?” Prue narrows her black eyes.  “A good cook, is she?”

It’s the boy’s turn to snort.  “Who?  Gertie?  She’s real good, mum, real good if you like the taste of coal!” He bursts out laughing and slaps his knee at his own joke.

“And why doesn’t your employer hire someone better for his meals then, eh?”  She pressures.  Ah, I’m beginning to comprehend her wheeling and dealing now.

“Like who?” The boy looks suspicious.  This small talk was not solving his problem and his feet begin hopping again. 

“Like this poor woman you ran down and accosted,” I cut in, adopting a strong British accent without even thinking.  I join him in the feet dance in order to get my blood flowing and stay warm.

The boy widens his eyes. “You must be joking, miss.  I can’t just bring her back to the house!”

“Why not?  You practically injured this poor old woman and now you’re refusing her care and attention? Why, it’s the least you can do!  I witnessed the whole thing and I’m sure there’s a policeman nearby who would be quite interested in the story.  In fact, I’d wager that missing vegetables is the least of your criminal worries, young sir.”  I feel a little bad for him, but the lies drip easily off my tongue and I am freezing and not going to let a chance of sitting by a fire somewhere pass by me without a fight.

The boy swallows visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, as he weighs his options. “Right then, mum.  Miss,” he bows my way.  He even offers his arm gallantly to Prue.

“Oh, I don’t think so, young man,” I continue my stern voice. “I will personally accompany you, along with my father, to assure this unfortunate woman meets no other calamity at your hand.”   I hold my head high and wish I had a long skirt to swish majestically or a parasol to rap him on the head with.  It is difficult to assume the identity of a snobbish gentlewoman with bare feet and all the wrong clothes.  My manner seems to have the desired effect however; the boy sighs but nods and we begin to walk together. Youth is no match for arrogant patronization no matter how confident the youth in question.

“Israel?” I whisper to Dad as we walk.

“Always go back to the beginning,” he replies.  A Lost rule if there ever was one: if you get separated after traveling, continue checking in at the spot where you woke up.  I picture Israel wandering the streets of London in his pajamas and have to stifle a giggle. Dad’s sleeping outfit is nondescript and doesn’t seem too out of place wherever we go: a goal that most Lost women try to emulate with their white nightgowns.  His dark pants and white button down shirt are surprisingly timeless; although very unfinished they could seem as though he was simply interrupted while dressing and didn’t get to finish, thereby neglecting a coat, shoes, and hat.  I groan when I think of my soiled and tattered nightgown back home…I have been in this century before and surely had coins and money of value sewn into the hem.  What a comfort they would be to me now and the things they could buy: hot bread and butter, lodging, shoes.

As we walk, the sun continues to rise, the river continues to give off that cabbage-y smell I noticed before, and the city comes to life.  People begin to emerge from their homes and businesses fling open their doors.  I feel conspicuous in my cold feet and silly clothing, but other than a few odd looks, reminiscent of the corseted lady from earlier, I am ignored.  The boy – Oliver, he says – walks at a steady, brisk pace; whether to keep his body warm or to get to his destination, I don’t know.  He certainly goes to great lengths for his employer, I think; it is quite a jaunt for a vegetable supply.  Perhaps Gertie of coal cooking fame is particular with her groceries. 

I keep my eyes searching for Israel as we walk, but we reach our end at a large house without having seen him, and enter through the back.  Oliver leaves us in the kitchen where a large, rawboned woman – presumably Gertie herself- eyes us suspiciously and stirs a spoon around a pot.  Oliver had scurried out with nary an explanation for our manifestation in her kitchen and when it seems that the anticipation has gotten to her so that she cannot bear it another second, she whirls around and brandishes her spoon.

“What’s this all about then? You that brat’s family? You expectin’ me to feed you, are you?”

“On the contrary,” I reply, rising as gracefully as I can considering my frozen muscles which had only just begun to thaw out by the kitchen fire.  “We are unrelated to the boy, but we do expect a hot meal and hospitality, as I’m sure the lord of the house will no doubt, concur.  My father and I have surrendered our modesty and dignity to see this dear lady to safety after your kitchen boy nearly ran her down.  We have been through a frightful adventure this morning and would like tea, please.  Immediately.”  My words are not only for Gertie; I have heard Oliver’s footsteps returning and have seen a large shadow fallen across the hallway floor.  My words are for the ears of the master of the house.

Gertie eyes me thoughtfully before lowering her spoon.  Whether or not she believes my ridiculous impersonation of a genteel lady caught in an unsavory episode is hardly my concern.  What would Oliver’s employer think?  His retort answers my unspoken question.

“Gertie, hot tea. Madame, if you’ll permit me?” A tall, willowy thin man steps into the kitchen and offers Prue his arm. “I have rung for the doctor but in the meantime I must ask you to lie down and rest.  Please forgive my impetuous Oliver; what his manners lack he makes up for in energy. As far as you go, Sir, Miss,” he nods the way of me and Dad, “I shall return shortly to sort this out.  Oliver is bringing blankets to warm you and do not hesitate to ask Gertie of any nourishment you may require.”  He escorts Prue out of the room, bowing a bit as he does so, his heels clicking together as he dips his head. 

When they are gone, Dad and I accept tea from a grudging Gertie and blankets from Oliver.  My shivers subside and the tea feels like molten lava running down my throat.  It’s heavenly.  Real English tea; Israel will be so happy. 

“Who is your employer?” I ask Oliver in hushed tones as he settles by the fire near me.

“That’s Sir Halloway, Reginald Halloway.  It’s just him who lives here in this big old house.  Has a son but he don’t live here anymore.  He’s a ne’er do well,” Oliver leans in to whisper this bit.

“Ah.  And what exactly is a ne’er do well?”

“Oh you know,” he waves his hand, “He’s a scoundrel is what he is.  Gambles away Daddy’s money and spends it on the horses and booze and the ladies.”  Oliver wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at me and I have to turn my laugh into a ladylike cough.

“Sounds frightful,” I reply, sipping the last of my tea.  “I will be sure to avoid him at all costs.  Thank you for warning me, Oliver. You’re a good lad.”

“You could certainly say so to Sir Halloway,” he suggest earnestly, scooting closer. “You know I didn’t mean to run down that old woman, don’t you?  She about came outta nowhere and plowed me down, that’s what she did!”

I bet she did, I think.  And probably threw the vegetables in the Thames for good measure.  Thanks to Prue’s ingenuity I have a belly full of tea, a warm blanket, and a hot fire.  No matter that it may not last; I will take the gifts as they come, one at a time.  I fully expect Prue to weave a story that will worm her way somehow into this house, but I don’t expect Dad and me to be quite so lucky.  Like Cinderella, our magic will wear off soon enough and we will be exposed for the frauds we are.  If we can secure Prue a position though…and buy enough time for Israel to find clothing and shelter…well, our time here will be well spent. 

“I’ll put in a good word for you,” I promise.  “Whatever good it may do.”

He smiles a smile that is full of sunshine and good humor and at least a couple of missing teeth.  “I like you.  You make me think of Lady Halloway.  She was tall like you and had dark hair too.”

“And what happened to Lady Halloway?”

“She ran off with the livery man ,” Oliver explains, matter of factly.  “Terrible scandal it was.”

“Oh lovely,” I retort, sarcastically. “I remind you of a scandalous trollop, is that right?”

Oliver chokes on his tea.  “No, no, miss!  Course not!  I just meant she looked like you is all.  Bout your size and coloring, that’s it, miss.  Begging your pardon, miss.”

“No harm done, Oliver,” I smile.  I reach over and pinch Dad hard on his leg.  He has been sitting, sipping tea – probably wishing for something stronger – and not listening. “Did you hear that, Father?  I’m the same size as Lady Trollop, I mean, Halloway. Isn’t that interesting?” I turn my attention back to Oliver. “I suppose Sir Halloway was dreadfully angry and gave away all her things?”

“No, it’s the opposite, miss.  Why, he kept everything!  Keeps her room a shrine to her, he does!  Housekeeper tries to convince him to clean it all out, but no, he says.  It’s a shame, it is.”

As imperceptivity as possible, I nod towards the door that Prue had been escorted out, my eyes on Dad. 

‘A dress,’ I mouth. 

And hold the corset, I add in my head. 

Chapter Twenty

With mumbled explanations that are intentional in their vagueness, Dad has exited the kitchen in his shifty quest for dresses, and I am left with Oliver and Gertie.  Gertie has taken to ignoring me, either because she does not like me or because she is embarrassed to have spoken so harshly to someone who may or may not be a lady of high standing.  Oliver on the other hand, prattles on about this and that.  Although I had taken him to be about twelve when first we met, I would now place his age younger.  His gawky limbs are newly elongated, I’d wager, and he hasn’t grown into them yet.   I remember those years, as I was a tall, lanky ten year old as well.

“You do seem a smart lad, Ollie.  You don’t mind that I call you Ollie, do you?”

He beams, his missing teeth a mischievous asset to his mouth.  He nods.

“Well, Ollie, I’m sure I cannot perplex you if I tried, you being so very smart.  What is four times two?”

He responds correctly.

“And what is the name of the third month of the year?”

Again, correct.

“And the date, Ollie?  What is the date today?  Don’t forget the year now.”

Oliver scrunches up his face thoughtfully.  “Well, the year, that’s easy.  It’s 1887.  And I know it’s December…I think it’s the twentieth of December?  Is that right, miss?”  He looks very anxious.