The Reluctant Time Traveller (11 page)

Frank led the way with me hanging on behind. He suddenly stopped and I banged my nose against the back of his head.

“Steps ahead,” he announced. “Take care.” Steps? They were more like cliffs, or three steps in one. They wound round and round and were so steep you had to practically jump down them, which, in the pitch black when you are trying to be as quiet as a mouse, and your nose is throbbing, wasn’t easy. Without much hope I patted the cold walls for hidden title deeds.

The last few steps were wooden, not stone, I guessed, because they echoed more. At the bottom was a low, narrow tunnel. I kept hold of the edge of Frank’s jacket. I felt like a baby on reins. “Frank?” I whispered, though probably I could have shouted and nobody would hear. The walls were that thick.

“What?” He kept shuffling along and I kept shuffling right behind, the coal bucket clattering against the wall.

“Why do you put up with all this? I mean, why don’t you run away?”

“And starve tae death? Gaunt wouldna gie us a character. We wouldna find another place. And p’rhaps you havena noticed, but Elsie wouldna last two days sleeping under the stars and foraging for berries and begging for scraps. As it is, she can barely carry out her duties. As long as she needs me I’m not going nowhere.” Then he stopped and I bumped
into him again. “I know it’s no up tae much, but it’s a job.” He took in a fast snatch of breath. “And Gaunt will get his comeuppance.”

We carried on inching along in silence, images of Gaunt’s comeuppance flashing through my head. Gaunt thrown off a horse. Gaunt drowning in mud in the trenches. Gaunt with a bayonet stuck through his chest. Gaunt choking on poisoned porridge. I decided we must be underground. It seemed forever we were in that secret passageway. I thought how, when Agnes and I got back to our time, we would try and find this again with Will and Robbie. If it hadn’t fallen in.

“I think we’re nearly there, thank God,” Frank whispered, loudly. We had come up some steep stone steps again. “It’s somewhere round here,” he said, fumbling. I stretched out my hand and hit what felt like wood. We had reached another door.

I had this mad hope that through that door was Mum and Dad and the twins and bright lights and a TV, and my stuff and normal food, and all I had to do was push it open and everything would be back the way it was. Frank could join the gang. He’d love it. And he could go to Peebles High School with Agnes and me.

Frank turned the handle. I gasped at the thunderous creaking noise. He stopped. We huddled in the dark, waiting for Gaunt to discover us. But there was nothing. Not a sound. So Frank pushed again and we piled through into a cupboard, a bit like the one we had started in. ‘Clever’, I thought to myself, figuring out how the secret passageway worked.

“We’re in the boot room,” Frank said. “Watch out for the dead hare hanging up. I trapped it myself.”

I turned a fraction and something furry brushed against my cheek. Gross!

I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t yell out, and next thing Frank
turned another handle, the door of the boot room opened and we were back in the dreary kitchen. Elsie was in her little recess bed next to the range. On the table one candle burned. Frank dropped the bucket, took off his cap, padded over to the sideboard and lifted the huge kettle.

He looked at me and grinned, “A cup o’ tea, Saul?” He looked exhausted.

“I’ll no say no to a cup o’ tea.” That was Elsie. I’d thought she was asleep.

So had Frank apparently, because he told her so.

“Don’t like to sleep afore you’re back safe and sound,” she said.

“Well, I’m back. And so is he. And the blooming American is in his room and you were to put a jug o’ water by his bed.” Elsie threw back her grey blanket with a mutter but Frank held up his hand. “Back to bed. Nobody’s running out to the pipe to fetch water now and there’s precious little here for our tea. We can let him know what thirst is, eh?”

Elsie giggled and pulled the blanket up to her pointy little chin, her straggly hair spilling down around her small face.

Frank set the kettle over the gas flame. “Then once we’ve had our cup o’ tea we can all bed down. For daresay his blinking majesty will be shaking us up at dawn to wait on his fancy guest. We’ll be at his beck and call, you wait. We’ll have to bat away his stinking farts.”

Elsie giggled again. “Aye, and pick his blooming fat nose.”

“And stoop to lift his dropped silken handkerchiefs,” went on Frank, acting it out. They were on a roll now. My head swivelled from Frank to Elsie, like I was at a tennis match.

“They’re all the same, the gentry. They blooming well drop them on purpose just to see us stoop.”

“And then they ring a bell for us tae rise in the middle o’ the night tae shoo mice fae their bed chamber.”

“Or a bumble bee.” Elsie batted the air.

“Or a spider.” Frank pinched a finger and thumb together, and put on a terrified face, like he was transporting a tarantula.

“And carry heavy parcels, our eyes cast down. Oh, sometimes,” Elsie wrung her little hands together and sighed, “I could fair weep at all the blinkin’ work.”

“Well, Mr America won’t know where his famous Scots porridge has been, will he?” At that Frank spat on the ground. “Gaunt never guesses.”

I nodded like I knew what they were talking about. Did they mix Gaunt’s porridge with a bit of horse poo before serving it up to him?

I had gone off my cup of tea, but I drank it. Like Mrs Buchan said, standards were dropping, mine included.

I was worn out and feeling sorry for myself at the end of a long day, and I must have looked it, because just before I went to lie down under my scratchy woollen blanket, Elsie came and gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Poor orphan laddie. But at least now yea’re better dressed.”

I muttered a reluctant thanks. What a joke! I had never been worse dressed in my life.

“There, there, laddie,” she went on. “Lord knows it’s hard when there’s nobody in the world coming to knock on the door looking for yea.”

But as it turned out, Elsie was wrong. Someone did come knocking at the door.

Agnes Brown came knocking at the door, which is how we both ended up working in Gaunt House on August 4
^th
, 1914, the day Britain entered the First World War.

“Just for a few days, to tide us over, mind,” Mrs Buchan said, handing Elsie’s black dress, white apron and white cap to Agnes. “And you, missy,” she said, firing her words in Elsie’s direction, “take three days in your bed to get your strength back. And thank your stars another scullery maid appeared like a blessed angel.” Then the housekeeper glared at Frank, me and Agnes, all lined up like naughty school kids in the dreary kitchen. Agnes curtsied, which I thought was a bit over the top. Mrs Buchan pointed to the ceiling. “We’ve a very important guest to see to. Has he stirred yet?”

Me and Frank shook our heads. “Gaunt wants everything just so. He’ll need the fire seen to.” She said that to me. I nodded, wondering if I should salute or bow. “Yes. Mrs. Buchan,” she said to me, in a spelling-out kind of way.

I could feel my face turning red. “Yes, Mrs Buchan.”

Then she scowled at Agnes. “You can fetch water then set it to boil. Now that the cook’s gone ’tis myself expected to turn out a meal. You can fetch in potatoes, scrub and peel them. Mr Lamb leaves them by the back door.”

“Yes, Mrs Buchan,” Agnes said, not needing any prompt. She already had the funny white cap on. I bet she couldn’t wait to get into the clothes she was holding. For Agnes Brown,
it was like we were in a play. By this time Mrs Buchan was dealing with Frank.

“You, Noble, once you’ve cleaned Gaunt’s boots and skinned that hare, can go into town.” I could see Frank standing up straighter, trying not to grin. He’d already told me how running errands was the highlight of his job. “It seems our American guest wishes a… bicycle.”

Elsie tittered from her recess bed.

“It’s no laughing matter, Elsie Noble,” Mrs Buchan snapped. She turned back to Frank. “Go to Scott Brothers on the High Street and tell them you require a sturdy gentlemen’s bicycle.”

Bikes were
my
thing. I knew everything about bikes. “Please, Mrs Buchan,” I blurted out, “can I go with him?” She glared at me. She saw me as the dirty coat thief. “I mean… I know a lot about bikes. I can help Frank choose a good one.” She stared at me like I was mad. “I mean, I can make sure he doesn’t get cheated.”

Frank cottoned-on quick. “Aye, Mrs Buchan. I could do wi’ a knowing eye. There’s all sorts of bicycles nowadays: sturdy ones, and shoddy ones too.”

“And… I know the difference,” I said, smiling at her, trying hard to shake off my low-life image.

“Course, I know all there is tae know about horses,” Frank said, “but the bicycle is a very different matter, Mrs Buchan.”

Mrs Buchan looked from me to Frank and back to me, but I could tell by the glazed look in her eyes and the way her shoulders slumped that she was past caring. I pictured her in days gone by, a hard-working housekeeper making order in a big, busy, comfortable house. I even imagined her singing in her work, but not now.

“Oh, very well then,” she said with a sigh, “but look smart about it. It’s to go on Mr Gaunt’s account. And make sure it is a bicycle fit for a gentleman. The guest
plans on taking an excursion tomorrow, so I’m told.” Then she raised her eyebrows like she didn’t approve, clapped her hands and we were off. Agnes wriggled into her maid’s outfit. Frank went to skin a hare and I scarpered off to the coal shed. I was going to buy a hundred-year-old bike. How cool was that! I practically skipped on the cobbles, which is pretty tricky when you’ve got blisters and are wearing heavy clogs. Maybe it was also because me and Agnes were together again, but suddenly I felt much happier.

Agnes hadn’t been in the house five minutes before she was on about the deeds. “They’re not in the kitchen,” she told me, “nor near the water-pipe.” We were walking back over the courtyard together, towards the back door, me swinging my bucket of coal – was there less coal today or was I growing stronger? – and Agnes with her big pail of water sloshing around. “What about the privy, Saul?” Agnes giggled. “You know the smelly outdoor loo? Have you checked in there?”

The truth was I hadn’t. Who would put important documents in a privy? “You can borrow my torch next time you go,” she said, “and when you’re in the rooms doing the fires have a good rummage.”

“I have,” I whispered, slowing down as we approached the back door. “I’ve searched down the back of armchairs, under beds, in drawers. Nothing.”

Above us I heard a creaking noise. I glanced up and there was the mysterious important guest, sticking his head out the window. Bold Agnes, probably not knowing how servants were supposed to be not seen, not heard, shouted up, “Welcome to Scotland. Are you enjoying it so far?”

The American looked stunned. “Oh, ah, yes, yes. It does seem a very… ah, peaceful spot,” he stammered before disappearing back inside. It struck me again that he had a
strange American accent. There was something not quite right about it.

But there wasn’t time to worry about that. I lugged the heavy bucket along the dim corridor and Agnes bustled off to the kitchen.

“If you see the master or his guest on the stair, give room.” That was the advice from Frank and here I was, stepping to the side, looking down at my daft clogs while his American majesty swept by. He didn’t even mutter ‘good morning’, ‘or afternoon’, or whatever time of the day it was. When he was past, I carried on, hurrying now. I didn’t know how much time I had. My heart was pounding and not only from lugging the coal. I was going to search in his room for deeds, papers, anything I could lay my hands on.

I slipped in. He had made his bed. The room looked way better than it had last night. All very neat. Must be a tidy sort of guy. A pair of grey socks lay folded on the one chair and a grey jacket lay draped over the back of it. With my heart pounding I fumbled in the pockets of the jacket. My eyes fell on a label inside the jacket: –

And in the pocket I felt a coin, large, like a twenty-first-century two-pound coin. I glanced at it. It was foreign, that was for sure, but I didn’t know from where. I shoved it into my own pocket so I could find out more. Then I hurried over to the fire and swept out the ash. My eyes darted everywhere: under the bed, along shelves, the mantelpiece. I couldn’t see any suspicious papers lying around. I stacked a few twigs then tried to light them. My hands shook so much the match went out, but the next one worked. I threw on a stub of candle wax that Frank had given me. It flared up. Maybe it was the
flames filling me with courage, but after I put on a few coals I started rummaging.

There was a large leather bag next to the bed. It seemed totally unlikely that the deeds of this house were stashed away in the bag of the American guest, but there was something about him that didn’t make sense, and I wanted to look everywhere. Deep in the bag, among what felt like silk shirts, I brushed paper. By this time I could hear footsteps on the stairs. I pulled the paper out and stuffed it in my pocket without even looking at it, then ran back to heap more coals on the fire. The footsteps on the stairs were getting closer. I snatched up my now empty bucket and walked out as casually as I could, my eyes down as I passed the important guest going back to his room.

“She’s a proper angel, your sister,” Elsie said, soon as I opened the kitchen door. Agnes flashed me that don’t-say-anything look. Her and Elsie were hunched over the kitchen table, Agnes now looking like the little maid and Elsie like a patient, with her old baggy nightdress on and a ragged tartan shawl draped over her thin shoulders. There was a jar on the table with buttercups in it that brightened the place up. Agnes and Elsie were huddled over an upturned teacup. Elsie carefully took the cup then turned it back the right way.

“On yea go then,” she whispered to Agnes, “read my fortune, but if it’s bad don’t tell me.”

“It all seems… lovely,” Agnes said, way too fast for a fortune-teller.

I felt sorry for Elsie. She was so eager and pleased. Whichever way you looked at it, her future was bound to be bad. If it wasn’t her cough it was the war. Ill health and death hung over her like a black cloud.

“Hey, Agnes,” I interrupted, “I need to show you something.” I beckoned for her to follow me outside. Next thing we were whispering at the back door.

“I found something,” I said, pulling the piece of paper from the guest’s bag out of my pocket. I fished out the coin too. “And this,” I said, gazing at it properly, “looks old, and, um, foreign.”

We both glanced at the penny, or whatever it was, but
neither of us could work out where it was from. Agnes peered at the paper as I unfolded it; we were both nervously glancing about. “It’s a map,” she whispered. “That’s not the deeds. We’re looking for old papers, handwritten, signed by a solicitor or lawyer, and with John Hogg’s signature on.” Agnes smoothed down her apron. “I have been cleaning the kitchen. Did you notice? I’ve been working so hard.”

It had seemed brighter. “Nice,” I muttered.

“Thanks. Anyway, as I was cleaning I searched from roof to floor and didn’t find a thing.” While she was telling me this I had a look at the foreign guest’s map. The Firth of Forth, Leith Docks, Edinburgh. Ships. The navy. And little red crosses marked here and there. I folded it up and shoved it back in my pocket. “Tourists always carry maps,” Agnes whispered.

A map of Leith Docks? Seemed odd. Just then Frank came running from the stables, flinging his cap in the air.

“Time to purchase a bicycle,” he whooped, waving the key for the gate in front of my eyes. “Come along then – you, the expert in two-wheeled conveyances!”

“Can I come too?” Agnes asked, jumping up and down. “I’ve cleaned the kitchen, polished the cutlery, and the glasses, mended a rip in a jacket and folded the laundry.”

Frank’s eyes grew wide. “Oh,” Agnes went on, “and I fetched water, heated it up and gave Elsie a little footbath. It did her the world of good.” Frank shook his head in disbelief. “Please,” Agnes pleaded, “can I come?”

Then Frank grinned at her. “Drape a shawl about your shoulders then tell Mrs Buchan you’re clean out of salt. She’s in the parlour.”

Agnes dashed off to spin the salt lie.

“We’ll have ourselves a ball,” Frank said, tapping his finger to his nose like we were on some top-secret mission. “Our
American guest,” Frank pointed up to the second floor, “asks that his bicycle be oiled and prepared for two o’clock this afternoon.” Frank whipped out an old-looking pocket watch. “Which gives us two hours.” Then he rubbed his hands together, just like a wee kid on Christmas morning.

Agnes reappeared with a tartan blanket over her shoulders, giving us the thumbs up. “Mrs Buchan says it’s an ill omen to have a kitchen without salt. And Elsie’s fine,” she said to Frank. “She’s resting happily.” Then we were off, Agnes practically skipping along.

I wished I had a camera. Even by 1914 standards I bet we looked pretty shabby. We all had patches stitched onto our clothes at the elbows and knees. Agnes’s skirt looked like it had a whole bit added at the bottom.

We passed people in the lanes who didn’t look shabby like we did. Frank kept taking off his cap and telling everyone we were off to buy a bicycle, like it was a Porsche or something.

“You don’t say the mill manager is putting his hand in his pocket?” one man with a very bushy beard said.

“Hope Gaunt takes a tumble,” said another man next to him, who then spat on the ground.

“And dies,” hissed another. They were all leaning against a wall, smoking pipes and looking like they had all the time in the world.

“The bicycle is no for Gaunt,” Frank piped up. “It’s for our American guest,” and he clicked his heels together, as though that is what Americans did. The men laughed.

Later, as we hurried along the High Street Frank told us these men had been mill workers but since Gaunt came along with his money-saving schemes he’d laid several workers off. “They cost too much, see?” Frank explained.

“Like the footman and the cook at the house,” I said.

“Exactly.”

Agnes’s head was on a swivel. Even though the buildings
in the town weren’t much different from what we knew, the shops in them were completely different.

She read out the sign on what will become a boring old bank branch in the twenty-first century. “Hosier,” she said next, “whatever that means, oh, and clothiers.”

“Ah!” Frank shouted. “That’s what we’re looking for: Scott Brothers,” and at the same time he was doffing his cap to a lady in a wide-brimmed hat. When the lady had swept by, he pointed across the car-less street and I saw the words

next door to a shop where, back in my real life, Mum and Dad sometimes get Indian takeaway. He dashed over and we followed him.

We trouped into this big, dimly lit shop and I couldn’t believe the amount of bikes in there. “It is the new horse,” the shopkeeper said. I could have stayed for hours checking them all out. They were all heavy and black. Brand new but totally old fashioned. Some had no gears and no brakes. Some had really simple brakes, and the newest ones had three gears.

Some names on the bikes I recognised, like Raleigh and Triumph. There was one called Dursley-Pederson,

but the best-looking bike was called ‘Sunbeam’.

“It must be sturdy, Mr Scott,” Frank said, while Agnes gazed about wide-eyed and I ran from bike to bike checking on spokes and chains and saddles. “And fit for a gentleman.” The saddles were hard leather with huge springs under them. The frames weighed a ton.

The shopkeeper waved in the direction of the most
expensive bike. It was the one I liked best. “The all-black three-speed Royal Sunbeam for gentlemen,” he quoted, “with hand-applied rim brakes. A bargain for fifteen pounds, four shillings and sixpence.” Frank looked like he was going to keel over. The shopkeeper didn’t bat an eyelid. I nudged Frank and nodded at the Sunbeam.

“It’s a beauty,” I said.

“And sturdy,” Agnes added. Frank looked on amazed as I wheeled the big bike out.

“Aye, fine,” the shopkeeper said, waving us out the shop. “I’ll add it to Gaunt’s account.”

We stepped out the shop and suddenly the church bells started to go mad. This wasn’t like they were chiming the hour of the day, or some tinkling Christmas carol. This was urgent clanging. Everyone was surging up the High Street towards the church. Horses neighed. Children cried. People shouted. Dogs barked. People were pushing past and bumping into me.

“You know what this is, don’t you, Saul?” Agnes said, grabbing hold of my arm in case we got separated. I wheeled the bike into the crowd.

The CLANG-CLANG of the bells slowed down. The crowd jostled to get near the front of the church. The horses stopped whinnying. The children stopped crying. The last bell tolled, then a hush fell over the crowd. A man in a big top hat came out and stood at the top of the stone steps.

“Ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys,” his voice boomed out, serious and slow. “It is my duty to inform you that today…” he paused and took a deep breath, “…today Britain has declared war on Germany.” A gasp ran around the crowd. “We are at war,” he announced.