The Reluctant Time Traveller (5 page)

I wriggled through the open window with the bulky coat in my arms. Agnes was under the window, hiding in the shadows.

“The height of fashion,” she whispered. “Ok Saul, time to go to town!”

The two of us pounded up the garden, Elsie still shrieking behind us. We knew the garden well, and were soon out of sight of the house. No one was coming after us. We darted round behind the den, and stopped there, hidden. My heart was pounding.

There was no more shrieking. We were going to have to make ourselves scarce, but we were hiding behind our den! I so wanted to go in and see what it was like in 1914. By the way Agnes was staring at it, so did she.

“Just a quick peek,” I whispered. I shot a glance back up the garden. Still no movement.

Agnes lowered her rucksack. I dropped the stolen cape over it and we sidled round the hut. “What if someone’s in here?” We were both pressed up against the hut, trying not to make a sound. “Budge over,” she whispered, nudging me, and she lent sideways to peer in through the window. “Oh,” she gasped, “it’s lovely.”

She was right. It was so tidy inside. No one was there. There was a bed, a little table and a chair. A jar of roses stood on the table beside a pile of books. Leaning up against one
wall of the room was a row of garden tools.

whispered Agnes, reading a piece of stitching on the wall above the bed. “How cute.”

“Someone lives here,” I said.

Agnes elbowed me. “There’s someone over there,” she whispered, “where we usually play. Look!” She was right. Where we were used to seeing our grassy mucking-about space there was a big vegetable garden with rows and rows of green stuff. And there was someone in it, hunched over. “Probably the gardener. I think he’s picking carrots,” Agnes whispered. Thankfully he was so focussed on his carrots he didn’t turn round.

We hurried back to where we’d left our stuff, grabbed it and pelted for the hole in the hedge. By habit, we were going our usual way. But the hole in the hedge wasn’t there. And the hole in the wall wasn’t there either. There was no way we could wriggle through a thick hedge then scale a high wall. And we had to get out of this garden before Elsie rounded up the servants to search for us. It felt a shame to leave the den, but it wasn’t ours yet, and if we didn’t get a move on it wouldn’t be ours ever again.

“I saw a gate,” Agnes said, “we can get out that way. Let’s go.”

So away we ran, down the long garden, darting from tree to tree. Now we had a gardener to avoid as well as a maid, a stable boy and a housekeeper. He might pelt carrots at us. And what about the dreaded master who might turn up at any moment? He might lock us in the broom cupboard, and whack us with a stick. He might cart us off to a home for misbehaving children. When we reached the farthest end of
the garden, we were out of breath and a bit panicked.

“There!” Agnes hissed, pointing to tall black iron gates. These didn’t survive into the future. But right now they were ahead of us, closed, and very high. Agnes stepped boldly out onto the gravel drive to try the big black iron latch. The gates were locked. I tried too but they wouldn’t budge.

I groaned.

“We’ll have to climb over,” Agnes said, like it would be easy-peasy. Did she not notice these gates were way higher than the climbing wall at school? And there were no foot grips. Was she mad? “We can grab one of the iron rails and go up hand over hand. Unless,” she said, “you’ve got any better suggestions?”

I could hear distant drumming. I tugged Agnes’s arm and pulled her behind one of the thick bushes that grew along the wall on either side of the high gates. I squatted down and shoved the huge black cape thing over us. The drumming came closer.

“I think that’s a horse,” I mumbled. Agnes put her ear to the ground then lifted her head, giving me the thumbs up. “Don’t move,” I whispered. Our disguise, I thought, was pretty good. We were squeezed in the middle of a bush with a black cape over us. A sniffing dog would find us but otherwise we’d be safe. The hooves came nearer.

If horses and people were coming to the house, someone would open the gates. An escape plan took shape in my head. A better one than trying to scale the high gates. “Soon as these huge gates open, get ready to run.” I hissed. “The second they’re in, we’ll nip out!”

“Steady there, steady! Whoa! Steady now!” A man’s voice rang out. At the same time a horse neighed loudly. “Noble!” the man roared, and next minute I could hear footsteps running. By the funny clacking noise, I knew it was the stable
boy in his broken boots.

“Coming, sir,” he shouted. “Be there in a minute, sir.” Then a jangling noise, a key clicked, the gate creaked, a horse whinnied.

“Why so slow, Noble? Sleeping on the job again, eh? I’ve been waiting a full five minutes to enter my own estate,” the man bellowed. This, I guessed, was Gaunt.

If we were going to get out we’d have to make a run for it, now. I pulled the cape down and peered out. The man who must be Gaunt was riding his horse through the gate.

I pulled the cape off. “Run!” I hissed.

Agnes was on her feet in a second. We stepped out from our hiding place behind the bush and there we were, in the open air. But my plan was perfect. Gaunt was heading towards the house, already past us. The stable boy was holding the open gate. He swung round, surprised, when he heard us.

“Let us out, please?” Agnes whispered. Before he could decide, we tore through. Agnes spun round and waved to him. “Thanks!” she called, then we turned and ran.

We knew our way. Over a wall, across a farmer’s field. That hadn’t changed. We didn’t stop running until we reached the top of the lane that wound down into the town centre.

There, we leaned back against a wall, panting and bright red in the face. I tried on the cape, throwing it around my shoulders. I looked ridiculous. I knew I would. And my trainers definitely gave the game away. Agnes had lost a flip-flop in the field so she threw the other one away. With her baggy old brown dress, curly hair and bare feet, she did look pretty historical.

“I hope that poor boy is ok,” she said. Then she looked down at my feet and frowned.

“What’s up?” I grinned at her. We had escaped. We were in Peebles. No one had come after us! I couldn’t wait to do a bit of exploring now. This was it. The adventure could begin.

“You’re going to have to take your trainers off,” she said. “Hide them. Trainers haven’t been invented yet, especially
ones with a fluro stripe. You’ll freak people out.”

‘What about my feet?’ I wanted to say, but I knew she was right. I took them off, wondering where I could hide them. I liked these trainers. They cost a lot of money. Mum would be fuming if I lost them.

“Under that pile of logs,” Agnes suggested, pointing to a neat stack outside a house in the lane. So I carefully dislodged one log from low down in the pile, slid the trainers in behind it, then slipped the log back in. I tried to memorise which log. Agnes was yanking at my cape. “Come on,” she said, “let’s go.” And she was off. This time it was me following her. She still had her rucksack on, bobbing up and down on her back. She thought it blended in fine. It was old fashioned, but not that old fashioned.

The cape flapped about and was really awkward to run in. “If Will and Robbie could see me now,” I thought, and started laughing. Once I started I couldn’t stop. Try running and laughing at the same time. And try running barefoot when you’re not used to it. Because just then I stood in a big pile of horse poo. That stopped me laughing. I yelled. It was gross. And it was everywhere. Looking up I saw dollops of horse poo all up and down the road. You don’t get that on this lane in the twenty-first century. I shook my foot about, as if that would do any good.

“Look at the daft laddie,” somebody shouted. Next thing people were gathering around me. Barefoot kids, a couple of skinny dogs, and an old man with a grizzly beard. They were all staring at me. I felt stupid with a mucky foot but held my head up, like I didn’t care.

“Let’s go and wash it off in the river,” said Agnes. She actually blended in well with the other ragged barefoot kids standing about. Except maybe for the rucksack. We headed down the cobbled wynd to the river, plonked ourselves down
on the bank and I dunked my dirty foot into the water. That felt good. I dipped my other foot in too. Agnes took off her rucksack and did the same.

We sat there for a while, with the river running past and people walking by on the other side. It was a nice day. The kids looked ragged and the boys wore long brown or grey shorts and baggy shirts. The girls had on dresses and flouncy aprons. They mostly had bare feet too. They had long hair, most of the girls, curly, like Agnes, or in plaits with huge floppy ribbons. Some had wide-brimmed hats on.

“I think we got it right, Saul,” Agnes said. “I do believe it’s 1914.”

“So, where are all the soldiers?”

“The war hasn’t started yet, silly!” she said, and poked me in the ribs.

The cool water tickled my toes. 1914 was ok. The river was the same. Peebles felt like the town I knew, just with more sheep about and horses. And horse poo in the streets. There were more children too. The children were all out, playing and running about, without any parents with them, even little ones. The bells on the church clock rang out, sounding just like they do in the twenty-first century.

A rowing boat came down the river. There were three people in it, all dressed up with straw hats on, lazily trailing their hands in the water over the side of the boat. It looked like a painting. Everything felt so peaceful. Maybe 1914 was actually better than the future?

“Too bad Peebles doesn’t have rowing boats on the river in the twenty-first century,” I said. “I like it here.”

Agnes nodded, pulled a small towel from her bag, dried her feet then flung the towel to me. “So, great traveller through time,” she said with a wink, “let’s keep walking. We can check out the town, maybe try and find my great-great-great-great
auntie Jean? At least, Gran thinks she’s called Jean. If she’s not Jean, she’s Joan.” Agnes swung her bag onto her back and grinned at me.

I jumped to my now really clean feet and we walked on. The cape was a serious nuisance. And I looked stupid in it. It covered my clothes from the future, but I didn’t look like the other boys around us. What I really needed was some baggy shorts like they had on. If we had some money, we could probably buy a pair. I had two pounds in my pocket but no one in 1914 would recognise the coins. Pound coins hadn’t been invented yet. And these ones had dates on them that would blow everyone’s mind. So they were no use at all.

But they gave me the idea how we could earn some 1914 coins.

“You’re a good singer, Agnes.” I said.

She cocked her head to the side. “Meaning?”

“We could give history a pop song. Bit of Adele maybe. Or The Who – they’re old fashioned. Or you could sing the Robert Burns song you like “For a’ that and a’ that” I chanted. “We could get some 1914 money and use it for clothes, and maybe something to eat. We can’t go on stealing. Then we really will get locked up and be stuck here forever.”

Back in our time, Agnes’s dad played the fiddle on Peebles High Street. He could make about £50 on a good day. Agnes knew all about busking. “Well, Saul,” she said, “if I am going to stand on the street corner and sing, you’ve got to join in. Promise?”

There is totally no way I would normally promise to stand on the street corner and sing. But we weren’t in our time, so I did!

The Peebles streets hadn’t changed much, so I had the feeling that I knew my way about, kind of. I was keeping my eyes glued to the ground not wanting to go stepping into horse dung again. Agnes, skipping along beside me, kept up a running commentary.

“Like I expected, hardly any cars. Horses, of course. Big plodding horses, Clydesdales mostly, pulling carts and carriages. No sign of a war though,” she went on, lowering her voice. “No posters up saying

– not yet!” By this time we had reached Peebles High Street and were walking along the pavement. Agnes said she was pretty certain horses weren’t allowed on the pavement, so I could relax.

“Nice car,” Agnes said, admiringly. She was right. It was slowly chugging along at about 5 miles an hour. The driver was pressing one of those rubber horn things, and waving like he was the king. The car was yellow and didn’t have a top. It looked more like a posh horse carriage than an actual car. The folks on the street all flocked to see it. People waved to the driver. Some took off their caps and waved them in the air. “Maybe he’s famous, like a celebrity,” Agnes whispered, as the
car pulled up close to us. With more toots on the horn and a wheezing sigh on the brakes, the famous yellow car stopped. A small crowd gathered and some people reached out to touch the paintwork.

The driver, who was dressed in tweed knee-length trousers and a fancy jacket with a yellow scarf around his neck, was clambering down. He was telling the crowd to keep their grubby little paws off his spanking new motorised car.

Next to us an old man with a walking stick was shaking his head and talking away to whoever would listen. “Aye, it’s young Anderson. I mind well when the Andersons had not much more than a horse and a few sheep to their name. Then this one’s father came back from Glasgow and built the cotton mill. Now they live in a great house like a castle. And look, here’s young Anderson gone and bought a fancy new motor, like some lord of the manor. I remember when if you were born to a bit of land, you lived on it and died on it. But it’s all change now. Andersons acting like lords and ladies, and driving round in motors. Who’d a thought of it.”

Agnes wasn’t distracted by the old man. She nudged me. I knew what was coming. Her dad was always saying how you had to take advantage of crowds. “Remember,” she hissed, rummaging in her rucksack, “join in!” She pulled out the stable boy’s cap and shoved it into my hands. I felt a proper fool standing there begging, especially with a damp cap, but Agnes burst out singing.

The crowd turned their gaze from the yellow car to the singers on the street. Us! Agnes sounded good. She was used to busking, because of her dad, and you could tell she came from a family where they sang a lot. Her voice rang out all
clear, filling the street.

I felt my cheeks turn beetroot. I didn’t even know the words. How was I supposed to join in? So I hummed the tune. I had to do something.

“I like a good song,” the driver of the car announced, his voice booming and his big moustache wriggling up and down. Things were going to plan. He plunged his hand into his jacket pocket, brought out a coin and placed it into my cap.

I mumbled “Thank you,” and Agnes kept singing.

A few folk in the crowd clapped along with great gusto.

Passers by stopped to listen. There was one woman in the crowd who, I noticed, was humming along to Agnes’s tune. I couldn’t help staring at her. She had long thick grey hair with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a flowing dark green skirt on. Her eyes seemed to match the green of her skirt. She kept smiling. There was a white flower in her hair.

I actually knew the next bit so I joined in.

I had heard Runrig singing this song. My dad loved Runrig. He had all these old CDs. I felt a pang of homesickness, thinking about my dad. Was time passing there without me? Were they missing me? What if Will was wrong? Would the police be out looking for us? Would the den be bulldozed already?

I was so caught up thinking about home I didn’t see the commotion in the crowd. Agnes obviously didn’t either. She had already plunged into the next song –

– quite a few people were now singing along, and we had a handful of coins jingling in the cap. Then the crowd was pushed aside. I saw that the smiling woman with the white flower in her hair was almost knocked over. I thought a fight had broken out. A big man stomped through the crowd and glared at me. And there, by his side, was little Elsie. She was pointing straight at me.

“That’s him!” she shouted. “I swear on my poor dead mother’s grave. That’s him! And that’s Frank’s cap!”

“And that,” the big man roared, “is my best rain cape! Dirty little thief. Grab him!”