The Reluctant Time Traveller (9 page)

Agnes

I sunk my teeth into another bun. I still had six left, and planned on saving some till tomorrow and sharing them with Saul and the other poor servants.

Feeling pretty chuffed, I ambled towards the river. I looked to see if the girl called Peggy Bell was chucking stones into the river. She was and waved, but when she beckoned for me to come over I shook my head. I had things to do. Like finding a great-great-great-great aunt, for instance.

Peggy Bell had said Jean lived in Walkershaugh. That’s a road, and it was easy enough to find, but I had no idea what number house to knock at. I wandered along past the stone cottages, gazing at the pretty little violets and pansies in the gardens. A woman in a flowery-patterned pinny was outside one house, polishing her brass doorbell.

“Lovely morning,” I piped up.

The woman swung round and peered at me. “For now,” she said, curtly, and breathed on the brass.

“Can you tell me where, um, Jean lives?” I blurted out. “Please?”

The woman eyed me again. “What do you want with Jean? If that’s a parcel for her you can leave it here.”

I didn’t know what to say. I shook my head and held on tightly to the brown paper bag of rolls. “No. It’s not, um, a
parcel. I just wanted… to bring her greetings from a distant relative.”

The woman stopped polishing. “Oh, aye, and where would that be from, then?”

I flung an arm vaguely to the north. “Edinburgh,” I said.

“Oh, Edinburgh? I didn’t know the auld wifie had kin in Edinburgh. Anyway, Jean’s no in.” I saw the woman nod to the small stone cottage opposite. “I’ll tell her yea came looking fir her. What’s yer name?”

“Mind your own business. Jeannie’s here.” I swung round and stared at a woman who was standing behind me on the street. I hadn’t heard her approach. She had thick grey hair that tumbled, kind of wild looking, all the way past her shoulders, and she wore a long green dress. She looked like she had stepped out of the forest. I could see bits of moss sticking to her dress and her hair. She had a twinkle in her eye and she smiled at me. It was the same woman I had seen when I had been singing on the street. “It’s alright Mrs Gilchrist,” she called out, “I’m home,” then she linked her arm in mine and, like a long-lost chum, led me over the road and into her little garden. “Nosy old bat,” she said, taking me into the house. “Everybody else’s business is always more interesting than her own. Here, have a seat on that old chair, lassie, and tell me what I can do for you.”

It felt cosy inside. The place smelt of geraniums, and all kinds of other flowers. Jean made herself comfy in an old chair and now she was gazing at me, smiling, and waiting for my story. Somehow, looking at my great-great-great-great aunt and her being so soft and her eyes so kind, I couldn’t spin any lie like I’d planned to. If anybody on this planet was not going to bat an eyelid about time travel, I had the feeling it was her. “Did you ever hear of Agatha Black?” I began.

“Indeed I did. Many in Peebles held her in high esteem.
Such a kind person, and a bonny mother by all accounts. Some say she took a journey into the future. Sometimes I sit here, brewing my healing herbs, and wonder if she might appear.” Jean laughed gently. “You have heard the stories too?”

I took a deep breath, then out it came, rushing and tumbling, but Jean listened to every word. “Agatha came to me. And now, I have come to you. I live in the future. I live in a caravan and go to school, and I’m quite good at school, and I’m in a gang and I have friends now. We have a den and Saul is the gang leader. He’s here too – in the past I mean. We can travel through time. My name is Agnes Brown. My dad is Michael. His mother is my gran, Jessica. Her mother was called Joanna. Joanna’s mother was called Grace. Grace’s poor mother, Eliza, died in childbirth. Eliza was married to John Hogg.”

I stopped talking and gazed at this kind woman who was nodding her head and patting me on the back of my hand. “I know,” she murmured, “for precious Eliza was my sister.” She fell silent so I waited, then gently pressed her hand.

“So, you are my great-great-great-great aunt?”

Jean nodded. “Indeed I am, child. When Grace was born with no mother to care for her,” she said quietly, “I helped Mr Hogg in Yew Tree House. He could never have coped.”

“Where’s Yew Tree House?” I asked.

Jean smiled. “The very place Gaunt has claimed for his own.”

My heart skipped a beat.

Jean saw that I was flustered. “Aye,” she went on, smiling warmly at me, “John Hogg loved that tree. ’Twas him named the house after it. He told me he spent his childhood playing around it. In his old age he would often wander down to the yew tree. Sometimes he talked to it!”

“We like it too,” I said.

“That yew has stood on that spot for hundreds of years. It knows about time.” Jean nodded, as if she knew about time too, and her green eyes sparkled.

“But, what happened to Grace?”

“Well, old John had enough, what with the mill to run and what do men know of bringing up children?” She smiled but I could see the pain flit across her eyes. “So it was myself and Margaret Buchan, the housekeeper, who brought up that darling child. She was a bonnie wee thing.” Jean looked into the distance, like she was seeing the girl again. “She played about the yew tree too. Anyway, when Grace was eighteen she fell in love and married. Her husband said they were to travel over the sea to start a new life in Canada. Many went then. Well, Grace begged me to go with them. I was sorely torn. I could see John Hogg was not well. I could see the mill was badly run, but what could a woman do? And Mr Hogg assured me he would manage. He was about to employ a manager. The manager would ensure everything was running smoothly. ‘Go, Jeanie,’ old John Hogg said to me, ‘for I wouldn’t rest in my grave if you didn’t help my dearest daughter.’ So I took a ship to Canada. I became nursemaid and housekeeper for my dear niece. I helped nurse her little babe.” She pressed my hand again and nodded. “Yes, you are right. Joanna is the little one’s name. But when word reached us that John Hogg was poorly, I took a ship back. Grace of course sorely wished to, but what could she do? She had a small baby, and her husband a good job in Toronto. So they stayed and I returned to Scotland. But the ship took six weeks to cross the sea and I was too late. When I arrived back, my brother-in-law John Hogg was already dead, and the house was in the hands of his new manager…” Jean’s face darkened, “a Mr Gaunt.” She shook her head. “Poor Mrs Buchan was distraught.”

“It’s kind of our house too. Well, not our house, but our
gang hut is the gardener’s hut, near the house. That’s our den. And we play in the garden. We play by the yew tree too. But in the future, developers are planning on building luxury flats in the garden, because they say nobody actually owns the land. But…”

“But, under this law that gives property only to male heirs,” Jean said, now smiling at me, “your father should, by rights, inherit the house and the land.”

I nodded, my heart beating fast. “It’s a ruin now. I mean, in a hundred years it is a terrible ruin. But we like it like that. And the garden is a wilderness. It’s our jungle. We climb the trees and we have a rope swing. Our den leans a bit to the side, but it’s cosy. It’s great fun. We have to find the deeds to the house. That’s why we came back to 1914.”

Jean gazed into the distance, twisting a long curl of hair around her finger. “You took a great risk.”

“But we had to do something. Even if we never find the deeds, at least we tried.”

“You are a brave lass. Better to take a risk than live with regrets.” Then she smiled at me and said, “A cup of tea, Agnes?”

Which seemed like a brilliant idea. But then I remembered the date, and it seemed wrong to relax in a comfy armchair, sipping tea. “There’s going to be a war,” I blurted out, “a really terrible war.”

Jean nodded sadly. “I know.”

Later that morning, Mrs Buchan, back from the market, rang a bell. We rushed down and had to line up by the back door. The housekeeper eyed us sternly. Especially me. “Elsie, get the needle and thread out and put a few stitches in that old suit of your brother’s. We can’t have Blackie looking a disgrace.”

I could feel my cheeks turning beetroot under the grime and soot. She was right. I was a mess. My jeans were black. My good T-shirt was all torn and stained.

“Yes, Mrs Buchan,” Elsie chanted.

“We all need to smarten up around here. For apparently,” she said, with a sigh, “this place is a hotel now. I told you about the foreign guest. Well, I’m told, he will be arriving in a few days – and has requested peace and quiet.” She seemed pretty tight-lipped and disapproving about it all. “There’s to be no sleeping on the job.” She eyed Frank. “And no coughing and spluttering in public.” She turned her beady eye on Elsie. “On no account must you disturb the guest. And remember, be neither seen nor heard. Now,” she clapped her hands, “off to work.” Then she marched off, leaving us to hurry back to the kitchen.

“It’s happened,” said Elsie, lowering herself onto the bench. “Gaunt was always going on and on about making this place a hotel. We thought it wis a joke, didn’t we, Frank? We thought he was pie-in-the-sky about guests. But, oh Lord
above, one’s coming.” She looked ready to burst into tears and had a coughing fit instead. “That’ll be the last straw for Mrs Buchan. She’ll leave, and we’ll have to do even more work.”

Frank patted her on the back and gave her a hug. Poor Elsie. She was probably suffering from malnutrition. Her legs were like pins. You could see the bones in her face. Maybe she was older than ten? Suddenly I remembered that leaflet I had seen about magnificent views and peace and quiet. “Tweedside Hotel,” I mumbled.

“Whit you on about?” Frank stared at me. So did Elsie.

“This place,” I said. “I saw a leaflet. Gaunt is calling this house ‘Tweedside Hotel’.”

Frank snorted at that and Elsie frowned. “Whit’s a – a leaflet?” she asked.

I was getting ready to explain about leaflets and brochures and stuff when Mrs Buchan came bustling into the kitchen. She had Frank’s old suit in her arms and set it down on the table in front of Elsie. “Patch up the elbows,” she ordered then turned and glared at me. “We’ll need you decent for when the guest arrives. Meanwhile, Blackie, set fires in the rooms on the second floor. That’s where the important guest is to be put up.”

So, after throwing more coals onto the master’s fire, I went upstairs. There was bustle up and down the second-floor hallway with Mrs Buchan busy changing the bed and airing out rooms. She barked at me to start clearing the fireplace and sweep the floor in the room at the far end.

I heard her mutter as I hurried along the hallway. “The sooner you’re in a proper suit of clothes, the better.” I wasn’t so sure about that. My own clothes were covered in soot, but at least they were mine.

All thoughts of clothes vanished as soon as I entered that big room. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn, leaving a gap in
the middle where a finger of light keeked through and stroked the dusty floor. The room seemed pretty bare, just a couple of lounge-around sofas and a chair. It was only when I opened the curtains I saw that the room wasn’t completely empty. In the corner was a huge wooden chest. The deeds! I fell to my knees and fumbled with the metal catch, my heart thumping. This was the ideal place to store important documents. I listened out for the housekeeper and shook my bucket of coal, making out like I was hard at work. The chest opened with a creak and I was gaping down at piles of yellowing paper. I was right! This had to be deeds!

I picked up one sheet of paper, then another. Then another. My hopes sank. It looked like I had discovered somebody’s art box. The chest was full of old drawings. Plants and gardens, as far as I could make out, and not very talented either. I kept rummaging through the musty-smelling old papers: flowers, trees and more trees. Then I saw one I knew – it was a drawing of the yew tree – our yew tree! And it was pretty good. It looked like the artist had spent ages on it, shading thick drooping branches and intricate roots. This masterpiece was even signed –
John
Hogg
Wow! And at the edge of the paper I could just make out faded writing –
strong protection.
Weird! There were more words, but I couldn’t read them. I had the drawing right up to my face, trying to, when suddenly I heard a cough behind me.

“Once a thief,” I dropped the paper and swung round, “always a thief.” Mrs Buchan was towering over me. My mind raced.

“Um… I’m trying to… find old paper to start the fire.” She wasn’t impressed. Next thing she bent down and slammed the chest shut. I pulled my fingers away just in time.

“Not
that
paper,” she snapped. “Open that chest once more and I’ll report you to the master. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mrs Buchan,” I mumbled. She shot me a final glare then turned and stomped out. With Gaunt’s terms and conditions sharp in my mind, I hurried over to set the fire.

When I got back downstairs, Elsie was gazing up at her brother. She looked even paler than usual. “I don’t trust water from the standpipe, you know that Frank.” He was standing over her with a glass in his hands.

“I’ve heard water is a tonic,” Frank said, shoving it in front of her face. “Now swig it down and huld yer nose if you don’t like the taste.”

Elsie was eyeing it suspiciously and screwing up her face. “Suppose it’s got a fly in it.”

Frank peered into it. “No fly,” he reported. “No muck, no sand, no blinking frog. Nothing but water, as clear as the pebbles whit fall from dark clouds.” Then he grinned at her but I could tell it was a put-on grin.

Elsie took the glass and held it at arm’s length, like the liquid might suddenly erupt. “Now, that would be a fine thing,
wouldn’t it, Frank?”

“Whit?”

“To get three wishes from this water. First I’d change this into wine, like whit Jesus did.”

Frank laughed at that.

“Then, I’d wish for you to find yourself a better position, Frank. In a fine big stable with plenty grub.” She gazed into the water and swirled it. “Then… well, then I’d wish…” She gazed up at her brother and smiled. “I’d wish to be a lady and spend all day strolling in the park then sitting with my feet up after dinner and embroidering handkerchiefs.”

“For the love of God, Elsie, just drink the stuff, will you. Else our dinner’s cold.”

And she did, she drained every last hopeful drop of it, and maybe the water really was a tonic because she suddenly jumped to her feet. “Dinner is served,” she announced, though the truth was dinnertime was a dreary affair. Frank used that word and I liked it: ‘dreary’.

Elsie spooned out a few grey, sad-looking potatoes and a dollop of over-boiled stinking cabbage. I saw her cut a small piece of grey meat in half. She kept eyeing me sideways to make sure I couldn’t see what she was up to. She shuffled across to her brother and dropped a tiny scrap of meat onto his plate where he quickly hid it under the cabbage. I could see it all.

“Keep your scabby meat,” I said.

Elsie looked a bit ashamed at that, and quickly muttered the prayer. “Fir whit we are aboot tae receive may the Lord mak us truly thankful.”

“Amen,” said Frank. They both eyed me.

“Amen,” I muttered, then stared down at the food glumly.

Was I, Saul Martin, the fussy eater who liked scampi and chips, meat-feast pizza, chicken tikka masala, Tunnocks Tea
Cakes, Irn Bru, pancakes and maple syrup, really going to tuck in to stinking cabbage and grey potatoes? Porridge was bad enough. But I could wish all I liked. Scampi and chips was not on the menu and I had been working for hours. I was starving.

“Waste not, want not,” said Frank, stretching his hand toward my plate.

That did it. I grabbed the fork and stabbed a potato. He pulled his hand back just in time. Then I shovelled it into my mouth and it didn’t taste too terrible.

When that dismal dinner was done, Frank got up and went to the door. He opened it an inch and looked out, like a soldier on sentry duty. “Mrs Buchan is in her room. Gaunt’s horse is out the stable. His majesty’s down the Cross Keys for a pint of ale, I’ll wager,” he told us. Then he winked at me, fished a key out of his pocket and slipped out into the corridor.

“We deserve a good pudding,” Elsie whispered, then giggled as she stacked up the plates, but the giggling brought on a little fit of coughing. So I cleared up the plates and let her sit down.

Good puddings I have loved flashed through my mind. Knickerbocker glories came top. Then banoffee pie and cream, then key lime pie with chocolate ice cream, then sticky toffee pudding with vanilla cream custard.

“Ta-da! Spotted Dick, no less!” Frank announced, as he slunk back into the kitchen and handed us each a slice of what looked like mouldy sponge with raisins in it.

“My favourite!” cheered Elsie and sunk her teeth in with relish.

I had given up being fussy and did the same. The three of us sat there in silence, apart from the fairly loud chewing and swallowing sounds.

Frank Noble was first to finish. He patted his pocket and grinned at me. “Got a slice for your wee sister, right here.”

So he knew about Agnes? Of course he knew. She had tended to his knee back when I first ran into him. And maybe Elsie had spied her in the town, when I got arrested, and told her brother.

But suddenly I pictured my real wee twin sisters, Ellie and Esmé, and felt this sudden pang of homesickness. I knew I couldn’t stay long in the past. Already, in this short time, my real home was fading and this strange life with Frank Noble and his sister Elsie seemed more real than Mum and Dad and the twins and the den and school. I had forgotten exactly what Will and Robbie looked like.

“A penny for them,” said Frank.

I shook my head.

“Your thoughts,” he said. “Yea were miles away.”

I snapped out of it.

“How long’s the master away fir, Frank?” I asked him. It was an effort trying to speak old fashioned.

Frank shrugged. “Who knows?”

I got up. “Can I take the…” I racked my brains trying to remember what it was called, “…spotty sick to… to my sister?”

They both burst out laughing again. “He’s soft in the heid,” said Elsie, looking like she was going to fall off her chair. “Spotty sick!” And they both roared. Frank was chucking his cap up in the air and catching it. Elsie was hugging her sides like they ached.

“Where’s she hiding, anyway?” Frank said, suddenly serious. Elsie stopped laughing too, and they both stared at me. “Your sister was with you. I saw her.” At that, Frank patted his knee, like he was tenderly remembering Agnes’s little nursing deed.

“She’s behind the wall,” I said. I wanted to tell them the truth. After sharing stolen pudding and having a laugh, it felt like we
were friends. “She’s… um… not actually my sister. I mean… we’re friends, her and me. We’re in a gang… we…” They stared up at me, their thin faces half in shadow and half lit with an orange glow from the candle. I glanced over to the window, then over my shoulder to the kitchen door. All was still in Gaunt House. Mrs Buchan was in her room up in the attic, probably writing long letters applying for new jobs, according to Frank. “Actually,” I said, “we’re from the future.”

“I reckoned there was something odd about you,” Frank said, but I saw how he moved back a bit, like he didn’t trust me.

“Didn’t I say he was soft in the heid?” Elsie laughed again, and coughed, and Frank reached over and patted her on the back. “Maybe – it was the… the asylum you ran away from, not… the Poor House. Was it?” she said through her little splutterings.

Maybe half the truth would be easier to swallow? “What I meant to say was, we’re from the… the Footer. Footer Hills.” I waved my hand like these mythic hills were miles away. “And we found out stuff about Mr Gaunt, and we need to find the deeds of this house. You know, the papers that say who really owns it. Because Mr Gaunt doesn’t. Not really. He’s a cheat. And you shouldn’t be treated like this. Working so hard and eating porridge and cabbage. It’s not right. What kind of life is this?” I was on a roll now. “And you,” I said, thrusting my hand out towards Elsie, “should be in hospital.
And
you should go to school. Not work for nasty cheating Mr Gaunt.”

“I went to school,” Elsie said, thrusting out her chin proudly. “Course I did. I can do my letters, and numbers. And I can do a bit of stitching too.” Her eyes shot to the drab-looking patched-up suit laid over a chair waiting for me. “Aye,” she went on, “I went to school till I was nearly fourteen. I know all about Napoleon, and Mary Queen of Scots. Test me!” Could
she seriously be fourteen? Older than me and Agnes! She only looked about ten, but I bet she did know about Mary Queen of Scots, more than me anyway. “She was a Catholic whit got her head chopped off.” Elsie was looking pretty pleased with herself. “I’m fourteen and a half, or thereabouts. Isn’t that right, Frank?”

Frank nodded. “We know our place,” he said but I could see from the way he punched his fist into his hand he felt angry. He knew as well as anyone that Gaunt was a nasty piece of work. “And we’ve no money for doctors. And Gaunt says he’s no money for doctors neither. So Elsie here’s got me to watch over her. I do half her chores.” Elsie nodded appreciatively at that and patted his arm, then they both fixed their eyes on me. “But now you’re here, frae… Footer,” Frank raised his eyebrows at that, “you can muck in.” Elsie gave her brother an adoring look then reached over and hugged him.

While they hugged, I picked up the jacket Elsie had fixed for me and pulled it on, then the baggy trousers. I looked down at myself, patched up like a scarecrow. As I gazed down at this different Saul I got this horrible feeling, now that I was beginning to seriously look the part, that I might be here for the rest of my life, and I would probably forget that I had ever had another existence. It would fade like a dream. I’d be a nobody, lost in time.

Frank looked up and saw me in my 1914 clothes, but before he could make any comment I dropped the next bombshell. “We heard news of something else. Something that’s going to change everything.”

“What’s that?” Frank said, a protective hand on his sister’s shoulder.

“There’s going to be a war.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Frank pushed himself to his full height, which was about the same height as me though
he seemed a bit older than all of us. “The folk in the town talk of little else. But we’re going to sort out them Huns, no question!” And with that he ran round the table, whipped up a knife and slashed it through the air like he was sword-fighting a ghost.

Elsie clapped her hands and cheered. “Slay the Hun!” she cried and punched her little fist in the air. “Chop off their heads, Frank. Let them know who’s boss round here.”

Then Frank wiped the blade of the kitchen knife across his trousers, bowed low, got more sisterly applause, and put the knife back on the sideboard.

“You deserve a medal from the King,” Elsie said. “Doesn’t he?” She beamed round at me. “With brave men like Frank Noble, Scotland is in safe hands.” Elsie, in a party mood, sang a wheezing verse of:

With Frank doing a wee jig about the kitchen.

“Join in!” Elsie shouted, but I didn’t know the words.