What about us? (26 page)

The workhouse frightened her as
much as it frightened everyone else and was the one dark spot in our otherwise
happy life.

“We can’t let that happen to us. 
We can’t waste the money, it’s got to last us.” she’d often say and so the trip
to Paris got delayed.

I did visit a workhouse; twice
in fact, to understand them better, but the desperate atmosphere inside haunted
me for a long time and in the same way that Grace feared them I too began to
spend time planning our future so that it wouldn’t happen to us.

We agreed that we had to find a
way of earning money before we spent any on a trip to Paris or on anything else
that wasn’t strictly necessary.  Winnie had said that it might be possible for
us both to get jobs as teachers, which made Grace laugh.

“You, yes, you could teach kids
a lot, but me, I was never at school for three days on the trot!” she
exclaimed.

But she did teach Sal to read
and write and I began to make enquiries about tutoring in some of the grander
houses.  Not having references made it quite difficult, especially as I
couldn’t even say which school I’d been to.  I managed to secure a couple of
interviews, but it never really turned into anything useful.

Normal life for most people was
full of hard work and death was never far away; an accident, disease, childbirth
of course, or even medical science itself.  Even having money was no guarantee
of reaching a ripe old age.  Of course Grace didn’t have access to ‘the pill’
so we practiced what birth control we could under the circumstances, having
decided that for the time being, life was easier if there were just the two of
us to think about.

Although I never said a word to
Grace, the very thought of her being pregnant filled me with dread.  Too many
women didn’t survive the birthing process and much as I knew I wanted no other
mother for my children, I wanted her much more than I wanted to be a father.

Of course we often spent time
speculating about how we’d got there, or discussing if there was any way we
could return to our own time, but we never came up with a satisfactory answer
to either question.  However, we did agree that it would be foolish to try and
tell anyone the truth, so we came up with a plausible story.  We’d met in the
Americas, had arrived in England some months ago and were making our way to France,
where I had some family.  It seemed to do the trick; no one really questioned
us and there were so many people coming and going, even just in our little
street, that it didn’t seem in any way odd.  So we settled into a new life,
agreeing that as long as we were together, we could cope with anything.

During one of my wanderings I
met a couple of men who like me seemed not to work and to have time on their
hands.  One afternoon, as we sat in a coffee house, talking and playing chess,
the conversation turned to the local opium dens.  I was intrigued by what they
told me and wondered if by letting my mind float unfettered, as it were, these
places might help me remember something about myself and my life.  I knew Grace
would never approve, so I didn’t tell her anything as I mulled it over.  A week
or so later when I met up with them again, they told me they were just heading
to a new one near Butler’s Wharf and did I want to accompany them? I found to
my shame that I did.

At first I told myself that I
would just watch, without actually taking part.  We went down into a basement
and there were curtained areas around grubby beds, covered with equally grubby
cushions.  The place was dirty and smelt terrible, coming partly from the men
and women lying there in a stupor, who judging from their clothes, came from
all ranks of society.  In fact there were far fewer people from the working
classes than I’d assumed there would be.  The few windows I could see were all
broken and the floor hadn’t been swept for a long time, if ever.  I could hear
the river lapping at the jetties not far away and I got cold feet and thought
about leaving.  Then I noticed that there were others there, who clearly had
money and position in life, but the decrepitude of the place hadn’t deterred
them from staying.  I wavered uncertainly for a moment.

“Try it Jack, you won’t be
disappointed.  It’ll only cost fourpence and it’ll last a lot longer than a
dram.”

I wasn’t completely convinced,
but seemed to lack the will to leave.  We sat on one of the beds and a pipe of
sorts was brought to us.

I gingerly took the thick
bamboo mouthpart that was offered, did as I was instructed and sucked in hard.

It was my lost weekend and a
long weekend at that.  It was probably only because I ran out of money that
they threw me out.  What became of my companions I have no idea.  As the haze
began to fade I became aware that I felt terrible, almost as though I were
having a bad reaction to the drug, a reaction that I hadn’t noticed anyone else
having.  Somehow I convinced a cab driver to take me home and Grace must have
paid him, for home is where I found myself, without any idea of how I got there
or even what day it was.

My head was full of visions;
such fantastic visions of a future I was sure no one had ever dreamt possible. 
There was space travel and I saw the Earth from above and knew that it had
died, but work was slowly being done to restore it while people waited in orbit
for the time when they could go home.  There were incredible gadgets that you
to do so much with by the power of thought alone.  It was such a strange
feeling, being so far away from something that seemed natural to me; in fact,
more normal than anything had in a long time. 

It was during this time that I
had another experience with a voice in my head, but this one spoke directly to
me.  It was a man’s voice and he knew my name.  He wanted me to make contact
with him, but he didn’t tell me how.  Perhaps due to the opium, it wasn’t in
any way as nerve-wracking as the other times it had happened and also it seemed
familiar.  Maybe it was a memory of my father’s voice.

I knew so much in those hours
or rather days and I knew it meant something to me.  It was important, but I
didn’t know why and I didn’t want to lose those ideas and thoughts.  They were
all I had and I felt sure that there was link between them and the me that I
had once been.  But as I tried to tell Grace what I’d seen, it all just slipped
away from me, leaving only faint traces or echoes behind.

She was crying by this time but
I didn’t want her to cry, I wanted her to understand.

“It was so real Grace.  I know
it could help me remember.”

I grabbed her hand, hoping that
perhaps she would come with me next time.  I was about to ask when she told me
what she was thinking.

“Jack it’s not real.  It’s a
drug and like all drugs you’ll always be trying to get back to that first time;
only you never will, so you’ll try harder and as you try harder you’ll find
nothing else matters, only the desire to get back there, to that first feeling. 
Your whole life will be consumed and no one else will matter.  You can’t have
both Jack.  It’s me or the opium.  I’m not going to watch you destroy yourself,
our life and us.  Choose and choose now.”

I fell back on the pillow.  There
was no contest; a life without Grace was unthinkable.

“You.  I choose you every
time.” I said, turning to face her.  “No more, I promise.  I swear.”

She looked into my eyes and
nodded slowly.  She trusted me and in that moment I vowed never to do anything
to break that trust.

The problem was, it wasn’t that
easy to forget.  Strange visions hovered at the edge of my mind, calling to me
constantly, teasing me even, but they refused to fully reveal themselves and
always there was that thought; just one more pipe and I’ll remember everything. 
Surely once more wouldn’t be breaking my promise? I struggled with that voice
and that burning craving every waking hour for days.

Although I never confessed to
Grace what I was thinking, she must have known some of what I was going through.
 I often caught her glancing at me from the corner of her eye, or watching me
through the doorway when she thought I hadn’t seen her.  I tried to be cheery,
but it sounded hollow, even to me.

Then on Saturday morning she
woke me up and announced that we were going to Brighton for the weekend on the
train.  She hoped that it would be the sort of thing to cheer me up and she got
it exactly right.

So there you are, Javier, or
whatever your name is.  I’ve told you everything I know.  You know the rest of
course.  We got off the train and two of your men abducted me and brought me
here, leaving Grace behind.  I also realise now that the voice I heard in my
head recently was yours and that you are obviously not my father.  There are a
number of things that I need to understand however.  To begin with, I have to
know what has happened to her.  Then of course, I want to know just who I am,
who you are, why you’ve had me brought here and of course, where exactly is
here anyway...?

I looked up at the leaden sky
and savoured the cool drizzle on my face.  I was back in London in the spring
of 1889, standing on the pavement outside 29 Napier Street.  I hesitated before
lifting the doorknocker, then rapped it three times.

After a few moments a wary
voice spoke from behind the closed door.

“Who is it?”

“Grace, it’s me, Jack.  I’m
back.”

The door was immediately and
eagerly pulled open and her beautiful face was there in front of me again, but
her delight changed to horror when she saw me.  She screamed and staggered
backwards into the little hallway of the house I hadn’t seen for nearly eighty
years.

Her hand flew to her mouth. 
“No, no, no,” she moaned, “It can’t be... you can’t be... oh my god, oh my god
Jack.  What’s happened to you?”

“It’s ok Grace; it’s all going
to be ok.  Let me tell you everything, let me explain.”

I knew that it would be
shocking for her, but there was no way I could have made it less so.  I walked
forward, reaching for her shoulders, wanting more than anything in the world to
gather her close to me, wanting to make something that could never be right again,
somehow better.

Shaking all over, she folded
into my arms and buried her face into my chest.  “Jack, what happened? Where
did you go? And what happened to you?” she sobbed.

“I got old,” I said
softly, “While you stayed exactly the same.  You look lovely.  I’ve missed
you.  I’ve missed you all of the time.”

This just made her cry harder
and I found my own eyes welling up.  We stood there in the hallway, locked in
an embrace for a few minutes until the sobbing stopped.

Then we went hand in hand into
the kitchen, where she busied herself making tea.  I understood that she needed
time to collect herself and something normal to do, so I sat down at the well-scrubbed
table, watching her.

“Sal?” I asked.

She shook her head.  “It’s
Sunday, she doesn’t come today.”

“Of course... it’s only one day
later for you.” I murmured, almost to myself.

“I don’t understand.  What do
you mean by that?” she asked, putting the cups on the table.

Her hands were trembling as she
poured the tea and almost as much went into the saucers as into the cups.

“Almost eighty years have
passed since I last saw you.” I told her, putting my arms around her waist and
resting my head against her side.

She just stood there,  motionless
and uncertain.

“A long time...” I said, breathing
in her wonderful scent.

“You look quite good for
someone over a hundred years old...” she said, trying to inject some humour
into the situation, but actually, her voice was unbearably sad.

“Medical science is very
advanced in the future.” I said, reluctantly allowing her to pull away from me.

“Is that where you’ve been then?”
she asked, “In the future?”

I nodded.

“So what’s it like there... in
the future I mean?”

Her voice sounded hollow.  She
was in shock and I had to say something to make her believe that it really was
me.

“The future doesn’t have you in
it, so it can never be where I want to be.  Sit down Grace, let me tell you
everything, or at least as much I’m able to.  I can’t really tell you about the
future, but I can tell you who I really am and what has happened to me.”

I reached out to her, but she
ignored my hand and moved around the table to sit opposite me.

Grace was a good listener and a
good observer, instinctively knowing the truth when she heard it.  She was also
ready to believe me, despite the fantastic or rather ridiculous nature of the
situation.  She sat still, with her hands in front of her, waiting for me to
explain, but she didn’t touch her tea; always a bad sign.

I tried to start from the
beginning, but it was difficult to know just where the beginning was.  I told
her that I came from the future and was never from her time.  I’d been a
historian in the thirtieth century and like others, trained to study the impact
of certain historical events on ordinary people, who in turn influenced future
policy and politics.  The difference was, that in my time we didn’t use books
to do this; we had developed time travel, to the past and back.