The Accidental Time Traveller (3 page)

I didn’t usually take the back lane in case I bumped into Crow, but it was snowing and I took the risk. It would save time, and Crow, I was pretty sure, wasn’t the type to go out in the snow. Just my luck I was wrong. First thing I smelt was the pongy cigarette smoke. Then I saw a curl of blue smoke. Next I saw this dark shape huddled in a doorway. My heart thumped. I lowered my head and kept going. The lane was narrow and I was going to have to walk right past. Maybe he wouldn’t recognise me, all pillow-fat like I was. I got closer, then I heard him spit. The spit landed right in front of my feet.

“Where ya goin’, fat boy?” He made a horrible sneering noise. I was so scared I was shaking, but things suddenly went my way. Behind me, I heard the laundrette door open with a squeak, and Hallelujah! – there was Crow’s mum belting up the lane and swearing at him about smoking. She looked ready to cuff him one, but he snuck off.

So did I, the opposite way. I ran up the lane and pulled myself over the wall. With every step I tried to forget about Crow. I thought about Agatha Black, and her dad, and time travel, and confectionary instead.

By the time I reached the wasteland I was panting like I’d run a marathon. I was about halfway over it when I smelt burning. Maybe Crow had been here and set the den on fire? Maybe he had killed Agatha? I upped the pace, slipping on the snow. I could see a wisp of smoke curling into the air. I squirmed through the gap in the hedge and when I came out the other side breathed a sigh of relief. Pisa was still leaning. In the middle of the garden a little bonfire was burning. And from somewhere nearby I could hear Agatha laughing, but I couldn’t see her. I dashed towards the bonfire. “Agatha?” I called out. “Where are you?”

“Hello. I am making angels,” she called. I swung round to see Agatha lying in the snow whipping her arms up and down. She laughed again then jumped up and ran to me. “Oh Saul! Is it not a marvel?” She pointed down to the shape she’d made in the snow. It was.

“Nice one,” I said. “You’ve made yourself some company.”

She laughed again and brushed the snow off, then flopped down on the fallen log. That log, I knew for a fact, used to be over near the fence. I stared at Agatha in amazement. She must have dragged it. “Come and warm yourself by the fire,” she said, patting the log for me to sit down. She was sitting on Mrs Singh’s big coat. She pulled it from under her and draped it over her shoulders. “Ah! Warm as toast,” she murmured.

I gazed about, seeing the garden all afresh. The scene was like a Christmas card, with the white snow and the glowing red flames and behind it the evergreen
tree. “Well, I’m back,” I said, “and I brought you some survival stuff.” I swung my rucksack down in front of me, but I couldn’t help gaping at her crackling log fire. The sticks were all arranged in spires exactly like the way it shows you to make fire in
The Dangerous Book for Boys
.

She smiled at me. “I am glad indeed to see yea, Saul. I missed yea.” That was the first time anyone said that to me.

I whistled and looked into the crackling fire. “Cool fire, by the way,” I said. “How did you do it?”

“It isna cool I hope. ‘Tis hot.”

I laughed. “I mean – it’s good. I’m impressed.”

“I have had a great deal of practice,” she answered, deftly slinging a twig into the flames. “I was obliged to use one of your coloured books to catch the spark from the stones. I am sorry, Saul.”

“No probs,” I said, amazed. Agatha Black had actually started the fire without matches. In my mind I started my prize-winning essay.

In 1812 girls made fires. They rubbed stones together to catch sparks
.

I grinned, imagining the head teacher calling out my name at the special prize ceremony. “Saul Martin – first prize!”

“It is actually not difficult,” Agatha said, cutting in on my daydream.

“Sure,” I muttered, as if I started fires by rubbing stones together all the time. It felt warm on my face. I half-expected to see a skinned rabbit roasting on a spit, but could tell by Agatha’s clothes and voice that
she wasn’t like an orphan or beggar, like you see in films. She seemed more of a lady and ladies probably didn’t go around skinning rabbits. But, posh or not, Agatha could make fire, which was more than me, Will or Robbie could. We’d had our gang a whole year and never once made a fire. Loads of pretend ones. Loads of pretend everything. But never real.

The church bells rang out for two o’clock. “Two after noon,” announced Agatha.

“On the dot,” I added, handing her an apple. She sniffed it and turned it around, examining it. “It’s Golden Delicious,” I told her. “From New Zealand, I think, or maybe France.”

Agatha arched her eyebrows and sucked in her cheeks. Probably she’d never heard of New Zealand, or France. She took ages biting into it. “I have to be home at three,” I warned her as she chewed, knowing how she liked to have a handle on time. I watched her polish off the whole apple, even the core. She still looked hungry, so I fished out the marshmallows. “Confectionary,” I announced, feeling really pleased with myself. Then I stuck a pink one onto the end of a twig. “Ever seen this, Agatha?” Grinning, I thrust the marshmallow into the flames. Right away it blackened and drooped. “Here.” I offered her the burnt goo. As she licked it I watched her face contort with the sweetness.

“It is an unexpected pleasure,” she said, her little mouth puckered.

“‘Yummy!’ is what we say,” I told her, getting the next one ready. “Or scrummy.”

“Yummy, scrummy,” she repeated, and laughed again.
Then me and Agatha had a bit of a picnic. She was, in her weird 1812 way, ok for an old-fashioned girl. She wouldn’t drink Irn-Bru though. The very smell, she said, was ungodly! Instead she cupped up fresh snow with her hands and sucked it. It was peaceful there in the rambling old garden by the fire.

“It is wondrous.” She brushed pork pie crumbs from her coat. “This could as well be 1812.” She swept her arms to the sides and gazed at the garden. “Forbye Grandfather’s lovely house is no more, little else here is altered.”

I stared into the flames and nodded, glad Agatha couldn’t see the rubbish buried under the snow. I was glad the noise of distant traffic was quieter than usual and glad there was no car alarm going off anywhere or siren screaming. “Timeless,” I said, dreamily, “that’s what Dad says when we go up into the hills. He says it’s timeless.”

For a while the two of us said nothing. Then Agatha placed another log on the fire, shook out her long red hair and said, “My father, Mister Albert Black, comes from a distinguished family. He has six brothers.”

This seemed to be the beginning of something, and I leant back on the pillow. The clock in town struck half past two. I had a bit of listening time, if Agatha was going to tell me about 1812. “Six?” I exclaimed. “Really? Wow! That’s a lot. I’ve not got any.”

“Me neither. But Father has six. All of them
successful
gallant gentlemen. Some do wear monstrous large wigs. Oh, they have honours for leading men in battles in the French wars, for sailing fine merchant ships, for building spinning mills, for conducting orchestras, for keeping law and order with the militia. And every brother, you know, rides a fine thoroughbred horse. Alas poor Father, the black sheep – their success simply makes plain his failure. He tries so hard to gain their approval, but every scheme he turns his hand to ends in trouble and disappointment. He tried to become a physician but fainted at the sight of blood. He tried to make the pianoforte trill, but the gentlewomen rushed from the parlour howling like dogs. And dear Father
has no horse. He has never had great luck, but now, since dear Mother died, it seems he is all at sea and canna do anything right. ‘Tis dreary indeed.”

I never know what to say to people if their Granddad dies. It’s even worse if it’s their mum. “What a shame,” I muttered.

“Aye, a terrible shame indeed,” she said and fell silent. For a while the two of us just stared into the flames. I thought about my mum. If she died, who would look after the twins? Dad would never manage on his own. I would have to help him. I batted the thought away and poked at the fire with a twig. “Twas three years ago she departed,” Agatha continued, “and now she is with the blessed angels in heaven.”

I nodded, but wasn’t really sure about heaven and angels.

“Aye,” Agatha went on with a sad kind of laugh, “and doubtless she is gazing down upon Mister Albert Black and shaking her pretty head. He was ever thus: a failure!”

It seemed a bit harsh to be calling your own dad a failure. “But he’s probably good at some things,” I protested, weakly.

Agatha nudged me in the ribs. “Ach Saul, he is a dear man and a good man, but luckless. Were it not for his wealthy brothers, especially Uncle Duncan, we’d be hiring ourselves out as servants. Twas Duncan’s cutting remarks that made poor Father determined to succeed with his time travel ambitions.”

“Tell me about Duncan.” I was keeping her talking.

“For starters, he has the finest horse with the finest
saddle.” Then Agatha grinned mischieviously, jumped to her feet, puckered her lips and threw back her head. All her sadness about her mum vanished. She winked at me, saying, “This is Duncan, Father’s eldest brother.” Then she patted her hand against her chest, sighed wearily and in a deep man-voice, said, “Can you triumph at nothing, brother Albert?”

“Poor Albert,” I said, impressed with Agatha’s acting skills. “What did he say to that?”

Agatha immediately switched characters. She thrust her hands together in a pleading style, got down on one knee and in a slower voice spoke to the imaginary brother, “Certainly Duncan. I simply havna found the particular sphere to triumph in. Have patience brother, patience. Come the day, I assure yea, the name o’ Albert Black will ring out doon the lang corridors o’ history. Everyone will ken me. ‘Albert Black!’, they will all cry and toss their bonnets high. ‘Hurrah for Albert Black!’ Have faith, Brother, I beseech yea!”

I cheered Agatha’s performance, grinning at her, but quickly stopped when I saw her frown. “Poor Albert,” I said again.

“Aye, poor indeed,” Agatha plonked herself back down on the log. “For it is Uncle Duncan, you see, who gives us money. He is the richest of the family. Och, ‘tis little enough, and were it not for what I can do in the kitchen and the parlour, and the little extra I bring in with my performing monkey, Father and I would be poor as vagrants. But Duncan makes much of the little he gives us.”

Performing monkey? Was she having me on? Maybe
she’s just a liar, that’s what I thought then. I wanted to believe in her. I wanted it to be true. I wanted to believe she really did come from 1812, but part of me just couldn’t. Agatha didn’t notice the way I squirmed in my seat and bit my nail. She didn’t notice the way I narrowed my eyes and glanced sideways at her. She just sighed and carried on.

“Alas, yea arna familiar with the name of Albert Black. So yea see, Saul. Father has failed in this too. I was to be gone but for a moment, then fly back directly with news. He so hoped time travel would give him fame. No doubt at this very moment he is on bended knee at home trying to explain to Uncle Duncan what has befallen his only child. It will be the end. Duncan already despairs of him. All the brothers do. Father has indeed fallen from grace. Now that he has lost me to the future, Duncan will have him hanged.”

Agatha stared glumly into the fire. Both of us imagined the horror of Mister Albert Black swinging from a rope in the town centre. I know it sounds a bit heartless, but I was also imagining the next sentence of my essay.

Punishment was tough in the past, like you could actually get hanged for doing bad things. You would get a rope around your neck and it would kill you.

Agatha sniffed back a sob. Maybe she really was telling the truth? A tear rolled down her cheek. “Hey, Agatha,” I said gently, “there’s loads of famous folks I’ve never even heard of. I’m not that clever. To be honest, I don’t know anything about history. For all I know your dad might be really well known.” She flashed me
a wide-eyed, hopeful look. “Don’t worry, Agatha,” I continued, sounding upbeat. “I’ll get you back.” But the next thought that flashed through my mind (though right away I felt guilty for it) was: But not yet. Hang around long enough for me to learn a few things about 1812 and win the essay! Long enough for me to win £200 and buy a bike.

Agatha seemed to cheer up. “Thanking yea, Saul,” she said, smiling. “I trust yea.”

“Good,” I muttered, feeling bad. Of course, I wanted to help her. I wanted her dad not to get hanged. But even supposing her weird story was true,
how
was I ever going to get her back? I bit my lip, hard.

For a moment she studied a robin that was busy pecking at the pork pie crumbs. Then she went back to telling her story again. “But as yea can imagine, Saul, Father had asked for patience too many times. Duncan was losing faith in him and his hocus-pocus schemes. When last my uncle came by, their talk got quite heated and Duncan flew off the handle. They sent me to my chamber to practice my handwriting. But I heard Father when he was left, howling in sorrow.”

“Poor Albert,” I said for the umpteenth time. I couldn’t think what else to say, but saw the next sentence of my essay in my head.

Handwriting was a great skill. Not like now when we use computers.

“Aye. Hapless indeed,” she went on. “I wrote in my chamber of how sorry I felt for him, then went down to him in the parlour later. He was smoking his pipe and gazing forlornly into the flames of the fire. I said,
‘Dinna fret, Father. I believe in yea,’ and he took me by the hand and peered intently into my eyes. ‘Child, is it true yea believe in me?’ I nodded, because you see he is my father. A child must honour their parents. Father seemed on the verge of tears. He tightened the grip on my hand and said, ‘Agatha, my bonny, precious lass, I wish for yea to help me.’ I nodded my head, agreeing without knowing what I was agreeing to. He lowered his voice. ‘I am no’ like the others,’ he whispered. ‘My particular course to greatness doesna lie in following the customary path.’ I nodded again, to encourage him. Dear Father looked so sad, so beaten. Duncan truly can belittle a person. In that moment I fervently wished for my father to succeed in something. ‘It is like this, lass,’ he said, dropping his voice still quieter. ‘My true interests lie in things of a more metaphysical and mysterious nature.’”

Agatha paused. She could see I was confused. “He meant, Saul, that his work was no ordinary, everyday pastime. His talent lay in matters of the unseen spirit. The occult. Do yea follow?”

I nodded, not wanting to look like an idiot. “Go on!” It was quarter to three. I would have to leave soon.

“‘Time,’ Father explained to me, ‘is the true mystery of existence. Not medicine, not music, but time.’ By now, Saul, I was caught up in father’s enthusiasm. Gone was the defeated look in his dark eyes. I watched in amazement. He appeared no longer the failed man but the glorious hero, famed throughout history. ‘I am studying the mysterious nature of time travel,’ he confided to me in a hushed voice. Lo! I knew not
what to reply. I no longer understood him. But he carried on regardless. ‘Aye, dear child – I wish to break doon the doors of time. I have already successfully conducted out-of-body travel, but…’ At this he studied his stomach, which is quite large and round. He patted his waistcoat. ‘I am too portly,’ he said.”

I laughed, thinking of the pillow up my hoodie. I really had to go. I loved Agatha’s story and I loved the way she told it, true or not, but I was on A Mission of Trust. “Hold it there, Agatha,” I said, jumping to my feet, “I really want to hear more, but I have to go. I’m in big trouble if I’m late. Here’s my sleeping bag – it’s a proper down one so it’ll keep you really warm. Here’s a pillow. And there’s more food in the bag. You can stay in my den and if anybody comes snooping around just make out like you’re a ghost.”

“Perhaps I am,” Agatha said, hanging her head, “perhaps indeed I am a lost ghost.”

She was freaking me out again. I took a step back. “Agatha. Should I go and get a grown up? Should I get the police, see if they can help you? Or the social workers?”

Agatha shook her head so her ringlets swung. “No, Saul,” she said. “Yea were the first person I saw, the first person I touched in this time. I lost the thread to 1812 and fastened to yea. That means we are bound together. I think it is only yea who can help me return.”

“Ok…” I felt scared at all this responsibility she was piling onto me. “What about your dad? He got you lost, didn’t he? He’s the great time traveller.”

Agatha shook her head in dismay. “No Saul. I telt yea. Father isna great. Nor is he a time traveller. Father is an apprentice, and one, I fear, who has much to learn.”

“Well, it’s not right. He shouldn’t practise like that on his child. And he shouldn’t send you off somewhere if he doesn’t know how to get you back.”

“Och Saul, mercy! Your mother sent yea for a message, did she not? She couldna be utterly assured of your safe return, could she? We never know what might befall us.” Agatha’s eyes flashed like they were on fire. There was something in her look that told me she was speaking from the heart.

“But, it’s not… the same,” I stammered. That tingling feeling had come back, shooting up and down my spine. A woozy feeling fuzzed my head. This girl in my den really did come from the past. I backed away. More lines from the essay spun out onto an imagined sheet of white paper.

People spoke funny two hundred years back. They ate pigeons. Men fought in the French wars.

“I have to go. And I’m sorry about leaving you on your own. But I don’t know what else to do.”

“I am quite happy here,” Agatha said, stroking the material on my sleeping bag. “You will help me, and I am a brave lass.”

“Great. And this is a good den. You’ll be fine, and I’ll come and get you first thing tomorrow… and…”

“And?” She gazed up at me with her pale blue eyes, twisting a coil of long hair absent-mindedly around her finger. “Then what?”