The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts (22 page)

Georgina had one last throw of the dice: “Is this cricket!?”

The men stopped.

“No,” said the leader.

“There are rules!” Georgina said, using her most outraged tone.

“Yes, there are,” the man admitted, and he stepped back, almost as if the beefy workman had been woken from sleepwalking.

“These rules are here for everyone’s protection, yours and mine,” Georgina said, using her best schoolmarm impression. “We’re in England, not some foreign clime where the foreigners don’t understand justice and fair play. We don’t throw things at people’s houses, we bowl. We don’t shout and scream, but we accept the word of the Umpire and walk calmly to the pavilion. We don’t brawl, we box. We don’t hit someone else, unless for a roquet. There are rules: Marylebone Cricket Club’s or the Marquis of Queensbury’s or John Jaques’.”

The men nodded as did those around him.

Georgina waggled her finger like a vexed, but loving mother: “Let that be a lesson to you.”

The man nodded, forlorn and apologetic. He took his cloth cap off and rung it in his hands.

“Most sorry and apologise, Miss.”

“Ma’am.”

“Sorry, Ma’am, of course, Ma’am. And apologies to Mister Deering–Dolittle too.”

“Well, be off with you then.”

The man left, stumbling and the crowd dispersed.

“Come back, come back,” Mrs Falcone pleaded.

When they were all gone, Georgina went to the garden gate, closed it with a click and then, when she was confident no–one could see, she punched Mrs Falcone.

Miss Charlotte

Charlotte was absolutely flabbergasted: Georgina, of all people.

“That was fantastic,” she said to her sister. The crazed woman had gone down like a felled tree – one punch. “Marvellous.”

Georgina pushed straight past her.

Charlotte waved Earnestine’s umbrella at the empty street: “Ha ha!”

She caught up with Georgina in the kitchen throwing up into a bucket.

“Every morning,” Georgina said.

“Brilliant,” Charlotte said.

“I’ve broken my hand.”

“You’ve probably broken her jaw.”

Georgina looked like she was praying, kneeling on the tiles with her hands holding her dark hair away from the bucket and her feet sticking out from under her robe and nightdress.

“You’ve cut your feet,” Charlotte said.

“Oh… have I? Oh, I have too… ow! Ow!”

Charlotte bent down: “Here, let me.”

She eased a piece of glass out, and another. Little dribbles of red gathered, threatened to flow and then did, trickling as a stream along the arch and then welling up in a lake between her toes.

“Mary– Jane get the iodine!” Georgina shouted.

“But Miss, it’s–”

“Ma’am!!!”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Jane bobbed and rushed away, her feet cracking glass in the hallway: “And sweep the hallway.”

“You were amazing,” Charlotte said.

“Were you really going to take them on with an umbrella?”

Charlotte smiled: “I was going to make a last stand. I’ve been practising.”

“Better with a point three oh three.”

Charlotte laughed: “Yes, absolutely.”

“Lottie, you’re wearing trousers.”

“They’re practical.”

“It’s rampant bloomerism.”

“No one can see.”

“Everyone saw,” said Georgina. “Change at once.”

The maid came back with the medicine box and then dithered.

Charlotte took the iodine off the flapping Jane: “This’ll sting,” she said to her sister.

Georgina gritted her teeth as Charlotte dabbed here and there.

“Brush, pan… hallway,” said Georgina. “And get Jane.”

“I am Jane.”

“Then… get the other one.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Jane with another bob.

“You should raise your legs to stop the bleeding,” said Charlotte.

Georgina did so, looking quite ridiculous lying on the kitchen floor with her legs stuck up in the air.

“Matters are becoming serious with the Chronological business,” Georgina said.

Charlotte nodded.

“It’s not just Uncle Jeremiah, Mister Boothroyd and now Earnestine disappearing, but the whole world seems to be going mad.”

“What can we do?”

There was a clatter from the hallway.

“Fix the windows,” said Georgina, “and carry on.”

Chapter XIII

Miss Deering-Dolittle

Earnestine awoke to the bustle of Mrs Androlucia. She felt awful, groggy, as if this future did not agree with her. Mrs Androlucia’s friendly smile did not help at all.

“You feeling a little rough, my dear?”

“Yes.”

“Temporal Ague, it’ll pass, don’t you worry.”

“I feel…”

“Headache? Tired?”

“That’s it.”

“It’s something to do with the process.”

Once Earnestine had washed and dressed, she was taken along a group of passages she’d not seen before, up and down stairs, until she arrived at a nurse’s station. A woman filled in forms, checked her heartbeat and looked into her ears.

“Nurse, what’s this for?” Earnestine asked.

“Doctor,” the woman replied without looking up. “I’m a Doctor.”

“Oh, a woman Doctor.”

“Yes, why, what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, just…”

“You olden days people… honestly.”

“I beg your pardon,” Earnestine said, “but what is this all for?”

“Temporal ague and poisoning check.”

“Oh!”

“Hmm…”

The Doctor, her starched uniform as stern as her expression, stuck a wooden spatula in Earnestine’s mouth and peered down.

“What’s your date of birth?”

“Ah… uh.
Eh…
ah.”

“How old?”

Why did Doctors and Dentists always ask questions, when they knew full well that one couldn’t answer them: “Twe – nee…
ah…
nee.”

“Biologically twenty, good, and what’s your Chronostatic Displacement?”

“Ma… wah?”

“Never mind, you’ll live.”

With that over, Earnestine was taken back, up and down stairs, and finally returned to the Conveyor Chamber where she’d first arrived. She was positioned on the mat between two Peelers. Mrs Frasier arrived and stood by the technician.

“Are you coming?” Earnestine asked Mrs Frasier.

“Back to that misogynistic smog ridden era? Not likely.”

The technician glanced at the controls and gripped the jewelled lever: “Eight fifty nine…”

Again, everyone checked their pocket watches. Earnestine, ready for this, did the same: it was 11:45 for her. She still hadn’t adjusted it and there was no point now.

“Scrutiniser Jones,” Mrs Frasier said.

“Ma’am,” said the big man to Earnestine’s right. With their black frock coats, top hats and strange white glasses, they all looked the same, except for this shaven bear of a man.

“Take good care of her,” Mrs Frasier said. “Earnestine. When you get back there to those days seventy five years ago, tell them what it’s like here, tell them of good work we’re doing here, but, above all, tell them the truth.”

“I will,” Earnestine replied.

“If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,” Mrs Frasier said, quoting Kipling. “And risk it all on one turn of pitch–and–toss.”

The light built, that strange noise grew in volume, and Mrs Frasier, and her gold toothed smile, began fading from view.

Earnestine steeled herself, closed her eyes tightly and that awful sensation built in her stomach and legs, but this time somehow in reverse. She felt dizzy, flailed out with her arms as if she were losing balance and she was caught by the two Peelers travelling with her.

Finally, the sensation stopped with a jerk and she was back in her own time: still daylight. The galvanic lights had become gas taps and the paintwork was no longer peeling and old, but fresh and new.

“When is it?” she asked.

“Oh nine hundred,” said the new technician, but not in reply. He was still carrying out his checks before unscrewing the control lever.

“Good conveyance,” said Scrutiniser Jones. “Always nice to arrive at the same time of day.”

Earnestine’s own watch said 11:46. She ought to change it and realised that this awkwardness must exist for those travelling east or west on, say, the Orient Express or by Zeppelin.

Scrutiniser Jones stepped off the platform: “Did we arrive on the right day?”

“Depends when you were aiming for?” the technician said. “It’s the morning of Friday the seventeenth.”

“Excellent, spot on.”

Earnestine fumbled for her watch: she was nine and one quarter hours… behind, because for her it was Wednesday–

“What did you say!?”

“Friday the seventee–”

“But I’ve lost two days!”

“That’s Chronological Conveyance for you,” the technician replied. He waved the lever he’d removed and the light shone through it, casting speckles across the ceiling.

She was closer to her birthday, she realised. Did that count or would she have to wait two more days for her cake and candles?

The Peelers escorted Earnestine outside to a waiting carriage. Caruthers was smoking a cigarette and his impatient strides had taken him some way down the street, so he had to trot back.

“Everything all right?” he asked the Peelers.

“She’s been, she’s back,” said Scrutiniser Jones. “Straight on with her.”

Caruthers nodded.

They clambered into the carriage and it clattered away. Caruthers drew the blinds and handed Earnestine a hip flask. She unscrewed the top and took a swig, feeling the metal thread with her lips and then the stinging liquid hit her palette. She snorted, swallowed and took another, much slower draught. The warmth spread down her insides burning her stomach.

“It’s an acquired taste, sorry,” he said, smoothing his chevron moustache in thought.

Earnestine had another experiment at acquiring it, and a fourth.

“Steady on,” said Caruthers.

The carriage went through Lambeth heading for Westminster Bridge.

“Did you manage, you know?” said Caruthers.

Earnestine hefted the miniature camera out of her bag and gave it to him.

“Excellent.”

“Mrs Frasier knew.”

“She has a tendency of knowing.”

“She let me… or rather she took the pictures.”

“I’ll get them developed,” said Caruthers.

The carriage turned and took them across the river and then pulled up outside the Houses of Parliament.

As she disembarked from the cab, Earnestine noticed the number of soldiers dressed in military khaki and armed with rifles. They stood at ease in pairs here at the set down point, by the door, further along towards Westminster Bridge and around the corner towards Whitehall.

“There are a lot of soldiers,” she said.

“Things are changing.”

“So quickly?”

“You’ve been away a long time,” said Caruthers. “Five days.”

“Seventy five years,” Earnestine said.

Caruthers, tight lipped, brought her straight through the security details and along the plush corridors of power. They stopped by an entrance to the second chamber.

“The House of Lords,” said Caruthers, putting his finger to his lips, although Earnestine could not imagine actually speaking in such an august building.

He opened the door and they slipped inside.

The chamber was like a high church or cathedral, but with wooden panelling around the lower part of the walls and gothic stained glass windows stretching up towards the elaborate ceiling. The rows of benches on either side were upholstered in red leather and the far end was a statement of gold decoration, dominated by a magnificent throne. Every space, even the balcony that went around the walls, was crowded with men. They all wore fine clothes, some in wigs and gowns and others in religious regalia, and they generated such brouhaha as they all tried to shout at once.

A clerk stepped in to stop them: one eye looked at Earnestine, the other at Caruthers, and then disconcertingly it swivelled of its own accord to gaze over Earnestine’s shoulder.

Captain Caruthers gave his card to the man and pointed. They had a whispered conversation, mouth to cupped ear, and then the man with the lazy eye threaded his way through the gathering.

The speaker called for order – “Order, order!” and eventually a quiet settled: “Lord Farthing!”

Earnestine recognized the surprisingly young man when he stood, dressed smartly in white tie and tails, and waved his order sheet in front of him like a baton.

“Gentlemen, my Lords, a little more time please.”

There was a general bellowing of disapproval.

Some wag’s sharp voice carried: “You have plenty of time with time travel.”

The clerk reached Lord Farthing and handed him the card. Lord Farthing checked it and then noticed the clerk’s pointing finger. He looked across, his gaze locked with Earnestine’s. For a moment the noise faded.

Lord Farthing threw his arms wide: “You have asked – rightly – for proof.”

“Aye, aye,” came a chorus of responses.

“And here she is.”

He gestured like a compère introducing an act at the theatre and, like the parting of the Red Sea, people stood aside to create a clear passage between the Peer and Earnestine. Even Captain Caruthers stepped to one side leaving her standing alone.

A dreadful hush.

Earnestine’s mouth went dry.

Lord Farthing flexed his finger – come, come.

Earnestine walked into the centre of the high–ceilinged chamber until the ranks of seats on either side, and the general press of standing room only, surrounded her.

“This is Miss Deering–Dolittle,” said Lord Farthing, his voice seemed to float far away. “She was selected as a trustworthy person, an innocent, someone untouched by Conspiracy or Committee. Come, Child, tell us!”

“My Lords–”

Her voice was an awful squeak like Charlotte’s violin practise. A glass of water was thrust into her hand and she took a grateful drink, washing away the taste of Caruthers’ brandy.

“What day is it?”

After some confusion, a Bishop answered: “Friday.”

“My watch…” she weighed it in her hand, “On Monday I went away for a day and a half, and I find I have been deposited here on Friday – five days later.”