The Unlikely Time Traveller (2 page)

“Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie…”

“A bit louder, Robbie, if you please.” That was Mrs Flynn, the English teacher. She was mad about the poet Robert Burns.

“O, what a panic’s in thy breastie.”

Somebody tittered from the back of the room. Max probably. I hate that kind of stuff, so I turned and glared at him. Plus I was feeling sorry for poor Robbie, standing up in front of everybody. He was reciting the poem in a whisper. It was actually quite funny.

“Robbie, I can hardly hear you. Put your heart and soul into it.”   

“That’s more like it, Robbie. Now I can just about hear you. Your namesake, Robert Burns, would be proud of you. Can you tell us what it means?”

Robbie just stood there, like he hadn’t heard her. So she asked him again. It was pretty clear he hadn’t understood anything. So I blurted out – I couldn’t help it, “The wee mouse is frightened.” Not that I’m an expert on old Scots words, but I probably knew more than Robbie.

“Yes, Saul, that’s about the sum of it.”

“Just like Robbie,” somebody muttered. The teacher couldn’t hear, but I could. It was Max again. He really had it in for poor Robbie.

“Anyway, Robbie, carry on. Try and enjoy the words.”

So Robbie struggled through the poem and I struggled on listening to him. Halfway through, it seemed like he did start to enjoy the words, or they started to make sense, because he got louder and even Max shut up and listened.

Then he got to a bit that made me really pay attention.

Robbie sat down then and I started the clapping. Next thing the class was in an uproar. Even Mrs Flynn was clapping. When the applause eventually faded away the teacher beamed at Robbie and said, “I’m considering putting you forward for the recitation at the Burns Supper next January! That was excellent Robbie, once you allowed yourself to feel the rhythm of the poem, and the plight of the mouse.” Then she cast her eyes over the rest of us and repeated the last lines. “An’
forward
, tho’ I canna see, I
guess
an’
fear
…”

I didn’t like the way she was staring at me. She said, “Do
you
, Saul?”

“What, Mrs Flynn?” I sat up straight. “Um, do I what?”

“Fear the future?”

What a question. It was my turn to be gobsmacked. I couldn’t think what to say. I hadn’t even thought about the future that much, like, not beyond Christmas anyway.

When I didn’t answer, Mrs Flynn put the question out to the whole class. “What will life be like in the future, do you think? Say, a hundred years from now? Will it be very changed? Will children’s lives be very different from your lives?” No one said anything so she went on, “In the poem the poet says the wee mouse lives always in the present moment, and for that the mouse is lucky, because we humans are often either thinking about the past with regret or dreading the next day. We don’t know what the future will bring and we’re afraid – that’s what the poem seems to say. What do you think?”

“Yes, Mrs Flynn,” Melody piped up, “I think Robert Burns is right. The future could all be messed up.” Melody was looking pretty miserable. “Climate change, floods, fires. Nature might be all destroyed.”

“I think in the future we’ll turn into robots.” That was Aaron. Typical thing for him to say. He was always going on about artificial intelligence and computers taking over. “It’ll be wicked.” He beamed round at us, looking like he couldn’t wait for the future and its robot population.

“Yeah, and we’ll have microchips in our brain. Like the internet, but in our heads.” That was Angus, who got every computer game as soon as it came out.

Mrs Flynn really started something with her ‘guess the future’ quiz. Lewis said you would order the kind of babies you wanted, like blue eyes and high cheekbones might cost more than a square chin and a flat nose. He only said that because blue eyes and high cheekbones happened to
be what he had. That got a lot of laughs but Mrs Flynn said it wasn’t a laughing matter. Sanjeev reckoned future children would be born knowing everything they need. Darren said in the future you wouldn’t walk anywhere, you would just do a kind of teleporting thing. In fact, he said, future people probably wouldn’t even have legs. And they wouldn’t eat real food, just pills.

I kept quiet. I thought about the letter me and Agnes had written for our time capsule, saying how we liked climbing trees. Maybe there wouldn’t be any trees in the future. Then what would people climb? Would they even understand what we meant?

Next thing Robbie chipped in. “We’ll have machines for everything so nobody will have to work. We’ll lie about all day, not get out of bed even.”

I could hear stifled laughter behind me that turned into coughing. I felt sorry for Robbie, even though it was a typical lazy-sounding thing for him to say.

“Well, I think,” Carly said, “we’ll have pandas for pets, but we won’t have honey because all the bees will die. You know there’s already lots less than there were.” She sniffed and sounded like she was going to burst into tears.

“If there are no bees,” Mrs Flynn told us, “there won’t be many new flowers either, or fruit, or veg.”

“Actually, I think there will be lots of bees.” That was Agnes. Definitely one of the most positive people in the class. “And I think everybody will get a patch of ground to grow food in, and they will bring back spinning wheels so children don’t have to work in terrible conditions in factories in India making our clothes.” She was on a roll, but you could tell by people’s expressions they thought she was bonkers. “We’ll make our own clothes in the future.”

That was too much for Max. He laughed out loud.
I couldn’t picture Max with a spinning wheel. Actually, I couldn’t picture myself with one either. To be totally honest I couldn’t even picture a spinning wheel. All I could picture was the wheels of my bike spinning, and I doubt that’s what Agnes had in mind. But Mrs Flynn was more impressed with her thinking. “Yes, laugh now Max. But Agnes may be right. Who makes our clothes now? Let’s do a little experiment, shall we? I’d like you all to find the label on your school jumper, or sweatshirt, or jacket, and read what it says. Let’s find out where our clothes come from.”

So we all got busy, twisting round and peering at the tiny writing on the labels. “Does anybody have a label that says
Made in Scotland
by any remote chance?” the teacher asked.

Nobody had.

“Or
Made in England?
”

No.

China, India, Turkey. That’s where all our clothes were from. Countries, Mrs Flynn informed us, where people worked for low wages, often in factories that were badly built and they had no holidays or time off when they weren’t well. Then she said it takes lots of energy to transport our shirts and trousers and coats and socks halfway across the world. Not to mention our furniture and toys and all the other stuff we buy. “So Agnes might well be right. It might not be possible to buy cheap things from overseas in the future like we do now.” Then Mrs Flynn sighed. “But the truth is, we don’t know. It’s like Robert Burns says in the poem – we can’t see the future, we can only guess.”

She didn’t add the fear.

But now she had got us thinking about it I realised I did fear the future – a bit.

If I had known what Robbie was planning I would have feared it a whole lot more.

After school me and Agnes were first to arrive at the den. Robbie had gone home for a snack, and Will, who’s our other gang member and best pal, had football training.

Mrs Flynn had got to us with her mouse poem. I couldn’t stop thinking about the world a hundred years in the future. Neither could Agnes. We didn’t bother playing cards right away, or going outside for a run around. We just sat there in the den, guessing at what the future might be like. The truth is I had no idea, even though I had done a spot of time travelling and had met people from two hundred years back, and one hundred years back. In lots of ways people from the past were just like me. They laughed and cried, wanted fun and adventures. It was the world around them that changed. I guessed maybe in the next hundred years computers would take over. Or war would wipe us all out, or if not war then a terrible disease.

“Maybe we should add a bit to our letter to the future,” Agnes said, snapping me out of my doom and gloom thoughts.

“Saying what? That all our clothes were made in China?”

“No, we could tell them what bees were like, and swans too, just in case they become extinct. And cars as well.”

Which reminded me of the picture of the Northern
Lights in the time-capsule tin. I was going to get it and show it to Agnes, and check with her about the best spot for the sleeping bags, but as soon as I stood up I heard something like a twig cracking outside. Was there somebody out there spying on us? Or was it just that all the thinking about robots and zombies and plastic food and spinning wheels and war had made me edgy?

“Relax,” Agnes said, “it’s just garden noises. Listen, the future might be wonderful. Better than we can even imagine. Everybody might be happy and healthy and peaceful. We might all learn to get on with each other. And share everything. Cheer up, Saul. People might pick up litter and dance in the street. Imagine that.” She laughed and tossed her head back. “We’ll all be dancing in the streets of Peebles!” Definitely the kind of thing her dad would say.

“Might be,” I mumbled, so not convinced, “or maybe there won’t be any future. We might have blown the world up, or turned people into machines. What about Angus, thinking we’ll have microchips in our brains? That’s basically being a zombie. Great!”

“Oh Saul, there are so many amazing people who really care about the planet and other people. I care. You care. And this wilderness is ours now.” She nodded to the big walled overgrown garden outside. “We’ll bring wild animals here and look after them. We could even have wolves and bears and beavers. And we won’t let any zombies in.” She laughed, like the future was one big party.

“We’ll put up a sign:
NO ZOMBIES ALLOWED.
”

“The garden isn’t ours,” I reminded her. “This place, in the future, is gonna be
yours
.”

“I’d share it. Course I would. It wouldn’t be much fun having a huge garden just for myself. I’d get so bored. Oh,
cheer up Saul and have a chocolate raisin.” She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a pretty grubby chocolate raisin. It looked like she’d been carrying it round in there for years, but I wasn’t fussy. I took it. “Think we should put some chocolate raisins in the tin?” She grinned. “In case they get extinct too.”

“Na, no offence, but they’re already pretty ancient.”

She popped one into her mouth all the same. Then she reached over and shook my arm. “Want to go and see?”

“Uh, uh.” I shook my head so hard it hurt. I knew what she was hinting at, and I didn’t want to go and see. No way.

Me and Agnes do actually know how to time travel. We met a time traveller once called Agatha Black who came here from 1812. She told us how to do it. Agnes and I have only time travelled once, back to 1914, and to be honest that was enough. It’s a seriously dangerous hobby.

“You would have to be a total idiot to time travel into the future,” I said, reaching over and grabbing some peanuts from our upside-down-wooden-box table. Her one grubby chocolate raisin had given me an appetite. I stuffed the nuts into my mouth. “Or maybe totally brave. Braver than me anyway.” I shook my head, hard. “I’m good where I am, thanks. Maybe I’m like Robert Burns,” and I put on Robbie’s poem-speaking voice. “An’
forward
, tho’ I canna see, I
guess
an’
fear
!”

Agnes looked serious for a bit, then nodded. “Yeah, I think you’re right. We
are
fine where we are. Right now I can’t think of anything more exciting than sleeping out in the garden watching the Aurora Borealis. That’ll be awesome enough. You’d have to be a major hero to time travel into the future. Anyway, going forward might not work.” We both knew that wasn’t true. Agatha Black came forward, all the way from 1812. But I nodded, and
stuffed more peanuts down my throat. “Hey Saul,” Agnes said, twisting her school sweatshirt round, “we could put these
Made in China
labels into our time-capsule box. People in the future will find that…”

“Shh!” I sat bolt upright. I
did
hear footsteps. Somebody
was
outside. I jumped up and ran to the door, just in time to see Robbie disappear through the hole in the hedge. I shouted after him but he didn’t call back. “Something is definitely up with that guy,” I said, slumping back onto my cushion. Then I picked up our special pack of cards and shuffled them. “Rummy?”

As I dealt the cards, Agnes suddenly said, “I brought a little bottle of petrol.”

“What?”

“In case it’s all run out in the future.” She produced a tiny glass bottle from her rucksack. “We can put it in our time capsule so folk can see what it was like!” Then she snatched up her cards, grinned at me and said, “Rummy!”

Next day was Saturday. Agnes and Will had Saturday jobs they had to do: Agnes went food shopping with her gran and Will had this wee job cutting grass for the people next door. My main job was to look after the twins for an hour every night, so I was free on Saturdays. I don’t know what Robbie did at home, probably nothing. But cause me and Robbie didn’t have a Saturday job we quite often did a bit of sorting out at the den, pulled a few weeds out of the garden, that kind of thing. Officially our den and its wilderness garden and crumbling-down house all belong to Agnes’s dad, but he isn’t keen on owning land or doing anything with it. He says it’s all waiting for Agnes when she’s twenty-one, and we can do what we want with it for now, as long as we take care of things. Most of the time Robbie and I just hang out on Saturday mornings, horsing about, climbing trees or just sitting around.

That Saturday, because Robbie had been acting strange, I wondered if he would even show up, though normally he liked Saturday mornings best, it being just me and him.

I didn’t hurry to get to the den. I went via the sweet shop and bought a big bag of toffee, the sort that pulls out all your fillings and bags out your cheeks. Robbie loved that stuff, and I felt like I owed him.

Halfway across the field I could smell burning.

I always have this fear somebody is going to burn down our den so I bolted over the field, but slowed down when I saw wisps of smoke coming from the middle of the garden. The den was up at the end, so it couldn’t be on fire. I relaxed. Probably Robbie had got there early and made a bonfire. Maybe he was gardening and burning all the fallen leaves.

But that seemed unlikely. I stuck a toffee in my mouth and chewed hard; Robbie never made bonfires, not on his own. I got this creepy shiver all over me.

I gulped down the toffee and ran, then wriggled fast through the hole in the hedge. In seconds I was in the wild garden. I saw flames and smoke. I raced towards it with this sinking feeling that I was going to discover something horrible. I had heard about kids getting bullied at school then hanging themselves. I never heard of anything involving fire though. I felt sick.

“Robbie!” I yelled.

I reached the yew tree. A bonfire was burning close by. There was no sign of Robbie. But there were other things. In horror I stared at a glass globe swinging from a branch. Around the yew tree somebody had placed a cup of water, and a small mound of earth. The swinging globe was shooting out pale rainbows that swirled into the smoke from the fire.

“Robbie!” I yelled again, “Robbie!”

But there was no reply.

I sunk to my knees because if I hadn’t I would have fallen over.

“Robbie!” I shouted again. The fire crackled. Smoke wafted into my face.

This wasn’t just any old bonfire. This was a time-travel fire. Water, earth, air, fire – somebody had brought
together the elements. I had an eerie feeling that the “somebody” was Robbie. Would he do something as insane as that?

I forced myself to get a grip and think. If Robbie really had time travelled, he’d only gone a moment ago, because the glass globe was still swinging and there wasn’t enough wind to push it. But I knew about time. It opens out and closes in. I groaned. A minute here might be a day sometime else.

Everything was in place. If it had been set up by Robbie, it looked like he’d done it right. I remembered how he had asked me all about the time-travel formula, and whether any old song would do, and did you have to know all the words, and would any gold do, or did it have to be a ring? And because I had been feeling bad about him feeling left out, I explained everything, in detail. I just thought he was interested. He would have had no problem finding gold jewellery. Only last week Agnes had told him all about her time-travel kit, and how she wished she had packed way more food. When we time travelled to 1914, Agnes sold her necklace to buy food. It had belonged to her mother. She told the whole story to Robbie – who, now I thought about it, had been hanging onto every word.

But to time travel you either had to be really brave – or completely crazy! Robbie wasn’t the bravest person in the world, that was for sure, but he could be pretty crazy. And when I say pretty crazy, I mean totally mad. Once he jumped off the highest diving board at the Commonwealth Pool just to get our attention. He wasn’t even a great swimmer. He couldn’t dive properly but he flung himself off just so we would all gasp. He twisted his ankle doing that, but you could see him
basking afterwards in all the attention he got.

I stared at the glass globe, swaying back and forward and still shooting out rainbows. Had Robbie really time travelled? Had he been thinking about the future too, and – just to get our attention – gone to have a look? Or maybe this was a clever hoax? Maybe Robbie had gone to all this trouble to make it look like he zoomed off into the future, or the past, but actually he was in the den, having a great laugh.

I got up and raced to the end of the garden. “Robbie,” I yelled, “Robbie!”

But he wasn’t in the den. He wasn’t in the garden.

I broke out into a cold sweat. Maybe he really had done it?

Then I remembered how Agnes and me had been talking about the future just the other day, saying how you’d have to be mega-brave to time travel one hundred years ahead, and Robbie had been creeping about outside the den, listening in. Would he do something so reckless just so we’d think he was brave?

I ran back to the yew tree. The smoke was still swirling and a few pale rainbows flashed around. I spied a scrap of paper pinned to the trunk. I grabbed it and read:

I couldn’t believe it. Robbie really had gone.