The Map of Time

  25

  After enjoying a hearty breakfast that would take the edge off their appetite for a week, Tom’s pockets were once again empty. He tried not to reproach himself for his extravagant gesture towards Patrick; he had not been able to resist it, but next time he must be more careful, for he knew full well that although these altruistic deeds made him feel good, they would only be detrimental to him in the long run. He said good-bye to Patrick, and having nothing better to do for the rest of the day, made his way towards Covent Garden, intending to carry on with his charitable deeds by stealing a few apples for Mrs. Ritter.

  It was late morning by the time he arrived, and the freshest, crispest produce had been snapped up by the early birds, who came from all over London at the crack of dawn to stock up their larders. But by the same token, daylight had removed the eerie atmosphere cast by light from candles perched on mounds of melted wax, which the traders stuck on their carts. By now, the market had taken on the air of a country fair; the visitors no longer looked like furtive ghosts, but like people strolling about with all the time in the world to make their purchases while, like Tom, they let themselves be captivated by the heady scent of roses, eglantines, and heliotrope wafting from the flower baskets on the western side of the square. Floating along with the crowds filing dreamily between carts laden with potatoes, carrots, and cabbages, a patchwork of color that went all the way down Bow Street to Maiden Lane, Tom tried to locate some of the Cockney girls milling around the stalls with their baskets of apples.

  Craning his neck, he thought he spotted one on the other side of a mass of people. He tried to get to her before she disappeared again into the crowd, swerving to get past the human wall blocking his way. But this type of abrupt movement, which might have saved Captain Shackleton’s life during a skirmish, was unwise in a packed market like Covent Garden. He realized this on slamming into a young woman crossing his path. Reeling from the collision, the woman had to steady herself in order not to end up on the ground. Tom stopped and swung round with the intention of apologizing as politely as possible for having bumped into her.

  It was then he found himself face to face with the only person in the whole of London he had never wanted to see again, and the world suddenly felt like a tiny, mysterious place, like a magician’s hat which could hold everything.

  “Captain Shackleton, what are you doing in my time?” asked Claire Haggerty, completely bewildered.

  Only inches away from her, Tom received the full impact of the look of devotion that his mere presence triggered in her. He was even able to glimpse the blue of her eyes, a deep, intense blue he knew he would never find anywhere else in the world, however many oceans or skies he saw—a fierce, pure blue, which was probably on the Creator’s palette when he colored heaven, and of which her eyes were now the sole custodians.

  Only when he had managed to break free from her enchanted gaze did Tom realize that this chance encounter could cost him his life. He glanced around to make sure no one was eyeing them suspiciously, but was too dazed to take in what he saw.

  He fixed his eyes once more on the girl, who was still staring at him overwhelmed with disbelief and emotion, waiting for him to explain his presence there. But what could he tell her without giving away the truth, which would be tantamount to signing his own death warrant? “I traveled back in time to bring you your parasol,” he blurted out.

  He immediately bit his lip. It sounded absurd, but it was the first thing that had occurred to him. He watched Claire’s eyes grow even wider, and prepared for the worst.

  “Oh, thank you, you’re so kind,” she replied, scarcely able to disguise her joy. “But you shouldn’t have taken the trouble.

  As you can see, I have another,” and she showed him a parasol almost identical to the one he had hidden in his chest of drawers. “However, as you’ve journeyed through time in order to bring it to me, I’ll gladly take it back, and I promise I’ll get rid of this one.” Now it was Tom’s turn to conceal his astonishment at what the girl was saying: she had swallowed his lie completely! Yet wasn’t it logical? Murray’s pantomime was too convincing for a girl as young as her to question it; Claire believed she had traveled to the year 2000, she truly believed it, and her certainty gave him legitimacy as a time traveler. It was that simple. When he managed to recover from his surprise, he realized she was staring at his empty hands, wondering perhaps why they were not clasping the parasol that had compelled him to journey across an entire century with the sole aim of returning it to her.

  “I don’t have it with me,” he apologized, shrugging foolishly.

  She waited, expectantly, for him to come up with a solution to this, and in that sudden silence enclosing them amid the hustle and bustle, Tom glimpsed the girl’s slim, graceful body beneath her robe, and felt painfully aware of how long it had been since he was with a woman. After burying Megan, he had only received the phony tenderness of whores, and had recently forgone even that, considering himself tough enough to do without those bartered caresses. Or so he thought. Now he had in front of him a beautiful, elegant woman, a woman a fellow such as he could never hope to possess, and yet she was gazing at him like no other woman ever had. Would that gaze be the tunnel that could lead to him storming the impregnable fortress? Men had risked their lives for much less since the beginning of time. And so, responding to the atavistic desire of his species echoing inside him, Tom did what his reason least advised: “But I can give it to you this afternoon,” he ventured, “if you’d be kind enough to take tea with me at the Aerated Bread Company near Charing Cross Underground station.” Claire’s face lit up.

  “Of course, Captain,” she replied, excited. “I’ll be there.” Tom nodded, gave her a smile purged of all lust, and tried hard to mask his shock, both at her for accepting as much as at himself for having proposed a meeting with the very woman he should flee if he valued his life. Clearly it did not mean that much to him if he was prepared to risk it for a roll in the hay with this vision of loveliness. Just then, someone cried out Claire’s name and they turned as one. A fair-haired girl was making her way towards them through the crowd.

  “It’s my friend Lucy,” said Claire, with amused irritation, “she won’t let me out of her sight for a second.” “Please, don’t tell her I’ve come here from the future,” Tom warned quickly, regaining some of his composure, “I’m traveling incognito. If anyone found out, I’d get into a lot of trouble.” Claire looked at him a little uneasily.

  “I’ll be waiting for you at the tearooms at four o’clock,” Tom said brusquely, taking his leave. “But, please promise me you’ll come alone.” As he thought, Claire promised without demur. Although, owing to his circumstances, Tom had never been to the ABC tearooms himself, he was aware they had been all the rage since the day they opened. For they were the only place two young people could meet without the bothersome presence of a chaperone.

  He had heard they were airy, pleasant, and warm, and offered tea and buns at an affordable price. Thus, they soon became the perfect alternative to walks in the cold or meetings in family reception rooms spied upon by the young lady’s mother to which young suitors had hitherto been condemned. True, they would be seen, but Tom could think of no better place to meet her— not one where she would have agreed to go unaccompanied.

  By the time Lucy reached Claire, Tom had vanished into the crowd. But she still asked her dazed friend who the stranger was she had seen her talking to from a distance. Claire simply shook her head mysteriously. As she expected, Lucy immediately soon forgot the matter and dragged her over to a flower stall, where they could stock up with heliotropes, bringing the aroma of distant jungles into their bedrooms. And while Claire Haggerty was letting herself be led by the arm and thinking that traveling through time was the most gentlemanly thing anyone had ever done for her, Tom Blunt quickly left Covent Garden Market by the opposite exit, elbowing his way through the crowd and trying not to think of poor Perkins.

  He slumped back wards onto his bed
in the hovel as if he had been shot point-blank. Lying there, he carried on cursing his foolhardy behavior out loud, as he had been doing in the garbled manner of a drunkard all the way home. Had he taken leave of his senses? What the hell did he think he was doing asking the girl to meet him again? Well, the answer was easy enough.

  What he wanted was obvious, and it did not involve marveling at Claire’s beauty for a couple of hours, like someone admiring an unattainable object in a shop window, tortured by the idea he would never have her. Not on his life: he was going to take advantage of the girl being in love with his other self, the brave Captain Shackleton, to achieve an even greater goal. And he was amazed that for this fleeting pleasure he was prepared to suffer the consequences such an irresponsible course of action would bring, including his probable demise. “Did he really value his life so little?” he asked himself yet again. Yes, it was sad but true: possessing that beautiful woman was more meaningful to him than anything that might be waiting for him round the corner in his miserable future.

  Thinking about it objectively he had to admit that the logical thing to do was not to turn up at the meeting and to avoid trouble. But this was no guarantee against him bumping into the girl again somewhere else and having to explain what he was still doing in the nineteenth century, and even invent some excuse for not showing up at the tearoom. Not going was not the answer, apparently. On the contrary, the only solution he could think of was to go there and cook up a way of avoiding having to explain himself if they bumped into each other again in the future. Some reason why she must not go near him, or even speak to him, he thought to himself, excitedly, as though that were his main reason for seeing her again and not another more vulgar one. All things considered, this meeting might even prove beneficial to him in the long run. Yes, this might be a way of solving the problem once and for all. For it was clear this must be their first and only encounter. He had no choice: he must indulge his desire for the girl on condition that he succeeded in ruling out any possibility of them ever meeting again, nipping any relationship that might grow up between them in the bud. For he could not see how they would keep it secret, conceal it from the multitude of spies Murray had posted all over the city, which would put not only him in danger but her, too. This meeting, then, felt like the last meal of the condemned man, and he resolved to enjoy every minute of it.

  When it was time to go, he took the parasol, straightened his cap, and left the boardinghouse. Down in the street, he gave way to an impulse and stopped in front of Mrs. Ritter’s stall.

  “Good afternoon, Tom,” said the old lady.

  “Mrs. Ritter,” he replied, stretching out his hand, “I think the time has come for us both to see my future.” The old woman glanced up at him in surprise, but at once she gripped Tom’s hand and with a wizened finger slowly traced the lines on his palm, like someone reading a book.

  “My God, Tom!” she gasped, gazing up at him with mournful dismay. “I see … death!” With a grimace of resigned fortitude, Tom accepted the terrible prediction and withdrew his hand gently from the old woman’s clasp. His worst fears had been confirmed. Getting under this woman’s skirts would mean death: that was the reward for lust. He shrugged and said good-bye to the alarmed Mrs. Ritter, who doubtless had assumed fate would be kinder to him, then walked down the street towards the tearoom where Claire Haggerty was waiting for him. Yes, there was no doubt about it, he was going to die, but could he call what he had now a life? He smiled and quickened his pace.

  He had never felt so alive.

  24

  When he arrived, Claire was already sitting at one of the small tables at the back of the tearoom, next to a picture window through which the afternoon light filtered onto her hair. Tom gazed at her with awe from the doorway, savoring the knowledge that it was him who this beautiful young girl was waiting for. Once more, he was struck by her fragile demeanor, which contrasted so delightfully with her lively gestures and fervent gaze, and he felt a pleasant stirring inside, in that barren place where he thought nothing would ever grow again. At least he was not completely dead inside, he could still experience emotion. Clutching the parasol in his sweaty palm, he began making his way towards her through the tables, determined to do everything in his power to have her in his arms by the end of the afternoon.

  “Excuse me, sir,” a young woman on her way out of the tearooms waylaid him, “might I ask where you acquired those boots?” Taken aback, Tom followed the woman’s eyes down to his feet.

  He almost jumped out of his skin when he saw he was wearing Captain Shackleton’s exotic footwear. He stared at the girl, at a loss what to say.

  “In Paris,” he replied.

  The young woman appeared content with his reply. She nodded, as if to say such footwear could only come from the birthplace of fashion. She thanked him for the information with a friendly smile and left the tearoom. Tom shook his head and, clearing his throat like a baritone about to walk out on stage, continued across the room towards Claire, who had not yet noticed him and was gazing dreamily out of the window.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Haggerty,” he said.

  Claire smiled when she saw him.

  “I believe this is yours,” he said, holding out the parasol as if it were a bunch of roses.

  “Oh, thank you, Captain,” the girl responded, “but, please, take a seat, take a seat.” Tom sat down on the empty chair, while Claire assessed the sorry state of her parasol with slight dismay. After the speedy examination, Claire relegated the object to the side of the table, as though its role in the story were over. She began studying Tom with that strange yearning in her eyes he had noticed during their first meeting, and which had flattered him even though he knew it was not directed at him but at the character he was playing.

  “I must compliment you on your disguise, Captain,” the girl said, after looking him up and down, “it’s truly amazing. You could be an East End barrow boy.” “Er, thanks,” Tom stammered, forcing a smile to disguise his pique at her remark.

  What was he so surprised about in fact? Her comment only confirmed what he already knew: if he was able to enjoy the company of this stuck-up young woman for an afternoon, it was precisely because she believed he was an intrepid hero of the future.

  And it was precisely thanks to this misunderstanding that he would be able to teach her a lesson, by obtaining from her something which under other circumstances she would never have conceded. He disguised the joy the thought gave him by glancing around the room, taking the opportunity to try to spot one of Gilliam Murray’s possible spies among the chattering customers, but he saw no one who struck him as suspicious.

  “I can’t be too careful,” he remarked, turning back to face Claire. “Like I said, I mustn’t draw attention to myself, and that would be impossible if I wore my armor. That’s why I must also ask you not to call me Captain.” “Very well,” said the girl, and then, unable to control her excitement at being privy to a secret no one else knew about, added: “I can’t believe you’re really Captain Derek Shackleton!” Startled, Tom begged her to be quiet.

  “Oh, forgive me,” she apologized, her face flushing, “only I’m so excited. I still can’t believe I’m having tea with the savior of—” Luckily, the girl broke off when she saw the waitress coming over. They ordered tea for two and an assortment of cakes and buns. When she had left to fetch their order, they stared at each other in silence for a few moments, grinning foolishly. Tom watched the girl attempt to regain her composure, while he thought of how to steer the conversation onto a more personal footing that would assist his plans. He had chosen the tearoom because there was an inexpensive but clean-looking boardinghouse opposite that had seemed like the perfect venue for their union.

  Now all he needed to do was employ his powers of seduction, if he had any, to try to get her there. He knew this would be no easy feat: evidently a young lady like Claire, who probably still had her virtue intact, would not agree to go to bed with a man she had only just met, even if
she did think he was Capitan Shackleton.

  “How did you get here?” asked Claire, oblivious to his machinations. “Did you stow away on the Cronotilus?” Tom had to stifle a grimace of irritation at her question: the last thing he wanted while attempting to spin a credible yarn that would enable him to have his way with this lovely creature was to have to justify his earlier fabrication. However, he could scarcely tell her he had traveled back in time in order to return her parasol and expect her simply to accept it, as though it were most natural thing in the world for people to run back and forth between centuries on unimportant errands. Luckily, the sudden appearance of the waitress bringing their order gave him time to think up an answer that would satisfy Claire.

  “The Cronotilus?” he asked, pretending he knew nothing of the time tram’s existence, for if he had used it to travel back to this century, he would have no choice but to stay there until the next expedition to the year 2000. That was almost a month away, which meant this meeting need not be their last.

  “It’s the steam tram we traveled to your century in, across that dreadful place called the fourth dimension,” Claire explained to him. Then she paused for a few moments before adding: “But if you didn’t come here on the Cronotilus, then how did you get here? Is there some other means of time travel?” “Of course, there’s another means, Miss Haggerty,” Tom assured her, assuming that if the girl was taken in by Gilliam’s hoax, that is to say, if she believed time travel was possible, then the chances were that he could make up any method he liked and she would believe it. “Our scientists have invented a machine that travels through time instantly, without the need for tiresome journeys through the fourth dimension.” “And can this machine travel to any era?” the girl demanded, mesmerized.