Don't Know Where, Don't Know When (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 1) Page 12

  Brandon paused in front of a building he remembered seeing in 1940, a tall row house on the High Street with a brass plaque on the gate. The plaque still read R. Gordon, D.D.S., Dental Surgery, but the brass was now brightly polished. He checked the house number against the address on his postcard. Sure enough, it was 57, High Street. Walking up the steps, Brandon was incredibly nervous. He kept trying to tell himself that he did, after all, have a perfectly innocent question to ask: Does anyone know a family called Braithwaite? He pressed the large button at the door, and heard a distant bell ringing. Almost immediately, footsteps approached, and suddenly the door was opened halfway by a young woman in a long white apron and frilly cap.

  At first, she appeared stunned by the sight of Brandon, but she quickly collected herself. “Can I help you?”

  Brandon was as daunted as she was. “Um, yeah, I think so, I just wondered, like…”

  “Oh, wait, I know why you’re here,” she exclaimed. “But you should have come round the back door,” she added reprovingly. “Come in anyway, and I’ll tell Mr. Gordon. And for heaven’s sake, take your hat off.”

  Brandon snatched off his cap. He was about to explain that there had been a mistake, but then realized that he was curious to know for whom he had been mistaken. The maid had already hurried off upstairs, leaving him standing in the hallway.

  Looking around, he saw that he was not standing in what he would recognize as a dentist’s office, but in a private house. To his right was a living room, and he could just see the edge of a small dining table covered in a white lace cloth, and an upright piano on which sat an enormous potted plant with large, dark green, and glossy leaves.

  There was a conversation going on upstairs, and it grew louder as the maid and a man approached. “That’s splendid, Mary,” said the man in what Brandon guessed was a Scottish accent. “I’ll speak with the lad right away.”

  Down the stairs walked a man in his mid-forties, with thin combed-over hair and the huge bushy moustache typical of those that Brandon had seen other men wearing in 1915. The man gave him a warm smile. “I’m Mr. Gordon, and your name will be….?”

  Brandon had been ready for that question.

  “Clark, sir. George Clark.”

  Mr. Gordon looked him up and down. “Not from these parts, are you?”

  Brandon shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Never mind, laddie, neither am I. Is your family in the town?”

  Brandon again shook his head, and Mr. Gordon seemed pleased. “Well, that’s just as well. If you live in, you’ll learn your trade all the more quickly. Now come away upstairs to my study, and you can tell me why you want to apprentice to a dentist.”

  Brandon almost confessed right then to a case of mistaken identity, but something stopped him. A free place to stay? A job? That sounded kind of cool. And it would give him a base while he tried to figure out the mystery of George Braithwaite. Anyway, the postcard had told him to come to this house.

  Upstairs, Mr. Gordon sat down at his desk, and invited Brandon to take the upright chair across from him. Then he leaned his elbows on the desk, and held his hands together at the fingertips.

  “So, you would like to learn the art and mystery of dentistry, eh?” he said, pausing significantly.

  Brandon immediately realized that a simple “Yes” would not work as an answer.

  “Yes. Totally,” he said, hoping that this would sound sufficiently enthusiastic. “Teeth. It’s all I think about. I love ‘em. Especially when they’re all..erm…white and straight.” He suddenly noticed that Mr. Gordon’s own teeth were somewhat crooked and a little on the yellow side. He rushed on.

  “Um, yeah, and I think gum disease is bad. Real bad. Plaque, wow, that’s yuk, for sure.” He tried to think what else he could say, and suddenly remembered the one cavity he had gotten. “And pain! Yeah, pain in your teeth, man, that’s the worst. I want to cure the pain in people’s teeth.”

  Mr. Gordon had been barely succeeding in suppressing a smile, when suddenly he gave a long, loud laugh, and bashed his fist on the table. “George, you are a character. I’m not sure I entirely believe in your apparently newfound enthusiasm for dentistry, but I do believe you’ll do. Now, you’ll be fourteen, of course?”

  “Sorry?” said Brandon, confused.

  “Fourteen years old. You’ll have the school leaving certificate?”

  Seeing Brandon’s blank face, he said hurriedly, “Well, we can’t stand on formalities these days. With the war, there’s too few likely boys about, so unless you tell me otherwise, we shall agree, I think, that you are fourteen and have left school.”

  Brandon said, on cue, “Yes, sir. That’s right.”

  Mr. Gordon gave him a broad smile. “Very well. I shall have your indentures drawn up forthwith.”

  “I have to have dentures?” Brandon squawked, to renewed mirth from Mr. Gordon. “What a laddie,” he chuckled. “Your apprenticeship indentures, as I think you know quite well. We will agree that you will assist me in my work, and I will provide you with a room, your meals, some pocket money, and clothing, as well, of course, as good a training in dentistry as I know how.”

  Brandon agreed with a nod.

  “Now, there are, of course, some rules,” the dentist continued. “You’ll be in the house by ten each night, or there will be hell to pay. There will be no leniency from me where alehouses are concerned: I don’t hold with strong drink myself, and some of my patients would be scandalized if I allowed my apprentice to lurk around our local hostelries. It will be enough of a difficulty to persuade a few of my patients to accept a Negro as my assistant, and so your conduct must always be unexceptionable. And, of course, no lady friends until your indentures are completed in four years.”

  Brandon thought that he wasn’t likely to spend his spare time in pubs drinking beer anyway, and he agreed that he was a bit young for girlfriends.

  “Very well. I’ll have Mary show you the house, and your room. After dinner, we’ll make a start.”

  He leaned over and pressed a button on the wall, and a bell rang distantly downstairs. Very shortly, Mary, the maid, appeared in the doorway.

  “Yes, Mr. Gordon?”

  “This is George Clark, and he is to serve as my apprentice. I want you to show him to his room, and then acquaint him with the house and introduce him to Mrs. Gordon.”

  “She’s gone up to town on the train, sir,” said Mary.

  “Oh, and so she has, although I must say, these Zeppelin raids worry me. Never mind, she’ll meet you by and by. Very well, then, introduce him to my daughter.”

  “Miss Peggy’s out riding on her bicycle to meet her friend for tea, sir.”

  “That infernal machine,” complained Mr. Gordon. “Every time I turn around, she’s away out gallivanting. Well, just show George the house, then, Mary, and bring him back by and by. Off you go, both of you. I have work to do.”

  Brandon’s room was a tiny attic nook on the third floor of the house. They had to climb a narrow flight of stairs to reach it, with only a rope to serve as a banister. “It’s really the maid’s room,” said Mary. “But I live out, so you get it. Soon as I turn eighteen, I’m going to work in the munitions factory. Wages is a lot better there. But don’t tell the Gordons, or I’ll never hear the end of it. All the girls has started working in the factory since the war broke out, and they’ll never find anyone to replace me.”

  The room, with its sloping ceiling and solitary window overlooking the High Street, was barely furnished. Aside from the bed, there was only a small dresser, and a jug and bowl on the washstand. Brandon asked Mary, “Where’s the bathroom?”

  She looked askance at him. “Downstairs. Your bath night will be Tuesday. The lavatory’s separate, and it’s on the second floor, too. You’ll find the jerry under your bed.”

  Brandon impulsively looked under the bed, half-expecting to see a German soldier. Instead, he pulled out a large pot with a handle, covered in a cloth. The horrible truth dawned. “
When am I supposed to use this?”

  Mary blushed. “In the night, like everyone else. Now hurry up.”

  In the upstairs hallway, she whispered, “Mr. Gordon’s son, Master James, is with the Army in France, but he has a daughter, Miss Peggy, and his nephew, Oliver lives here, too.” She lowered her voice, and said conspiratorially, “The little boy’s mother was Mr. Gordon’s sister, but she died when Master Oliver was born, and he came to live with the Gordons when his father died last year.”

  “That’s sad,” Brandon said.

  “Yes, you can say that again,” agreed Mary. “And he’s a lovely little fellow, too, make no mistake.”

  Oliver was sitting in the kitchen, eating a large slice of cake. “Hallo,” he said to Brandon. “Are you from Africa?”

  “I’m from Yorkshire,” said Brandon.

  “But that’s not in Africa.”

  Brandon shook his head and smiled. “No.”

  “Shush, Master Oliver,” said Mary. “Not so many questions. This is George. He’s your uncle’s new apprentice.”

  “Oh,” Oliver said, and solemnly extended his hand to Brandon. “I’m Oliver, and I’m seven and a half. I go to The Grange School, and my school has a proper library.”

  “You like books?” said Brandon, eagerly.

  “Yes,” said Oliver. “Heaps. Do you know Jules Verne?”

  Brandon had to think. “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea?”

  “And Around the World in Eighty Days, of course,” added Oliver. “Imagine being able to travel round the whole world in eighty days!”

  Brandon smiled. “Yeah, imagine that.”

  “Do you like H.G. Wells’ books?” Oliver asked.

  Brandon was truly stumped.

  “He wrote The Time Machine,” Oliver informed him.

  “Oh, yeah! I saw that…I mean, I did read that once. Way cool.”

  “I would give anything to travel in time,” said Oliver.

  “You’ll be lucky,” said a young woman’s voice. A girl of about sixteen entered the room, through the back door that led to the garden. She was wearing a light blue blouse with puffy sleeves, a long straight pinstriped skirt, and a large hat, which she now unpinned from her hair.

  “Who’s this?” she said to Mary, inclining her head toward Brandon.

  “New apprentice, miss. His name’s George Clark.”

  “Hello, George. I’m Peggy Gordon. You must call me Miss Gordon.”

  The words sounded snotty, Brandon thought, but her tone didn’t. It was more a statement of fact.

  Her accent was English, and not at all the same as her father’s. He asked, “Are you from here?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Father’s from Scotland, but we’re all English through and through, born and raised in Balesworth.”

  Brandon asked eagerly, “Do you know a family called Braithwaite?”

  Miss Gordon paused for a moment and stared at him. Then she said, “You do ask a lot of questions, rather. Why? Do you?”

  “No…Yes…Well, I might. I don’t know.”

  “Well, I certainly don’t. Do you, Mary? Oliver, do you have any boys at school by the name of Braithwaite?”

  Nobody could help. Then a bell rang from upstairs. “That’ll be Mr. Gordon,” said Mary, looking at a row of bells near the kitchen ceiling, where one was swinging and rattling. “I expect he wants you in the surgery, George.”

  Brandon didn’t mind most of his visits to the dentist in Snipesville. Soft lights, large framed pictures of hunting and football scenes on the walls, and music playing quietly were all part of the experience. Everyone in the office smiled with perfect white teeth. Brandon’s dentist, Dr. McCready, was nice, although he hardly ever saw him for more than a minute or two. Mostly, he spent time with the hygienist, Miss Melba, who had been cleaning his teeth since he was tiny. Sometimes she would nag Brandon about flossing, and make him watch a demonstration on a large fake set of teeth. True, he also hated the fluoride foam treatments: Miss Melba always offered him a choice of good-sounding flavors like lemon-lime or cherry, but they all tasted about the same, which was gross.

  But, for the most part, his visits to the dentist’s office had been okay, and he always went home with a free toothbrush, sugar-free gum, and some stickers for his collection.

  Mr. Gordon’s surgery, as he called it, was not pleasant. It was seriously scary, a bit like Brandon imagined a medieval dungeon would be. The only light came from the windows and, on a day like today, when the sky was overcast, a hissing gas lamp on the wall. Mr. Gordon also kept a supply of candles for when he needed to illuminate the patient’s mouth.

  There was definitely no music playing in the background, and the only picture was a gloomy scene of Scottish mountains in the rain, which Mr. Gordon said was painted near to his hometown. The dentist’s chair was not a comfortable cushiony chair with a big squashy leg rest, but something like a cross between a desk chair and an instrument of torture. Its thin cushions were made of dark-red velvet. Brandon wondered if the color was intended to disguise any blood.

  Worse yet were the instruments Mr. Gordon showed him: Small but nasty mallets for finishing fillings, terrifying scrapers and syringes, and a huge drill. Brandon’s primary job, Mr. Gordon said, would be to observe him work, while pumping the foot pedal that operated the drill. “Perhaps after a week or two, you can hold up the candle for me, and begin to pass me the instruments. Until then, we shall manage.”

  The hours, he told Brandon, would be long, from eight in the morning to six at night during the week, with an hour off for dinner, which seemed to mean lunch. He would also have to work from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m. on Saturdays, and attend church with the family on Sundays. Sometimes, Mr. Gordon would visit a patient’s house on Sunday morning, when he would extract a molar while the patient was made unconscious with chloroform.

  “Otherwise, we do try to keep the Sabbath in this house,” said Mr. Gordon. “That means no books, games, or sports.” Brandon thought a Sunday in Snipesville was a bit of a drag at times. But even though the services at the Authentic Original First African Baptist Church were long, he could at least hang with his friends at fellowship time, and he enjoyed the singing. He had never even been to white people’s church before, but one of his friends had told him it was boring. Still, Brandon reckoned, his stay in 1915 England would be an adventure. And earning money at a real job sounded pretty exciting, even if it was only room, board and a small allowance, rather than proper wages.

  It was a crisp and cold but very clear day in 1940, with no wind. Walking home alone, after her school ended lessons at mid-day, Hannah decided to take a detour through the town. It was hard to enjoy being in England when she wasn’t sure if she would ever get home, but she felt a need to get outside into the fresh air.

  Hannah’s walk took her all the way up the High Street. A long line of women, many with babies and small children, waited outside the greengrocers. Hannah stopped to look in the window to see what the fuss was about, but all she could see were the usual potatoes and carrots.

  “Why’s everyone waiting?” she asked the young woman closest to the door.

  “We’re queuing for bananas, love,” the woman said cheerfully. “He just got them this morning. Hopefully, they’ll last until it’s my turn, and I’ll get some in for tea. Won’t that be a treat, now?” She smiled kindly at Hannah, who briefly thought about joining the slow-moving queue, but then decided against it. It seemed like a lot of work for a banana.

  She was just slouching away down the sidewalk, awkwardly slinging her satchel over her shoulder, when a car pulled up alongside her. Hannah thought nothing of it, and kept walking. But suddenly she heard someone calling to her. “Hannah? Hannah Day?” She turned, and, in dismay, saw Mrs. Devenish, who had stepped out of the car. “Where are you off to? Would you like a lift?”

  “No, thanks,” said Hannah. “I want to walk.” SThe last thing she felt like doing was making polite conversation with the scary lady.

&nb
sp; “The thing is, I want a word with you. I assume that you can spare me a few minutes?” It wasn’t said as a question, really, but as a command. Hannah couldn’t figure out how to refuse. Instead, she said “whatever,” under her breath and, without another word, got in on the passenger side.

  “So where have you been on your walk?” Mrs. Devenish asked pleasantly.

  “Just around town, I guess,” said Hannah. There was a brief pause.

  “I say, have you been to see the old church?” asked Mrs. Devenish. “It’s fourteenth century, you know, and it has the most marvelous tower.”

  “No,” said Hannah. She felt as unenthusiastic as she looked and sounded, and she gazed out of the window. She didn’t see Mrs. Devenish narrow her eyes at her.

  “In that case, let’s go and have a look. You can see the whole of Balesworth from the top. Are you expected back soon?”

  “No,” said Hannah, indifferently. “It’s cool.”

  The church was small, bitterly cold, and smelled of damp stone. Hannah looked around her, but saw nothing interesting in the rows of wooden pews, the plain altar with cross and altar cloth, and the various memorials to dead people that lined the walls. Mrs. Devenish asked the verger, a silent man in a long black cassock, to open the small wooden door to the tower. “Take care, Mrs. Devenish,” he said quietly, handing her a flashlight. “The banister is almost gone, but we’ve run a rope down the center column for climbers to hold onto, and it seems to do the trick.”