Don't Know Where, Don't Know When (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 1) Page 13

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Cooper,” said Mrs. Devenish with a nod. To Hannah, she said, “Let’s make a start, shall we? You can leave your satchel here. Watch your step now.”

  Hannah peered anxiously after her into the dark doorway. She saw Mrs. Devenish and the flashlight disappear around the first turn in the spiral staircase.The staircase smelled even more damp and musty than the rest of the church. Hannah reached automatically to her left for a rail, and her hand touched a narrow, carved stone ledge. She held on to it, grabbed the dark-colored thick braided rope dangling on her right, and stepped up. The narrow stairs were wedge-shaped, which she had expected, and crumbling at the edges, which she had not. Moving toward the light cast by the flashlight, she felt the rail suddenly vanish under her left hand, and she paused, then placed her palm on the stone wall to steady herself as she picked her way up.

  “Are you alright, Hannah? Take your time.”

  “Yeah, fine,” said Hannah, although she was incredibly stressed, and her pulse was racing, as were her thoughts. Is this the crazy old Englishwoman’s idea of fun? What am I doing here? I mean, what’s the point?

  After what seemed like forever, there was a blast of bright light at the top, as a doorway opened onto the tower roof. The last step was up about two feet, and Mrs. Devenish, who somehow had already negotiated this, was offering down her hand for Hannah to grasp. Hannah took it.

  Mrs. Devenish was right, of course. The view was amazing. Hannah could see the whole of Balesworth, its red brick houses and shops clumped tightly together, in a sea of tiny fields of many colors, dotted with green hedges, trees, houses, cows and sheep. A car wound along one of the twisting roads. Up here at the top of the tower, there was a slight breeze, and Hannah’s few unbraided hairs ruffled up. There was no safety rail of any kind, and the drop to the ground looked pretty lethal as she carefully craned her neck from a safe distance to peer over the edge.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Devenish, standing at her side. “It’s remarkable to think that people stood where we are standing now six hundred years ago. People used this church as a refuge during the time of the Black Death, you know.”

  “What was that?” Hannah asked, without much interest.

  “The Black Death? Have you never taken a history lesson at your school in London?”

  “Sure. I just never heard much about that. It was some big disease thing, right?”

  “Yes, you might put it like that, I suppose,” said Mrs. Devenish, rolling her eyes. “The Black Death was an epidemic of bubonic plague in the mid-fourteenth century, and it wiped out at least one-third of the population…. You know, I need to find you a copy of 1066 and All That, Hannah, unless you already own it.”

  Hannah shook her head. “Never heard of it. Is it a book?”

  “Good grief… Yes, it is a book, and a very funny one. It’s all about the history of this country, and it might just help you to find a little more enthusiasm for the subject.”

  Hannah leaned forward just slightly, and considered that it was, indeed, a long way down. She idly daydreamed about how it might be possible to push an old lady from the tower without stumbling over the edge herself.

  Mrs. Devenish brought her back to reality with a bump. “I hope you’re not thinking of shoving me off, young woman,” she said dryly.

  Hannah panicked a little. She well remembered how a boy at her school in California had been expelled for writing a story in which his main character plotted horrible deaths for his teachers.

  “No, of course not,” she said, a little too quickly.

  “Good. In that case, I shall restrain myself from similar thoughts about you.”

  Hannah looked at her with alarm, and realized that Mrs. Devenish was no more serious about murder than she had been.

  “I did have that chat with Mr. Simmons, the billeting officer,” said Mrs. Devenish, “and I am sorry to say that he has no idea what has become of your friend. Mr. Simmons took the trouble to contact someone he knows at the Ministry, I believe it’s the same man we saw at the church hall, and I’m afraid that it appears that your friend ran away from him in London, while he was taking him elsewhere to be billeted.”

  “But why would he take Br… George to London? What’s that about?” asked Hannah.

  “I have no idea. Perhaps, when the moment is right, I shall put that question to Mr. Simmons. But I’m afraid that, for now, there is little more I can do. Hopefully, your friend will turn up. I have asked my friend at the WVS head office to keep an eye out for his name and description in reports. We shall just have to wait and see... Come on, I’d better take you home.”

  When Hannah got to the doorway leading off the roof, she realized that she was terrified of the journey back down the crumbling staircase. “I can’t do it,” she said, pale-faced. “I have major issues with heights.”

  Mrs. Devenish was already on the top step. “Yes, you can, Hannah. Come on, take my hand.”

  All the way down, Mrs. Devenish walked just ahead of Hannah, and coaxed her forward. By the time Hannah reached the bottom of the steps, and emerged blinking into the light, her heart was thumping hard, and her knees had turned to jelly.

  Mrs. Devenish switched off the flashlight, and put it back onto the table by the door. “You see, Hannah? You managed it alright. And aren’t you glad you did?”

  “I guess,” muttered Hannah, unconvinced.

  As they got back into the car, Hannah said, as offhandedly as she could manage, “Mrs. D.? It’s okay if I call you that, right?” She added hurriedly, “I mean, Eric does.”

  “Yes, of course, Hannah. My last name is a bit of a mouthful, I admit.”

  “Okay, look, let me ask you something, okay? This isn’t really about anyone I know, it’s just, let’s suppose.”

  “Alright,” said Mrs. Devenish cautiously, turning the key in the ignition.

  “Suppose somebody you knew told you that someone else you knew was kind of a bad person?”

  “How so?”

  “Well, they say the other person is a total backstabber, and goes around saying mean things about everyone she knows, and that I… I mean, you, anyone, shouldn’t say much in front of her.”

  “Yes…” said Mrs. Devenish slowly, accelerating up the road back toward the center of Balesworth.

  “And you haven’t actually seen this person behave like that. And nobody else seems to think it about this person.”

  “And we’re not talking about anyone in particular?” asked Mrs. Devenish, intrigued.

  “No, no, of course not,” Hannah said quickly.

  “Then, I suppose, I should wonder one or two things. First, whether the person making the accusation is not in fact speaking of herself. And, second, if that is not the case, whether the accuser has something to hide… Hannah, is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

  “No,” said Hannah crossly, wishing she had never brought up the subject. “It’s just supposing.”

  “I see,” said Mrs. Devenish shortly. Hannah wondered if she really did.

  Just as the car pulled up, Hannah saw with a sinking feeling that Mrs. Archer was outside the front door, putting out empty milk bottles on the doorstep for the milkman to collect on his next round. She said goodbye to Mrs. Devenish, who waved to Mrs. Archer. Mrs. Archer returned a small wave and gave a wan smile before the car pulled away.

  As soon as they walked into the house, Hannah began to climb upstairs.

  “Wait a moment,” said Mrs. Archer, closing the door. She said suspiciously, “Where have you been with that woman?”

  Hannah didn’t like to lie, but she decided that the less information Mrs. Archer had, the better.

  “Nowhere. She saw me walking, and gave me a ride home.”

  “You were gone rather a long time.” It was a question.

  Hannah shrugged. “No, I took a walk around town before I saw her.”

  “What I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Archer, “is why you would wish to befriend
any woman of that age, and especially that one. What on earth would you have to say to her?”

  “Not much,” said Hannah, truthfully.

  “I thought so,” said Mrs. Archer. “I imagine that she does most of the talking. At least, I hope so. Remember what I told you about her and her gossip. In any event, I think your time would be much better spent here. I could use a lot more help around the house than I’m getting from you, especially now that I’m working at the factory part-time.”

  “Are you telling me I can’t talk to her?”

  “No, of course not, but I do have some authority in this house, you know, and you should respect it. I’m just saying that I want you spending more time at home, and that if you are going out, it’s with children of your own age. That’s all.”

  Hannah carried on up the stairs. “I have to do my homework, then I’ll help you, okay?”

  By the middle of his first week, Brandon was already much less enthusiastic about dentistry. He slept very little in his freezing cold attic bedroom, and even used the chamberpot under his bed one night, rather than go downstairs to the bathroom. In the morning, he had tried to sneak the pot downstairs to empty it, but he ran into Mary on the stairs. She told him it was her job, and took it from him, to his embarrassment.

  Breakfast was with the whole family, with Mary acting as cook and server. It was at breakfast that Brandon met Mrs. Gordon for the first time, if “meeting” can be used to describe their encounter. She stared coldly at him when he entered the dining room, and pointed to the seat next to Oliver at the very end of the table. Indeed, she never spoke to him at all, and even avoided looking at him. The meal was eaten mainly in silence, except for the scrape of knives and forks on plates, the ticking of the clock on the mantel over the fireplace, where coal crackled and spat, and the sound of Mr. Gordon’s newspaper, as he shook it out and turned the pages.

  Breakfast was huge, with lots of eggs and toast, as well as what Mary called bacon, but which Brandon thought was more like thin ham. He enjoyed it very much, although the strip of fat around the edge worried him, until he realized that nobody else was eating that part. At first, he had picked up his fork in his right hand to eat his eggs, but Peggy looked at him aghast, and coughed to warn him. He was confused until he saw how everyone else was eating: They piled the eggs onto the backs of their forks, then balanced them carefully all the way to their mouths. And they never changed hands. Brandon watched and did his best to copy, although it made eggs slow going, as they kept dropping off his fork back onto his plate, and occasionally into his lap.

  After breakfast, Brandon went to the kitchen to wash off his hands. As he was passing the dining room afterward, he overheard Mr. Gordon speaking angrily. When he heard his own name mentioned, he stopped to listen.

  “And what, pray tell, does it matter if George is a Negro, so long as he does his work and minds his manners?”

  Brandon couldn’t quite catch everything Mrs. Gordon was saying in reply, but he could make out that she was not pleased to have a black person living in her house.

  “Woman,” said Mr. Gordon in barely-suppressed fury, “Need I remind you that some of those same people objected to dealing with Scots when I first set up practice? In any case, the employment of my apprentice is none of your concern. My decision in the matter is final.”

  Hearing Mr. Gordon move across the room, Brandon abandoned his eavesdropping and hurried down the hall, turning into the parlor. As Mr. Gordon passed on his way to the staircase, he caught sight of his apprentice.

  “George, what the blazes are you doing in here? Upstairs, now, and let us make a start to the day.” As Mr. Gordon disappeared onto the upstairs landing, Brandon stepped onto the staircase.

  Just then, Peggy Gordon came hurrying down the hall from the dining room. “George,” she whispered quickly, “I’m sorry about what my mother said. I know you heard her. She just hasn’t had any acquaintance with colored people, that’s all.”

  “Hey, round here, who has?” Brandon said ruefully. She opened her mouth to say something, but Mr. Gordon roared “George!” from the surgery, and Mrs. Gordon shouted “Peggy!” from the dining room.

  “Later,” said Brandon, as Peggy retraced her steps down the hall.

  The very first patient in Mr. Gordon’s surgery that day was a middle-aged man with a major toothache. He held a cloth handkerchief to his cheek, and Brandon thought he looked incredibly nervous. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead, and his hands were visibly shaking. Mr. Gordon, pretending not to notice the man’s distress, was very businesslike toward him. Feeling sorry for the patient, Brandon said reassuringly to him, “It’ll be all right.”

  The patient lifted his head from the headrest, and both he and Mr. Gordon glared at Brandon. Brandon decided that it would be best to keep his mouth shut from now on.

  After a careful examination of the man’s teeth, Mr. Gordon declared that his patient would need a filling. He gave the man a shot in the inner cheek with an enormous needle, and Brandon flinched seeing the man struggling desperately not to cry out. Once the patient said that he could feel some numbness, Mr. Gordon showed Brandon how to use the footpump that operated the drill.

  But as soon as the drill touched the man’s tooth, he cringed.

  “I don’t think he’s totally numbed up,” said Brandon.

  “That’s the best we can do,” said Mr. Gordon shortly.

  Within a few minutes of operating the pump, Brandon’s leg muscles began to cramp, but when he tried to take a break to shift to the other leg, Mr. Gordon barked at him to keep going.

  “Can’t you get one of these that uses electricity?” puffed Brandon. Mr. Gordon laughed. “An electric-powered drill, eh? That’s an expensive extravagance, laddie, and why would I need one when I’ve got you, eh?”

  That night, an exhausted Brandon again lay wide awake in his attic room. Wrapped in the thin sheet, blanket, and quilt, he shivered from the cold. His legs ached, and especially his right foot. Worse, so did one of his teeth. He wondered if he was imagining things, and certainly hoped so: He had no wish to have Mr. Gordon do his dental work.

  But the worst thing was that he was frightened. It seemed a long time since the Professor had visited him in the hospital. He wasn’t making any progress on finding George Braithwaite. Supposing he had misunderstood what he was supposed to be doing in Balesworth in 1915?

  And just suppose he was stuck forever in early twentieth-century England? It would be another 25 years before he would catch up with Hannah and Alex, and by then he would be –he quickly added it up—37 years old! He could end up serving in the British Army in World War II. He might get killed fighting Hitler before his own birth… Finally, after hours of tossing and turning, Brandon dozed off into an uneasy sleep.

  The next day was Saturday, and because no patients were scheduled, Brandon had the morning off. He was soon bored, and wandered into the front parlor, but Mary shooed him out. “I ‘ave to clean, and anyway, you’re not supposed to be in here. This is only for visitors and patients at this time of day.”

  As he left, Brandon picked up the copy of The Times newspaper from the table, and took it back to the kitchen with him. Settling into a chair by the fireplace and unfolding the newspaper, he was surprised to see that the whole front page was given over to classified ads.

  It was then that he had an idea. He ran upstairs to Mr. Gordon’s study, and asked for a pen and paper.

  “Writing a letter, eh?” asked Mr. Gordon.

  “Yes, sir,” Brandon said. “It’s to a friend of mine. I want to send him money, you know, for his birthday. How do I do that?”

  “That’s very generous of you, George. Well, I could draw a check on my account, and dock the sum from your pocket money.”

  “Oh…ah… I don’t want to put you to the trouble, sir. Is there some other way?”

  “It wouldn’t be any trouble, George, but if you prefer, you could always get a postal order from the post office. You look as thou
gh you could use a walk in the fresh air.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Brandon decided he would do just that. When he returned with the small certificate he had purchased from the post office on the High Street, he wrote out his letter to accompany it. It was tough going, writing with a real ink pen. He had to dip the nib into the inkwell often, and there were spots and splashes of ink all over the finished letter. Brandon just hoped that the people at the newspaper would be able to read his scrawl. Enclosing his postal order for five shillings, he sealed the envelope.

  The reply came on Monday, to Brandon’s surprise. He had expected mail to be much slower in 1915, but postal deliveries to the house were amazingly frequent— so much so, that it would seem silly to call it snail mail. He supposed that without email, faxes, or even phones, most people depended on the post office. He opened the envelope.

  Dear Mr. Clark:

  In reference to your letter of the fourth inst., we are pleased to accept your payment for an advertisement to appear on October 15, 1940. We trust you will understand that this is an unusual requirement, and so we hope we are not remiss in deciding to file it among the In Memoriam notices, which we hope will preclude it from becoming lost during the intervening years.

  We appreciate your understanding that we do not normally accept notices more than ten years in advance. However, since you are willing to accept a degree of risk that the notice may not appear, we are pleased to be of service in this unusual instance.