Don't Know Where, Don't Know When (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 1) Page 14

  Your obedient servant,

  A.M., pp. JHRO

  J.H.R. Osgood

  Advertising Department

  Reading that day’s copy of The Times, Brandon realized that with all the men now being killed in the war in France, the In Memoriam column was in no danger of going out of business before 1940. Now he just had to wait, and hope.

  A crunching noise was resonating behind Mr. Archer’s newspaper, as he munched on his second slice of toast. “Anything interesting in the paper today, dear?” asked Mrs. Archer, as she poured him a cup of tea.

  He flipped back to the front page, scanned the classified ads, and said, “Here’s something queer that I need to show you.” He handed over the newspaper to Mrs. Archer, who put on her glasses, and looked to where his finger was pointing on the page.

  “You’re right, Geoffrey. That is very odd. What on earth can that mean? You don’t think…” She jerked her head toward Hannah.

  “What?” said Hannah through a mouthful of toast.

  Mrs. Archer frowned at her. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Hannah. It’s common.” But she took the newspaper to Hannah and showed her.

  It read:

  Message from Balesworth to Balesworth: Hannah, Alex: Amen 19. 15 Brandon.

  “It seems to be for you two,” Mrs. Archer said expectantly. Hannah passed it to Alex.

  “It’s from Brandon!” he exclaimed.

  “Who is this Brandon?” asked Mrs. Archer. “You’ve never mentioned this boy before.”

  “Oh, he’s a friend of ours, from London,” Hannah said hurriedly. “But I honestly don’t know why he’s sending us a message through the newspaper. I don’t even know what this is supposed to mean.”

  “Perhaps you two ought to reply,” said Mr. Archer.

  “There’s no post office box given, Geoffrey,” said Mrs. Archer. “Do you children know his address?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Well, then, perhaps you should place your own advertisement, eh?” Mr. Archer chuckled. “It’s all a bit mysterious, isn’t it? You lot aren’t German spies, I hope?”

  Once she figured out how much it would cost for an ad, Hannah wrote out a few words, and had Mr. Archer write out a check. The next day, on the way to school, the kids dropped their letter to the newspaper in a red pillar mailbox.

  Just as Hannah pushed the letter through the slot, Alex said, “Wait!”

  “Too late,” Hannah said, annoyed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Brandon will never see our reply,” he said excitedly. “They got all the punctuation and one of the words wrong. It said “Am in 1915, comma, Brandon.”

  Hannah looked blankly at her brother.

  “Hannah, don’t you get it? Brandon’s here, he’s in Balesworth…But 25 years ago!”

  Chapter 9

  Messages and Meetings

  Brandon yawned loudly as he dragged himself into the surgery, tying on his apron. Mr. Gordon was looking over the calendar on his desk, reading the appointments that were recorded in Mary’s hesitant handwriting.

  “I see we have a lady patient,” he said with delight. Brandon couldn’t see why this was a big deal, since they had already treated several women patients that week, and said so.

  “No, no, George,” Mr. Gordon said impatiently, “I mean a Lady with a capital ‘L’, one of the aristocracy, no less. But blast Mary, I cannae read the name.” He stuck his head out the door, and yelled, “Mary, what is the name of our next patient?”

  She called back up the stairs, “I’m sorry, Mr. Gordon. She told me on the telephone, but we had a bad line, and I couldn’t quite hear what she said. I did my best.”

  “Give me strength, girl, could you not...”

  But just then the doorbell rang, and Mary went to answer it. Mr. Gordon retreated to the surgery. “Aye well, we’ll know soon enough,” he said to Brandon. “Make sure all my instruments are in order, George.”

  Brandon began to count all the dental tools lying on the table by the window.

  Footsteps echoed up the stairs, and a middle-aged woman in a long skirt and blouse grandly entered the room, her hair slightly disheveled by the removal of her hat.

  Mr. Gordon introduced himself and asked her name, apologizing for having to do so. She replied imperiously, “How do you do, Mr. Gordon. I am Lady Smyth-Howlington.”

  Brandon whirled around, and gave a huge grin.

  The Professor sat in the dentist’s chair, while Brandon carefully held a candle near her face so that Mr. Gordon could see clearly. Suddenly the dentist paused, and tapped on one tooth. “What have we here?”

  He removed his probe so she could answer.

  “Oh, my crown? My London dentist’s work.”

  Mr. Gordon said, “It’s the finest I think I have ever seen. And these fillings. Extraordinary. Forgive me, Lady, ah, Smyth-Howlington, but I should be much obliged if you would give me the name of your dentist in town. His work is absolutely superb, and I do, I assure you, take great pride in remaining abreast of advances in my profession.”

  She smiled. “I’m sure you do, Mr. Gordon. I shall have my lady’s maid call on you with his name and address.”

  Brandon winked at the Professor over Mr. Gordon’s shoulder.

  Downstairs, the telephone rang, and Mary came to tell Mr. Gordon that he was wanted for what she called “a trunk call from Scotland.” Confused, Brandon thought of elephants. With more apologies to the Professor, Mr. Gordon washed his hands, and rushed downstairs.

  The Professor sat up in the rickety dental chair. “A trunk call,” she said quietly to Brandon, “is a long-distance phone call. It has nothing to do with elephants.” Brandon laughed as though such a ridiculous thought had never occurred to him.

  “So how are you?” the Professor asked. “Sorry to pop in like this, but I thought you might need a bit of encouragement.”

  “You got that right,” he said. “What am I supposed to be doing here?”

  “Exactly what you are doing,” she said. “Keeping your eyes and ears open. I know that time travel is not as exciting as you expected, but just think, you’ll have a head start if you decide on a career in dentistry.” She laughed, but Brandon was not amused.

  “Can’t you help me out more? Like, what am I looking for?”

  “George Braithwaite, for one thing,” she said. “If you hear that name, you should ask about it, quick as you can. And you also have a mission of your own, by the way. It’s not as mysterious or thrilling, but it’s just as important for George and your friends.”

  Brandon said cautiously, “Oh, and what’s that?”

  “Well, actually, you’re already doing it, I suspect. It is your job to be kind to Peggy and, especially, little Oliver. It is far more important than it sounds.”

  “Okay,” said Brandon slowly. “I’ll do my best.”

  “I’m sure you will, dear. Oh, and do watch yourself around Mrs. Gordon. She’s not very keen on black people, I’m afraid.”

  “Yeah, I kind of got that impression…Tell you what,” he said, as Mr. Gordon’s footsteps sounded on the staircase, “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open, if you keep your mouth open. I’m looking forward to seeing this guy fix your teeth.”

  “You have got to be joking, kiddo,” she laughed.

  Sure enough, when Mr. Gordon suggested to the Professor that she have a tooth filled, she said that today would not be convenient. He agreed to make an appointment for the following week, and reminded her to bring the details of her London dentist. Brandon seriously doubted that Mr. Gordon would see Lady Smyth-Howlington again.

  On Saturday afternoon, Peggy was once again out on her bicycle, taking her watercolor paints with her, Mr. and Mrs. Gordon had gone by train to London to visit Mrs. Gordon’s aunt, and it was Mary’s half-day off. Lacking any better ideas, Brandon asked Oliver if he wanted to go for a walk. Oliver asked excitedly, “Can we go and look for conkers, George?”

  “I guess,” Brandon said, “What are they?”


  Oliver was astounded. “Conkers, George. You know.”

  “Nope, sorry,” Brandon said. “I guess we don’t have them in Yorkshire.”

  Oliver looked sad. “That’s a shame. Well, I can show you them. They grow on trees, and then we find the biggest ones, and Uncle Bob drills a hole in them for me, and then I can try to beat you. See?”

  Brandon was none the wiser. “I guess this will make more sense when you show me.”

  Conkers, it turned out, were the seeds of the horse chestnut tree, and they were the same round brown nut-like objects that Brandon and Alex had examined when they first arrived in England. On a shady avenue lined with horse chestnut trees, Oliver showed Brandon how to peel off the spiky green skins, and pointed out the attributes of the most desirable conkers.

  “This one is splendid. You see how big this one is, George,” he said, holding up a shiny chestnut, “and how round it is, and no cracks?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Brandon, “and how do we cook ‘em?”

  “Cook them?” asked Oliver, blinking rapidly. “You mean bake them in the oven to make them harder? That’s quite a good idea, actually.”

  “Uh, no,” said Brandon, confused.

  “Why else would we cook them?”

  “So’s we can eat them,” said Brandon.

  “Oh, you can’t eat horse chestnuts, silly,” laughed Oliver. “We get Uncle Bob to drill holes in them, then we put strings through the middles, then you hold up your conker…”

  He mimed holding a conker aloft.

  “…and I pull mine back like this,” he said, continuing to mime a conker attack, “and I smash yours to bits.”

  “Hey, dream on,” said Brandon, grinning. “Bet mine’s the toughest one.”

  They started filling their pockets with conkers. Suddenly, Oliver stood up straight and said suspiciously, “Wait a minute, George! I have a schoolfriend who spent a holiday with his aunt in Yorkshire, and he came home with loads of enormous conkers.”

  Brandon considered various ways he could spin out the lie. But then he realized it would do no harm to tell Oliver the truth. Who would believe Oliver, after all?

  “Oliver,” he said, “I’m not from Yorkshire. I’m a time-traveler from America, from the twenty-first century.”

  He expected Oliver to be skeptical, but the little boy was delighted.

  “I knew it! You seem so terribly different from everyone, and half the time you don’t understand what’s going on. Mary said you didn’t even know what a chamberpot was! This is frightfully exciting, George! Why have you come back in time?”

  “I’m looking for someone,” Brandon said. “At least, I think I am. His name is George, too, George Braithwaite.”

  “Gosh, how jolly exciting. Well, I’d like to help.”

  “I’m not sure you can. I don’t know if he’s here. But thanks, Oliver. Now, promise you won’t tell anyone, and I’ll tell you about the real future. It’s better than that H.G. Wells stuff you read.”

  “Alright,” said Oliver. “I’m very good at keeping secrets, you know. I’ve never even told anyone that Peggy has a gentleman friend.”

  “Uh, Oliver? You just told me.”

  Oliver looked downcast. “Oh, gosh, so I have. Promise you won’t tell Peggy, will you?”

  Brandon said, “I think we got mutually assured destruction goin’, kid.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’ll keep your secret, and you keep mine. So she’s got a boyfriend, eh? That explains why she’s always riding around town on that bike. What’s he look like?”

  “I don’t know,” said Oliver. “I just found a letter from him the other day. He’s a soldier, and his name is Edward. I think he’s going off to France soon.”

  As Brandon mulled over Oliver’s gossip in 1915, Hannah and Alex were about to learn what had become of their effort to contact him from 1940. Breakfast in the Archer household was never an especially chatty time, but Hannah noticed that there was a distinct chill in the air when Mrs. Archer entered the room.

  “I was just showing my wife,” Mr. Archer said. “Here’s your advertisement in The Times—“Colored boy, age 12, answering to Brandon Clark or George Braithwaite. Box 11.” I hope you hear something.”

  After Mr. Archer had left for work, and before Hannah and Alex were ready to leave for school, Mrs. Archer stopped Hannah in the hall, and grabbed her by the arm.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she hissed.

  “Tell you what?” said Hannah in alarm, shaking her arm free. “Let go of me!”

  “Why didn’t you tell me who your friend was?”

  “What does it matter to you?” Hannah sputtered.

  “Oh, how dare you!” Mrs. Archer yelled back. “You horrid little girl.”

  “What’s wrong with asking a question?” Hannah asked in genuine outrage.

  Suddenly, Mrs. Archer seemed at a loss for words. “He’s…colored, isn’t he?”

  “So?” asked Hannah, sensing she had the advantage.

  “My husband wouldn’t want colored people in the house…” said Mrs. Archer, stiffly. “I hope you’re not expecting to have this friend of yours for a visit.”

  Hannah was astonished. “How come Mr. Archer never said anything like that when he read our ad?”

  Mrs. Archer looked flustered. “Stop answering me back, madam. I’ll have no more of your questions. I’m just telling you, we won’t have that boy in the house.”

  With that, she turned and stormed into the kitchen, leaving Hannah agog.

  Hannah reluctantly dragged herself down the hallway to her first class of the day. She was finally getting the hang of how the school worked, with its bewildering hierarchy of prefects, form mistresses, housemistresses, head girls, school captains, and many more, all of whom seemed to have the right to yell at her.

  Most of the girls found Hannah a little strange, but they did not dislike her. Her cool attitude toward school scored points with many, and they liked her sense of humor. She, in turn, was fascinated by the absence of the kinds of cliques that she had heard about in American high schools, like the jocks, the nerds, and the “popular” kids whom nobody seemed to like. She had befriended Jean and Katie, a couple of evacuee girls in her class, and they, persuaded by Hannah that things had been run very differently at her previous school, had helped her adjust.

  First class of the day was mathematics. Hannah had always thought she was good at math, but the work was harder than anything she had done. Even basic arithmetic was tricky, especially when it involved problems with money. All money had to be counted in three columns: pounds, shillings, and pence, with twelve pence to the shilling, and twenty shillings to the pound. There were also halfpennies and farthings, or quarter-pennies, to deal with. Hannah’s brain hurt in math class, and the experience wasn’t made easier by the fact that her teacher, one of the most notoriously strict in the school, scared her rigid.

  Hannah arrived in the classroom and settled next to Jean, who was rummaging in her leather satchel for her protractor and compasses in anticipation of geometry.

  Jean gave her a quick smile. “The only good thing about Tuesday is that we get this out of the way first thing in the morning, then it’s on to double English, art, music and history in the afternoon, all the best subjects. I can’t wait to move up next year. I have my fingers crossed that we’ll get anyone else for maths apart from this old dragon. Isn’t she frightful?”

  Just then, chairs scraped back, as the girls stood to attention with the arrival of their teacher. Sitting in the back, Hannah quickly pulled out her math exercise book, and dumped it onto the desk as she rose to her feet.

  “Good morning, girls,” said an unfamiliar voice.

  “Good morning, Miss,” the girls responded uncertainly.

  “I am Miss Tatchell, and I shall be taking you for mathematics this morning, in Miss Hobbs’ absence. You may be seated.”

  The chairs scraped again, as all the girls returned to
their seats. All, that is, except for one girl who was staring at the new teacher, a short woman with glasses in a skirt suit.

  Everyone turned to look at Hannah, and started giggling as she remained on her feet.

  “You may be seated,” the Professor repeated.

  Hannah sat down.

  “Now, perhaps one of you girls would care to tell me what you’ve been working on?”

  Jean raised her hand, and stood when she was acknowledged. “Geometry, Miss Tatchell.”

  “I see,” said the Professor evenly. “Perhaps you would be so good as to come to the board and show me an example from your exercise book?” She offered a piece of chalk.

  Jean walked to the chalkboard, took the chalk from the Professor’s outstretched hand, and began to draw the problem on the board.

  When she had finished, the Professor invited girls to come to the front, one by one, and devise problems for the class to solve together.

  Then she pointed to Hannah. “You, in the back, what’s your name?”

  Hannah stood and looked at her cynically. “Oh, I think you already know my name,” she said.