Don't Know Where, Don't Know When (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 1) Page 4

  “Watch out for cars, you moron!” Hannah yelled, racing after him.

  Only Brandon hung back, confused. He felt a chill running up his back. “This isn’t right,” he mumbled to himself. “This isn’t right….”

  He called after Hannah and Alex to stop, but they did not. He ran after them for about a hundred yards, and then, on impulse, turned to look behind him, but all he could see was the road. There was no sign of the buildings they had just left behind.

  Brandon’s mind was racing. Perhaps this was just an area of the college he had never seen? After all, he didn’t visit this part of Snipesville too often. Maybe, he thought, this was a new road, cut through the countryside, because, after all, someone was always building in Snipesville. But there was something about it that struck Brandon as peculiar. If only he could figure out what it was...

  Hannah had caught up with Alex, who was examining a spiky green object he had picked up from among the hundreds littering the road. It was about the size of a ping-pong ball, and was attached to a large three-pronged leaf. Alex handled his find gingerly, and began to pick at a crack in the skin. Pulling apart the thick, pithy, spiny shell, he revealed what looked like a glossy brown nut.

  “What’s this?” he asked Hannah.

  “No clue. You don’t know? Ask your dorky little friend. Must be a Georgia thing.”

  Alex held up the nut for Brandon’s inspection, but Brandon raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

  “Must be pretty rare, huh,” Alex said, happily pocketing his discovery.

  Alex had noticed several strong smells along the hedgerow. Some were sweet and sugary, while others smelled sour. One in particular reminded him strongly of cat’s pee. He thought at first that it was cat’s pee, until he identified the source as a clump of tiny white flowers. Hannah was less interested in the plant life around them than she was in the fact that the air had cooled down drastically. The stifling humidity had completely disappeared, and there was a damp chill in the air. She shivered, and rubbed her arms. Overhead, she could see dark gray clouds rapidly gathering.

  Alex and Brandon were examining a tall plant lined with jagged-edged leaves of varying sizes and Brandon extended his hand toward the leaves. “I’ve never seen these before either…OWWW!!!”

  He jumped back, and rubbed his fingers on his shirt. “Man, that really hurts. What the heck are those things? There’s no spikes, but they totally sting.” He held his hand out for Alex to look at, but neither of them could see any damage.

  “You don’t know much about your hometown, do you?” Hannah said dryly.

  As soon as she had spoken, a loud noise pierced the quiet. It sounded like a single-engine plane, putt-putting its way across the sky. The kids looked up automatically, and Brandon gave a sharp intake of breath. This was not just because the plane was flying very low, although it was. It was also because he could clearly see red, white, and blue targets painted on its wings.

  “Spitfire!” gasped Brandon. The word had no sooner left his lips when a clunky-looking black car suddenly appeared around a corner of the road, and the three of them jumped even further to the side of the lane to avoid being run over. The driver pushed his horn, which sounded not like “honk” or “beep,” but “harr-oo-uh.”

  There was a stunned silence. And then all three kids spoke at once.

  “Okay,” Alex said wonderingly, “Now I’m freaked.”

  “No waaay,” murmured Brandon, still looking at the sky in disbelief. “It’s a Spitfire…. Yeah, that’s freaky.”

  “It’s just an old plane and car, that’s all,” said Hannah. “What’s the big deal?”

  Brandon turned to her excitedly. “Listen, I know my trains, planes and automobiles, and those were both from World War Two England.”

  “Cool!” Alex said. “There must be an old-time air and car show going on. Let’s go check it out!”

  But then Hannah spoke, in a voice that was hoarse and trembling. “Look…Alex, look at your clothes.”

  Alex glanced down, figuring he must have got mud all over his baseball pants.

  What he saw staggered him: His clothes were morphing. There was no other way to describe what was happening. He watched as a shimmering gray wave traveled slowly down the length of his body.

  Brandon and Hannah were now looking at themselves, too, and at each other, as waves of change overtook them both. Within seconds, Alex and Brandon were dressed alike, wearing short, heavy grey wool pants that ended well above their knees, and grey V-necked sweaters over stiff white shirts. Brandon’s neck felt tight, as though someone was very politely trying to strangle him, and that’s when he realized he was wearing a tie.

  Alex put his hands to his head, seeing Brandon do the same, and he pulled off a small woolen peaked cap. Brandon was now rummaging in his pants pocket, from which he drew out a handful of coins. He gazed at them in amazement. “Look at these,” he said quietly. He held them out for Alex to see: Some were small and silver, while others were large, bronze, and very heavy.

  Hannah was gripping her hair in two hands, carefully examining what had, just a minute before, been long, loose tresses. Her light brown hair was now tightly braided into two plaits, one on either side of her head. She was wearing a knee-length skirt, something she hadn’t worn since she had gone to her cousin’s wedding in third grade. Then she realized that it was actually a kind of pinafore dress, with a bib in navy blue. She was also wearing a tie, just like the boys, knee-length white socks, and a thick jacket. She dug a hand into the jacket pocket and brought out a small red coin purse.

  As Brandon and Alex examined the coins Brandon had found in his pocket, Hannah opened the purse, and drew out a large folded piece of paper. She opened it up, and saw that it was a small certificate. At first, it was a little difficult to read the words. They were printed in a fancy font on a blue and beige background. But then she made out what it said: Bank of England promise to pay the Bearer on Demand the sum of One Pound. It wasn’t a certificate after all. It was...

  “English money,” said Brandon. He flipped over a silver coin about the size of a quarter, and studied what he guessed was a picture of the king on one side. The back of the coin told him that he was holding One Shilling. The date on the coin was 1940, but it was as shiny as if it were brand new.

  “Who was the king of England in 1940?” Alex asked Hannah, speaking slowly as though he were in a daze.

  “I don’t know,” Hannah said vaguely. Then, suddenly she jerked to attention, as if she had just awoken from sleepwalking. “Are you totally stupid?” she snapped at him. “Who cares? Where ARE we? And why am I wearing these butt-ugly clothes?” She shivered again as a chill gust of wind brushed against her knees, and she began to feel a wave of panic expanding through her body.She consciously forced it back to a dull ache in her stomach.

  “Okay, this is totally weird,” she said as calmly as she could. “But do you guys really think we just walked into a time warp, and traveled all the way to World War Two England?” The two boys nodded hard, but she continued. “Maybe there were chemicals in the library. That’s it…we’re hallucinating!”

  “Yeah?” Brandon retorted. “If you’re so smart, how come we’re all seeing the same thing? Like those. Don’t tell me you can’t see them.” He pointed behind Hannah to three small brown cases stacked on the road. Atop them sat three small beige cardboard boxes, each with a long piece of string to be used as a carrying strap. Alex leaned down, and looked at the label on one of the suitcases.

  “It says Braithwaite,” he said. “Isn’t that the guy’s name on the card you found?”

  Dumbfounded, Brandon nodded. Without really knowing why he was doing it, he picked up the case and the box labeled Braithwaite. As he did so, he noticed a thin piece of card twirling on a string from the front of his jacket. Catching it between his thumb and forefinger, he read George Braithwaite and some printed words that made no sense to him. Hannah and Alex were also now wearing the same labels. Their first nam
es were given correctly, but instead of Dias, the last name on the labels was Day. The word Day was also scrawled on both the remaining suitcases.

  Silently, Hannah handed Alex a case, and one of the smaller boxes which he immediately opened. He pulled out a gas mask.

  “I think everyone was supposed to carry those,” explained Brandon.

  “Everyone? Who is ‘everyone’?” asked Hannah.

  “Everyone in England,” said Brandon, hesitating under Hannah’s stare. “You know…During World War Two.”

  Chapter 3

  Changes

  They retraced their steps, but Alex and Hannah soon found out that Brandon was right: The college had simply disappeared.

  Alex could think of only one possible explanation: “It’s magic.”

  Hannah stared disgustedly at her brother. “Thank you, Harry Potter. You wanna get out your wand now, or should we wait on Dumbledore?”

  Alex ignored her, and said, “I think we should just wait and see what happens.”

  Brandon sighed. “Right now, I don’t think we have much of a choice.”

  But then Alex pointed to something ahead of them. “Well, here’s one choice.”

  It was a sign, a tall wooden post, with arrows pointing in two different directions: One straight ahead, and one to the right. But someone had painted out the place names. “Why would anyone do something that dumb?” Alex asked.

  “It wasn’t a prank,” Brandon said excitedly. “I saw this once on TV. English people removed road signs so if the Nazis invaded, they would get lost. But I guess the only people who got lost were other English people.”

  “Smart,” said Hannah sarcastically. She stood on tiptoe and peered up. “They did a lousy job, because I can still read it. It says someplace called Balesworth, and I’m guessing the number means it’s 1/4 mile ahead.”

  They began to tramp up the road.

  Ten minutes later, the kids could no longer deny where and when they were. The street before them was strange and old. Really old. The buildings mostly were of red brick, mostly with red slate roofs, and mostly joined to their neighbors. But they were otherwise a hodgepodge of styles and colors, very few of them with the rigid lines of modern buildings. A roof suspended over one passageway between two houses seemed in danger of falling down. The windows were oddly arranged, and they were crooked, too. A half-timbered cottage had warped beams, and a brick pub’s windows were cut in small diamonds. Next to it stood a smart new three-story white building, with perfectly rectangular picture windows spaced at regular intervals. Brandon thought that one stately two-story brick building looked like the pictures he had seen of colonial America. Next to it there squatted a tiny and ancient shop, with potbellied bay windows.

  Further down the street, they passed a row of nineteenth-century houses, each with its own small front yard bounded by a low brick wall. Affixed to the wall in front of one of these houses was a tarnished brass plaque that Brandon read. It said R. Gordon, D.D.S., Dental Surgery. Next door, a newly-painted sign proudly advertised Miss Violet Bates, Piano Lessons.

  The people on the street were no more familiar to the kids than were the buildings. Their clothes, their expressions, their way of walking, and, indeed, everything about them seemed strange. Most of them were middle-aged women who were striding purposefully on various errands. All of them appeared more or less the same. Most were dressed in small neat hats and long woollen coats. Some wore small round eyeglasses, and all carried wicker shopping baskets. An old man, wearing a suit, tie, and flat cap, was smoking a pipe on a park bench, as a small dog slept at his feet. A young man in greasy brown overalls was tinkering under the hood of a car that looked very much like the one that had passed the kids on the country lane. The kids now noticed how very few cars had passed them by, even though this was a street lined with shops.

  Brandon paused in front of one brick building. Its first floor windows were frosted, and the borders of the glass were swirled in elaborate patterns. A hanging board outside, illustrated by a complicated coat of arms featuring horses, lions, and fancy flourishes, announced that this was The Balesworth Arms. Over the front door a small handpainted notice proclaimed Ernest Arthur Tarrant, Prop., Licenced to Sell Beer, Wine, and Spirits.

  “I guess we could go in there and ask somebody where we are,” suggested Brandon doubtfully.

  “No,” said Hannah. “It’s a pub, yeah? Kids aren’t allowed in pubs, just like bars. I’ve got a better idea.” She marched off without explanation in the direction of a side street, looking about her as she walked. The boys glanced at each other, then trailed after her.

  Finally, in a tiny alley, Hannah found what she had been looking for. It was a long, crooked, and very old whitewashed building. A checkerboard pattern was worked into the plaster on the second story. On the first floor, set back down a short narrow passageway, stood a door with a four-paned window, in which was hung a sign reading Open. As Hannah moved to the entrance, Brandon hesitated.

  “What’s this?” he asked Hannah. Wordlessly, she pointed above the door. There hung a black and white sign: The Tudor Tea Rooms.

  As the door clattered open, a high-pitched bell tinkled, announcing the kids’ arrival. Alex, last in, carefully closed the door with a thunk of wood, accompanied by more jingling of the bell, and the rattling of the Open sign. They turned right, and immediately felt large and awkward: They were in a tiny room, crammed with rickety wooden chairs and eight small tables, each of them draped with a white tablecloth.

  Crooked beams snaked across the ceiling. On the walls hung watercolors and oil paintings of country landscapes, flowers, and bowls of fruit. Three cake stands sat atop a large heavy dark wood buffet by the wall. They held a modest assortment of plain, unfrosted pastries and cakes. Brandon identified a sponge with red filling, a fruit cake, and something that looked to him like plain muffins. Tucked in a corner of the room was a narrow staircase, while a door in the back wall apparently led to a kitchen.

  Even more than the appearance of the place, the kids were struck by its smell. It was very odd. Delicious sweet and buttery scents hung richly in the air. But so did a slightly sour, slightly acidy nostril-pinching smell, not unpleasant, which Brandon recognized from when his mom brewed sweet iced Southern tea. And there was a mustiness that probably came from the building itself, or perhaps it was sour milk? The room smelled not so much like a restaurant, as it did like a house that had not been cleaned in a very long time. And overlaying all the smells was the overpowering stench of cigarettes.

  All three kids wrinkled their noses. Hannah frantically waved her hand in front of her face, and said very loudly for all to hear, “Yuk. They allow smoking in restaurants? That is so gross.”

  Startled, several customers looked over at her. One in particular, a man with thinning grey hair and a moustache, put down his newspaper to stare disapprovingly at her. He then focused his gaze on Brandon, and glared even more sourly at him.

  At that moment, the kitchen door opened, and a woman bustled in, wearing a black dress, white apron, and white lace cap. She carried a tiny dustpan and brush, which she used to sweep the crumbs vigorously from one of the tables. The kids waited for her to show them a table, but she ignored them.

  “Excuse me?” called Hannah loudly. “We want a table in the non-smoking section.” Brandon tapped her arm urgently and whispered, “I don’t think they know what that means…”

  The waitress glanced upward. Looking annoyed, she straightened up, and said, “Give me a minute. Can’t you see I’m busy?” Then she returned to brushing at the tablecloth.

  Hannah glowered at her, and then, with enormous dignity, simply marched forward and chose a table by the window, as far from the smokers as possible. The boys followed awkwardly, pulling out the wooden chairs with loud scraping noises. Hannah perched sideways on her chair, positioning herself so she could stare accusingly at the waitress. The two boys slumped in their seats. Keenly aware that he was the only black person in the room, Brandon fi
ddled nervously with the edge of the tablecloth. Two old ladies who had been quietly chatting over tea glanced at the children, and one of them tutted. Hannah raised an eyebrow at her, as if to say “You have a problem?” and she quickly looked away again.

  Meanwhile, the waitress had disappeared into the kitchen, but she soon returned, and approached their table. “What are you lot having, then?” she said sharply. They looked at each other helplessly, and the waitress let out a deep sigh. “Don’t waste my time. Like I told you, I’m busy. Either you lot make up your minds, or you can hop it!”

  Hannah said, “A menu would be nice.”

  “There isn’t one,” the waitress snapped. “This ain’t the Ritz, is it?”

  Hannah wasn’t easily deterred. “Well, what do you have to eat, then?”

  “Sweet or savory?” was the response.

  Brandon, hungry, decided he would prefer something savory, and was offered a choice of sardines on toast or Marmite sandwich. “Meat pie is off,” the waitress added mysteriously. The boys both opted for the sandwiches, especially after Alex told Brandon that sardines were little fish, eaten whole, possibly with eyeballs still intact. Brandon didn’t know what a Marmite sandwich might be, but it sounded better than crunchy eyeball fish, and Alex had ordered it so confidently that he felt reassured.

  Hannah asked for the choices in sweets.

  “We got currant loaf, Victoria sponge, scones, and toasted teacakes,” said the waitress.