Don't Know Where, Don't Know When (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 1) Page 9

  Sister clapped her hands. The nurses immediately straightened up and looked apprehensively at the two women. “Everyone, your attention please. We are most fortunate today to have a distinguished visitor. Lady Smyth-Howlington is here on behalf of the Ladies’ Hospital Aid Society, and she has graciously offered to speak with some of you.” Brandon watched with mild interest as Sister began her inspection, stopping here and there to straighten beds or admonish some hapless young nurse, while Lady Smyth-Howlington chatted with patients.

  Brandon’s interest turned to concern as the two women began to move in his direction. What would Lady Whats-her-name ask him? What would he tell her? He decided to fake sleep. As Lady Smyth-Howlington arrived at Brandon’s bed, she paused at his head. He screwed up his eyes tightly, but she didn’t seem to be taking the hint. Eventually, he allowed his eyelids to flutter open, and found himself looking directly at a dead fox’s face, inches from his nose. His head jerked backward.

  “Good morning, Brandon. I trust you slept well?” It was a familiar voice.

  His eyes widened at the mention of his real name.

  He looked up, into the eyes of the Professor. She was Lady Smyth-Howlington.

  “Whoa,” was all he could bring himself to say, and then his face cracked into a broad grin.

  “Whoa yourself,” she said quietly with a smile, then more loudly, “Apparently, I hear you gave us quite a scare, my dear.” She leaned down, and whispered, “Next time a bomb is headed straight at you, would you please run?”

  “Hey, what can I say? It missed. Everything’s cool.”

  She looked at him skeptically. “I’m glad you think so. Look at where…and when...you are now.”

  He looked around. “Yeah, a hospital, London, 1915. Any idea how I got here?”

  She gave a small shake of her head, briefly bit her lip, and changed the subject.

  “Anything you want to know about this place?”

  “Yes,” he said, “I have a question. Are English hospitals always like this?”

  She looked around, and saw that Sister was busy, telling off yet another nurse. “It can be hard to tell, can’t it, what’s old and what’s English?”

  Brandon nodded.

  “Most of what you see is old,” she continued, “but some things are the same in our time. Patients altogether in public wards instead of private rooms? That’s English, well, except for wealthy people, of course. Calling the head nurse Sister, that’s English, or at least, not something we do in America. Disgusting food… that’s certainly English.” Brandon laughed. “Well, to be fair, that’s hospital food wherever and whenever you are. Just be grateful that you don’t need a shot—the needles look like drinking straws.”

  “Of course,” she added as she plumped his pillow, “in modern England, most healthcare will be free. In 1915, the poor things have to pay for their hospital stay.”

  “Why don’t they have to pay now? I mean, in the twenty-first century?”

  “That’s a long story, love. Not for now, I think. But do rest assured that your bill has been settled. By the Ladies’ Hospital Aid Society, naturally.” She winked at him.

  She was already looking back at the door.

  “Wait a second.” Brandon said quickly. “Are Hannah and Alex in 1915, too?”

  She shook her head.

  “Oh, man…Well, why am I here? I mean, I know a little bit about World War Two, but—this is World War One, right?—I tell you, I don’t know anything about World War One.”

  “Exactly,” she said, her eyes twinkling, and then she added, mysteriously, “Perhaps, once you feel better, you will start all over again, where you first began. All you have to do is keep your eyes and ears open.”

  Brandon wasn’t sure he understood all that, but he had a more pressing matter to discuss with her. “How do I get home?” he asked.

  “But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Don’t worry,” she said. “Just make the most of your time here. Use that splendid brain of yours. That’s what it’s for, after all.”

  Brandon smiled uncertainly at her as she straightened up, and she waved a finger at him, saying loudly, “I can tell that you’ll be right as rain in no time at all, young man. Carry on.”

  As she left, she winked, and whispered, “Have fun!”

  Soon afterward, a nurse brought Brandon a pile of hardcover books (presents from Lady Smyth-Howlington, she said.) Brandon admired the covers, on which were printed gilded letters and elaborate illustrations in bright colors.He opened up The Cannibal Islands, by R.M. Ballantyne. But the book inside had nothing to do with the title on the cover. It was instead a modern history of Britain during World War I, with lots of color pictures and cartoons.

  Brandon enjoyed the rest of his day, most of which he spent reading and getting up to speed on life in 1915. In the afternoon, a man in a neighboring bed challenged him to a game of chess, and Brandon won, to his opponent’s chagrin.

  “So where you from, then, George?” the man asked as he put the chess pieces and board back into their box.

  “Yorkshire,” Brandon said shyly. He was still trying to get used to being addressed by his assumed name.

  “Blimey, that’s well up north, innit? Never been there myself.” The man shook his head.

  “Are you from London?”

  “Yerr, lived in Clapham most me life. Come to London as a young man, but I was born in Hertfordshire.” He pronounced it “Hartferdshirr.” “Littletown called Balesworth.”

  “Hey,” said Brandon excitedly, “I’ve been there!”

  “Well, I never!” said the man. “Recently, like?”

  Brandon hesitated. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

  “So, how is the old place?”

  “Very nice. I met some good people there…Like Dr. Healdstone, I don’t expect you would know…

  The man smiled at a warm memory. “Dr. Healdstone! Strewth, that takes me back a bit, that does. I used to know him. My mum was in service with his family, years ago, doin’ a bit of cooking and that, you know. So how’d you know him, then? A patient, was you?”

  Brandon was thoroughly confused. His visit to Balesworth and meeting with Dr. Healdstone had taken place a quarter century in the future.

  The man didn’t seem to notice Brandon’s consternation.

  “Shame about what happened to him, wasn’t it? My sister wrote me about it. Tragic, a man of his age.”

  Brandon agreed that whatever had happened to Dr. Healdstone was indeed a shame, testing his theory that if you agreed with them and waited long enough, adults would always explain the answers to their own questions. But, this time, Brandon’s theory failed him. The man just shook his head and tutted, then picked up his book from the table at the side of the bed, leaving Brandon none the wiser.

  It was a grey, rainy Saturday. Hannah was depressed, and complained of boredom. Mrs. Archer responded by bringing from upstairs an armful of board and card games. Hannah felt herself slipping into an even deeper catatonic state at the sight of them, but Alex was excited, and he immediately pulled the lid from a large plain dark red box.

  “Hannah, it’s Monopoly! We haven’t played that for ages. Come on, I bet I grab Boardwalk and Park Place before you do.”

  He opened the board on the hearthrug before the fire, and Hannah glanced at it without interest. Then she did a double-take.

  “Hey, Alex, check it out. No Park Place.”

  “No way!” But she was right. In place of the familiar names of the two most expensive “properties” on the board, were “Park Lane” and “Mayfair.” Alex read off the names of the railway stations, and said, “I think these are all places in London. This is so cool!”

  Hannah smiled. For once, her kid brother was right. It was cool. It had never occurred to her that Monopoly wouldn’t be the same the world over.

  Mrs. Archer rose from her chair, and suggested hot cocoa for everyone. “Geoffrey, would you care for tea or cocoa?”

  “I think I’ll
have something a little bit stronger,” he replied, clapping his hands and standing up. “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll get it.” He poured out a measure of whisky from the bottle on the corner table.

  Soon, Mrs. Archer reappeared from the kitchen with hot cocoa and a plate of plain round buns. “It’s a treat,” she explained, “so drink up while it lasts, children.”

  “Better turn on the wireless,” said Mr. Archer, glancing at the clock on the mantel over the fireplace. “Time for the prime minister’s speech.” He walked over and switched on the enormous radio, which was so large that it was a separate piece of furniture.

  “Why don’t you guys have a TV?” Hannah asked, to Alex’s embarrassment.

  “Hannah,” he said with annoyance, “Philo Farnsworth only just invented it.”

  The Archers looked astonished. Mr. Archer said, “Philo who?”

  “Farnsworth,” said Alex. “In America.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mr. Archer. “Everyone knows that John Logie Baird invented television. He’s an Englishman.”

  “A Scot, actually, Geoffrey,” corrected Mrs. Archer.

  “Yes, yes,” said Mr. Archer impatiently. “Well, regardless, even if we were wealthy enough to own a television receiver, I’m sure you know that the BBC have suspended broadcasts from Alexandra Palace for the duration of the war. Now, quiet, everybody. Here’s Mr. Churchill.”

  Hannah noticed that the Archers were staring at the radio while they listened, which she thought was very odd. And she found it hard to listen to Winston Churchill, the prime minister. He said so many words strangely, even by English standards in 1940: He pronounced “Nazi” without the usual “T” sound in the middle of the word, and he seemed to have a sort of lisp. She couldn’t imagine how he was ever elected, because he looked as funny as he sounded. He was really ugly in the photographs she had seen. Hannah gazed out of the window, and let her mind drift off, until Mr. Archer said pointedly to her, “Hannah, this is the gravest crisis to happen to England in your lifetime, perhaps ever. The least you could do is pay attention to what our prime minister has to say.”

  The next morning was sunny and not too cold, so Mrs. Archer suggested the two kids go for a walk in the country.

  “By ourselves?” Alex asked incredulously. Mrs. Archer replied that she had too much work to do about the house, and that Mr. Archer had to put in extra hours at the office during the emergency. However, she saw no reason why Alex and Hannah could not go. Hannah quietly pointed out to Alex that it might be a good chance to get out of the house and do some investigating.

  And so, three hours later, following Mrs. Archer’s directions for a “nice walk,” Hannah found herself picking her way along a muddy trail—what Mrs. Archer had described as a footpath—through an otherwise grassy meadow. She carefully edged around a quagmire of mud and water, noting the bootprint that someone had earlier sunk into it several inches deep. She still managed to get her feet sucked into the edge of the muck, and the mud almost seeped over the top of her right shoe.

  “Ughhh, that is disgusting!” she yelled, and lurched to her left. Suddenly, she gave a yelp as her hand brushed against the foliage at the side of the trail, and immediately began to hurt as if it had been stung by a swarm of bees the size of gnats. “It’s those plants again! The ones that attacked Brandon. Yow, that so hurts.”

  Alex looked knowingly at her. “Stinging nettles. Mrs. Archer warned me that there were a lot of them. She said we should look for dock leaves, and that there are always some nearby. Look, I think this is one.” From the ground, he plucked a large, oval leaf, and handed it to his sister. “Try it. Just rub this hard where it hurts.”

  Hannah looked doubtfully at him, but she did what he said, and rubbed it vigorously on her hand. The leaf soon began to spindle, turn dark green, and leave a green mark on her skin, but the stinging sensation was quickly disappearing. She exclaimed, “I don’t believe it, it works! Good job, bro!”

  Alex smiled, pleased with himself.

  “I know this is weird, but, even with the nettles, I really like it here,” he said cheerily, looking out over the countryside, with its small fields surrounded by hedges, and its tiny areas of woodland.

  “In the English countryside, or in England in 1940?” asked Hannah.

  “Both, I guess. It’s just so amazing to be here. Kind of like being the first man on the moon.”

  “But the food is gross,” complained Hannah.

  “I like it,” said Alex. “I just wish there was more of it. The portions are too small. I guess that’s because of the war, because I heard Mr. Archer complain, too.”

  “But it’s just so… heavy. I’m sick of bread and pastry and canned stuff and vegetables boiled to death. I want fruit juice!” cried Hannah, “Salads! Raw vegetables! How did these people manage to beat Hitler eating this stuff? I can feel my skin totally breaking out from the crud they are feeding us. And I so don’t wanna think what’s in here.”

  She held up the wicker basket, with its picnic blanket tucked over the food.

  “Well, we could find out,” said Alex. “We can sit over there.” He pointed to a tree stump in the meadow.

  They decided to lay out their picnic on the stump. As Hannah looked on with distaste, Alex first tested the thick grass for damp, cow patties, and other hazards before sitting down.

  Hannah tutted as she sat down crosslegged on the cold ground, and placed the picnic basket next to her. ”I just hope we don’t get food poisoning. Mrs. Archer doesn’t even have a refrigerator. I can’t believe she keeps the food in a cupboard.”

  “The larder, you mean? It’s no problem. It’s not like it’s hot here,” said Alex, reasonably.

  Hannah carefully peeled open a paper packet, and sniffed at the contents before pulling a face, and holding her fingers to her nose. “Urgh! These must be the fish paste sandwiches she was talking about. They smell like barf.”

  She handed the sandwich to Alex, who immediately took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Yeah, they do smell kinda yuk,” he said, “But they taste okay. You should try one.”

  But Hannah was now solemnly holding up another item from the basket for his inspection.

  “What is this supposed to be?” she asked in disgust.

  “An… egg?” said Alex.

  “And?” said Hannah, raising an eyebrow.

  “A boiled egg? So?”

  “So? Haven’t these people heard of egg salad? Like, why not smoosh this up with some mayo, I mean, is that hard? Am I just supposed to eat this as is, or what?”

  Alex took another bite of his sandwich.

  Hannah pulled out two glass bottles filled with clear liquid. “She said she packed lemonade. What’s this? It has a marble and a –I think it’s a plastic ring in it. Yuk.”

  She couldn’t pull out the marble, but she found she could push it in, and that opened the bottle. She took a swig, and shrugged her shoulders. “It’s just lemon-lime soda. I don’t think it’s diet, but it’s not very sweet. I wish we could have had Coke, but I bet they don’t even know what that is.”

  “They probably do,” said Alex.

  Finally, Hannah pulled out two slices of plain cake, wrapped in a cloth napkin. She took one tentative bite, and chewed several times before starting to cough. She took a long draft of soda to wash it down. “It’s gross! It’s like sand!” she gasped. “It’s like somebody sucked all the moisture out of it.”

  “You’d better eat something,” Alex said reproachfully.

  “You’re right,” Hannah said. “But not this crap. Let’s go back to town and see if that café is open.”

  Alex protested, but Hannah was already packing away the food. “Alex, go dump this somewhere.”

  He looked around. “No trash cans. We’ll have to take it with us, and drop it off in town. Hey, I don’t mind eating it later.”

  “Whatever,” said Hannah, dismissively. “But let’s see if I can buy a cheese sandwich, or something edible.”

  They walked o
n in silence, until they saw saw an odd wooden structure with steps, built into the hedgerow. Alex was first to realize that it was to allow walkers to get past the hedge, without allowing wandering animals in or out of the field. Stepping down, he found he was on a road near the edge of town. Ahead, he saw a cottage, where a tall woman with an untidy shock of grey hair was working in the garden with a rake, vigorously clearing out the remains of the summer flower beds.

  “Hannah?”

  “Yeah?” she said in a bored voice as she carefully negotiated the wooden stile.

  “We could ask that lady over there. And maybe we could talk to her about Brandon, if she’s friendly.”

  As the children walked up the otherwise deserted country road, the woman put down her rake, and came to greet them. She walked quickly up the garden path while wiping the soil from her hands onto the floral apron tied over her dark blue skirt. Three brown hens followed, pecking at her legs, until she shooed them away.

  “Hallo, children, and how are you two settling into your billets?”

  Hannah and Alex looked at her in surprise.

  “Well, you are evacuees, aren’t you? I met you both at the church hall. It’s Alexander and Hannah, isn’t it?”