‘’Tis the busiest night ever for apparitions. Rich pickings for pickpockets. It must be due to the strange stealing of time.’
I give her a leap sweet and she gives me a toothless smile.
Francis answers the door at Gough Square. I can tell he’s excited because he’s speaking even more quickly than usual.
‘Mistress Anna is busy in the kitchen. And I must light the candles. And after this gathering, we will set forth for the Carnival of the Calendar! We’re having patties. Master will receive you in the drawing-room shortly. So much to do!’
He climbs the first flight of stairs to the candle cupboard and I’m reminded that’s where he hid the sandglass. The smell of pastry wafts up the stairs and makes my mouth water. Francis continues talking as he comes back down.
‘I hope you have brought poems about Time. MC2 told me he excels at rhyming and Anon informs me that you, Elle, have won a poetry competition!’
‘Anon’s here?’
‘She is. Poetry is her passion. And in very good spirits tonight. She has not assaulted me with questions about timepieces.’
When Francis is ready, we turn right at the top of the stairs to see they have opened the panel completely so the room’s open plan and much larger than on our first visit. The light is already fading and the lit candles make shadows dance on the ceiling. It’s very atmospheric and excitement tingles in my stomach. The chairs are arranged in a semi-circle, Mr Johnson and Anno sitting at the far side. For a split second, I see an image of the sinister full circle headed by Millennia but I push the thought out of my mind. We still need to prove MC2’s innocence before the trial AND find the ancient Infinity-Glass but tonight’s a night off. I’m here to enjoy myself.
The new Infinity-Glass has been placed on a small table in the middle of the room, like it’s the guest of honour.
Francis announces us as if he’s a grown-up in a play.
‘I present Elle Bíbi Imbelé Ifíè; Benedykt Novak; Kwesi Atta Asante; GMT and MC2.’
We all bow and curtsy. Mr Johnson has dressed for the occasion in a purple jacket with fraying sleeves. He tilts his head to the right when he hears the name MC2, reminding me of something but I can’t think what. Big Ben’s staring intently at Mr Johnson and frowning. Then our host smiles and says in his booming voice:
‘A most peculiar but pleasing name, young gentleman. You may inform me of its mathematical meaning later. I am always seeking new terminology.
‘Welcome, thief-catchers and wood-engravers, to our literary salon. Please be seated. Tonight, there will be potion, patties and poetry. The potion is tea, the patties are subject to the local baker’s culinary skill and the poetry is in honour of Time.’
‘And do not forget to honour this exquisite sandglass,’ says Anon, ‘nor the infinity biscuits I have especially baked and iced.’
She looks at me intently through her glasses when she says iced. She knows I mostly eat white food and has made the effort so I have something to eat, which is kind. But how do I know I can trust Anon after she almost definitely stole the sandglass the day Francis received it? How did she know the infinity symbols would already be on it unless she’d visited again and been snooping? I don’t know whether to say thank you or not. If I say thank you it will be polite but I won’t totally mean it; if I say nothing it will be rude and I don’t want to be rude. But in the space when I COULD speak, something happens.
Mistress Anna reaches the top of the stairs with a large tray, peers into the room and shrieks. The tray full of teapot, teacups, milk and sugar falls to the ground with a loud crash! You wouldn’t believe the mess; it looks like a bomb has landed.
Anon rises from her chair with her stick. ‘Oh, Mistress Anna. Let me assist you in—’
‘NO!’ shouts Mistress Anna. ‘Stay away from me, spirit!’
GMT is also on her feet ready to help but Mr Johnson has crossed the room and is supporting his housekeeper, who looks ready to faint.
‘I require your assistance,’ he says to GMT. ‘For, contrary to your male attire, I sense you are of the female sex. Since it would be improper for me to enter the room of a gentlewoman, please enable Mistress Anna to reach her room comfortably. It is clear she needs both repose and smelling salts. Francis, fetch the latter. And a stout broom!’
I feel sorry for Mistress Anna because she’s a poet, not only a housekeeper, but now she won’t have the chance to read at the salon. AND I know why she fainted. We all know except Mr Johnson. But Anon’s pretending to be in shock.
‘Upon my word, I have never seen Mistress Anna so disordered. Whatever can have ailed her?’
‘Musta bin somethin’ she saw,’ says MC2.
There’s an awkward silence while Francis collects the broom and starts sweeping rather ineffectively, like he’s never handled a broom in his life. GMT is obviously staying with Mistress Anna in her room, opposite. I’m glad she’s here to help like she did before. If it was me helping, I wouldn’t know what to do or say. If it had been me who felt shaky, I’d just want to be left alone. Mr Johnson doesn’t seem to notice how tense we all are.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘it is fortunate I have such a liking for tea that the entire house is composed of tea cups. I have another set in this very room which Francis will set up once he has finished sweeping.’
‘Kind sir, though I am a guest, since Mistress Anna is indisposed I am more than willing to remake the tea but I shall need some young assistants. Elle and Big Ben, would you oblige?’
It would be very difficult to say no so we both follow Anon down two flights of stairs to the basement kitchen. It’s dark and gloomy with only one tiny window. Anon attends to the kettle which is hung over the fire and instructs us to find plates for the patties being kept warm beside it. It takes us a while to find them: the cupboards are chaos. Food seems to be mixed with the crockery. I feel a bit dizzy from trying to concentrate in this new space. Then I realise why it’s worse: I’m hungry. My senses are heightened.
Big Ben finds some plain white plates covered in dust but they’ll be OK after a wipe. I remove the off-white cloth covering the food and frown. They don’t look like Jamaican patties I’ve seen before. They look like pies someone trod on but they smell delicious, savoury and spicy. Maybe Mr Johnson ordered them especially for Francis because he’s originally from Jamaica. That would be a nice touch. I might even try one myself wearing my futuristic glasses. I rarely eat meat these days but this is a VERY SPECIAL OCCASION.
Anon has been busy finding milk and sugar for the tea but now she turns to us.
‘I must say, you are both uncommonly quiet this evening. What is it?’
‘We’re tired,’ I say. ‘It’s been a busy week.’
That’s not untrue; it HAS been a busy week.
‘Will you both be attending Anno’s private view tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me extend the invitation to your older friends. I hope you have sufficient time to rest before then. However, I suspect you will be out at the Carnival tonight, like all Leaplings who enjoy this leap more than Annuals do.’
‘Maybe.’
Out of the corner of my eye I see a tall, hooded shadow pass the window. I blink and it’s gone. It reminds me of something but I can’t think what. The Vicious Circle? They wear hooded gowns. But this person was taller than Millennia and Nano. I look at Big Ben. He obviously didn’t see the figure. Too busy thinking about the food! I can’t tell him about it right now with Anon here. I shudder and my heart starts racing. The evening’s spoilt already. But at least it’s taught me something important: you can’t have a night off when you’re on a mission. You need to be on high alert!
Back upstairs, MC2 is finishing a rap:
‘... the split
second peeps leapt while they slept on the
2nd of Sept.’
Kwesi and Francis high-five MC2 and each other while Mr Johnson applauds.
‘I enjoyed your song very much, young gentleman, th
ough I did not understand a single syllable due to its verbal velocity. What style is it?’
‘Freestyle rap, Your Honour,’ says MC2.
I smile because that’s how you address a judge in court. Mr Johnson’s wearing a wig like a judge so that must have made MC2 say that. Then I stop smiling because I remember that he’ll be charged in court soon unless we come up with evidence.
We put the patties and kettle on the table next to the fresh tea set and the battered oak box that Mr Johnson calls a tea caddy. Anon makes the tea and everyone helps themselves. I put on my colour-coolers and adjust the settings till the patties are a very pale grey. Not ideal but I’m too hungry to fiddle for too long. I take a big bite and enjoy the mixture of minced beef, hot spices and thick pastry.
‘And next,’ says Mr Johnson, ‘I introduce Elle who has, I understand, produced a poem in honour of the sandglass.’
I wish I hadn’t started the patty now. My stomach does somersaults as I stand up to read:
Is infinity ingrained in 11 missing days?
Formed in the leap year 1752
this maritime sandglass
sparkling black sand
flows the same as,
letter by letter,
my name
E
L
L
E
my name,
letter by letter,
flows the same as
sparkling black sand.
This maritime sandglass
formed in the leap year 1752
is infinity ingrained in 11 missing days.
Mr Johnson is extremely excited. His whole seated body is moving, face, hands and feet as he listens. I find it distracting though I know he can’t help it. When I finish, he claps his hands.
‘Young madam, your poem was awful!’
I can’t believe he just said that. If my poem was so bad, why’s he applauding it? But Anon quickly explains.
‘Mr Johnson finds your poem awe-inspiring.’
Then I realise awful is one of those funny words that change meaning over time, like when Ama says wreckage. Mr Johnson is still applauding.
‘You have invented an entirely new form, a veritable palindrome that, like your name, reads the same backwards as forwards.’
‘I didn’t invent it,’ I say.
‘No matter. You have stimulated my intellect.’ He turns to Big Ben, ‘Now, young gentleman, I understand that you prefer mathematics to linguistics,’ he pauses, ‘but we accommodate all languages in this house, except French.’
‘Mr Johnson, you are being mischievous,’ says Anon.
‘Madam, I am, for were you to hear my French, you would vacate the room! Big Ben, you are a man of numbers and I am a man of letters. Let us shake hands in mutual respect.’
I’m glad Mr Johnson acknowledged Big Ben, even though he doesn’t have a poem. Mr Johnson smiles.
‘Kwesi, let me call upon you.’
Just before Kwesi begins, GMT appears from Mistress Anna’s room. She gives the thumbs up so we know the housekeeper’s OK and takes a seat beside Anon.
Kwesi signs an original poem about the Infinity-Glass: ‘∞’. He’s the most inventive of all because he uses his own sign language that only he and MC2 fully understand. It’s like a dance. He makes florid movements and clicks his fingers. Mr Johnson is very impressed. Then he clears his throat so we know he is going to make an important announcement.
‘Thank you, one and all. This evening was for young Frank, who writes a pretty signature, is an excellent listener but has not yet taken to formal literature,’ Mr Johnson looks at MC2 to see if he’s appreciated the wordplay. MC2 high-fives him and he continues.
‘Frank, I trust hearing your friends has inspired you for the future. And young friends, I trust you will keep Frank safe on your nightly excursion while Anon and I discuss the intricacies of the heroic couplet. Before you take your leave, hark the bells of St Bride’s! St Martin’s follows. Fellow poets, it is the 11th hour. Let us toast the Leap-Glass before they embezzle our 11 days!’
‘To the Leap-Glass!’ we say, and our clinking of teacups is accompanied by a chorus of bells of all shapes of sound.
‘St Paul’s, and finally St Dunstan-in-the-West!’ says Mr Johnson.
We listen to the bells till they fade into silence. For a split second there is no sound at all and then we hear it: the 11 chimes of St Dunstan-in-the-West.
One hour to go before the great leap!
Chapter 21:00
CARNIVAL OF THE CALENDAR
The festival’s taking place in fields north of the city but we hear its classical music before we see it. There’s a long, snaking queue outside which gives me time to adjust to the sights and sounds. Teens in long green velvet robes are handing out ear-defenders and colour-coolers like mine. I take the ear-defenders just in case. GMT greets one of them, a young woman with long brown hair down to her waist and nothing on her feet. She must be freezing! The air’s cool and damp and smells of woodsmoke.
‘Never knew you guys were coming, Zilla.’
‘We neither, it was last minute. Come see us in the back field. The Daisy-Chain.’
Francis is so excited he looks like he’s going to explode. He hasn’t stopped talking since we left the house.
‘. . . and a Masquerade and Illuminations never heretofore seen and many more Spectacles . . .’ he reads off a crumpled leaflet.
We reach the front of the queue and look up.
CARNIVAL OF THE CALENDAR says a banner in huge swirly letters like a signature.
There are large, stripy, pointy tents and small open stages. It’s a riot of colour and sound and smell. The man to the left of the entrance has long brown greasy hair and a pockmarked face. His clothes are made of coarse cloth. The woman on the right is tall, with fading brown hair like her full-length dress. She looks familiar. Francis shows his advance ticket and the man raises his eyebrows.
‘Look, our Meg!’ he says. ‘We got an Annual!’
I look at the woman called Meg and she winks at me. It’s Old Meg looking 20 years younger! It must have been powder in her hair to make it look white. Maybe if she looks VERY old, people feel extra sorry for her and she makes more money from begging or maybe it’s 18th-century fashion to make yourself look older. She still looks old and wrinkled but much more alive. I call her New Meg in my head.
‘Fear not, Tom,’ she says, ‘he’s in good company.’
Francis is too excited to take this in. He pays a shilling each for all of us, New Meg clips day-glo lanyards onto our wrists and waves us in. But just as I’m passing, she grabs my arm and speaks so softly, even I strain to hear her.
‘Take heed, Elle. I heard your name in the alley this night. There’s trouble afoot.’
‘Thanks,’ I say.
I’m thankful to get the warning but not for what it might mean. I’d forgotten about the hooded shadow I saw earlier; now I’m going to spend the whole evening on edge. I don’t think anyone else heard but Kwesi looks at me, checking to see if I’m OK. I swallow the nerves building up in my stomach. If I tell my friends, I’ll feel safer, but I don’t want to ruin their night. They’d spend the whole evening being worried about me.
People are wandering around, standing in groups or queuing at brightly painted wooden food stalls. The smell of baked potatoes and toffee apples fills the air. There’s a whole pig roasting on a spit and a yellow stall selling hot punch. Beside it, a booth with people sitting outside is called Veggie Tables. Of course, there’s food from all over the timeline. Food stalls line the entire edge of the field.
There are white people, black people, mixed-race people, Indian, Chinese, South American people; women in hooped skirts; mini-skirts, multi-coloured wrappers and bell-bottomed jeans like GMT’s 1960s chic; shimmering all-in-one shellsuits; men in tall top hats, men with greased-back hair in dinner jackets; men in robes; men in metal helmets; teenagers with spiky, luminescent dinosaur hairstyles and tartan trousers; teens in ho
odies; toddlers in flashing traffic-light trainers; babies in slings; babies in bonnets; babies in backpacks.
I look at Francis and Francis looks at me. His eyes are too big for his head!
‘Are they all Leaplings? Do you know them? My ticket entitles me to free food and drink but I can furnish you with more shillings if you desire it.’
‘Glad we ain’t still queuing,’ says MC2. ‘Didn’t wanna miss The Squared on stage.’
Kwesi raises his eyebrows high and MC2 shrugs.
‘I gigged this fest before, bro.’
‘You should have told us,’ I say. ‘What if you bump into yourself?’
‘Lotsa Leaps double up tonight. It’s a one-off.’
‘Aren’t they all breaking the Oath coming in crowds? What about Annuals seeing? Won’t they call the police?’
‘Anyone up this late and in this field is far out, man,’ says GMT.
‘Or out for a profit,’ says MC2. ‘London’s a square mile and we’re outside it. They ain’t got no real police force yet. The 18th-century Leaps run stuff. They bin advertising for weeks in the backstreets. Heard of the frost fairs? This is the field fest!’
I HAVE heard of frost fairs even before Francis mentioned them beside the Thames. People partied on the River Thames when it froze solid in the winter and once they even had an ELEPHANT on ice! They sound amazing.
‘I want to go to a frost fair!’ says Francis. ‘Can you take me?’
‘Maybe, bro. Next one’s in ’67 but it ain’t worth a Chrono. Best one’s the finale in 1814. I could luggage you but it’s a heap of a leap.’ GMT gives him a nudge. ‘Maybe not.’
‘Come on guys, let’s go see some action,’ says GMT, seeing Francis’s disappointment. ‘Who wants to hang out at the Daisy-Chain?’
The Daisy-Chain’s a dome tent the size of Mr Johnson’s drawing-room, with swirly patterns all over it. It’s a bunch of hippies playing music from 1968 on an audio cassette player which people used in the olden days. They either have very long, uncombed straggly hair parted in the middle or afros in crazy colours like purple or green. 1968’s my favourite year so I’m in my element. They’re playing this amazing song called ‘For Once In My Life’ but Kwesi and MC2 make the same face Grandma makes when the pepper soup isn’t spicy enough.
The Time-Thief Page 14