by Gill Jepson
*
He raced after George who was running across the road and along Abbey Road. They dodged in and out of back streets until they arrived at Manchester Street, where George lived. It was a modest street, behind the Co-op bakery and the local newspaper offices. Rob recognised it, but there seemed to be more of it than he remembered, but he knew it might be because some streets had suffered bomb damage in the war. It was a simple street of terraced houses. Children filled the street, playing ‘tin can lurky’, swinging round a lamppost from a rope or shooting marbles in the gutter. In the distance a man trundled a barrow crying loudly to the householders: “Rag bones, Rag bones! Any owld i’on?” Recycling 1930s style?
*
They arrived at number 42, with its pristine front step and sparkling windows. The heavy door pushed open easily and revealed a lobby with a carpet runner down the middle, worn and faded, but very clean. They passed a door on the right and George said, “Parlour… don’t go in there ’cept on Sunday and Christmas.”
Rob hadn’t asked, but was glad he had told him – he wouldn’t like to intrude.
They burst into the second room where a cheery fire crackled and burned in the grate. It was homely, with a pair of rocking chairs placed at either side of the hearth. A rug was spread in front of the fire and fire tongs, shovel and scuttle adorned the hearth. On the high wooden mantle there was an array of items, including a pair of quite ugly looking pot dogs that looked as though they should be in an antique shop, a couple of faded photographs in wooden frames and a clock. Above, hung a mirror with a dark wood, carved frame, on a heavy chain; he had seen a mirror like that before… somewhere.
*
A table covered with a bright white cloth stood at the back of the room and was surrounded by a variety of chairs, none of which matched. A small wooden bookcase housed a higgledy-piggledy selection of books and above it was a small wooden pipe cabinet with a ceramic tobacco jar on top. The one window facing the back yard was draped with net curtains and heavier curtains to the side. The room was bereft of any luxuries and was simply furnished but spotlessly clean and immaculately tidy. Through yet another door was a kitchen with a stone sink, a mangle, a cumbersome cooking range and a dresser laden with pots of myriad styles and colours. Above was a wooden drying rack, draped with an array of shirts and in the centre of the room was another big pine table scrubbed almost white.
At the table a young woman in her thirties stood, kneading bread. She had glossy dark brown hair wound into a bun at the back of her head. Strands of hair fell across her forehead and she drew a floury hand across to push them away. The flour left its mark and George laughed.
“Ha! You’ve got flour on your face Mam!”
She smiled a beautiful smile, with perfect white teeth, square and even. Her eyes were the same blue as George’s and her complexion was one of peaches and cream. She was pleasantly rounded and she looked every bit a mother. Her simple blue dress was covered by a snow-white apron, with thick black stockings and sensible shoes to match. She wiped her hands on her apron and smiled.
“Would you and your friend like a cake and a glass of sass? Your dad brought a couple of bottles… better get some before our Bill snaffles it all,” she laughed merrily.
Rob felt as though he had known her for years and warmed to her immediately.
*
She turned to the oven and took out a huge tray of warm fairy cakes in a greased bun tray. The smell was glorious and she tipped them onto a metal cooling tray. She passed the boys a cake each and George had poured two glasses of ‘sass’. The brown concoction reminded Rob of the ginger beer he had sampled at James’ home. It tingled on his tongue and was a completely different taste to anything he had previously drunk. The cake was still hot and it melted in the mouth. George’s mam continued with her tasks, which not only involved making bread and setting it to rise in a bread mug in front of the fire, but cramming a massive hot pot into the oven to cook for dinner. The cooking smells were appetising and Rob suddenly felt hungry.
*
The two boys sat in the living room on the rocking chairs. George pulled a small book from the shelf and flicked through it hoping to find a clue to where Rabbit Hill might be. It was a Victorian book, a little foxed and brown but readable. They discussed the note again and Rob told him what he had seen in the Town Hall. They spoke in hushed tones so that George’s mother couldn’t hear.
“It says about this Rabbit Hill… but I don’t know where that is, do you?” whispered Rob.
George shrugged.
He read the note out loud again.
Look …
Where first I surveyed Barrow Town,
Upon Rabbit Hill
My image and my name preserved in stone
A sign to see
Of clean white purity
Shining bright in summer light
Follow its image to a hallowed chamber beneath
Cuthbert’s emblem will guide thee
“It has to be a building… ‘preserved in stone’… but it could be any building in town.”
“We are not going to get anywhere till we find out where Rabbit Hill is…” added Rob.
They fell silent. The book had a map and pictures of Barrow throughout the 1800s they pored over it carefully trying to glean as much information as possible. Suddenly, there it was. On one engraving was a map showing a hill marked Rabbit Hill. It was difficult to make out where exactly it was, but they could see the channel and the piers for loading the iron on to ships.
*
This located it near to the Strand, one of the main commercial roads in Barrow.
“Mam?”
“Yes George.”
“Where is Rabbit Hill?”
“Rabbit Hill? Well it isn’t called that now son…”
The boys waited with baited breath for her to finish.
“It’s St George’s Hill. You know, where the church is?”
Rob punched the air in triumph.
“Thanks Mam…”
“It’s a pleasure… why do you want to know?”
“Er… just interested that’s all!”
*
She accepted this simple explanation.
The boys went back to the book and looked for more information. There was another engraving of a church. St George’s Church. Beneath the picture was a brief description.
The Church of St George the Martyr was built during the years 1859–61 by E.G. Paley. Its patrons were the Duke of Buccleuch and Duke of Devonshire; the north aisle was completed in 1867. A later chapel was added in 1883, the patron was Sir James Ramsden. It is known as the Ramsden chapel to this day.
“I think this might be our building!” cried Rob, “My image and my name preserved in stone!”
“Come on then! Let’s shift!” said George.
Without another moment’s delay they left the house.
George’s mother called out to them to be careful and on their way out they almost knocked George’s dad over. He was smoking a pipe and wore britches to the knee, riding boots and a jacket, well suited to his job as a railway delivery man. He had just returned from stabling his horse. He had on his porter’s cap and had a twinkle in his eye.
“Where’s the fire lad?”
George laughed and looked at his dad.
“An’ who’s thee friend? I’ve not seen him before!” he continued.
“It’s Rob, Dad, me new mate!”
“An’ where ye goin’ in such a rush?”
“Church.”
“Church? T’isn’t Sunday, hast tha got religion lad?” he said in his strong Cumberland accent.
He chuckled and filled his pipe with tobacco. In seconds a strong aromatic smell filled the hallway and grey smoke wafted around his head. Rob couldn’t help but smile. George’s dad exuded warmth and friendliness. His face was open and filled with humour. He thought if he had time to get to know him he would be a right laugh.
*
They left and ran u
p the street. Rob looked around still fascinated at the pre-war Barrow. They ran through streets, which did not exist in his time. Where the pedestrianised street and MacDonald’s stood in his time there were shops of many shapes and sizes. Dalton Road was a busy vibrant street, shops shaded by awnings, brim full of fresh produce, meat, fish and other goods. The shoppers were smartly or formally dressed and were busy with their tasks for the day – a sharp contrast to the youths in trainers and ‘trackies’ who loitered about town in Rob’s day. It was busier and people milled in and out of the small shops, cyclists rode past, and the odd car trundled its way up the street. They ran on until they reach Church Street.
*
Rob noticed the pubs, closed in the present, had new life in 1934. As they went past the strange smell of pipe, cigarette smoke and ale mingled and drifted into their nostrils. They arrived at the church, resplendent on the summit of Rabbit Hill. Next to it stood a huge building, North Lonsdale Hospital, endowed by the town elders and dignitaries. As they approached the church they slowed down.
*
When they walked into the empty church George removed his cap. They talked in hushed tones; it seemed appropriate. Their footsteps echoed as they walked up the central aisle.
“So what are we looking for exactly? And where is the Ramsden chapel?” hissed Rob.
“James image? It said, ‘look for my image in stone’. Do you think that he has a statue or summat?”
Rob shrugged. They walked on, looking for a likely clue.
As they approached the steps to the altar, they examined the carvings and even the grand eagle lectern. The stained glass gave no clue and Rob noticed that there were a couple of saints and a swan, but did not recognise anything of significance. They moved towards a small chapel to the right of the altar to explore further. A range of special seats lined the right hand side of the chapel. The Barrow Coat of Arms was above the grandest seat. This was evidently the Ramsden Chapel.
“I think that must be where James sat. This is his chapel… the Ramsden Chapel – obvious really,” cried George.
“Doh! You could’ve saved us a lot of time if you’d remembered! I didn’t even know he had a chapel, never mind where it was,” chuckled Rob.
They walked into the chapel quietly.
*
The air shimmered like the haze on a summer’s day and a myriad of colours shimmered like a rainbow. By now they knew what was about to happen.
The disturbance cleared. A door to the right opened. A tall woman entered. She was dressed in black, for mourning. Her long taffeta dress rustled as she moved. She sported a wide brimmed hat with a veil and a large black feather adorning it. Her dress was tightly structured, pinching in her waist; she presented an elegant figure. She walked past them and knelt at the altar rail.
*
They watched silently. When she had finished her prayer, she rose and peeled back the veil, revealing a familiar face. It was Miss Sheriff. Granted it was an older Miss Sheriff than they had seen previously, but that determination and purpose still shone through. She looked up at the window as though she was checking something. They edged closer.
She spun around startled.
“Is anyone there?” she cried.
They were standing only a few metres away. She could not see them, but it was as though she could sense their presence.
She turned back to window and then moved to the left. She reached for something with a gloved hand and gently touched it. A grinding noise echoed from the back of the altar. They watched closely but as suddenly as she had appeared she began to disappear. She faded and her image wavered. Finally all that was left was a pinprick of luminescence.
Both boys rushed over to the altar. They looked first at the glass in the window. There was a picture of a swan. The swan was beautifully painted and stood out clearly.
“Look!” cried Rob. “A swan… that has to be the symbol of purity that James mentioned in the note. I can’t see anything else that would do…”
“I know this! It’s St Cuthbert’s swan! Your sister has been following the sign of the swan.”
“My sister?” Rob exclaimed.
“Yes! You’re not the only one on a quest you know!”
“Is it the same quest then?”
“Not exactly, but I told you they are all connected…”
Rob started! “All?”
“Your brother too.”
Rob could hardly take it all in. This confirmed his suspicions and provoked many different thoughts about his companion that he could not yet come to terms with. George took charge.
“Come on! We’ve got to find this!” He scrambled behind the altar rail and inspected where Lee had touched the stones.
Both the boys jumped in astonishment. There he was magnificently carved in stone. A perfect image of Sir James himself, on the opposite side was a companion carving of Hannah his wife.
“Ha! He really did like himself didn’t he?” laughed Rob,” Having himself carved in the church!”
“Well I suppose that he thought he was important to the town. I expect he thought he had better commemorate himself in case nobody else did,” joked George.
“So what was she doing… something moved behind the altar when she touched the carving?”
They felt around and George put his hand over James’ face and pressed.
“Sorry James!” he sniggered.
As he pressed the carving it receded into the wall. At the same time gears turned and pulleys moved and the grinding noise they had heard resonated around the chapel. Behind the altar, directly beneath the swan, a slab slid open. The boys hurried to see what it had revealed. A small space had opened and inside it was a roll of soft leather. George carefully lifted it from its resting place. He unwrapped it slowly, revealing a glint of metal. They held their breath in anticipation, hardly daring to believe this was the chalice they had sought. They stood gaping at their prize. It was beautiful, with delicate decoration and studded with precious stones.
“Come on!” We’ve got to get you… and this back to your time.” George said, wrapping the cup again in it leather covering.
Rob nodded in agreement.
As they did so they heard the latch on the door click open. A tall, balding man entered, dark and sinister. His silhouette, framed by the light from the open door made Rob recall the sinister birds he had seen around the abbey. He shivered. George pulled him down quickly. They hid behind the screen on the special pew, reserved for the Mayor and town dignitaries.
“What we gonna do? We can’t let him get it!” squeaked George.
“He looks familiar.”
“Silas Dixon… he is intent on stealing the treasure…”
“I know him! He threatened me and said something about Nate!” Rob scowled for a moment. “So… how is he here? He is from my time… isn’t he?”
“He is from any time he wishes to be from. Silas should be guardian of the abbey treasures but has turned to the dark and wishes to possess it for his own ends.”
Rob rubbed his eyes with his hand, as if unable to believe this.
Footsteps echoed ominously along the aisle towards the altar.
*
The boys remained as quiet as a pair of church mice. George shuffled along to the end of the pew and beckoned Rob to do the same. He indicated the door at the other side of the pew. It was the special door the Ramsden’s had used to enter the chapel. Somehow, it seemed right that they should make their escape that way. They peered around the doorway to the chapel. The man was engaged at the far side of the church inspecting the walls and the carvings. When George and Rob thought it was safe to move they did with great haste. As they reached the door and lifted the latch, George banged the chalice against the corner of the wall. A muffled clink echoed through the church and the man was disturbed. He looked up and stared at the boys like a wolf observing its prey. The two boys wrenched open the door in panic, slamming it behind them. They leapt down the steps onto the pavement and ran
as though their lives depended upon it.
*
Moments later the man emerged from the church. The chase was in vain; the two boys were swift and agile. George led Rob in and out of back streets until they reached Manchester Street. They were on home territory now and relaxed.
“We can’t take this in the house!” said George. “Mam would think I’d pinched it!”
“Well, how do I get it home?”
George looked a bit pale. He was sweating.
“You alright?”
“Nah… feel a bit sick… an’ I’ve got a headache! Probably with all the running.”
“You’d better get in then. I’ll go back to the library… it seems when I do this time travel stuff I have to go back to where I started. If I don’t get back – you’ll soon know, because I haven’t anywhere else to go.”
*
Rob ran back the way they had come earlier and slipped into the library unseen. He was unsure what to do next to propel himself back to 2005 but decided to walk up the stairs to the reference library. He need not have worried. It was as if the time portal knew he was there. Very soon he was overcome with nausea and giddiness, lights flashing and spinning. He came to an abrupt stand still and closed his eyes to steady himself properly. When he opened them again he was back in the Archives department of Barrow Library. The archivist, a bespectacled gentleman politely shook Rob’s shoulder.
“Are you ok, you look a little peaky? We thought you were going to pass out!”
Rob blinked unable to return to reality for a moment. The other younger archivist looked on in concern too.
“I’ll fetch a glass of water… that might refresh you,” he suggested.
Rob shook himself and his head cleared. It was exhausting all this time travelling.
“Er… no thanks, I feel better now. I’ll just go home, I am sure I will be ok now,” he answered.
“Well, if you’re certain, you need to take it easy. Perhaps you are doing too much studying?”