Jane in Love

by Rachel Givney

  ‘It captures the moment,’ Jane exclaimed. The man laughed at her, kind and unmalicious. ‘It’s a memory,’ she added. ‘You capture it and stow it in your pocket.’

  ‘Hold it up like this,’ the man said, handing the object to Jane and moving her arms into position so the box pointed at his female companion once more. Jane stiffened at the feeling of the man’s hands on her and hoped he did not notice. He positioned Jane’s shoulders so the woman now appeared in the centre of the frame. The man rushed over to join his friend and, once he was comfortable in his portrait pose, he nodded for Jane. ‘This building fell down last year,’ he said.

  ‘I heard,’ Jane replied. She pressed the white button on the box, as he had, and the box made a clicking sound.

  The man rushed back over to Jane. ‘Beautiful!’ he said, as he examined the painting from all angles.

  ‘A good attempt, perhaps,’ Jane said. ‘That was my first try.’ She puffed out her chest.

  He laughed another generous laugh. ‘Well done,’ he said, and smiled at Jane. ‘Have a great day.’

  ‘And to the both of you,’ Jane said as they turned to leave. ‘Pardon me, sir, but could you tell me the time?’

  The man consulted the steel box. ‘Twelve-thirty,’ he answered.

  ‘Thank you,’ Jane said. It required fifteen minutes on the tube train to return to Paddington. It was the best and only option now; with nothing left for her in Cheapside, she should return to Fred. She winced at the idea of seeing him again; she had never expected to do so. But it could not be helped. She proceeded towards St Paul’s and steeled herself for another harrowing ride on the moving staircase of doom. She crossed the plaza of St Paul’s Cathedral and descended once more into the earth. She reached the solid steel fence and fished in her pocket for the card she would place on the circle to open the magical gates, but the card did not appear in her hand. Jane spread her fingers wide in her pocket and sifted through the folds in the fabric. But the pouch of fabric stood empty. Jane scowled. She must have allowed it to fly open.

  She proceeded to the glass booth to purchase another ticket, then stopped. Her pockets contained no money, either. She dug into both folds of fabric and turned them inside out. All their contents had departed: the card, the money. What a fool she was! She’d let everything fall from her person. She held only the bag with the sugar. Jane scowled at herself for her carelessness. She reached to her neck to run her fingers along her necklace, which she often did when thinking, but touched nothing.

  Jane grabbed at her neck. She fell to her knees and swept the ground. Frank’s crucifix necklace had disappeared. How had she managed to misplace her jewellery? Perhaps it had fallen off somewhere along the way. Maybe if she dashed back there now, it would lie on the road to Russia Row. How long had it been missing? She recalled playing with it as she walked down Milk Road. Jane’s stomach fell. The man with the metal box who’d asked Jane to make the picture, his hands on her shoulders. She felt sick. He had robbed her!

  Jane moved back up the stairs and onto St Paul’s piazza in a horrified daze. The day in London, which had begun so well, now fell to pieces. She shook her head in a panic, unsure of what to do, then finally arrived at her only remaining option. She shrugged and slumped and began walking in a north-westerly direction.

  She did not allow the changes to distract her. Piccadilly Circus still stood, as did the Thames, though now it smelled a far sight better, and three new bridges straddled its waters. Someone had rebuilt Westminster Palace in a Gothic style. She reached Oxford Circus. Giant brick and glass structures now surrounded the chaotic square on all four sides. People streamed from every doorway and corner. A shop window contained her books. She gasped and ran over to it. The shop had put her books in a special display, with her portrait in the window. The busiest shopfront in London displayed her novels!

  She glanced at a clock in the shop window. The hands read two-fifteen. She sighed. Two-fifteen! She was already late, more than one hour past the agreed time, yet she had reached only halfway across London. She ran, trying not to consider the futility of her task. Even if she guessed the correct path from here, by the time she arrived at Paddington, it would be, at the very least, more than two hours after she and Fred had agreed to reunite. Her devastation at the day transformed to panic. It was terrible enough to be denied returning home, but now a worse fate confronted her. If she did not reunite with Fred, she’d be left in New London, with no money, no food and no convincing story to tell anyone. She had winced with anticipation of how awkward their reunion would be and dreaded spending any more time in his company, but now that seemed like paradise compared with the option of never meeting at all.

  What chance existed that he had waited for her? She had already let Fred down once by not meeting him after agreeing to do so. A grown man with appointments did not wait to be made a fool of a second time.

  After what seemed like days, Jane turned down Praed Street in Paddington, red-faced and puffing. A flap of skin came loose from her ankle where Sofia’s leather shoe rubbed it raw. She ignored it and ran forward.

  As she moved down the street, she glimpsed the bench she had sat on earlier that day. A man sat upon it with his arms crossed over his chest, shivering. Jane inhaled.

  It was Fred. For some reason she could not grasp, he had waited for her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘You’re two hours late,’ he said when she reached him.

  ‘Thank you’ was all she could reply. She bent over to catch her breath.

  ‘We’ve missed the train,’ he said.

  ‘I am sorry. Thank you for waiting. I am glad you did not leave,’ she said. She meant it.

  ‘Did you get lost?’ he asked. His voice was curt.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s fifteen minutes on the tube to St Paul’s from here. What happened?’ A mixture of emotions seemed to dance across his face: frustration, of course, but also something else. Was it relief? ‘I thought you’d stood me up again,’ he said finally.

  ‘No,’ Jane replied quickly. But she had more bad news. Her face burned a shade of crimson. ‘I walked.’

  He turned to her. ‘Why on earth?’

  ‘I misplaced my oyster card. Your card, really.’

  ‘You didn’t buy another one? I gave you extra money.’

  Jane bowed her head. ‘I lost your money. The ticket to Bath, too. I lost everything.’

  Fred stared at her, incredulous.

  Jane felt her voice breaking. ‘I was robbed, do you see? They took the money, your “oyster” card and my necklace. The house was not there. Now I’m stuck here!’ Her eyes blurred. Mortification gripped her as tears threatened to emerge. She cared little for Fred’s opinion of the event; she hoped only that others had not seen. She turned and began to run away from him back down the street.

  ‘Don’t run away,’ he called after her.

  ‘Go. I shall make my own way,’ she said.

  ‘No, you won’t.’ He caught up to her and took her arm.

  Jane blinked, willing her eyes not to cry. But it was no good. Hot, embarrassed tears tumbled down her face. She waited for Fred’s reproach and contempt. Instead, his face seemed fixed in a look of pain.

  ‘It’s okay. It’s only money,’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said.

  He put out his arms – what for, to hold her? – but Jane flinched, and he took them back. He offered Jane a handkerchief instead.

  ‘Thank you,’ she blubbered, and accepted the cloth. Jane dabbed the handkerchief to her eyes. She could not believe she was crying in front of this obnoxious man, to whom she was now indebted for money, for oyster cards, for basically saving her life. She mopped up as many of the offending drops as she could.

  He sat down on a bench and motioned for her to sit next to him. ‘Any good?’ he asked, pointing to the handkerchief.

  It was white and made of a strange substance, a cross between cloth and paper. ‘It does th
e trick,’ Jane said. ‘Commendable liquid absorption.’ She handed him back the handkerchief.

  ‘Keep it,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t want your handkerchief back?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s just a tissue,’ he said. ‘I have more.’ He showed her a small package with five or six of the tissues inside. She shook her head. He must be very rich to own so many.

  ‘Very well,’ she replied. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What did you buy at Sainsbury’s?’ he asked. He pointed to the bright orange bag which Jane had forgotten she was holding.

  ‘Oh, a bag of sugar,’ Jane said. She lifted the package from the bag and showed it to him. ‘I paid the most extraordinary price for it; I’ve never found sugar so cheap.’

  ‘Do you keep a keen eye on sugar prices?’ he asked with a gentle smirk.

  ‘Do you not?’ Jane asked him.

  ‘I don’t, but maybe I should,’ he said. ‘Clearly I am missing some bargains.’

  ‘I apologise. I used your money to purchase this. Here, take it, it’s yours.’ She held up the package of sweet crystals to him.

  He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t dare take your sugar.’ He seemed always to stare at her with a bemused face, though not unsmiling. She had always interpreted this as some sort of contempt; now she wondered if she was mistaken, if it was something else. She could not put her finger on it exactly, but either his face had softened, or she was looking at him differently.

  She blushed. ‘I’m sorry I made you miss your train,’ she said.

  He shrugged. ‘There’s another one in an hour.’

  ‘I’m sorry for wasting your hundred pounds and for destroying your handkerchief,’ she added.

  ‘Please stop apologising,’ he replied. He smiled at her again in a way that made her swallow.

  ‘How was your appointment?’ she asked him.

  ‘It was a disaster. I was supposed to be doing something clever and failed miserably.’

  ‘What happened?’ Jane said. She turned her knees towards him and listened.

  He glanced at her knees, then spoke. ‘We’ve organised some student exchanges with our sister school in Normandy.’

  ‘Student exchange?’ Jane asked.

  ‘A student of ours stays with a French family and attends school there for a couple of months. They tour battlefields, visit Paris, learn a bit of French. A French student, in exchange, comes here and learns British customs – they make tea, visit the Tower, learn how to queue properly. It’s all great fun, and the students love it. Some of the French students and teachers arrived in London this morning and I went to meet them.’

  ‘Goodness, we are such friends with the French now. We exchange students with them and everything,’ Jane remarked.

  Fred smiled. ‘That’s where all the good cheese is. Anyway, Madam Cluse, our French teacher, normally accompanies me on these outings, but today she was unwell, and I went alone. I was there representing the history department. I don’t speak a lick of French, except “Bonjour” and “croissant”. Only once I arrived did I realise they don’t speak a lick of English.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Jane said. She did not understand many of his words, but she felt the warmth and wit of them. He spoke in a relaxed way, smiling and animated. Jane wondered at the change. Their interactions up to this point had felt so strained, but it seemed when he spoke of something other than her – when they weren’t speaking of the dislike and agitation between them – he became a different person. As if she brought out some tension in him which melted when he switched to easier topics. She did not feel dismayed by this, only intrigued.

  ‘Madame Cluse will be very cross with me because I think I ruined everything. “Sacré bleu, Fred,” she will say. “You are an imbecile.”’ He smiled. ‘All I needed to give them was some information about visiting Bath, but I think instead I provoked some sort of international incident between the British and the French. I tried to communicate with my own made-up sign language. I also kept talking in English with a bad French accent, thinking they understood me.’ He put his head in his hands in a gesture of mock agony.

  Jane laughed kindly. ‘A diplomatic disaster,’ she said.

  ‘I offended them,’ Fred continued. ‘Now there are three French people roaming around London doing who knows what. I hope I’ve not provoked a war. We’ll have to start calling chips Freedom Fries again, and boycotting cheese imports.’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Do the French students and teachers still wait at the place you came from?’ Jane asked him.

  ‘I guess so,’ Fred said with a shrug. ‘They’re probably still eating lunch, and besides, they don’t know where to go otherwise.’

  ‘I should like to meet these Norman folk of yours,’ Jane said.

  Fred checked his wrist clock and shrugged. ‘This way.’ He showed her down a lane. They proceeded north towards the old village of Westbourne Green until they arrived at a row of terraced houses with pointed roofs below Westbourne Park Road. A shop selling teas and cakes sat on the corner. Fred showed Jane inside.

  ‘Allo,’ said a male voice in a thick Norman lilt as they entered the shop. A large man stood from one of the tables. He spoke in a soft, nervous tone, and glanced at Fred with a sheepish look. Two adolescent children sat beside him, dressed in school uniforms.

  ‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ Jane said. She walked towards the man, who raised his eyes in hope to Jane. ‘Are you the teacher, sir?’ she continued, in French. Fred snapped his head towards her.

  The man smiled his delight. ‘I am, miss. Claude Poulan, at your service,’ he replied, also in French.

  ‘Welcome to England, Mr Poulan. The French are most welcome here.’

  Claude beamed and chuckled a deep, barrel-chested laugh. ‘Thank you. But please, call me Claude.’

  Jane turned to Fred and returned her speech to English. ‘What shall I tell him?’

  Fred smiled at her and shook his head. ‘You don’t own a watch or a phone, but you speak perfect French.’

  ‘His French is perfect.’ Jane shrugged. ‘Mine could be better.’ Jane turned back to Claude. ‘Where are you from in France, Claude?’ she asked him.

  ‘Brittany,’ said Claude.

  ‘Beautiful. Do they still call Brittany “Little Britain”?’

  ‘They do. Are you a teacher, miss?’ he asked her.

  ‘Goodness, no. I have not the patience, nor the skill,’ Jane replied. ‘Monsieur Fred is an excellent teacher, though, from what I have heard.’ She smiled at Fred and he shook his head again, searching her face.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re saying, but it sounds brilliant,’ Fred said. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Please tell Mr Fred I apologise,’ Claude said. ‘I want to explain. Another teacher was supposed to be here, Miss Rampon. She speaks English, but she is ill and remains in the hotel. Now I have wasted everyone’s day.’

  Jane explained the situation to Fred. ‘Is your day wasted, Fred?’

  Fred shook his head. Jane did not need to translate this to Claude. The giant man smiled with relief and shook Fred’s hand, then kissed him twice on each cheek.

  ‘Whoa, easy there, big fella.’ Fred laughed.

  They missed the next two trains back to Bath.

  When they finally boarded the 6.17 p.m. service, the sun had set. They sat next to each other. The steel monstrosity pulled out from Paddington station and made its way to the West Country once more. Fred looked out the window.

  ‘I was sent from the hall, the other night,’ Jane told him. He ceased his looking out the window and turned to her. ‘A gentleman made me leave. I searched for you, but I could not get back inside.’ He nodded. ‘I waited by the front of the building, for at least an hour.’

  ‘I looked for you, too,’ he said. He smiled. Silence fell between them; the only sounds were the train’s wheels clacking below them and the wind whooshing on the glass outside. ‘That place you were looking for today – why was it so important?’ he asked her after a time.


  ‘It was here last time I came to London. But it is no longer,’ she said. ‘I hoped it held information I need.’

  He nodded. ‘What kind of information?’

  Jane hesitated and wondered how best to answer without ignoring Sofia’s instructions. ‘Information to help me return to my home,’ she said. ‘Once I have it, I shall leave you in peace.’

  Fred looked out the window again. ‘Do you want to leave?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jane said. ‘Well, no. But I must.’

  He nodded and made no remark.

  The machine trundled through a tunnel of blue hills and stars. Jane stared out the window up at the sky and smiled. The stars looked the same as they did in her time. The constellation of Orion still blazed across the blackness, Rigel still sparkled in blue-white. Time passed more slowly up there it seemed, changing little. She lost track of time staring upwards; when she finally turned back to the carriage and looked over at Fred she found he had fallen asleep. She watched his face; it was relaxed, at peace. A piece of his hair had fallen into his eyes, the hair he had combed for her that morning. She shook her head at this strange twenty-first-century man, whom she had found so infuriating at first – and still did, in many ways – and wondered if, ever so slightly, she may have misjudged him.

  He shifted his position and she thought he might wake, but he relaxed into the seat once more. She felt a weight on her leg and looked down. His hand had dropped to his side and come to rest on her knee.

  Several events presented themselves as worthy candidates for reflection as Jane rode the train with Fred asleep next to her. She had walked through the London of two hundred years in the future. She had beheld her own novels for sale in a bookshop. Both were ideal things to captivate her brain and occupy her thoughts, so she was surprised when the item lingering in her mind from Maidenhead to Bath was instead the time she had spent in the company of the man who now slept beside her, and the feeling of his hand now resting on her leg.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX