Jane in Love

by Rachel Givney

  Besides, what harm could it do? Sofia had declared that any sort of investigation on Jane’s part into the twenty-first century would make her fall in love with it and then change the course of history, but this notion bore further scrutiny. Not every object in their future world posed a danger to Jane’s existence, surely; a simple tour of the house to prevent her from descending into boredom-induced madness could not hurt. Jane promised herself not to observe too much. Once Sofia discovered the key to Jane returning home, she would be back in the year 1803 anyway. Jane nodded to herself, satisfied she committed only a justifiable infraction, and put the sermons down.

  She began in the kitchen, which appeared similar to a kitchen in her own time, a place for storing and preparing food, though with many of the objects different and without any house staff. She opened the white box, the one which chilled the foodstuffs without any ice she could see. Cooked meats and vegetables in an assortment of boxes and bottles sat inside. She peered at one bottle. The bottle was made of a clear substance, though not glass. What was this mysterious substance of which every box and bottle seemed comprised, which possessed the transparency of glass but felt much thinner and lighter and smelled faintly of peat moss? She shook her head yet again at these people and their inventions. They had conjured so many devices to save time and to make life easier, yet everyone walked around faster and looking more anguished.

  Moving on from the bottle, Jane sighed once more at the abundance of food. She tasted each meat. Spices filled her mouth. One wore garlic around one’s neck to ward off the plague; one did not put it in food. She tested each bottle of sauce – tasting even more spices – and then replaced them. She attempted to heave the white box from its place so she might inspect its posterior to ascertain how it chilled the items, but it gripped the floor with its weight, planted heavy as a tree stump, and she abandoned the endeavour when her back began to ache.

  She studied her muslin dress, which lay limp inside the box of soapy water, which had now ceased washing of its own volition. She attempted to retrieve her dress but could not pry open the door. She left it alone for fear of enraging the steel box. Upon opening the drawers and cupboards, she saw they contained knives and saucepans, some different shapes and sizes than she had seen before, others exactly as in her own world. Scissors were the same. She produced water from the fountains in the washroom and depressed the flushing mechanism of the indoor privy. She gasped at the pristine water which filled the white bowl.

  She moved on, proceeding down the corridor. She opened the next door with a gasp; she had assumed it led to the dining room, but it escorted her to Fred’s sleeping quarters. She closed the door again and stood in the corridor. She refused to violate his privacy. What lay inside, though? No interest in Fred’s personal belongings gripped her; she desired no discovery of hidden secrets, but she did want to see the general layout of a man’s bedroom. She had never entered a man’s private quarters, not even her brothers’, and saw a literary duty to preserve the accuracy of any descriptions, should she ever write one. No one was expected back until nightfall; it hurt none to snatch the briefest of glances inside. She tipped the door with her foot. It creaked open.

  Inside was an airy space with a bay window that looked out into the garden. A fluffed duvet of duck-egg blue sat upon an obscenely large bed, and a brown leather chair in the corner hosted a man’s shirt and trousers. By the window was a set of drawers. Jane opened the top drawer and found a thick pile of paper. Printed words of black, as from a press, covered the pages. A letter sat on top of the pile. Jane picked it up.

  Dear sir,

  Please find enclosed the first 10 000 words of my young adult novel, Land’s End. I include a self-addressed envelope for the return of the manuscript. Please be in touch if you’re interested in reading further.

  Jane scowled at the page, fiercely curious. She remembered back to when her father sent her own novel, First Impressions, to Cadell, and the heartache when the publisher sent his reply.

  Jane put the letter to one side. The printed title of a manuscript lay underneath. Jane inhaled a slow breath. A floorboard creaked; she looked around the door, guiltily, but the doorway lay bare. The house remained empty, except for herself and this manuscript. She turned to the first page.

  Chapter One

  It was 4 p.m. on a Tuesday when George Drummond first decided. Firecrackers make terrible pets.

  Jane stiffened. Fred had written a novel! She sat on the window ledge and read quickly and with excitement. Phrases she had never heard before littered the pages, as well as enough curse words to make her blush. But once she adjusted to the modern phrases and vernacular, the story engrossed her. A tumour afflicted a woman. In his desperation to save her life, her twelve-year-old son ran some sort of foot race – meant for adults, over an extreme distance – to raise funds to pay for her treatment. Jane found herself turning page after page, hurrying to see if the boy accomplished his task, if he finished the race, if he saved his mother. Before long, she had read halfway through it.

  ‘Hello, Jane,’ a voice said.

  She spun around in horror. The manuscript’s owner stood in the doorway. Jane froze.

  The smile on his face faded as he looked down at her hands. ‘What are you doing?’ he said.

  Jane scrambled for an excuse. ‘I am sorry. I lost track of the hour,’ she said. She commanded herself to breathe; she felt filled with horror and shame. ‘What are you doing home? I did not expect you back so soon.’

  ‘I came home for lunch. And to see how you were.’ He shook his head and peered at her with a sheepish look, then held out his hand for the manuscript.

  She flinched as he took it. ‘Why did you never send it?’ she asked. Despite her embarrassment at being caught, she could not help herself.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your manuscript. Why did you never send it to the gentleman in the letter?’

  He made no reply. Jane shifted her feet. They stood there in silence until he finally said, ‘I need to change clothes.’

  Jane bristled at his tone – not angry, quieter. She wanted to cry. ‘Goodness, yes. I’m so sorry. Forgive me.’ Fred said nothing as she scuttled past him and he closed the door behind her.

  Jane sat in the kitchen like a scolded child, mortified. Fred emerged from his room wearing the shirt and trousers that had been laid out on his chair.

  ‘Fred, allow me to apologise,’ Jane said.

  He walked past her and did not meet her eye. ‘Don’t go into people’s rooms without asking,’ he said in a soft voice.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am sorry.’ He walked out the front door without a farewell. Jane returned to the armchair in the sitting room and opened the sermons once more. She turned to the one entitled ‘On female reserve’ and read it in full.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Try as she might, Jane could not chase from her mind the image of Fred’s face when he’d discovered her. She reminded herself she did not care one way or the other what he thought of her, but still, she wished for their awkwardness to be reduced as much as possible. She was staying in his house and her journey home relied on his and Sofia’s help, thus to be asked to leave at this juncture would be most inconvenient.

  Fred was due home in the late afternoon. Jane planted herself in the armchair and stared at the door, awaiting his return. He walked in, finally, later than expected. Jane sat up from the armchair and waited for his salutation. He removed his brown coat. He nodded Jane a hello but said nothing, then walked to his room. The politeness and indifference of the greeting annoyed her. Silence posed a more worrying challenge than anger; she would have preferred for him to shout at her.

  She found herself caught between two worlds of feeling. The first was a desire to make amends with Fred quickly, to restore her good standing in the house. This required that she speak no further of his novel or its characters, but to move quickly to lighter, prettier topics such as the weather or his favourite colour. The second was an overwhelmi
ng, flame-licked burning to speak to this man about novels, about writing, about the light and fire of her life. She waded in with the second, treading softly, and followed him down the corridor.

  ‘Fred, please allow me to apologise again,’ she said. Fred closed his door, and Jane stood alone in the hallway. ‘I know what I did was unforgivable,’ Jane spoke to him through the door. ‘I am a terrible, horrid person.’ She hoped this would suffice to placate him. She waited at the door. He did not open it.

  She sighed. ‘It’s of little consolation, but I found your novel to be beautiful,’ she mumbled. There continued to be no answer from behind the door. Jane slumped and wondered how long it would be before she was asked to leave the house. She nodded and returned to James Fordyce to await her fate.

  After a moment, Fred appeared in the doorway to the sitting room. He shuffled a foot back and forth and gazed at the floor. ‘You liked it?’ he asked after a pause.

  Jane put down her book. ‘The story broke my heart,’ she stated plainly. ‘In the best way. I had reader’s pain from it.’

  He furrowed his brow. ‘Reader’s pain? What’s that?’

  ‘The pain one feels when they must keep reading. My eyes and brain were exhausted, for I had read so much already, but I kept turning the pages for I simply had to know what happened next.’

  He smiled. Jane’s heart leapt a little. ‘There was one thing I did not understand in your novel, however,’ Jane said excitedly.

  Fred’s face fell. ‘It doesn’t make sense. My novel doesn’t make sense.’

  Jane’s heart fell, too, as she recognised how quickly she had undone all her good work with one imprudent remark. ‘No, I apologise!’ she said quickly. ‘What I meant . . . oh goodness,’ she cursed herself. She of all people should know better than to criticise someone’s work, to offer an opinion, informed or not, with its power to crush. ‘It shined with brilliance and sweetness. Forget I said anything,’ she pleaded. She would soon be shown the door if she continued this way.

  ‘No, please tell me. I’d like to know,’ he said. ‘Something’s not working with it. I feel stuck. I can’t seem to write more.’ He searched her face with pleading eyes.

  Jane cringed. She chose her words as carefully as she could. She knew their power; she knew she had a nastiness in her, a judgemental nature. ‘I could not understand why the little boy danced with his mother,’ she said. Part of her hoped he asked no further.

  ‘How do you mean?’ he asked her.

  ‘It doesn’t matter how I mean. I don’t know anything, I am a stupid woman, I should never have said anything.’

  ‘But you have said something, so please explain what you mean.’ He placed his hands on his hips and exhaled.

  ‘In the novel, as it is now, the mother asks the little boy to dance, and he does so.’

  Fred nodded. ‘What’s wrong with that?’ he asked.

  ‘It bears false witness to the boy’s character.’ Goodness. Jane could not believe the words leaving her mouth. She insulted his story; now she assassinated his characters. She felt like a pernicious word beast, a horrible witch, monstering his little story, which in all honesty, she found beautiful. ‘Shall we speak more on this another time?’ she offered in a weak voice.

  Fred laughed and crossed his arms. ‘No. What do you know about writing?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing, for certain,’ Jane said. ‘This is my opinion. I likely misread it.’

  Fred nodded. ‘Even still. Go on.’

  Jane inhaled and launched her case about the novel’s protagonist as quickly as she could. ‘The scene with the dance did not ring true. The little boy is angry at his mother, is he not?’

  ‘No, he loves his mother. She’s a great woman.’

  Jane nodded quickly. ‘I agree. The little boy loves his mother,’ she said. ‘She hugs him always and remembers his favourite suppers, she kisses his scabs and mends his clothes even though he never thanks her, she listens to his stories even when the day has exhausted her. But that does not mean he cannot be vexed with her. He blames her for the father’s abandonment.’

  Fred sat down in an armchair and was silent.

  ‘I am wrong,’ Jane said. ‘I apologise. I should have said naught.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Fred said. He stared at her and seemed to search her face. ‘Please go on,’ he said, and waited for her to continue.

  Jane spoke in her gentlest tone, aware now that this was more than making amends simply to prevent her being forced out into the street. She held another writer’s soul in her hands, and she reminded herself not to crush it. ‘Even though she listens to him, cares for him, feeds him, the little boy cannot help himself. He rages against his father’s leaving and turns this towards the only person he can, the parent who stayed. On the day in question, it is the mother’s birthday, correct?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fred scratched his head.

  Jane nodded. ‘The mother tells her son what she wants for her birthday. “I don’t want any presents. I don’t want a cake,” she says. “My wish is for you to dance with me. I shall put my dress and my red shoes on and when you come home from school we will dance to ‘My Girl’. All I want is for you to dance with me.” What is it?’ Jane said, noticing Fred’s expression.

  Fred stared at her. ‘That’s what she said, verbatim.’

  Jane swallowed. She always remembered words this way, as though reading them from a painting in her mind; others had commented on it before, and it embarrassed her. ‘Beautiful words are easy to remember,’ she said quickly, shrugging. ‘In any case, the boy doesn’t want to dance with his mother. He is emerging from childhood, interested more in skylarking with schoolfriends than in his home life. He feels embarrassed by her sentimental request. He makes excuses that he will be busy at the agreed time, but the mother secretly believes he will come. The clock ticks by and the boy does not appear. He has not honoured their appointment. The mother curses herself for weeping at the small thing but cannot stop. She takes off her shoes and prepares for bed. Then, at the last minute, when all seems lost, the boy comes. He runs home and as the mother is trudging to bed, he bursts through the front door. He takes his mother’s arms and dances with her. The mother cries tears of joy and they are a family once again.’

  Fred’s face bore a look of pain. ‘What’s wrong with that?’ he said again in a feeble voice.

  Jane watched him and inhaled. ‘I think the boy does not go home. He refuses the request – out of momentary embarrassment, perhaps a little spite, too – and never dances with his mother.’

  Fred stared at her then like she had accused him of murder. He shook his head. ‘No way. It can’t happen like that. That’s terrible.’

  ‘It is terrible. It is sad and horrid and something one might instantly regret, perhaps for the rest of one’s life. That’s the point. That is life, full of regret.’

  ‘But if he doesn’t dance with her, we will hate him.’ Fred stared at the floor now, his face red and sad.

  Jane spoke softly. ‘I liked the little boy a great deal. He was a delicate soul, with a great sadness in his heart. He cared for his sister and loved his mother dearly.’

  Fred looked up at Jane and their eyes met. His gaze fell once more, like a scolded child, and Jane saw the novel’s subject in front of her. She likely sat in the room where the scene she spoke of had played out.

  She spoke again, softly. ‘Did you run a foot race for your mother? One meant for adults, though you were still a child?’

  ‘It was a walk from John o’ Groats to Land’s End. A fourteen-day endurance event.’

  Jane gasped. ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Twelve. I entered without telling anyone. When I turned up at the starting line, they tried to stop me. But I ran past them. People cheered for me along the road – a little boy trying to run a man’s race. It was great for a while. But on the fourth day, I grew sick. I didn’t know how much water you were supposed to drink. I kept walking until I collapsed. I woke up in hospital, with dehy
dration. A doctor told me I almost died. I wanted to keep going, I even tried to escape the hospital bed, but a nurse caught me.’ He laughed and bowed his head.

  ‘How far did you go before you collapsed?’

  ‘Two hundred and thirty-two miles.’

  ‘You walked two hundred and thirty-two miles?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What funds did you need to raise?’

  ‘My goal was to raise eight hundred pounds. It was to fly my mum to America. They had invented a new cancer treatment there. Eight hundred pounds was the cost of the plane ticket.’

  The words flew at her and she received them with curiosity and wonder. How on earth did one fly to America? Like a bird? And what magic treated cancer? She reminded herself to remain with the issue at hand. ‘Did you raise the sum?’ she asked him.

  ‘My story made the news. I raised twenty-three thousand pounds.’

  A fantastical sum. Jane gazed at him with wonder. ‘Goodness! And your mother, how did she react?’

  He smiled, then shook his head and said nothing. He shifted his feet and scratched his head in a way Jane imagined he must have done since he was small. Finally, he spoke.

  ‘I was horrible to my mother,’ Fred whispered. ‘I was a spoilt little boy. She did everything for me, and I teased her and was cold to her. I never danced with her, and then she died. I never told her I loved her, not once. Though she said it to me every day.’

  ‘You were a little boy. Boys never tell anyone they love them.’

  ‘I could have said it once. She died thinking I didn’t love her.’

  ‘You walked across England to save her. Your mother knew you loved her,’ she said. Fred shook his head. ‘It means more if the little boy does not dance with his mother in the novel,’ she whispered. ‘We will love him more, the more human he is.’