In Loving Memory

by Winona Kent

  And now that he had regained his senses, some small portions of time appeared to have gone missing.

  He was also aware of a terrible pain in his left arm, the source of which, upon closer inspection, seemed to be a large wound, similar to what might have been caused by a very long, sharp knife. The wound had bled, but the bleeding had been staunched by the application of what looked like several layers of paper towelling.

  Shaun took stock of where he was.

  He was sitting in an armchair beside a bright and sunny window, and he was alone.

  As he attempted to get his bearings, Shaun realized that his armchair was located in the front section of the Bedford Square Hotel.

  But the front section of the Bedford Square Hotel was not as he remembered it.

  To be sure, the marble floor was the same. But it had been cleaned and polished, and it gleamed spotlessly. The reception desk had been relocated, and behind it stood ladies and gentlemen in black coats and white shirts, tending to well-heeled travellers. The curving marble staircase leading to the upper floors was not so shabby-looking, and its brass banisters had been rubbed to a shine. But one of the two lifts was still not in working order, a sign once again conveying sincere apologies. That had not changed at all.

  Shaun got to his feet stiffly. And then he walked across to the restaurant, where they had eaten lunch with the fair-haired gentleman.

  Except it was not now a restaurant. The room appeared to have been divided into three, one part given over to an area furnished with more comfortable armchairs and potted plants, a second part fitted with glass walls and a sign which said Business Centre, and a third section concerning itself with the selling of many varieties of coffees, teas, and pastries.

  Shaun sat down again, in another of the armchairs beside another of the large windows.

  It seemed to him that this was most definitely not 1940.

  He had been living with Mrs. Collins long enough to know that the clothing these travellers wore, the shop that was selling coffee and tea, and the Business Centre, all belonged to the time that Mrs. Collins had originally come from—or something very close to it.

  He located a newspaper upon a small table beside his chair, and consulted its front page.

  Monday, October 14, 2013.

  He put the newspaper down.

  Unaccountably, he seemed to have returned to the present.

  He sat for a few more moments in the comfortable armchair, working out what he ought to do next. He supposed it was possible that Mrs. Collins had also been transported into this time, and that they had simply become separated. He might, therefore, stay in this place and wait for her.

  That would, however, require money.

  Shaun checked his pockets. The coins from that morning were still there. Five pounds and fifty-five pence.

  He got up, and approached the Reception Desk.

  “Yes, sir. May I help you?”

  The young woman seemed to consider his clothing a source of amusement. His long black overcoat was somewhat dusty, it was true. This, he attributed to the fact that it had accumulated a good deal of ceiling plaster when the bomb had dropped. His trousers and pullover and shirt and tie from Betty’s father’s wardrobe were also rumpled, and far too old-fashioned for this sort of establishment.

  “Good afternoon,” Shaun said. “Would you be so kind as to tell me the tariff for one night’s accommodation?”

  This, unaccountably, caused the young woman to smile.

  “Certainly, sir. Standard, superior, king deluxe, business class, or luxury suite?”

  Shaun fingered the five pounds and fifty-five pence in his coat pocket.

  “Standard, I should think.”

  “Two hundred and forty-five pounds. And that does include a twin or a double bed, as well as complimentary Wi-Fi”

  “For just the one night.”

  “Yes, sir. We do offer an advance booking rate of £214.50, VAT included, if you reserve at least one week ahead.”

  “Thank you.”

  He’d had no idea an overnight stay at a London hotel could be so outrageously expensive. Especially at an establishment which, in 1940, could hardly have been termed luxurious.

  Shaun briefly considered commandeering one of the comfortable armchairs beside the sunny window for the night, but decided it would not likely be welcomed by the smiling young woman behind the counter, nor by anyone else.

  There was nothing for it. He would have to go back to Balham.

  “Might I leave a letter for someone who I believe will be staying here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you have pen and paper?”

  The young woman had obviously not heard of this form of communication, as it took her some time to locate both items. After much searching, she was able to produce a pen with the hotel’s name printed upon it, and a blank piece of paper from a printing machine attached to her computer.

  Shaun composed a message to Mrs. Collins, advising her that he had survived the air raid and that he had returned to her grandmother’s house in Balham, and that he would wait for her there. He folded the paper in two, and wrote her name upon it, and gave it back to the smiling young woman.

  “Many thanks.”

  “And when will Mrs. Collins be checking in?” the young woman inquired.

  “I am uncertain,” Shaun said. “It may be today. Or tomorrow. Or the day afterwards. Or a week from now. Might you keep the message nearby, in case of her unexpected arrival?”

  “Very well,” she said, putting it under the counter.

  “Many thanks. I bid you a good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  • • •

  Shaun left the hotel, and turned right, and walked along Bloomsbury Street, in the direction of the main road.

  The buildings on either side of him looked almost exactly as they had in 1940. But their facades had been cleaned and repainted, their windows washed, their doors replaced. The Bedford Square Hotel’s large pavement-side windows were draped in smart blue and white striped awnings. And the road roared with traffic, the likes of which Shaun had never before seen or heard.

  There had not been that many cars or buses that morning, when he and Mrs. Collins had walked from Tottenham Court Road to the hotel. But now, Bloomsbury Street was packed with them, three abreast, all of them roaring off in the same direction. The noise they made assaulted Shaun’s ears. They squealed, reminding him of Farmer Hopkins’s piglets in terrible distress. And they smelled, most unpleasantly.

  He reached the corner, and turned right again, onto New Oxford Street.

  Shaun knew that if he continued walking in this direction, he would eventually reach the Underground station—assuming it was still there. He focused his mind on the task at hand, blotting out the dreadful sense that he was lost and completely alone in an immense and unfamiliar city.

  There. That seemed to be where the station had been that morning, at an intersection which was now dominated by a very tall structure. Shaun stood in awe before it, counting the floors. He had seen such buildings on the television. And he had observed some similarly lofty constructions through the train window, as they had approached Waterloo. But to witness such a thing in close proximity, to look up to the sky and see so many windows….

  He imagined the number of steps involved, and then reminded himself that in this present time, steps were no longer needed. There were lifts. Although the conveyances themselves seemed to be singularly unreliable, since they seemed always to be in need of repair.

  Perhaps that was why there were always two in any given location, Shaun mused.

  The village of Stoneford did not have any lifts.

  He brought his gaze back down to earth. There was a great deal of demolition and reconstruction going on around him, all of it hidden behind a long fence painted to look like the sky. What then of the Underground station they’d been in this morning?

  Confused, he searched for the familiar round red
circle with the blue bar crossing through it, and located, at last, a hole in the pavement with steps disappearing down beneath the road. And there it was: the Underground sign.

  That was it, then. Tottenham Court Road.

  • • •

  The station swarmed with passengers, and this Shaun found most unsettling. His momentary terror on the platform at Waterloo had been genuine. The largest single gathering of people he had ever encountered prior to that had been at the manor at Monsieur Duran’s annual summer ball in Stoneford. But Stoneford Manor in 1825 was nothing like London in the present.

  And it was not remotely similar to this ticket hall at half past four on a Monday afternoon.

  Shaun found a safe place to stand against a wall, and tried to understand what was expected of him in terms of purchasing his fare. Yesterday, the journey to London from Middlehurst had been terrifying for him. But, except for that one brief moment at Waterloo Station, he had not let Mrs. Collins see his fear. She thought him to be courageous, invincible, even heroic. If she could see him now, he thought, she would be utterly disappointed by his deficiencies.

  He regretted not paying attention when she had bought their tickets from Waterloo to Balham. And there would be no question of trying to bluff his way through the automated barricades with adulterated Latin, as he had earlier.

  He walked across to one of the ticket machines, intending to watch while others used it. This did nothing but confound him. He did not have a plastic card. He had coins, but which coins were required was not immediately clear at all.

  Glancing across the hall, he spied a window in a wall, and a person sitting behind the window. An illuminated sign indicated this was where he could seek assistance.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “Might I inquire about the fare from this station to Balham?”

  The woman behind the window glass was dark-skinned, and perhaps had come from one of the islands notorious for pirates in the Caribbean Sea.

  “That’s four pounds seventy, my dear.”

  Shaun placed the sum total of the contents of his pockets on the little shelf under the window.

  The woman took most of the coins, and gave him back a few more in exchange, along with a printed ticket.

  “There you are, my dear. Through the gates and follow the signs for the Northern Line. You’ll want the southbound platform.”

  Shaun took his ticket and what remained of his money. He observed how his fellow travellers approached the barricades, and inserted their tickets, and collected them again as they went through to the other side.

  He did the same, and was mildly astonished to discover that he was able to accomplish this on his own with very little trouble. He turned, thinking he would share his delight with Mrs. Collins. And then he remembered, with a sinking heart, that she was not there.

  She would be there, though. He had no doubt she had also made the journey forward from 1940, and needed only to check at the reception desk at the hotel for his letter. And then she would also buy a ticket on the Underground, and meet him at her grandmother’s house in Balham.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It might have been seconds. It might have been minutes.

  Charlie was covered in dust, and her ears were ringing, and everywhere she could hear the thunder of London under fire from the sky. The road, already blacked out, was obscured further by a smoky fog. She could see nothing.

  But she knew where she was. She knew her name. And she was fairly certain she knew the date and when she’d been born. And she knew she had to find shelter.

  She got to her feet and picked up her bag and staggered into an entranceway next to the forecourt of Charing Cross railway station. Half running, half falling down some steps, she found herself, at last, in the booking hall of Strand Underground.

  Strand no longer existed in the time she’d come from. It was closed in 1973, and incorporated into the grand restructuring of Trafalgar Square and Charing Cross in 1979. Its surface entrance was no longer there. But it was here now. And downstairs was the Northern Line. And it would shelter her, and a train from here would take her back to Balham.

  A man in a uniform stood at the passimeter, checking for tickets.

  “I haven’t got a ticket. I’m sorry.”

  “You’ll have to buy one, then. Penny ha’penny.”

  He nodded at a woman selling platform tickets from a little window in the wall.

  Charlie was incredulous. There was a bloody air raid on outside, and this man was making sure nobody got past him without paying their way.

  She didn’t have any money that would buy her a place on the platform. Her coins were from the next century.

  But over there was a ticket machine. Several ticket machines, in fact. Nothing like the high tech machines she was used to, but she could see the list of fares, and the fare from this station to Balham was 5d. The machine would accept 6d and 4d and big copper pennies.

  Charlie dug her change purse out of her bag and opened it. She made a calculated guess. She’d personally sourced and collected all of the coins in the saucer in the Blitz display at the museum. A little silver sixpence was nearly the same size, weight and colour as one of her new 5p coins.

  Nearly, but not exactly.

  She picked one out, and pushed it into the slot.

  The machine seemed to consider this for a moment, and then rewarded her with one old copper penny in change, and a little cardboard ticket.

  Charlie grabbed both, then showed her ticket to the inspector.

  “That way down,” he said, indicating the spiral emergency steps.

  “What about the lift?” Charlie said. She felt dizzy, and her head hurt profoundly.

  “No lifts during air raids,” the inspector replied. “Down the stairs, if you please.”

  Wearily, Charlie joined a stream of shelterers negotiating the narrow circular stairwell. Down, down, down… a hundred steps or more. She clung to the handrail, trying to keep her balance, trying not to look at her feet.

  Finally. The bottom. And the southbound platform, crammed with shelterers, many of whom had bedded down to sleep in what they were wearing, their hats and coats made into improvised pillows and blankets.

  Charlie picked her way past them to the white line that had been painted along the edge of the platform, indicating where passengers could stand and wait. A train was coming. She could hear it, far down in the tunnel, and she could feel the wind as it pushed the air in front of it, like a pneumatic ram.

  The driver slowed as he guided the train into the station; it crept to a stop with its nose buried in the tunnel at the opposite end. The guard in the last car opened the doors, and Charlie went aboard a middle carriage. It was mostly empty, and much cooler than the stifling heat on the platform.

  She sat down, but almost as soon as she was seated, the guard entered her carriage by way of the door at its far end.

  “You’ll have to get off, I’m afraid. We’re reversing here and going back to Euston.”

  Charlie’s heart sank. “Why?”

  “They’ve shut the floodgates. We don’t go under the river during air raids.”

  “But I’ve got to get back to Balham.”

  “Eighty-eight bus then, if it’s still running. You can nip round to Trafalgar Square and flag down the driver. But wouldn’t you much rather wait down here till the All Clear sounds?”

  • • •

  “Are you all right?”

  Someone had touched her shoulder. Charlie opened her eyes. She’d found an unoccupied bit of space in a cross-passage, and had sat down and leaned her head against the curving wall.

  It was Betty’s lodger. Thaddeus Quinn. The dark-haired man who had originally claimed to be Thaddeus Quinn, anyway. She wasn’t sure who he was now. He sat down beside her, placing the small suitcase he was carrying on the floor between them.

  “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Charlie looked around. She didn’t want to be alone with him
. Not after what the fair-haired gentleman had told her. There were a couple of men sitting a few feet away, minding their own business. Within safe shouting distance.

  “What do you want?” she asked warily. “Why are you here?”

  “I saw you last night in Harris Road, talking to Silas Ferryman. And Betty told me that you were coming up to London today to have lunch with a gentleman you’d met when Mrs. Crofton’s house was bombed. I put two and two together. My apologies, Charlotte. I’ve been following you. “

  Charlie stared at him. “Silas Ferryman.”

  “Yes. I recognized him immediately.”

  “But you’re Silas Ferryman.”

  The dark-haired gentleman was clearly shocked.

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “The despicable rogue. I suppose he claimed he was me, then?”

  “That’s exactly what he said, yes.”

  “I have known the man to be less than honest, but this is outrageous. I hope you dismissed him outright.”

  “Why should I?” Charlie said, making sure the two men further down the passageway were still there. “He gave perfectly reasonable answers to our questions.”

  “Then please tell me this. What was his purpose in asking to meet with you?”

  “Actually, he wanted to know how well we knew you. He’d been watching Betty’s house. He wanted to know what Mr. Deeley and I were doing there.”

  Betty’s dark-haired lodger contemplated the floor, deep in thought.

  “I have been searching for Silas Ferryman for the better part of a year,” he said, at last, “and now, it seems, he has discovered me first. I had not credited him with such tenacity. I had believed—wrongly, it seems—that he would do his best to simply disappear.”

  “Go away,” Charlie said. “Leave me alone. I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  She meant it. She was past worrying about the logic of time travelling, and past worrying about which Thaddeus was telling the truth and which one was fabricating it. She wanted to go back to Stoneford, back to her own century, where Mr. Deeley was still alive, and not lying dead on a World War Two stretcher in an ambulance that wasn’t in a hurry to go anywhere.