In Loving Memory

by Winona Kent

  “Independently wealthy,” he said, almost apologetically, unlocking the front door and disarming the alarm. “All inherited. Old money. I love the busking, which is why I do it. I donate all the takings to charity. Tea? I’ve got a very nice Special Gunpowder you might like.”

  Tea was served in a sunny, glass-walled conservatory filled with potted palms and exotic artefacts from distant times and very distant lands. A life-sized porcelain tiger sat beside a wicker fan-backed chair, and both were overseen by a tall wooden statue, perhaps of some south seas warrior, spear in hand, a look of ferocity blazing from his mother-of-pearl eyes.

  “Now,” Fenwick Oldbutter said at last, “how may I assist?”

  “I wish,” Shaun said, “to reverse an injustice. Two injustices, in fact. Two deaths. Both of which occurred as a result of an unfortunate tampering with history.”

  “Ah,” the gentleman said, pressing his fingertips together. “Yes. A consequence of meddling. You must know, of course, that the circle of travellers to which I belong has undertaken a vow never to knowingly interfere with anything which has occurred, or which has yet to occur. For precisely the reasons you have just described.”

  “I did not know,” Shaun replied.

  “Well. Now you do. There also exists an Overarching Philosophy. One, you were always destined to cause something to happen. Two, you may change an outcome, altering what had occurred previously. Three, the outcome was never in question at all, merely the means by which it was achieved.”

  “If that is the case, sir, then I propose we apply our intelligence to the second option. And it is also my contention that the offering of advice does not, in itself, constitute an interference. Are you in agreement?”

  “I might well be.”

  “Therefore, sir, I may act upon your words, or ignore them. You will have nothing to do with my decision, other than to make me aware of my choices.”

  “A sound philosophy,” Fenwick agreed. “Let me ask you this, then. If you were able to return to a specific point in the past, in order to reverse this perceived injustice… how would you accomplish it?”

  “I do not know,” Shaun replied. “That is why I have consulted you.”

  “But you have travelled before. Several times, in fact. You told me this in our telephone conversation. How were these journeys undertaken?”

  “By accident,” Shaun replied, “with no deliberate intent on my part.”

  “And your most recent excursion, from 1940 until now. You willed yourself to travel?”

  “I may well have. But I recall only that my last thought was to escape, and to be somewhere else. Anywhere else but in the northbound tunnel at Balham Underground Station at two minutes past eight on the 14th of October.”

  “I shall impart some knowledge to you, Mr. Deeley. You were, in fact, chosen for the journey you undertook from your present to 1940. You and your friend, Charlotte Duran.”

  “But, in the process, both Charlotte and my son lost their lives. I fail to see the advantage.”

  Fenwick Oldbutter pressed his fingers together again, in contemplation.

  “Might I suggest that there was more than one purpose to your journey? That the actions you undertook served the past, as well as the future?”

  “Whose past?” Shaun said. “And whose future?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “You can say, sir. You simply choose not to.”

  Fenwick offered a slight movement of his shoulders. It might have been a shrug. It might have been a tacit agreement. “I will share what I can say, then. I had a sister. Her name was Beryl Allsop. Do you recall the surname?”

  “I do,” Shaun said, after a moment. “Deirdre Allsop worked in a sweet shop in Balham.”

  “My niece.”

  “And she disappeared in the summer of 1940. Her body was discovered lying upon Mitcham Common, with her throat cut, and without her earrings.”

  “The very same. And does your very excellent memory allow you to recall a further name… Mary Potter?”

  “A brick-maker’s daughter,” Shaun said, “who set off to visit her cousin in June of 1849… but she did not arrive. Her body was located under a bridge… and her throat had been cut… and her silver ring had been taken.”

  “An ancestor of Ruby Firth’s. Rather closely related. And one further name… Matilda Quinn.”

  “The sister of my son.”

  “Indeed. And so you see, Mr. Deeley… all of us have something in common. Justice has been served… has it not? Silas Ferryman did not survive the bombing of the tube station.”

  “And Charlotte Duran?”

  Again, Fenwick raised a slight shoulder.

  “Perhaps not so much a connection to the past… as a connection to the future. Why not wait and see?”

  “Because in this future, this future we are now inhabiting, Charlotte Duran no longer exists. She died seventy-three years ago. And furthermore, sir, by your very admission, you and Mrs. Firth have already meddled, by conspiring to dispatch Charlotte and myself back to 1940.”

  “Have we?”

  Shaun removed Mrs. Collins’s lump of shrapnel from the pocket of his overcoat.

  “This was given to us by Mrs. Firth, on the platform of the railway station at Middlehurst, before we came to London.”

  Fenwick took the shrapnel and turned it over and over, examining all of its ridges, all of the places where the heat had seared it and caused pockmarks and cracks.

  “She told me about this,” he said. “Oh yes. Yes. Interesting.”

  “You may note,” Shaun said, “that your timepiece has reacted to this item in a most peculiar manner.”

  Fenwick consulted his wristwatch, which was of the old-fashioned variety, with springs and cogs inhabiting its insides, resulting in the need for a nightly wind-up.

  “Indeed,” he replied. “How intriguing. And you think this is what propelled you and the young lady from your present into the past?”

  “I do.”

  Fenwick returned the lump of metal to Shaun’s custody. “Smoke and mirrors. Magicians’ props. This one is able to generate heat and reverse the hands of a clock, but I daresay those are its only party tricks. Nothing to do with time travelling.”

  Shaun looked at Fenwick. “What, then, is your explanation for our relocation?”

  “Power of suggestion,” Fenwick said. “Your young lady had, like you, the ability, the skill. Her imagination was engaged. You encountered Ruby, in the first instance, at the museum. She further encouraged you by meeting you at the railway station with this piece of shrapnel, revealing how she found the object lying in a field, a relic from the Second World War. And then, at the young lady’s grandmother’s house, you entered the air raid shelter. You were surrounded by reminders of the war. It was your own imagination which took you back. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  Shaun drank the Special Gunpowder tea and met the shining eyes of the porcelain tiger.

  “Did you know that I would come to you, upon this day, to request your assistance?”

  “I cannot say.”

  Shaun gave him a look.

  “You, sir, are as vexatious as Monsieur Duran the Lesser, who, I am told, came to a very poor end at the bottom of the Caribbean Sea.”

  “I remember him well. I had, upon occasion, attended his Grand Summer Ball at Stoneford Manor.”

  “It is a shame I did not see you there, as I was also in attendance, for a good many years.”

  “You may have overlooked me, Mr. Deeley, as the ballroom was unfailingly filled to overflowing, and the attendees were merry and danced until midnight. I certainly remember you.”

  “Do you?” Shaun was unimpressed. “Will you help me, sir?”

  “My advice to you, Mr. Deeley, is much the same as the advice Ruby Firth gave to the young lady. You must think very carefully about that which you seek to undo. For instance, if you seek to prevent the death of someone, you should endeavour to return yourself to a point in time where you mig
ht influence that person to be somewhere other than where his or her life will be extinguished. But you must be very certain that by undoing something, you do not effect a result that is worse. And another word of warning. You can never be absolutely certain that the death will not still occur. What was always intended may be impossible to overcome.”

  “I understand,” Shaun said. “But if you knew in advance that I would visit you today, then I am certain you will decide to assist me, in one way or another. And the outcome of your assistance, in whatever form it takes, was always meant to be. No more, and no less.”

  Fenwick Oldbutter chuckled.

  “Your intelligence does you credit, sir. What is your wish?”

  “I wish to prevent the murder of my son. And I wish to prevent the death of Charlotte Duran.”

  “If that is the case, Mr. Deeley, I therefore advise you to simply return yourself to your parallel present. To the time from which you and your dearest friend originally came. Think upon it, and it will be. You cannot return to a time which you already inhabit—otherwise there would be two of you. But you may return to a time immediately following that. Indeed, you may return to a time one second past the point where you departed on your journey. You can trust me on this. And, once you have affected your return, steer clear of all temptations that would cause you to imagine yourself in the past. Abandon the air raid shelter at the bottom of the garden. Leave immediately. Go back to the museum in Stoneford and dismantle the war exhibit. And if you should be approached by a woman offering you a souvenir of her adventures during the Blitz, send her away without so much as a second thought.”

  “What about my son? He will still meet his end in the Underground station. I have seen his grave.”

  “Will he…?” Fenwick inquired, with a slight smile. “Perhaps that is something about which we ought to wait and see.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Nick was tapping urgent, last-minute observations into his mobile. Wendy was not happy.

  “You must go, of course,” she said. “If things need to be put right, then you must try and right them.”

  “I wish, so much, that I was able to go with you,” Nick said. “What an opportunity! To be able to prove everything that I’ve spent my life researching.”

  “I would gladly take you with me… but I have no idea how you might return.”

  ”You must promise,” Nick said, “that once you’ve got the hang of this, you’ll come back and visit me. Us. And perhaps stay a little longer. There are so many unanswered questions....”

  “I promise,” Shaun said. “And I am indebted to you both for everything. But I am inhabiting a time and a place where I do not belong. It is a terrible whim of fate. I must go back.”

  Wendy took both of Shaun’s hands in her own.

  “Even though I’ve never met her, I know your Charlotte means a lot to you.”

  “She means everything.”

  “I shall miss you.”

  “And I shall miss you,” Shaun said truthfully. “There is another you in the other reality whom I hardly know at all. And another Nick who will be as curious as his present counterpart to hear about my travels. You have shown me utmost kindness, Wendy, in spite of your earlier misgivings. And for this, I will be forever grateful.”

  “Come on, then,” Wendy said, summoning a smile.

  She gave him a hug, and kissed his cheek.

  “What’s involved? Do you have to click your shoes together and whisper some kind of magical incantation? Do you need a whirlwind? A wicked witch?”

  “If I am to believe the wisdom of Fenwick Oldbutter, I require nothing beyond my imagination. And something to aid its focus.”

  “Then I’ll count you in,” Wendy said, impishly.

  “Do so, then. And… goodbye.”

  Shaun closed his eyes and thought of the air raid shelter at the bottom of Mrs. Collins’s grandmother’s garden. And he thought of the time before that, and Mrs. Collins’s little cottage in Stoneford, and making tea, and picking autumn-flowering Clematis from the garden, and their conversation concerning happy conclusions. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  It was.

  He forced himself to think, again, about the air raid shelter, and about the single second following the moment when he and Mrs. Collins had discovered themselves in 1940.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Deeley…” Wendy said, taking a deep breath. “Three… two… one!”

  • • •

  He could see the clock suspended from the roof of the platform tunnel.

  One minute past eight.

  And he could see Mrs. Collins, trying to reason with the man who had wholly deceived him, and who had killed his son, cold-bloodedly and without any remorse.

  This was not the air raid shelter at the bottom of Nana Betty’s garden. This was not the present reality he had wished for.

  Fenwick Oldbutter’s warning had come true. You must be very certain that by undoing something, you do not affect a result that is worse.

  This was worse.

  This was the worst result possible.

  He heard Mrs. Collins tell Ferryman about the bomb that was about to drop from the sky, and his suggestion that they employ time travelling to escape, and her response. He saw Ferryman pause, and the look of doubt cross his face. And he saw Mrs. Collins pull herself free from his grasp.

  Shaun raced to her side, and dragged her away, and pushed her along the platform.

  “Run!” he shouted. “All the way to the other end! Now!”

  She fled. But Ferryman now had hold of Shaun’s arm. And both of them were in very great danger of falling over the edge of the platform.

  “What about you, then? What are your time-travelling skills like? Surely you can get us out of here?”

  ”Not me,” Shaun said, thinking quickly. “But look behind you. Thaddeus! Arrest this sorry excuse of an impostor!”

  Ferryman spun around. And in that moment, Shaun pulled his arm free. Driven by rage, he kicked Ferryman backwards, tumbling him over the edge of the platform.

  There was the man in the uniform. “Don’t move!” he shouted, as Ferryman rolled into the pit underneath the electrified middle rail. “For God’s sake—the tracks are live!”

  Shaun bolted after Mrs. Collins. He saw her stop and turn towards him.

  “No!” he shouted. “Leave me! Save yourself!”

  Behind him, the tunnel exploded. The platform plunged into darkness, and all around him he could hear the screams of women and children, and the roar of water and gravel and pieces of the roadway above falling through the hole in the top of the tunnel.

  But he had bought himself precious extra seconds.

  And now he had caught up to Mrs. Collins and he had hold of her hand.

  And someone was grappling with the watertight doors. One of them slid open. And then they were being pushed through by the forward stampede of shelterers, desperate to escape the sweeping wash of rubble. Someone switched on a torch, and its meagre beam showed them the stairs, and the way to safety.

  The escalators were stopped. Shaun ran up the wooden steps, dragging Mrs. Collins with him, up to the growing chaos in the booking hall, and then up again to the surface.

  There, huddled in the shelter of the concrete blast wall, he held Mrs. Collins safe in his arms. He could see the strong white beams of the searchlights on Tooting Bec Common, scanning the sky. And he could hear the drone of the bombers from Germany. He could hear the whistles and the thuds of the explosives as they found their targets. He could see the fires in the distance, and billows of smoke, tinged red and white. The ground shook and pieces of shrapnel from the ack-ack guns on Tooting Bec Common rained down, bouncing off the pavement and clinking into the gutter.

  A little distance to the north Shaun heard shouting and was aware of frenzied activity. He saw torches shining on a gaping crater that had opened up from one side of the road to the other. An 88 bus was slowly sinking over the edge, headfirst.

  Ambulances were pu
lling up now, their bells trilling, and legions of people were running into the station to assist those still trapped below. And still the shelterers staggered out into the night air, covered in mud.

  There was Betty, soaking wet, sitting on the pavement, while a woman in a Salvation Army bonnet tended to her, bringing her a cup of tea, a biscuit, and a blanket.

  Shaun wrapped his arms tightly around Mrs. Collins. He drew her close, kissed the top of her head, and, without words, laid his own head upon hers and closed his eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The air raid shelter was damp, and it smelled of earth and mildew and the history of ages. And it was uncommonly still, and as quiet as a grave.

  “Are we dead, Mr. Deeley?” Charlie whispered.

  “I think not, Mrs. Collins.”

  Mr. Deeley disengaged himself from her arms, and took quick stock of their surroundings.

  What was left of the afternoon’s sunlight shone wanly through the small open doorway. An old wooden bunk bed lay along one curving, corrugated steel wall, a single bed along the other. The homemade shelves were in a very poor state of repair. He saw a folding chair, a spade, a rake… and a very large red tin watering can.

  “We’re in Nana Betty’s shelter,” Charlie said. “We’re back where we started.”

  She scrambled up the ladder, followed by Mr. Deeley. They looked at the garden.

  There was the little paved area with its large flowerpots, and the tidy patch of lawn, and the two rock-rimmed fishponds, and the border of ivy along the two wooden fences, and the path made out of flagstones.

  Through the net curtains in Nana Betty’s windows, Charlie could see her mum and Auntie Wendy, standing in the middle of the dining room.

  “We’re very definitely back in the present,” she said. “No onions and cabbages where the grass ought to be. And it smells like now. Car exhaust and wet earth. Not burning houses and coal and explosives. We’re home.”