I had been expecting the question. The girl’s grief and pain had driven her to consider that which most would dismiss as insane.
“Yes, Rose, I think she is,” I said, considering the one small detail that might yet prove me wrong. The woman in Rose’s locket was at least forty years old. If Giorsal was indeed an immortal then she should not have aged past eighteen.
“I’m having a drink. Want one?” Rose asked, changing the subject.
“Yes please.”
Having filled two large glasses with wine, she handed me one.
“Thanks,” I replied, allowing the heady aroma of the dark liquid to fill my nose.
“I hope red’s alright.”
“It’s lovely, thank you.”
“Wanna come help me set the table?” she asked, moving towards a drawer and extracting four knives and forks.
I nodded, taking the cutlery from her and laying it on the table. We finished just in time to hear the doorbell ring. Its sound set us both scurrying down the hallway. Rose reached the door first and swung it open, hurriedly ushering the two men inside. Both moved swiftly through the lobby and into the hall.
“Is … errm, has he gone?” I asked nervously, stuttering my way through the question.
“Aye, Corran, the job is done,” Simon replied, sweeping my glass of wine off the table and emptying it with one swallow.
“Refill, Corran?” Rose asked, sliding the bottle toward the empty glass.
“Yes please.”
“I’ve got some whisky in the cupboard,” Rose said, turning to Simon. “Any problem finding a taxi?”
“I’ll have a whisky if you’re offering,” said Duncan, grinning.
“A meal and whisky! You won’t be getting rid of us at this rate, lass,” Simon said, with a cheeky grin. “No problem finding a taxi, there were three waiting right where you said they would be.”
“Hey, I’m in no rush to get rid of any of you. Glad there were no problems with the taxi.”
“Rose, you do understand that we have no means by which to pay our way?” I asked.
She nodded earnestly but then her face broke into a grin.
“Yeah you do.”
“We do?” I asked, surprised.
“Yeah, of course you do. You have Angus’ shop. I mean, it doesn’t make much but it’s enough to keep you guys ticking over.”
It was late by the time Rose showed us to our room.
“I love the normality of this place,” I said, closing the bedroom door.
Simon frowned, removing his gun from the inside pocket of his jacket and seating himself wearily on the bed.
“Corran… We have traveled through time, killed a man and consigned ourselves to a life in a world we know very little of. Can you please tell me what part of the last twenty four hours has been normal?”
“I’m not talking about what we have done. It’s where we are. Here in this room, this house, with Rose. When you ignore the circumstances which brought us here it’s quite easy to believe that we are normal people.”
He gave a low grunt of disagreement and heaved himself off the bed.
“What are you going to do with that?” I asked, as Simon lifted the gun off the edge of the bed.
“It will be safe enough in here,” he replied, sliding a drawer in the bedside table open. “Oh, and I retrieved this for you.”
“My dirk.”
“Aye, lass.”
“I’m not sure I want it now.”
“I’ve cleaned it,” he said, holding it out for me encouragingly.
I didn’t want to touch it again, but slowly reached forward and took the knife from my husband.
“Thank you,” I said, dropping it onto the mattress.
“I’ll put it in the drawer with the gun,” Simon said, retrieving the discarded object from the bed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said dismissively. “You’ll know where it is when you are ready. I’m going for a shower,” he said, turning from the bedside table and making his way towards the en-suite bathroom.
“Do you think things are ever going to be simple for us?” I called to Simon, who was, by this time, attempting to turn on the shower.
“No,” he shouted, as the sound of running water reached my ears.
I lay back on the pillows and closed my eyes. An image of our home on the farm came into view, with the rolling hills that surrounded it. The pheasants, the cows and sheep that dotted the fields, the sky at night that sparkled with a million stars. The friends we’d loved and lost… I fought a wave of sadness and pushed it deep into the tunnel of my painful past, burying it forever.
I was shaken from my thoughts by Simon’s return to the room. He strode across the room, rubbing his head vigorously with a large towel. The muscles in his calves and thighs were still thick and powerful enough to outrun any man in this new world. I ran my eyes up his legs, over his hips and the solid muscles of his abdomen, resting them on the bare arms that had held me and loved me for so many years.
“Feel better?” I asked, tearing my gaze from the flexing muscles of his arms.
“Aye, much,” he said, positioning himself purposefully on the edge of the bed beside me. “I am trying to decide,” he continued studying my face curiously, “if your claim was valid.”
“What?” I asked, confused.
“Your claim to being with child.”
I opened my mouth to speak but then closed it again. Although I now understood his question, I didn’t much appreciate the manner in which he had asked it and didn’t feel inclined to acknowledge it with a reply.
“Well?” he asked, arching one brow in question.
“I am not claiming to be pregnant. I am pregnant,” I replied with indignation.
“Oh,” he said, with a mildly surprised look about him.
“Is that best you can offer?” I snapped.
“What else do you want?” he said, rubbing his hands through the wet mop of black hair on his head.
“Well… Appear happy? Excited, even? Ask how I feel? But no. You say, ‘Oh’.”
“I read a book,” he continued, ignoring my outburst. “The author’s opinion was that a pregnant woman should not drink wine.”
“Pray tell me what the hell drinking has got to do with your lack of reaction?”
“Nothing, I suppose. Only, I think you should consider the matter of what you drink.”
“Fine, so I’ll stop drinking wine and you can share your whisky with me.”
“No. You shouldn’t drink at all. The book suggested sticking to water.”
“Water? I don’t think so. Women have been drinking ale and wine for centuries. The human race still exists. Just because you have read a fancy book in this fancy new world doesn’t make it right.”
“I hear you, Corran, but many a woman and child have been lost over those centuries.” His tone was serious and his eyes grave as he turned his head to look at me. “Have a care, lass. I just want you and the baby to be safe,” he said, moving his hand to rest on mine.
“I love you,” I whispered, softening at his words and lifting his hand to kiss it gently, “If it makes you happy, I won’t drink.”
“This is our baby, Corran. If you drink nothing but water then nor will I. What is good for the mother is good for the father.”
******
CHAPTER 3
Leaving the house the following morning, I again had the feeling that we were being watched and instinctively grabbed Simon’s hand.
“You alright, lass?”
“I don’t know,” I said, shifting my eyes nervously from one side of the street to the other. “I feel as though we are being watched.”
“No one’s watching us, Corran. The man is gone. It’s over. We have no reason to fear him anymore.”
I knew my husband’s words to be true, only I couldn’t shake the thought that we were not alone on Skeldergate Bridge, nor at the top of Ouse Bridge or as the city came into view. My mind toyed
with the Stag’s warning that killing Angus hadn’t been the end.
“I’ve told you, Corran. He is not here,” Simon barked, growing impatient with my paranoia. “Come, let’s get in,” he said, taking my arm and ushering me into the shop.
Common sense prevailed, and in the end Simon’s reassurances rose above my fears and I relaxed in the company of my family.
Duncan and Rose were dusting off old trinkets to be stored away for later sale. As we entered the room they both stopped what they were doing and smiled up at us.
“Is there anywhere we can get a cordless electric kettle?” I asked, thinking that it would be rather nice to have such a modern device at hand.
“The kettle’s there,” Rose explained, nodding in the direction of a small shelf.
One mug, a kettle, a small jar of coffee, some creamer, a box of cubed sugar and a spoon were untidily abandoned on a narrow lop-sided shelf. A small sink caked in lime-scale hung precariously on the wall to the left of the shelf. I lifted the mug and peered inside, wrinkling my nose in disgust at the thick layer of mould at the bottom.
“I usually grab a coffee from Costa or Starbucks. There’s a loo through there,” Rose said, pointing at a battered door. “But I wouldn’t use that either. If you’re desperate try a pub, but I’d keep a wide berth of that one,” she said, nodding her head in disgust at the toilet door.
My eyes caught a glimpse of a box, just visible under a small table.
“What are these?” I asked, dragging the heavy weight into view.
“They’re records. People used to use them to listen to music. They’re popular with pensioners.”
“Pensioners?” Duncan asked.
“Oh man, I keep forgetting you guys aren’t from around here. Yeah, a pensioner is an old person, someone who has finished working. You know, retired.”
I nodded, thinking I’d like to see how the round disks worked, but there would be time enough for that.
“See here, this is a gramophone. Turn the handle, put the record here and then lower the arm onto the disk - and hey presto you have sound,” Rose said, pointing at the relevant parts on a large machine with a flower-shaped horn coming off it.
“And this?” I asked, pointing to a rectangular shaped item with mesh covering on one side and intriguing knobs along the top.
“That’s a wireless. It’s like an old-fashioned TV, without the pictures.”
“Old fashioned to you, perhaps,” Simon smirked.
“I keep forgetting. Sorry,” Rose apologized.
Simon cast his eyes around the shop, resting them momentarily on our portrait.
“What do we do now, Pa?” Duncan asked, taping up the cardboard box at his feet.
“Take that picture down and burn it, or return it to Rose,” he said.
“It’s not mine,” Rose said quietly. “You guys should have it back.”
“Aye, well, whoever it belongs to it doesn’t belong on this bloody wall, so let’s get the damn thing down,” Simon said, lifting the frame off the wall.
“How do you think Giorsal came to have it?” I asked, taking the frame off him and wedging it up against some boxes.
“I have no idea,” Simon replied, “But I’d like it burnt… If Rose has no wish for it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a portrait of us. If Rose recognized us then others will too, just get rid of it,” he snapped.
“You can’t burn it, Simon,” I protested.
“Why?”
“Because it’s our history, it’s all we have left from when Duncan was a baby. If you burn it, we’ll have nothing to remind us of his childhood.”
“Since when did we need a portrait to hold onto memories?” Simon asked, with a bewildered look about his face.
“Well, we don’t need it, but I’d like to keep it,” I said softly.
“Fine,” he snapped, “Just make sure it is out of sight.”
“Pa, we have cleared a lot of the stock now. Is there anything else you want doing?”
“Aye lad, you can come and help me in the store. Corran, you can make a start on that mess,” he said, nodding at the counter, “and Rose, I think you’d better get over to Barley Hall.”
“You sure you guys are going to be OK? I mean, here in this shop on your own?” she asked.
“Go lass, we will be just fine,” ordered Simon.
As Rose turned to leave the shop, I grabbed her in a hug. “See you tonight, sweet. Don’t worry, we will be fine, and you know where we are if you need us,” I said squeezing her tightly.
“Ta, Corran. Keep safe, hun,” she whispered.
“And thank you for your help with the stock,” Duncan called from behind one of the boxes they had packed.
“My pleasure,” Rose smiled, as she pulled the door closed behind her.
“Do you think she will be alright?”
“Aye. Stop worrying all the time, it’s not good for the baby.”
“Is this more information you’ve got from books?” I asked, with the hint of a tease in my voice.
“Actually, it is. Too much worry is not good for the mother or the baby, and what is not good for the baby and the mother is certainly not good for the father. So spare me the grief, lass, and stop worrying.”
“Is there anything you haven’t seen on the television or read since we got here?”
Duncan laughed. “Pa’s better informed than most folk who were raised here.”
“Nothing wrong with being informed, lad, nothing wrong with it at all,” replied my husband gruffly. “Now if your mother has quite finished, we’ve work to do.”
Trudging my way through the mountain of scattered paperwork, it became increasingly obvious that Angus hadn’t been interested in the buying or selling of antiques as a business. Storage of trinkets, perhaps, but making a business out of antiques? I don’t think so.
Startled by the bell on the door, I drew a sharp, surprised breath. An elderly woman with thinning gray hair stood in front of the door.
“Are you open, duck?” Her voice was thin and breathless, her body frail and aged.
I nodded. “Can I help you?” I asked, wondering why she had referred to me as a duck.
“I’m looking for a present for my husband’s birthday. He’s eighty-six next week, you know,” she replied, with a croaky tremble.
“Does your husband like music?” I asked, remembering Rose’s earlier advice.
“Oh yes, duck. He sang with Geraldo at the Tower.”
“The Tower?” I asked, perplexed by why anyone would want to sing at the Tower of London.
“Yes, Blackpool Tower. It was quite a venue after the war.” Her eyes clouded and moistened with memories. “But I won’t bore you with my ramblings.”
“No, not at all. Quite the contrary. I’d love to hear your stories.”
She shuffled weakly across the shop to the counter.
“Would you like to sit down?” I asked, offering her the only sturdy looking chair in the room.
“Don’t mind if I do,” she said, cautiously lowering herself on to the worn cushion.
I dragged the box of records to the side of the chair.
“What’s your name?” she asked softly.
“Corran. What’s your name?”
“Maggie.”
“How about this one?” I asked, pulling a black disk in a brown paper sleeve from the box.
“I’ve not got my specs,” the old lady said, squinting at the sleeve. “Would you mind telling me what it says?”
“It says ‘The Music Shop, Hugh Robertson, 23 Pavement, York,’ ” I said, reading a rectangular stamp on the brown paper cover.
“Oh my,” she sighed nostalgically, “that place has been gone for years. They used to service my Fred’s gramophone when we were first married. Tell me what the record is?” she asked.
“Well it says ‘Decca’, I said, reading the big letters printed in the centre of the disk.”
“No, duck, not the record company
, who’s the vocalist?” she said patiently.
“Well it says ‘Come Back to Sorrento’ and underneath that it says ‘Gracie Fields, Vocal, with Orchestral Accompaniment conducted by Phil Green’,” I said, hoping I had answered her question.
“That will be the B side. What’s on the A side?” she asked.
I stared at her not understanding the question. She reached out and gently turned the disk in my hand over.
“The other side, duck. There was always an A side and B side. I suppose you youngsters know only your CDs and iThings.”
“Oh, sorry,” I said, feeling my face flush with embarrassment, “It says, ‘Now Is The Hour, Gracie Fields, Vocals, with Orchestral Accompaniment Conducted by Phil Green’.”
“How much do you want for it?” she said softly.
“You know, Maggie, I don’t have the faintest idea. How about we call it a gift from me to you?” I said, pushing the disk into the old lady’s trembling hands.
I looked up as Simon and Duncan both emerged from the storeroom, covered in dust and carrying a large cardboard box.
“I didn’t realize we had a customer,” Simon said. “I hope my wife has taken good care of you.”
“Yes, thank you,” Maggie said, moving to stand.
Simon dropped the box and took the old lady’s hand, helping her gently out of the chair.
“You are both very kind,” she said, making her way to the door.
With a tinkle of the bell Simon held the door open for the old lady. She shuffled out onto the pavement clutching the record as she went.
“What a lovely lady,” I said, when my husband closed the door.
“Aye, she seemed nice enough. What did she buy?” Simon asked.
“Well… Nothing, really. I gave her one of those records that Rose was telling us about.”
“What made you do that, woman? This is supposed to be a business!”
“I didn’t know how much to charge her.”
Simon nodded. “I’ll arrange a stock list with guide prices,” he finished resolutely.
“Ma, we’ve got something to show you,” Duncan said, shifting excitedly from one foot to the other.
Entwined Page 3