To Say Nothing of the Dog

by Connie Willis

  “I was interrupted,” she said, glaring at Mr. Dunworthy. She crossed her arms militantly. “Where’s your boot?”

  “In the mouth of a bloody great mastiff! I was lucky to get away with my foot!”

  “That was an authentic AFS Wellington,” she said. “And what have you done to your uniform?”

  “What have I done to my uniform?” he said. “I’ve just spent two hours running for my life. I landed in that same damnable marrows field. Only I must have come through later than last time because the farmer’s wife was ready for me. With dogs. She’d recruited a whole bloody pack of them to aid in the war effort. She must have borrowed them from all over Warwickshire.”

  He caught sight of me. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, limping over. “You’re supposed to be in Infirmary.”

  “I’m going to 1888,” I said.

  “I told that nurse she wasn’t to tell Lady Schrapnell you were back,” he said disgustedly. “Why’s she sending you to the Nineteenth Century? Is this about the great-grandmother?”

  “Great-great-great-great,” I said. “No. The doctor prescribed two weeks’ uninterrupted bed rest, and Mr. Dunworthy’s sending me there for it.”

  “He can’t,” Carruthers said. “You can’t. You’ve got to go back to Coventry and look for the bishop’s bird stump.”

  “I was looking for it,” I said, “and you pulled me out. Remember?”

  “I had to. You were a raving lunatic. Going on about dogs, man’s noblest ally in war and peace, his truest friend through thick and thin. Pah! Look at that!” He held up the long strip of torn coverall. “Man’s truest friend did that!” He showed me his stockinged foot. “Man’s noblest ally nearly took my foot off! How soon can you be ready to go?”

  “The nurse said no drops for two weeks. Why did you send me to Infirmary if you wanted me to go back?”

  “I thought they’d give you an injection or a pill or something,” he said, “not forbid you to do drops. Now how are we supposed to find the bishop’s bird stump?”

  “You didn’t find it after I left?”

  “I can’t even find the cathedral. I’ve been trying all afternoon, and the marrows field was the closest I got. The bloody slippage—”

  “Slippage?” Mr. Dunworthy said alertly. He came over to where we were standing. “Has there been more slippage than usual?”

  “I told you,” I said, “the marrows field.”

  “What marrows field?”

  “The one halfway to Birmingham. With the dogs.”

  “I’m having trouble getting back to Coventry Cathedral on the fifteenth, sir,” Carruthers explained. “I’ve tried four times today, and the closest I can get is the eighth of December. Ned’s got the closest of anyone so far, which is why I need him to go back and finish searching the rubble for the bishop’s bird stump.”

  Mr. Dunworthy looked puzzled. “Wouldn’t it be simpler to look for the bishop’s bird stump before the raid, on the fourteenth?”

  “That’s what we’ve been trying to do for the past two weeks,” Carruthers said. “Lady Schrapnell wanted to know if it was in the cathedral at the time of the raid, so we arranged a jump to the cathedral at a quarter till eight, just before the start of the raid. But we can’t get near the place. Either the date’s off, or if we do come through at the target time, we’re sixty miles away in the middle of a marrows field.” He indicated his muddy uniform.

  “We?” Mr. Dunworthy said, frowning. “How many historians have tried?”

  “Six. No, seven,” Carruthers said. “Everyone who wasn’t off doing something else.”

  “Carruthers said they’d tried everybody,” I put in, “and that was why they’d pulled me off jumble sales.”

  “What about the jumble sales?”

  “They’re a sale where they sell things they want to get rid of, things they bought at the last jumble sale, most of it, and things they’ve made to sell Tea caddies and embroidered needle cases and penwipers and—”

  “I know what a jumble sale is,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “Was there any slippage on those jumps?”

  I shook my head. “Just the usual. Mostly spatial, so no one would see me come through. Behind the rectory or back of the tea tent.”

  He turned abruptly to Carruthers. “How much were the Coventry drops off by, the ones in which you came through in Coventry?”

  “It varies,” he said. “Paulson came through on the twenty-eighth of November.” He stopped and calculated. “The average is about twenty-four hours, I’d say. The closest we’ve been able to get to the target is the afternoon of the fifteenth, and now I can’t even get there. Which is why Ned needs to go. The new recruit’s still there, and I doubt if he even knows how to get back on his own. And who knows what trouble he’s likely to get into.”

  “Trouble,” Mr. Dunworthy murmured. He turned to the tech. “Has there been increased slippage on all the drops, or just the ones to Coventry?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m a wardrobe tech. I’m only filling in for Badri.He’s the net tech.”

  “Badri, yes,” he said, brightening. “Good. Badri. Where is he?”

  “With Lady Schrapnell, sir,” Finch said. “And I’m afraid they may be on their way back by now,” but Mr. Dunworthy didn’t seem to hear him.

  “While you’ve been filling in,” he said to Warder, “have you run any jumps that weren’t to the cathedral on November fourteenth, 1940?”

  “One,” she said. “To London.”

  “How much slippage was there?” he persisted.

  She looked like she was going to say, “I don’t have time for this,” and then apparently thought better of it and began pounding keys. “Locational, no slippage. Temporal, eight minutes.”

  “So it is Coventry,” he said to himself. “Eight minutes which way? Early or late?”

  “Early.”

  He turned back to Carruthers. “Did you try sending someone to Coventry earlier and having them stay till the raid?”

  “Yes, sir,” Carruthers said. “They still ended up after the target time.”

  Mr. Dunworthy took off his spectacles, examined them, and put them back on. “Does the amount of slippage seem to be random or is it getting progressively worse?”

  “Worse,” he said.

  “Finch, go ask Kindle if she noticed any coincidences or discrepancies while she was at Muchings End. Ned, you stay here. I’ve got to talk to Lewis.” Mr. Dunworthy went out.

  “What was that all about?” Carruthers said, looking after him.

  “Lady Windermere’s fan,” I said, and sat down.

  “Stand up,” the seraphim said. “The drop’s ready. Get in place.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for Mr. Dunworthy?” I asked.

  “I have nineteen drops scheduled, not to mention another priority jump for Mr. Dunworthy, and—”

  “All right, all right,” I said. I gathered up the satchel, portmanteau, Gladstone, and wicker basket, and went over to the net. The veils were still only a foot and a half from the floor. I set down one armful on the floor, lifted the veil, ducked under, and began pulling the bags in after me.

  “The Victorian era was a time of rapid technological and scientific change,” the headrig said. “The invention of the telegraph, gas lighting, and Darwin’s theory of evolution were significantly altering the fabric of society.”

  “Pick up your luggage and stand on the X,” she said.

  “Travel in particular was changing rapidly. The invention of the steam locomotive, and, in 1863, the first underground railway, made it possible for Victorians to go faster and farther than ever before.”

  “Ready?” she said, her hand poised over the keyboard.

  “I think so,” I said, checking to make sure everything was inside the veils. One corner of the covered wicker basket was sticking out. “Wait,” I said, and scraped it inside with my foot.

  “I said, ready now?” she said.

  “Easy and affordable trav
el had the effect of broadening the Victorians’ horizons and breaking down the rigid barriers of class which—”

  The seraphim flung the veils up, yanked the headrig out of my ear, and went back to the console.

  “Ready now?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  The seraphim began tapping keys.

  “Wait!” I said. “I don’t know where it is I’m going.”

  “June seventh, 1888,” she said, and resumed tapping.

  “I mean, after that,” I said, trying to find an opening in the veils. “I didn’t hear all of Mr. Dunworthy’s instructions. Because of the time-lag.” I pointed at my ear. “Difficulty in Distinguishing Sounds.”

  “Difficulty in evidencing intelligence,” she said. “I don’t have time for this,” and flounced out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  “Where’s Mr. Dunworthy?” I heard her say in the corridor, probably to Finch.

  Mr. Dunworthy had said something about Muchings End, and about a boat, or was that the headrig? “It’s a perfectly straightforward job,” he’d said.

  “Where is he?” I heard the seraphim say again, and her voice sounded uncomfortably like Lady Schrapnell’s.

  “Where is who?” Finch said.

  “You know perfectly well who,” she said in stentorian tones. “And don’t tell me he’s in hospital. I’ve had enough of your wild goose chases. He’s here, isn’t he?”

  Oh, Lord.

  “Come away from that door and let me pass,” Lady Schrapnell roared. “He is here.”

  I dropped the luggage with a thud and looked wildly about for somewhere to hide.

  “No, he’s not,” Finch said bravely. “He’s over at Radcliffe Infirmary.”

  There was nowhere to hide, at least in this century. I ducked under the veils and sprinted for the console, praying the seraphim had truly made all the necessary preparations.

  “I said, let me pass,” Lady Schrapnell said. “Badri, make him come away from the door. Mr. Henry’s here, and I intend to see that he goes to look for my bishop’s bird stump instead of malingering in the present, pretending to have time-lag.”

  “But he does have time-lag,” Finch said. “A very serious case.

  His vision’s blurred, he has Difficulty Distinguishing Sounds, and his reasoning faculties are severely impaired.”

  The console screen said, “Ready. Hit ‘send.’” I measured the distance to the net.

  “He’s in no condition to make any drops,” Finch said.

  “Nonsense,” Lady Schrapnell said. “Now come away from that door this instant.”

  I took a deep breath, punched “send,” and dived head-first for the net.

  “Please believe me,” Finch said desperately. “He’s not here. He’s over at Christ Church.”

  “Get out of my way!” she said, and there was the sound of a scuffle.

  I skidded face-first onto the X. The veils lowered on my foot. I yanked it inside.

  “Mr. Henry, I know you’re in here!” Lady Schrapnell said, and the door burst open.

  “I told you,” Finch said. “He’s not here.”

  And I wasn’t.

  “Journeys end in lovers meeting.”

  William Shakespeare

  CHAPTER 4

  An Abrupt Arrival—Difference Between Literature and Real Life—Similarity of Train Whistles to Air Raid Sirens—Benefits of Adrenaline—I Contemplate My Mission—Howard’s End—A Timely Newspaper—Two Ladies—A Late Arrival—Contact!—“Oxford, City of Dreaming Spires”—A Fashion Plate—Fate—The Mystery of Rabbits Hypnotized by Snakes Solved—An Introduction

  I came through face-down on railroad tracks, stretched across them like Pearl White in a Twentieth-Century serial, except that she didn’t have so much luggage. The portmanteau, et al, were scattered around me, along with my boater, which had fallen off when I dived for the net.

  Lady Schrapnell’s voice was still booming in my ears, and I got to my feet and looked about cautiously, but there was no sign of her. Or of a boat or a river. The railway tracks were on a grassy embankment, with trees growing below and beside them.

  The first rule of time travel is “Ascertain exact time-space location,” but there didn’t seem to be any way of doing that. It was clearly summer—the sky overhead was blue and there were flowers growing between the ties—but no signs of civilization other than the train tracks. So sometime after 1804.

  In vids, there is always a newspaper lying on the ground with a helpful headline like “Pearl Harbor Bombed!” or “Mafeking Relieved!” and a clock above it in a shop window thoughtfully showing the time.

  I looked at my watch. It wasn’t there, and I squinted at my wrist, trying to remember whether Warder had taken it off me when she was trying shirts on. I remembered she’d tucked something in my waistcoat pocket. I pulled it out, on a gold chain. A pocket watch. Of course. Wristwatches were an anachronism in Nineteenth Century.

  I had trouble getting the pocket watch open and then difficulty reading the extinct Roman numerals, but eventually I made it out. A quarter past X. Allowing for the time I’d spent getting the watch open and lying on the tracks, bang on target. Unless I was in the wrong year. Or the wrong place.

  As I didn’t know where I was supposed to have come through, I didn’t know if I was in the right place or not, but if there’s a small amount of temporal slippage, there usually isn’t much locational slippage either.

  I stood up on a rail to look down the tracks. To the north, the tracks headed into deeper woods. In the opposite direction, the woods seemed thinner, and there was a dark plume of smoke. A factory? Or a boathouse?

  I should gather up my bags and go see, but I continued to stand on the rail, taking in the warm summer air and the sweet scent of clover and new-mown hay.

  I was a hundred and sixty years away from pollution and traffic and the bishop’s bird stump. No, that wasn’t true. The bishop’s bird stump had been given to Coventry Cathedral in 1852.

  Depressing thought. But there wasn’t any Coventry Cathedral. St. Michael’s Church hadn’t been made a bishopric till 1908. And there wasn’t a Lady Schrapnell. I was more than a century away from her snapped orders and from vicious dogs and from bombed-out cathedrals, in a more civilized time, where the pace was slow and decorous, and the women were softspoken and demure.

  I gazed about me at the trees, the flowers. Buttercups grew between the tracks, and a tiny white flower like a star. The nurse at Infirmary had said I needed rest, and who couldn’t rest here? I felt totally recovered just standing here on the tracks. No blurring of vision. No air-raid sirens.

  I had spoken too soon. The air-raid siren started up again and then as abruptly stopped. I shook my head, trying to clear it, and then took several long, deep breaths.

  I wasn’t cured yet, but I soon would be, breathing in this clear, pure air. I gazed up at the cloudless sky, at the plume of black smoke. It seemed higher in the sky and nearer—a farmer burning weeds?

  I longed to see him, leaning on his rake, untouched by modern worries, modern haste, longed to see his rose-covered cottage with its white picket fence, its cozy kitchen, its soft feather bed, its—

  The air-raid siren sounded again in short sharp blasts. Like a factory whistle. Or a train.

  Adrenaline is an extremely effective drug. It galvanizes the body into action and has been known to produce impossible feats of strength. And speed.

  I snatched up the satchel, the hamper, the portmanteau, the carpetbag, the boxes, and my hat, which had somehow fallen off again, chucked them all down the near side of the embankment, and chucked myself after them before the plume of black smoke had cleared the trees.

  The covered basket that Finch had been so concerned about was still on the tracks, sitting squarely on the far rail. The adrenaline leaped across, scooped it up, and rolled down the embankment as the train thundered past in a deafening roar.

  Definitely not totally recovered. I lay at the bottom of the embankment for a
considerable time contemplating that fact and trying to start breathing.

  After a while I sat up. The embankment had been fairly high, and the basket and I had rolled a considerable way before coming to a stop in a mass of nettles. As a result, the view was very different than that from the tracks, and I could glimpse, beyond a thicket of alders, a corner of some white wooden structure and a glimpse of fretwork. It could definitely be a boathouse.

  I disentangled the basket and myself, climbed up the embankment, and looked carefully up and down the tracks. There was no smoke in either direction, and no sound at all. Satisfied, I sprinted across the tracks, gathered up my etc., looked in both directions, bolted back across, and set off through the woods toward the boathouse.

  Adrenaline also tends to clear the brain, and several things became remarkably clear as I trudged toward the boathouse, the foremost of which was that I had no idea what to do when I got there.

  I distinctly remembered Mr. Dunworthy saying, “Here are your instructions,” and after that a jumble of Stilton spoons and collars and the All Clear, and then he’d said the rest of the two weeks was mine to do with as I liked. Which obviously meant that a portion of it wasn’t. And when I’d got in the net, Finch had said, “We’re counting on you.”

  To do what? There was something about a boat and a river. And a Something End. Audley End. No, that didn’t sound right. It began with an “N.” Or was that the water nymph? Hopefully, it would come back to me when I got to the boathouse.

  It wasn’t a boathouse. It was a railway station. There was a carved wooden sign on the wall above a green bench. Oxford, it said.

  And what was I supposed to do now? Oxford had boathouses and a river. But if I’d come through at the railway station, perhaps I was supposed to take a train to this Something End and then a boat from there. I seemed to remember Mr. Dunworthy saying something about a railway. Or had that been the headrig?

  My coming through at the railway station might have been due to slippage, and I was really supposed to have come through down at Folly Bridge. I distinctly remembered something having been said about a boat and the river.