Early next morning Peter’s housekeeper, Hannah, was in full flow in the basement kitchen in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
“I was told by the grocer, who makes it his business to know such things,” said Hannah, “that the Earl of Sefton has employed Louis XVI’s chef for three hundred guineas a year! He would not have offered such a princely sum for a plain English cook. Upon my word, it makes my blood boil!”
Hannah had come to work for Gideon and Peter when they moved to London away from Derbyshire. Now that Gideon was back in Hawthorn Cottage running the estate and finishing off that book of his, he had asked her to stay on with Master Peter. Her plump cheeks were flushed and her blond curls were falling out from under her bonnet. She was now in her middle years but was still a fine-looking woman and her cheerful nature kept her young.
“Oh, I know you have a liking for France, sir, but it maddens me that good English cooks are thrown to one side on account of this vogue for continental cooking. London is full to bursting nowadays with French chefs! This one pushed right in front of me and bought ten pounds of butter! Ten! There wasn’t a scrap of butter to be had in the whole of Holborn and here I am with a supper to cook when I have scarce half a pound of butter and no decent dripping.”
Peter sat preoccupied at the kitchen table, drinking tea and paying little heed to Hannah, despite his great affection for her. He often sat down here, even though he was a gentleman.
“’Tis a terrible pity that some of the poor souls have had to flee for their lives over the Channel with naught save the clothes they stood up in—but the extravagance of their cooking!” Hannah put on a heavy French accent: “‘Ma chère madame,’ he says, ‘I ’ave three dozen eggs to cook—how can I manage with less? It eez impossible!’ ‘Monsieur, ’ says I, ‘I could cook your eggs with a fraction of such an amount.’ ‘Yes, madame,’ says he, ‘but they would not be the same eggs.’”
“Well, my dear Hannah, you never could abide French sauce.” Peter laughed but he soon turned serious again.
Hannah observed her employer as she busied herself putting her purchases away. He had not shaved and there were dark circles under his eyes, and she realized that he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. He clearly had not slept.
“You need not vex yourself about supper,” he said after a while. “I have urgent business to attend to in town.”
“If I might be so bold, sir, is there anything amiss?”
Peter looked at her. “My father and Mistress Kate have arrived from the future in search of me.”
Hannah pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down with a thump.
“Oh, Master Peter!” She could not get out of the habit of addressing him in this manner even though it had been inappropriate for at least two decades. She was so shocked she hardly knew what to say. “My heartiest congratulations, sir! Your dream has come true!”
Peter looked at her and nodded. Hannah wondered why he did not seem more pleased.
“Yes, it is wondrous news, is it not?” he said. “After all this time …”
A cloud passed over Hannah’s face. “When will you be leaving, sir? Have you written to Mr. Seymour?”
Hannah was certain she saw tears in Peter’s eyes.
“I shall not be leaving, Hannah. It is too late. They have come in search of a twelve-year-old boy, not a grown man who has made a life in a different age….”
“A twelve-year-old boy? I do not understand….”
“Nor do I.”
“But you have waited all your life to be rescued!” burst out Hannah. “You would have married and had children of your own if you had not held yourself in readiness for this very moment!”
“I know … I know … ,” Peter said sadly. “But now that they are come I see that it cannot be. A father has come in search of his child. Kate has come in search of her young friend. They are come twenty-nine years too late. Their search is not over.”
Hannah burst into floods of tears and Peter found himself having to comfort his faithful servant. He recounted everything that had happened at Middle Harpenden—everything, that is, except for Augusta’s description of Kate flitting around the garden like a bat. Hannah tutted when he told her that he intended to pretend he was Gideon’s missing half brother.
“The truth will out,” she commented. “It always does. Poor Mr. Joshua—he went off to America with such hope in his heart and the Lord only knows what became of him.”
When Peter told her that he and his father were the same age and that Mistress Kate was still twelve years old, she gasped in astonishment.
“It is a mystery beyond my understanding! How can time have stopped still for them and not for us? But surely you intend to tell your father that you are, in truth, his son?”
“It is better that I do not.”
“Oh, Master Peter, I have never heard a crueler thing!”
“It would be more cruel, indeed, Hannah, if I were to tell him I am his son and then refuse to return. Better I persuade him to go back to 1763 to find the child that he remembers.”
“I can scarce believe what I am hearing!”
“I intend bringing them to this house and when I do, I expect you to refer to me as Mr. Joshua Seymour. I shall tell them it was Peter Schock and not Joshua Seymour who has been missing believed dead these last twenty years.”
Hannah did not respond.
“Hannah, I need you to agree to do this.”
“Very well, Master Peter, but I think it a wrongheaded notion and the saddest thing I ever heard.”
“On your honor, Hannah?”
“On my honor, sir, but I should like to know what happens if your father does rescue you aged twelve years old. I have cared for you man and boy—if you never lived with us, I shall have a great, gaping hole in my life!”
Peter looked at her in surprise as the logic of Hannah’s question slowly permeated his unsettled mind.
The Tar Man emerged from the shadows to see Anjali, some little distance away, standing with her hands in her pockets on the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral. He did not know what to make of what he saw and stepped back again. Three people appeared to be threatening her. It was surprising to the Tar Man that they should risk doing so in such a public place. They must be very well armed. He stood and watched.
Half on the lookout for the Tar Man, Anjali was trying to appear unperturbed by the microphone thrust into her face and by the large camera, labeled BBC LONDON, which was trained on her. It had been difficult to say no to their request for a quick interview and, anyway, she liked the idea of being on the television.
The sound engineer who was holding the microphone took off his headset and said: “That’s fine now, the sound levels are good.”
“Are we okay to go?” asked the woman interviewer.
The cameraman nodded.
“Okay. London Youth, take two … Action!”
As the Tar Man stared at Anjali being accosted by these three villains, he noticed that all around him other people too had stopped in their tracks and were gawking at the scene. Not one person was trying to help her! The Londoners of the twenty-first century had so little bottom! At least Anjali was looking defiant—but why was she not trying to run away? The Tar Man reasoned that the baton held so aggressively to her face was more deadly than it looked … and as for the device which the big man supported on his shoulder, it seemed very heavy and was doubtless full of gunpowder. This girl certainly had an instinct for trouble! He started to edge nearer.
“In his election manifesto the mayor of London pledged to do more for young people in London. Can I ask you if you are a Londoner?”
“Yeah, you can ask.”
A flash of irritation at Anjali’s cheek crossed the interviewer’s features but she tried to laugh appreciatively.
“So, are you a Londoner?”
“Yeah.”
The Tar Man drew even closer and the film crew, well used to curious members of the public wanting to smile and mouth “Hello,
Mum!” over their interviewees’ shoulders, did nothing to stop him. The Tar Man was perplexed; no one was behaving quite as he would have expected. He kept his eye trained on these unknown weapons.
“And what do you think the mayor could most usefully do for young people in the capital?”
Anjali looked thoughtful as she gave serious consideration to the question:
“Ban grown-ups?”
The interviewer raised her eyes to heaven and shouted, “Cut!”
The Tar Man leaped into the center of the group, crying: “You’ll cut no one or you’ll have me to reckon with!”
Then he chopped the microphone out of the sound man’s grasp, hurled himself on top of the cameraman and wrestled him to the ground. The stunned interviewer managed to grab hold of the camera before it smashed against the stone steps.
“Stop it, you idiot!” screamed Anjali. “I never wanted to be filmed anyway!”
The Tar Man paused, a knee in the cameraman’s chest. He took one look at the expression on Anjali’s face and realized he had misunderstood the situation.
“Get this nutter off me!” shouted the cameraman.
The Tar Man, who hated to look a fool above all things, jumped up and walked off without saying a word.
“He’s my uncle,” said Anjali by way of explanation. “He’s been through a lot and he’s a bit …”—she made a circular movement with her finger—“… mental. It’s the stress of modern life—the mayor should be doing something about people like him…. Gotta go…. Bye….”
The film crew picked themselves up and watched Anjali skip after the dark figure striding down Ludgate Hill.
“Oi!” shouted Anjali. “Slow down!”
Furious, the Tar Man continued walking so fast that Anjali had to jog to keep up. Eventually he came to a halt and looked back at her.
“You got something against film crews?” Anjali panted, and seeing the blank look on the Tar Man’s face, she burst into peals of laughter. His expression was thunderous and he raised a hand to strike her. He changed his mind at the last instant but his hand hovered in mid-air, so close to her cheek that she could feel the warmth of his skin. Anjali no longer felt any desire to laugh.
“Learn some respect, girl. I shall not ask you a second time. As you can see, there is much I have to learn and I need a guide.”
Anjali looked back at him. “Who are you?”
“Come, I need to eat. Take me to a chop house of quality.”
A quarter of an hour later, Anjali and the Tar Man were sitting at a corner table in a café she’d occasionally been taken to when she was younger. It was all check tablecloths and red paper napkins and candles pushed in old wine bottles. Anjali had gone through the entire menu twice but the Tar Man had recognized nothing.
“Have the Bolognese—it’s a meat sauce…. I can’t believe you’ve never had it. It’s good. Where do you come from?”
“London has been my home since I was fourteen years old.”
“Then you should get out more!”
The Tar Man flashed her a warning look.
“Sorry …”
“I was born in 1729.”
About to laugh, Anjali stopped herself. He was serious!
“I am not a madman, Anjali. The world is a far more mysterious place than you think. Many people sleepwalk through life, but if you keep your eyes open you will learn much. Mine is a long story. However, all you need to know is that an unworldly device came to 1763 from your time and transported me here. I do not yet know if I can return home, yet it is in my mind that I shall stay. I foresee a life here ripe with possibilities.”
Anjali was speechless. She looked around for a hidden camera. “You’re putting me on, right?”
“If you think I would waste my time in idle jests, you are impertinent.”
Anjali looked at him and tried not to look too incredulous. The waiter arrived with two steaming dishes of pasta and refilled the Tar Man’s glass with red wine. The Tar Man poked at the pasta with his fork.
“What is this? Is this supposed to feed a man? Where is the meat?”
The waiter looked alarmed.
“The meat is in the sauce, sir.”
The Tar Man picked out a grain of minced beef from the tomato sauce and held it between thumb and forefinger in front of the waiter’s eyes as if it were an affront to humanity.
“This is meat?” he growled. “Damn your eyes, do you take me for a fool? Bring me some meat.”
“Perhaps you could bring my friend a couple of lamb chops?” Anjali asked brightly.
The waiter scurried off.
“This is a nice place,” said Anjali quietly. “You’re not supposed to be rude to the waiters in restaurants—unless you’re a food critic, that is….”
“A food critic?”
“Never mind … just … you know … be polite. Otherwise you’ll draw attention to yourself. Unless that’s what you want.”
The Tar Man smiled for the first time. “Thank you. This is why I need a guide. I need to slip into your time like an egg-thief into a bird’s nest. Tell me, what are these?”
The Tar Man dug into his pocket and dropped a pile of credit cards with a clatter onto the tabletop. The couple at the next table glanced around. Anjali swiftly dropped her napkin onto them. Then he placed two rings, one diamond and one emerald, into her hand.
“And I need to find a fence for these….”
“Best put those away if you know what’s good for you,” said Anjali, gathering together the pile of credit cards underneath the napkin. “You’ve been busy since you got ’ere, ain’t you?”
He may be a nutcase, thought Anjali, but he was certainly not strapped for cash—however he got hold of it. Best to play along with him and see what she could get out of this situation. She took a pen from her bag and started to make a list on the back of her menu: credit cards, pawn shops—she glanced at the Tar Man’s shoes—clothes …
“What are you writing?” asked the Tar Man.
“If—and I’m not saying I will—but if I’m going to be your guide, I’ll need to think of topics for your twenty-first-century lessons. I’d better put film crew down ’n’ all if we don’t want a spate of cameraman killings….”
The Tar Man looked at her. She was not fooling him: He knew full well she did not believe him. It did not matter—she would in time … and in the meantime the rings would hopefully secure her services.
The waiter arrived with two grilled lamb chops. The Tar Man looked at these pitifully small chunks of meat with disdain and removed the sprig of watercress that had been laid artfully over them. Then, glancing at Anjali, he composed his face into a benign smile.
“Thank you kindly. A tastier morsel of flesh I cannot imagine.”
Anjali smirked. He reached into his jacket pocket and pressed some coins into the waiter’s hand.
The waiter examined his tip coolly. “Seven pence! Why, thank you, sir! I’ll treat myself tonight!”
“And fetch me another bottle of wine!”
The waiter sloped off and Anjali wrote down “the value of money” on her list.
“What’s your name?” asked Anjali. “We’ve gotta get you some ID.”
“ID?”
“Identification! You know … Trust me, you need ID. You can’t get nothing in the twenty-first century without ID. What’s your name?”
“I have left my old name behind. I need a new name here.”
“Okay. So what do you want to be called?”
The waiter returned and deposited the wine bottle on the table.
“One bottle of Vega Riaza. Anything else, sir?” he asked with no enthusiasm.
The Tar Man waved him away impatiently.
“No, thank you very much,” said Anjali pointedly.
“Vega Riaza,” repeated the Tar Man, rolling the r. “I like the sound of that. Vega Riaza … I do not want an English name, for it strikes me that London is thick with people arrived from foreign shores.”
; “You can’t go calling yourself after a bottle of wine!”
“And why not? It has a pleasing ring—Vega Riaza.”
The Tar Man picked up one of the lamb chops and tore off all the meat in one mouthful.
“If this is how much the rich eat, on how little must the poor survive?”
“It’s the other way round—the rich eat designer salads and get thin and the poor eat junk food and get fat.”
The Tar Man leaned back in his chair and looked Anjali in the eye for a long moment. The girl wanted to look away but forced herself not to.
“The world has changed in two hundred years—that much is plain to see—and in ways which ofttimes confound me. Anjali, will you be my guide until I no longer have the need of one?”
Anjali took a deep breath. What was she getting herself into? She could walk away right now. She only had to say “no.” … But he did save her from the gang. Maybe she owed him something.
“All right. Until the wind changes …”
“I do not understand you.”
“Sorry, I guess Mary Poppins wasn’t around in seventeen hundred and whatever…. What’s the going rate for twenty-first-century lessons?”
Gideon 02 -The Time Thief Page 11