The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts

by David Wake

  The clock ticked.

  There was no time.

  Five minutes.

  It wasn’t long enough.

  She should have snuck down last night to be all maudlin.

  She put the letter in its cream envelope behind the mantelpiece clock – the obvious place. She’d addressed it simply to ‘Miss Deering–Dolittle’, but inside she’d written ‘To My Dearest Sisters, Ness and Lottie’.

  She was a Deering–Dolittle, not the soft Surrey branch, but the mad brigade from Kent, and the club code demanded she put her best foot forward on any adventure.

  So, without further ado, and leaving the letter tucked behind the tick–tocking timepiece, she was going forth on the long expedition into what she hoped was a fabulous new world, full of surprise and wonder, but she knew she was headed towards an ‘X’ on the map that was in the middle, the absolute middle, if not the furthest possible edge, of nowhere.

  A shadow fell across the window.

  The hansom cab pulled up, the black horses shaking their heads in unison.

  It was time.

  With a sudden impulse, she grabbed a daguerreotype off the wall and slipped it into her travelling bag. She needed a keepsake to remind her of the three of them together. As she went to close the clasp, the ghostly image of Charlotte stared up at her.

  Click, case closed.

  She left, disappearing.

  And then there were two.

  The clock ticked on.

  Miss Charlotte

  Charlotte had got up really early, almost as early as the servants, and she’d skipped breakfast, so that there would be time to visit Uncle Jeremiah before the tortuous prison that was school. She left before either Earnestine or Georgina had finished their morning ablutions, and she felt pleased with this. It proved to them, if they’d known, that she was not lackadaisical.

  She had it all worked out: she’d explain over tea and macaroons that Earnestine and Georgina had become monsters, and that it was absolutely unfair that she, Charlotte, had to suffer in school when she’d done nothing wrong, while Earnestine and Georgina, simply because they were bossier, were allowed to stay at home and sew all day if they wanted. Not that Charlotte wanted to sew, Uncle Jeremiah would understand, but it was a question of not being allowed to. She wouldn’t, if she was given permission, as she was destined for greater things. She would explain that too, despite its being self–evident, and Uncle Jeremiah was an intelligent man with a Doctorate in Antiquates.

  For his part, Uncle Jeremiah would smile, understand and give her a letter to absent herself from the Reverend Long’s interminable assemblies and Miss Cooper’s pointless lessons. They were all very well, Charlotte would suppose, if you wanted to be a lady, but Charlotte, once she had formed the Women’s Auxiliary Fusiliers, would not need to carry books on her head, sit upright, keep her elbows off the table, or marry – silently or otherwise.

  And that would be that.

  Uncle Jeremiah had rooms on the first floor of a well–appointed terrace with iron railings in front and smart black doors with crisp white numbers. Uncle Jeremiah’s house had a red door. Uncle Jeremiah was jolly flash.

  “‘E’s not in.”

  Charlotte glared at the maid, who had opened the door: she was just wrong.

  “Uncle Jeremiah Deering?” she repeated.

  “‘E ‘asn’t been in for three weeks. Landlady’s doing ‘er nut.”

  “Three weeks!”

  “‘E’s disappeared like as not.”

  “But I saw him last week – month. Have you told the Peelers?”

  “We ‘ave, and them bottles said that a Gentleman wot Doctor Deering is, can like as not do as ‘e so pleases and thankin’ you kindly.”

  “Did he leave a note?”

  “No, ‘e did not leave a note,” the maid leaned down before adding: “And ‘e dint leave no wages neither. Without push, we’ll all be in the spike for sure. Landlady’s doing ‘er nut, she is.”

  “Thank you.”

  This was terrible; surely the worst thing that could possibly happen because now Charlotte had to go to school, and without breakfast or macaroons.

  Despite running all the way, Charlotte was late for assembly. This wasn’t her fault. To start with there had been plenty of time, but the boys in the next door school had suggested a re–enactment when she’d run past and duty called. Earnestine surely would approve of that.

  Unfortunately, the defence of Mafeking had not gone well. The Boers had stormed the ramparts and they had fallen back well into Professor Chadlock’s orchard. Charlotte had fired her stick with as many loud explosive noises as she had been able to muster, thrown apple grenades, and then, as the cadets had overrun the position, she’d died. Twice, because no–one had been looking the first time she’d gripped her stomach and keeled over.

  After all, what was the point of dying if no–one saw it happen?

  The Empire was lost, the boys decided to play some new game about Temporary (or something) Peelers, which involved dragged the snotty, fat kid off to be interrogated. It sounded stupid to Charlotte, so she lay on the bumpy grass and looked up through the mottled leaves and the dangling eaters at the blue sky.

  Just as she was mulling over the rule about eating fallen apples, one of the local lads yelled at the top of his voice: “Scarper!”

  Charlotte wondered what that was about, because the local lads had won the day and so there was no need for them to retreat. It was–

  “Charlotte! Charlotte Deering–Dolittle!”

  Charlotte jumped up.

  Mistake, she should have stayed low and then the firing aspect of Miss Cooper’s disapproval would have been too high.

  “Miss?”

  “What are you doing?”

  Charlotte bit her lip to avoid saying anything about Mafeking and the Boer War.

  “Well?”

  “Miss, I’m practising my French tenses.”

  “Which French tenses in particular?”

  “Er… well… all of them, Miss.”

  Miss Cooper, an aged harridan in her late twenties, advanced with an angry stride that had brought her right up to Charlotte. Claw–like nails dug into Charlotte’s ear as she was dragged away, bouncing along with awkward strides, to the school house.

  “You are. The most. Ungracious. Child–”

  “I’m not an ungra– ah, ah, ah…”

  The Reverend Mr. Long sighed. The kindly looking clergyman brought his hands together as if in prayer and took a long, deep breath that whistled through the gap in his teeth.

  Charlotte stood in the centre of his oak panelled study awaiting his judgement.

  “Charlotte,” he said, gently, “I know well that your family hasn’t exactly… that is to say, you have certain disadvantages, but why can’t you be more like, say, the Deering–Dolittles of Surrey?”

  “I’m sorry Reverend, it won’t happen again,” said Charlotte quickly.

  “It’s the dawn of a new age and there’s a bright future for girls like you; if only you would play by the rules, then you could marry well.”

  “I’m sorry Reverend, it won’t happen again.”

  “I’m so desperately disappointed. I feel, and Miss Cooper feels, that we’ve failed in some way. We have tried our best; the Lord knows we have tried our best.”

  “I’m sorry Reverend, it won’t happen again.”

  “This is going to hurt me far more than it will hurt you.”

  “I’m sorry Reverend, it wo– the cane! No.”

  “Yes, Charlotte, it’s for your own good.”

  “But I was only a little late and–”

  “For the fifth time this month.”

  “But–”

  “And it’s only the fifteenth.”

  “But–”

  “Miss Cooper had to go looking for you.”

  “B–”

  “Hand.”

  He grabbed hold of her wrist to prevent her from turning or moving, and swiped.

&
nbsp; Charlotte did not give him the satisfaction of crying out, but instead imagined shooting him–

  Ah… with a Lee–

  Enfield .303 after–

  Bayoneting him and–

  “O!” Blowing him up–

  Blood spurting over his stupid dog collar–

  Ow, six! Utterly unfair.

  He let go, she snatched her hand back: it really hurt. The kindly clergyman hung the cane up next to his cricket bat.

  “There now, just the one over,” said the Reverend. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

  “Sorry. Reverend. Won’t. Again.”

  “I hope not. Miss Cooper has a punishment for you too.”

  Miss Cooper’s punishment was worse because she forced Charlotte to write out ‘I must not play with boys’ five hundred times and with her wounded hand.

  “We are not struggling for suffrage so that young ladies like yourself – are you listening Charlotte? – can go all doe–eyed at members of the opposite wotnot.”

  Charlotte sat at a desk with a hard wooden seat and tried to bend her smarting palm to grip the pen. Not only was her handwriting appalling, but the ink ran where the rain, somehow getting indoors, dripped from her face onto the paper.

  It was so unfair: she didn’t want to play with boys; she wanted to fight with men. And she didn’t want to learn French tenses. What possible use were French tenses? Ever?

  It was so unfair and it was Earnestine who had sent her to this horrid place.

  “Miss, I need more paper.”

  “Don’t write with such big letters! Here.”

  She would run away.

  That was it.

  She would run away and join the French Foreign Legion, just like she’d seen in that act at the theatre.

  She would disguise herself as a boy and become a soldier, which was, now she thought about it, a truly excellent idea. Although, they’d probably insist that she did know some French tenses.

  Well, that was fine. It would only be French tenses and not Latin verbs and Greek conjugations, and at least she’d get to fire guns and kill insurgents.

  So, that decided, she finished her ‘I must not play with boys’, making the loop of the last ‘y’ fill the whole of the rest of the page, and ran away.

  Chapter III

  Miss Deering-Dolittle

  The room beyond the secret door was lit by galvanic charge, bright luminous bulbs and strange glowing tubes, which blinked and pinged as they came on to reveal the cavernous brick interior. Boothroyd stepped away from the ornate brass switches and raised an arm like a showman signifying the entrance of the star act. It was indeed something that would be difficult to follow.

  Through this anteroom, they reached a large open space, lit from above by a skylight, criss–crossed with metal framing just like a modern railway station. Around a central courtyard were demarcated areas of various shapes and sizes much like a stable with stalls for anything from ponies to shires. Parked in the middle was a hansom cab standing as if ready for a horse to be attached between its limbers.

  Some sections gleamed with care and attention, others were green with age and dust, but all were impressive, be they mechanical, industrial, metal, ceramic or simply beyond comprehension.

  It was indeed a treasure house.

  “It’s full of machines!” said Earnestine in amazement.

  “Yes,” said Boothroyd. “And some of them don’t blow up.”

  “One is utterly flabbergasted.”

  “Of course,” Boothroyd jumped forwards, prancing like an excited child, his dark, grey streaked hair swishing as he turned this way and that. “This is the Haversham – whoosh – and this is a steam engine that works by galvanic power – there’s no water in it, not a drop. Let’s see, here’s the Celluloid Billiard Ball gun – those explode – and the Gutta–Percha Spatial Sculptor, makes anything you want according to Morse code tapped in here or according to a paper roll – see. They’re both by P. Harrow, Esquire, of… oh, and here’s the Brunel collection, and that’s a Tesla – see the… it’s all copper – and, oh, another Tesla and you don’t want to put this one anywhere near a magnet, and a working model of a Nautilus, through here – the other wing – are the balloons and other vehicles, flying machines too! They don’t work. And here’s the Depth Suit, it’ll protect you to 40 fathoms, and here’s the Exosphere. If you were in this, snuggled up all tight and cosy, you could easily survive in the upper reaches of the atmosphere and out beyond in the cosmos itself.”

  “Extraordinary.”

  “Well, in theory, obviously we’ve no way of testing such an apparatus, but Leonardo himself designed a parachute long before the invention of the hot air balloon or the Zeppelin. We’ve one such descent apparatus that tucks away inside a pack much like the Haversham.”

  Earnestine tightened her lips as she remembered: “I have experience of descents from Zeppelins with parachutes.” Or without, she thought. It was not an experience she wanted to repeat, even if the whole adventure – she shuddered at the thought – had led to her introduction to Major Dan and thence to her appointment in this trove of madness and delights.

  “You fell from a Zeppelin?”

  “I jumped.”

  “Heavens, why?”

  “It was exploding.”

  Boothroyd clapped his hands together: “Major Dan was right, you’re going to fit in splendidly.”

  Earnestine felt she ought to change the subject, so she picked the contraption nearest to her: all mechanical struts sticking out from a central column. In the middle was the symbol of a heart.

  “What’s this item?”

  “The Rafe – Ridley’s Automatic Fencing Exerciser.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s a duelling machine.”

  “Duelling?”

  “Yes, these armatures move and prod and sweep and strike and slash with an attachment,” said Boothroyd, and he pulled out a collection of sharp looking weapons with pommels on the end. “It takes a foil, sabre, cutlass, grambouchaum and… this one. And here are the cards, Jacquard cards, much like the Babbage thing… sorry, can’t talk about that…. and they control the particular school of fencing. Such a promising young man, the inventor, such a wealth of ideas, but alas…”

  “Fascinating.” Earnestine moved to have a closer look. “What happened to the inventor?”

  “He was developing a version that worked with duelling pistols, when… I’m afraid.”

  “Ah.”

  “He shouldn’t have tested it himself really, but when his third assistant ran away… alas.”

  Earnestine lowered her gaze in honour of Ridley and his… dedication, she supposed.

  Boothroyd moved on: “And this… yes, wonderful device, it must do something, if only we could find the blueprints.”

  Boothroyd turned a brass cog or two experimentally. The side section rotated and articulated. The whole brass conglomeration was as closed a book to Earnestine as Georgina’s recent daguerreotype experiments.

  “It must be so frustrating, not knowing,” Earnestine said.

  “Yes, occasionally one of them becomes interesting and a team arrives to perfect it. That large door there leads to a yard and thence to the street. We don’t allow experiments here.”

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  “On account of the blowing up, my dear.”

  Boothroyd pointed at a magnificent shining example of steel and glass and then Earnestine realised he meant the blackened and charred wall behind it. Something had certainly made a dreadful mess there once.

  They had been all the way round, so there was only one item left to ask about.

  “And the hansom cab?”

  “Oh, its driver’s number changes with this dial, it releases firecrackers to spook any pursuers’ horses and, see this, whatever you do don’t press it. You won’t believe what it does…”

  Boothroyd carried on explaining this, that and the quite astounding other, until Earnestine couldn’t
widen her eyes any more. When the tour was over, they made their way back to the office.

  Earnestine tidied away the cups and saucers.

  “Well, my dear?” Boothroyd asked.

  “I think we are going to have to start from scratch.”

  Boothroyd sighed: “Yes, that’s what we do every time.”

  “Where to start?”

  Boothroyd shook his head as if this was the great mystery of life.

  So, Earnestine rolled up her sleeves as it were and set to. Although this smacked of domestic chores, rather than secretarial duties, Earnestine was not afraid of hard work. The first task, she decided, was to generate some space, so she attacked the massive pile in the centre of the room. Sure enough, she soon revealed a double–sized mahogany desk with a green leather inlay, three drawers on the end of each column making twelve in total. Underneath, she found an upholstered swivelling chair that matched the desk and, around the other side, one in red leather that most certainly didn’t. The room boasted many other piles, so perhaps there was a second desk hidden away.

  Meanwhile, Boothroyd himself, spurred on by Earnestine’s attitude, moved some papers from the kitchen to a pile by the door. When he turned round, he gave a delighted cry of wonderment at the revelation of the desk.

  “My dear, what can I say? This is just a perfect place for this stack here.”

  He picked up the very pile that Earnestine had generated when she’d cleared the desk.

  “No, no,” she cried. “They came from there… there is something you can do, and only you.”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “Could you, perhaps, identify what we don’t need and dispose of it?”

  “Dispose of it!?”

  “Yes.”

  Boothroyd sniggered at the prodigious thought: “We could have a little bonfire.”

  “Surely we can’t let these go outside.”

  “You are right, of course. Indeed, there are items, here in this pile, that even you should not see – state secrets. I’ll put… this knight on top to guard them.”

  Boothroyd placed a large pewter paperweight, a knight on a horse stabbing a lance into a dragon, on to a small pile by the corner.