The Space Between Time

by Bruce Macfarlane

  I enlarged the hole with the golden shard until it was big enough to step through.

  “OK.” I said, “we are all going to hold hands. I’ll go first, then Elizabeth then you, Tesla. Any problems, pull like hell!”

  We each grasped a hand and walked towards the blank wall.

  I didn’t feel a thing. It was as though there was nothing there.

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  E.

  We floated in total blackness grasping each other’s’ hands firmly. At first I could see nothing but as I became accustomed to the darkness I could see faintly a large object around which was some kind of supporting frame.

  Mr Tesla nearly made me jump out my skin.

  “It is my laboratory! There is my resonance coil!”

  He let go of my hand and rushed into the darkness and disappeared.

  I realised I wasn’t holding anyone’s hand.

  “James! Where are you?”

  “Here!” he shouted, gratifyingly close. “Stay still. And keep talking; I will come to you.”

  I felt his hand, then his arms were around me squeezing me tight, which was a little embarrassing because as I planted a kiss on his neck the lights came on.

  Thankfully Mr Tesla ignored our position.

  “We have arrived at a time before I switched on the apparatus.”

  Before we could stop him, he ran over to the power supply.

  “What are you doing?” shouted James.

  Mr Tesla ignored him and grabbing two thick cables proceeded to yank them out of the console

  “I am making sure the oscillator is completely detached from its power supply just in case it starts again.”

  Soddenly I heard a bell chime, then another. We all turned to the other wall where there was a large mechanical clock. Its hands were on midnight.

  We watched it in silence as it struck midnight then watched the minute hand move forward.

  “Time has started again!”

  “Then we may be back in our own time again.”

  “And perhaps we have stopped the shift in time.”

  Suddenly I felt really tired. Mr Tesla noticed and kindly offered to take us to his home.

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  J.

  I discovered Tesla’s pad was about two miles from his lab at a hotel called the Girlach and as it was past midnight I thought he was going to get into a cab but he decided to take public transport. When Elizabeth heard this she whispered, “James! Listen! Stay close to me and do as I say.”

  “Why?” I whispered back wondering what she meant.

  “You have never visited a nineteenth century big city. Let alone in the middle of the night. You will quickly find why those with means avoid walking or taking an omnibus”

  We stepped out on to the street from his lab and within a few moments I realised why. Apart from a few gas lights and lights from windows it was very dark. And far from being reasonably clean like Chichester or Midhurst we found ourselves wading through dust, powdery horse manure and god knows what else which in no time at all was making my throat sore and stinging my eyes. Despite the hour, horses, carts, busses and cabs came from all directions. There seemed to be no rules for driving on the left or right. I tried to stay on the pavement but was constantly battered by the throngs of people who pushed me back into the road, most of whom looked like they had had a good evening. Eventually Elizabeth realised I’d lost my street sense when, in trying to avoid a maniac baker’s horse, I nearly got run over by a bus. She grabbed my arm tightly and managed to steer me out of harm’s way just in time.

  “Stay with me James! Otherwise you will be run over!”

  Eventually with help from Elizabeth, who seemed to be able to magically create paths through the crowd just by her presence, we arrived at a large white arch which looked the spitting image of Marble Arch by Hyde Park and seemed to be the home for all the chattering starlings in New York.

  Tesla said it was built a few years ago to commemorate something to do with George Washington. Beside it was the longest thoroughfare I’d ever seen. It was straight as a die and lined with massive French-style residential properties with stone stairs running up to the front door and each with its own street lamp. There wasn’t a skyscraper to be seen! This apparently was 5th Avenue in 1895. It was much narrower than I expected and thankfully there was far less traffic.

  Just near the Arch on the avenue I noticed a crowd of people were gathering near a large lamp post and when a horse drawn double decker bus arrived they all immediately rushed for it.

  Tesla shouted, “Come on we must get on!”

  And he disappeared into the crowd.

  We followed, after Elizabeth, still gripping my arm, warned me that queue did not exist and it was every man for himself. I was quite surprised at the dexterity of her elbows in fighting through the milling crowd to get on the bus.

  I suggested we go on the top deck to see the sights but the stair was already crammed with people and instead we found ourselves pushed into the downstairs carriage by the people getting on behind. Inside it was like the underground at rush hour except it stank of the sickly odour of sweaty unwashed clothes from the passengers who were jam packed tight around me, and tobacco smoke. There were three lamps which just gave enough light to wish you were somewhere else for it seemed half the passengers were drunk. There were no spare seats and we had to stand. Or to put it more accurately, were wedged upright by the people around us. I also got the impression that toothpaste hadn’t become fashionable yet.

  A we travelled along the avenue at almost a snail’s pace, the heat and smell became almost stifling and after a while, for some reason I began to yearn for a good, thick, cool, damp, London smog. My throat was dry and I could feel the airborne dust in my mouth. Then I realised that most of what I was breathing in was not dust and I quickly got out my handkerchief and put it over my nose and mouth. I noticed Elizabeth had done the same.

  However, what really appalled me were the dead horses lying by the side of the road. Judging by the odour of putrefaction that occasionally drifted in through the open windows I judged they’d been there for days. Elizabeth noticed my shocked expression and said with a muffled voice through her handkerchief, “I am afraid, James, there is much you haven’t seen of my society.”

  “Well I expected to see poverty but to see this, well, it’s appalling.”

  “I am afraid this is normal, James. In all cities, they are worked to death and abandoned. As for poverty, there is none here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is 5th Avenue. Look at the people. They have shoes.”

  I looked out of the window and in the dim light of the house lamps saw that everyone did have shoes. It took me a moment to realise that my definition of poverty was a little different from hers.

  The final straw of this nightmare journey was when I noticed the brass spittoon buckets in the carriage walkway which passengers spat into as they got on and off the bus. I say ‘into’ for some passengers seem to take great delight in seeing how far they could spit and hit the bucket. I was now beginning to feel quite nauseous, not least because of the thought of catching TB.

  It was therefore with some relief, after numerous halts in which we jostled with people getting on or off, that Tesla signalled us to get off the bus. Unfortunately in my haste to get off I kicked over one of the buckets. I didn’t look to see what the reaction was and prayed that it hadn’t soaked into my shoes or worse, Elizabeth’s.

  We were now standing in a weird large open oasis criss-crossed with paths and a few trees and surrounded by luxury brown stone houses and a massive white building with a what looked like a massive illuminated clock tower on one side. Hundreds of people in evening dress were spilling out of the various doors of the building and piling into lines of cabs and carriages. Having only seen black and white photos of city life from this day, I was amazed at the colours of the women’s dresses.

  When I asked Tesla where we w
ere and what was going on he said this was Madison Square Gardens and believed it was either a concert or Annie Oakley’s and Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show!

  We were still holding handkerchiefs over our mouths and Elizabeth was now holding on to me for support. Tesla noticed and assured us it was but a short walk to his hotel. Thankfully it was and in a much quieter neighbourhood.

  The hotel must have had more than eight stories with bay windowed apartments on either side and incredibly had palm trees growing on the roof! The entrance was like a medieval castle doorway. I can’t describe the relief of getting inside and leaving the streets behind.

  His rooms were well furnished in the Victorian American gothic style complete with aspidistra, though only one bed, which obviously we gave to Elizabeth, and I dozed on a sofa while Tesla fell fast asleep in an armchair.

  In the morning, I awoke, feeling rather stiff and still with a bit of a sore throat to find Tesla had disappeared! I was just about to wake Elizabeth to tell her we were now abandoned somewhere in New York without a single dollar when Tesla returned clutching a newspaper.

  His face was in shock.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “My laboratory! It is destroyed! All my work, up in flames!”

  I sat him down in an armchair and grabbed the paper. It was the New York Herald for Thursday March 14th, 1895. I scanned the front page. Nothing. Just adverts. I turned to the next page. Nothing about a fire there either. I began to suspect Tesla had had some kind of brain fever.

  Then Elizabeth, who had now been fully awoken by the commotion, came up to me and said, “What is the matter? Is Mr Tesla unwell?”

  “I think so. He brought this paper which he says claims his lab has been destroyed by fire but I can’t find anything on it.”

  She took the paper from me, looked at what I was reading and said, “Oh James! Don’t you now that in my time the real news was often a few pages in?

  ” There on this page. It says... oh, gosh! It is true! Look!”

  And there on page 5 at the top:

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  “FRUITS OF GENIUS

  WERE SWEPT AWAY.

  By a Fire the Noted Electrician,

  Nikola Tesla, Loses Mechan-

  -isms of Inestimable Value.”

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  I didn’t know whether to be relieved that the fire had happened or feel sorry for Tesla.

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  E.

  Mr Tesla was very ill. All his life’s work had been destroyed. We stayed with him for a few days, nursing him back to health, at his expense, for embarrassingly we did not have any American monies, and we fended off the many reporters and journalists who came to his door.

  After five days, he was walking again and during the late evenings when the streets were empty and cleaner we convinced him to take the airs.

  Soon his enthusiasm for his work returned and he commenced writing and sending letters to all and sundry. After about two weeks, James and I had become full time secretaries and dispatchers of mail, and our presence on the streets was beginning to attract attention. Seeing that he seemed to be back on his feet again I broached the subject of our returning home.

  He proved most generous with his reward for our help.

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  Chapter Twenty-two

  J.

  There are many old photos of dockyards on the internet. What they don’t show you is the smell and noise of thousands of people, baggage handlers, carriages, and horses.

  Elizabeth and I were in sitting in a two-horse-drawn carriage with wall-to-wall burgundy buttoned upholstery and matching velvet curtains. We had joined a line of similar carriages at the customs post because Tesla had bought us cabin tickets on the RMS Campania for Liverpool and we were, thankfully, in the posh people’s queue. Apparently, it only cost $450 with a servant thrown in. The downside was that we had to arrive at the quay by six o’clock in the morning and Mr Tesla’s farewell party, which finished about three in the morning, had left both of us with a bit of a headache.

  The carriage Tesla had provided was according to Elizabeth just sufficient for our needs, or her needs. For, she reminded me, our voyage might last seven or eight days and during that time a lady could not be seen in the same dress twice. Given that this rule applied to both day and evening wear, I wondered whether we should have hired an extra carriage. As for me, it seems that in 1895, as long as I turned up in a good black suit and wearing a dicky-bow I would be accepted in polite circles.

  However just as I relaxed back into my soft seat and thought about renouncing my socialist principles to join the ‘good life’, to the right of us, further down the quay, the doors of a large customs shed opened and a sea of people emerged. I had only seen photos of immigrants arriving at New York. They were wide eyed and full of hope. But these immigrants looked lost. They milled around the shed until they were herded by port staff like sheep into a fenced walk way which passed our way.

  As they flowed past I realised what Elizabeth meant about real poverty. Most of them were carrying their own baggage and nearly all the children were shoeless. They reminded me of those long lines of refugees or displaced persons I’d seen in those old black and white news reels from the second world war, except I was now seeing the reality in colour.

  To my embarrassment many of them stopped to looked in wonder at our row of carriages from which many ladies and gents were already alighting, dressed in all their morning finery and assisted by servants retrieving and carrying their luggage.

  When our turn came to alight, I’m sorry to say, that I did my upmost to pretend I didn’t notice the crowds of immigrants trudging passed us.

  The RMS Campania was sitting in a long berth. The ship didn’t look very big. And certainly not big enough to cross the Atlantic. There were two tall smoking funnels painted red and black which I remembered were the colours of the Cunard Line. Beside it were scores of carts, with hundreds of grey-clad men handling luggage and provisions into the cargo bays. Behind them, waiting, were dozens of open horse-drawn trucks laden with coal to fire the boilers.

  We eventually managed to get through the customs posts with our tickets. Thankfully no one asked for passports.

  When we arrived at the ship a group of liveried men removed our luggage in seconds and scurried off with it to what I presume would be some tradesmen’s entrance. We had to climb the main gang plank where we were met by our own personal valet, who introduced himself as Peters and told us he would be looking after us on the voyage. I suspected that his agency gave out appropriate names which would be acceptable to society.

  He led us down a mahogany panelled corridor and opened the door into what I can only describe as the most opulent Victorian entrance hall I’d ever seen. Everything, and I mean everything was covered in ornate, art nouveau woodwork and in the centre a large, wide staircase which I thought would normally be reserved only for royalty. At the top, we came to another floor which opened out into half a dozen open salons and lounges. Elizabeth said that although she had never been in a London Club, from what her cousin had described, this place was definitely at the exclusive end of the market.

  Eventually, after walking for about a mile on thick Axminster carpets, along a corridor lined with paintings of famous ships’ captains and sea battles, we came to our room. I say room for first we had to walk through a salon complete with sofas, comfy chairs, portholes and a fireplace. Apparently, we could light a fire if we were a bit cold!

  As for the bedroom, well, it was floor-to-ceiling mahogany and oak panelling, two more sofas, a massive four poster bed, in which two people could easily lose touch with each other, and a drinks cabinet already lined with a sufficient range of liquors to keep us permanently sozzled for at least three return journeys. I said to Elizabeth, “If we get back home I want you to redesign our bedroom just like this.”

  To which she replied, “And when I’ve finished, where shall we put th
e other rooms?”

  Then I remembered our luggage. I was just about to tell Peters that we needed to retrieve our luggage when a small bell rang. Peters immediately returned to our living room, opened the door and two liveried men and a maid servant came in with our luggage. Before I could pick any of it up, I was ushered into a small room, which I discovered was my own clothes cupboard, while the maid servant took Elizabeth to hers. This team then proceeded to unpack all our clothes and hang or fold them expertly in the appropriate spaces within, I am sure, less than a minute.

  When they’d finished, I gave them a ten dollar note each, mainly as a reward for their show of expertise. Their eyes popped when they saw the notes and tried to ask for less but I wasn’t having it. I needed to cleanse my conscience a bit, though I didn’t tell them that.

  Peters, seeing that everything was in place, asked permission to leave after drawing attention to a bell push which apparently would have him back at our side within seconds. From what I’d seen so far, I believed him. I imagined he had a small chamber attached to our rooms from which he could leap out at a moment’s notice. I tried to give him a tip but he refused saying that Mr Tesla had more than adequately rewarded him on the condition that he saw to our every whim.

  From what I’d seen in the last half hour I decided I wouldn’t need any more whims for the rest of our lives.

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  E.

  There is nothing like a hot steaming bath in which one’s body fits comfortably, followed by soft warm towels. Although my family is of reasonable means, I must confess, as James often puts it, that I was a little out of my class.

  Mr Tesla’s generosity had not only bought us a first-class cabin but allowed me to replace my complete wardrobe. James, on seeing the quantity of my selection, wondered how New Yorkers would find any clothes left to buy after I’d finished. However, on the quay, he had seen the luggage of the other first-class carriages whereupon he had decided that I was quite frugal in my spending and promised never to complain about my travelling requirements again. He is usually quite difficult when purchasing clothes, preferring instead his gardening garments, but I could not miss out on this opportunity to provide him with proper attire. For I wished him not to keep borrowing from my father’s wardrobe which required clips and stitching in order to fit him.