One for Sorrow

by Philip Caveney

  ‘Tom? Breakfast!’

  ‘Er, coming!’ Tom switched the Kindle off and hurried downstairs to the kitchen. Hamish was already sitting at the table, applying lashings of ketchup to a plate of bacon and eggs. He winked at Tom.

  ‘Morning, Tom,’ he said, all jovial and friendly. ‘Did you sleep all right?’

  Tom nodded. He was trying to think what to do for the best. Obviously, everything depended on him getting back to 1881, but he had no control over that, he could only hope that it would happen sooner or later, and if and when it did happen his priority would be to make sure that the dedication got switched back to Lloyd. Otherwise, who knew what might come of it?

  ‘I’m breaking the diet for once,’ Hamish informed him, cheerfully. ‘As it’s a special day.’

  Tom regarded him suspiciously. ‘What’s so special about it?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re having a lad’s day out,’ said Hamish.

  Mum brought over two more plates of food and placed one in front of Tom. He gave her a pleading look. ‘You’re not coming with us?’ he muttered.

  ‘I’m going shopping,’ she told him brightly. ‘With a couple of my girlfriends. You boys can spend as long as you like finding out about . . . what’s-his-name again?’

  ‘Robert Louis Stevenson,’ said Hamish. ‘The Governor. You know, I’ve always meant to visit the Writers’ Museum. Now I’ve finally got an excuse.’ He picked up a sheaf of papers from beside his plate and handed them to Tom.

  ‘Thought we might make a bit of a project of it,’ he said. ‘Printed that little lot off Wikipedia.’ He filled his mouth with bacon and chewed noisily. ‘Come on, eat up, I’m raring to go.’

  Tom started eating, but with rather less enthusiasm. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘you don’t have to come with me. I mean, if you’ve got something better to do . . .’

  ‘You are joking, I hope? I’ve been looking forward to this. Even took a day off work for it.’

  Mum beamed lovingly at Hamish across the table. ‘Perhaps you’d rather come shopping with me and the girls,’ she suggested and they both laughed at the notion.

  ‘It’ll be great,’ Hamish assured Tom. ‘We’ll have a good long look around the museum and then we’ll pick up a spot of lunch somewhere. I thought we might go to Howie’s and have something really traditional . . .’

  He rattled on, but Tom wasn’t listening. He was desperately hoping there weren’t going to be any surprises in store at the museum.

  They went into town on the bus because Hamish didn’t want to be bothered finding a place to park. He was charm itself on the way in, pointing out places of interest to Tom, telling him how such and such a café was where he met his first girlfriend and how this club used to have the best music in Edinburgh and that tavern was where he’d drunk his first legal pint. Tom just nodded and grunted every so often because he had a lot on his mind. He was trying to decide if he’d come back to reality or one of the alternate worlds he’d sometimes encountered. So far, everything seemed normal enough, if you discounted how downright chummy Hamish was being.

  After a short walk through the city centre, they found themselves on the Lawnmarket. Tom had good reason to remember this place. After all, it was where the murderer, William Burke had been hanged in January 1829 and though Tom had actually left before the execution, everyone at Tanner’s Close had been talking about nothing else in the weeks before it happened.

  The approach to the museum was in a little courtyard and Tom noticed that special flagstones had been installed around the place with quotes from famous writers. After a little searching they found Lou’s.

  There are no stars so lovely

  as Edinburgh street-lamps.

  ‘Isn’t that just fantastic?’ enthused Hamish, and Tom decided that the man was trying a little bit too hard now. Hamish pointed to the museum itself, a lofty grey stone building with a turret-like entrance. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I did a wee bit of research on the internet. There are basically three writers represented here. Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns and Robert Louis Stevenson. I suggest we concentrate on RLS today, and if you’ve a mind to consider the other two, we can always come again.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Tom. He was starting to feel rather weary of Hamish’s constant cheerfulness.

  ‘Right then, step this way.’ Hamish led him in through the open door and, following the signs, they went down a narrow flight of circular stone steps to the basement room. It was a large rectangular space with deep red walls. These were hung with paintings and black and white photographs. In various glass cases around the room were artefacts that had belonged to the great author himself. There was nobody else down there, so they were at liberty to wander about and have a good look.

  They stopped in front of a large colour painting of Lou which depicted him standing by an open doorway in a strangely exaggerated pose, one hand lifted to his mouth, the other in his pocket. Sitting on a sofa to the right of him was Frances who, for reasons best known to herself, was draped in an oriental-style robe of white and gold. A caption beneath the painting said that it was by John Singer Sargent.

  ‘That’s when you know you’ve arrived,’ said Hamish. ‘When a famous painter wants to do your portrait.’

  Tom nodded, but he thought it was a poor likeness that did neither Lou nor Fran any favours at all. Hamish moved on to the next image, a large black and white photograph, while Tom lingered by the painting, seeing if he could recognise the view through the open doorway, which showed a gloomy staircase leading upwards. It definitely wasn’t the hired rooms where the Stevensons had spent Christmas 1881, he decided. The family house in Heriot Place perhaps?

  ‘Ah,’ said Hamish. ‘I read about this.’

  Tom moved across to join him and looked at the picture. It showed the Stevenson family and a whole bunch of other people, sitting on the veranda of a house in a tropical setting. Tom’s gaze flicked down to the caption, which read, ‘On the veranda of Valima, Samoa, 1892.’ He looked back at the picture. There was Lou, dressed in khaki shirt and trousers and the tall youth lounging beside him, also dressed in khakis and wearing some kind of pith helmet, was undoubtedly Lloyd, but much taller and older than when Tom had last seen him. Fran was sitting beside Lou, her Victorian-style dress looking highly inappropriate for such a climate and lounging at her feet was a young woman with dark hair. Tom supposed this must be Belle, the stepdaughter, who Lloyd had told him was married and lived elsewhere. Also in the picture were various natives, bare-chested and wearing patterned sarongs.

  ‘This is where Stevenson finished up his life,’ said Hamish, pulling the Wikipedia pages out of the pocket of his overcoat. He consulted it for a moment. ‘Yeah, he was dead two years after this picture was taken. At the age of forty-four.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s no age at all, really.’

  Tom felt as though he’d just been punched in the chest. It hadn’t occurred to him that the Robert Louis Stevenson he’d met in 1881 had only eleven years left to live.

  ‘Where’s Samoa?’ asked Tom.

  ‘In the South Pacific, I think.’

  ‘I suppose he’d gone there because of the tuberculosis,’ murmured Tom. ‘Is that what killed him in the end?’

  ‘Oh, no, he died of a . . .’ Hamish checked the facts. ‘A cerebral haemorrhage. It happened while he was making mayonnaise, of all things! And anyway, they don’t think it was tuberculosis.’

  Tom looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s here somewhere . . .’ Hamish scanned the pages for a moment. ‘Where did I see it? Ah yes, here it is. They think it was most probably something called sarcoidosis.’

  ‘I never heard of that,’ said Tom.

  ‘I don’t think anybody knew about it until recently,’ said Hamish. ‘Shame. Just think how many more great books he could have written if he’d only had more time.’ He handed the pages over to Tom. ‘Here, you should read these when you get the chance.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Tom folded the sheets and stu
ffed them into the pocket of his overcoat, telling himself he’d give them a proper look when he had a bit more time. Hamish moved on to the next photograph, but Tom lingered for a moment, staring back at the author’s face. Lou looked serene in the picture, contented. He could have had no idea that his time was already running out.

  Beside him he heard Hamish say, ‘Jesus!’

  He turned and looked at his stepfather in surprise. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. Hamish was staring open-mouthed at the next photograph in the line. His hands hung limply by his sides and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. Tom moved across to see what Hamish was staring at.

  Now it was Tom’s turn to take a deep breath, because staring back at him, across an interval of hundreds of years, was his own face.

  ‘That’s you,’ hissed Hamish.

  ‘It looks a bit like me,’ admitted Tom. ‘But . . .’

  He knew it was pointless to protest, because the figure was also wearing the same clothes that Tom was wearing now – jeans, trainers and the t-shirt featuring the gorilla in a top hat. He was standing beside a grinning Lou, a smiling Fran and a scowling Lloyd, who was dressed in that hideous sailor suit he always wore. The four of them were posed beside a little Christmas tree and the caption read, Christmas 1881, Edinburgh.

  ‘You, you knew Robert Louis Stevenson,’ said Hamish. ‘You met him. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I . . . don’t be daft, how could I have met him? That’s, that’s been photoshopped.’ He pointed to the caption. ‘Look, that was taken in 1881. How could I possibly have . . .?’

  But Hamish wasn’t listening. He was breathing heavily now, his shoulders rising and falling and Tom couldn’t help but notice how the fabric of his winter coat appeared to be stretching across his already brawny shoulders, as though he was growing bigger, broader, even more muscular. As Tom stared in dumbstruck horror, he saw that tufts of thick red hair were sprouting from the back of Hamish’s neck.

  ‘Hamish, are you−?’

  He broke off as Hamish turned to glare at him and now the man’s face was changing, even as Tom stared at it, mesmerised. It was stretching, reshaping itself like warm clay, the forehead elongating, the cheeks sprouting clumps of luxurious auburn hair, the eyes turning a vivid shade of amber. When he spoke again, his voice was guttural, beastlike. Large discoloured teeth jutted down over his bottom lip.

  ‘You should have told me!’ he bellowed and his voice seemed to fill the entire room. ‘You should have said.’ He pointed a big, hairy finger at Tom and the nail of that finger was yellow and misshapen. He began to advance threateningly and Tom backed away in alarm.

  ‘Hamish,’ he whispered. ‘T . . . take it easy.’

  ‘You let me bring you here under false pretences,’ snarled Hamish. ‘You wanted to make a fool of me!’

  ‘No, no, I . . .’ Tom broke off as Hamish launched a savage punch at his face. He ducked to one side and Hamish’s fist sped past and connected with a glass cabinet, smashing it to pieces. Tom stared down at it in dismay. ‘Whoah, stop! This stuff is valuable. You can’t . . .’

  Hamish threw an arm around Tom’s neck and pulled him in close, almost stifling him with the powerful animal-like stench that was emanating from him.

  ‘You’re making me angry!’ he bellowed and with that, he picked Tom up as though he weighed no more than a bundle of clothing and threw him clear across the room. Tom collided with a large painting and brought it crashing to the ground, tearing the canvas and splintering the ornate frame. He groaned, rolled over amidst the debris and scrambled to his feet, only to see that Hamish had now become a total changeling. His heavy coat had torn across his shoulders, exposing a great hairy back.

  Mr Hyde. The two words flashed through Tom’s mind as Hamish clambered up onto an antique writing desk and prepared to launch himself across the room. Tom didn’t feel inclined to wait around and see what happened next. He turned and ran for the exit, aware of a crashing sound behind him and the thud of heavy feet on the carpeted floor. He made it as far as the spiral staircase and started up them, but he’d only taken half a dozen steps when a great hairy hand clamped around his ankle and pulled back hard, wrenching him off his feet. He fell and his forehead connected with the stone step, sending a shock of liquid pain pulsing through him. Coloured lights exploded in front of his eyes, the world began to see-saw madly around him and he was only dimly aware that something was pulling him backwards. He flipped himself around and saw Mr Hyde, crouched over him. He was chuckling fiendishly, ready to finish Tom off . . .

  And then mercifully, the darkness closed around him, like a warm enveloping cloak and he knew no more.

  Eleven

  When he finally came to, he was lying in bed at the Stevenson’s house and the light of early morning was leaking through a gap in the curtains. He could hear the sound of a horse’s hooves clopping along the street outside. He felt absolutely exhausted but not in any pain, which was a mercy, and when he lifted a hand to prod gingerly at his forehead, everything there felt fine. He pushed aside the sheets to find that he was once again wearing Lloyd’s long cotton nightgown. He got out of bed and stumbled across to a small mirror on the far wall, but when he studied his reflection he found no sign of any injury to his head and was left to wonder, once again, if what had happened to him had been merely a dream or an alternate reality. Since there were no bruises in evidence, he suspected the former, but he had long ago given up trying to figure out the difference between the two. Sometimes he wondered if there was a difference.

  He heard sounds of movement coming from below so he changed into his clothes and went down to find Fran in her customary place at the kitchen table, drinking tea. Anna was busy at the cooking range but there was no sign of Lou or Lloyd, this morning.

  ‘Ah, Tom,’ said Fran. ‘I’m glad you’re up. I wanted a word with you.’

  Tom took a seat beside her. ‘Where are the others?’ he asked.

  Fran looked grave. ‘Lloyd’s with Lou,’ she said. ‘Lou was awake all night with that darned cough. I’m starting to think that if he’s to have any respite from it, we really should head back to Davos, with all speed. But he’s as stubborn as ever. He’s insisting that we stay on, at least until after Hogmanay.’ She shook her head, frowned. ‘Tom, I wanted to speak to you about this business with Miss McCallum. Clearly you haven’t been exactly truthful with us.’

  ‘Oh, that, well . . .’

  ‘I don’t really understand why you’d tell us you were staying with her when she is out of the country.’

  ‘Erm, it’s kind of . . .’ Tom thought for a moment. ‘I explained all this to Lou, last night. Didn’t he tell you about me running away from home?’

  ‘Yes, he did tell me, but that’s hardly an explanation. Lou also suggested that I should get the address of your parents and write them a letter, explaining where you are.’

  ‘There’s no point in doing that,’ said Tom. ‘They wouldn’t get the letter.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because . . . because they aren’t there now. I told you, they’re in the South of France.’

  ‘So that bit at least is true?’

  Tom nodded. ‘Yeah, like I said, they wanted to be on their own for a bit. And you see, I don’t have their address over there.’

  ‘Which means they left you completely on your own. A boy of fourteen? Perhaps it’s the police I should be contacting?’

  ‘Oh, er, no, don’t do that! Cat will explain everything when she gets back.’

  ‘Cat?’ Fran raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I mean Miss McCallum! It’s sort of my nickname for her,’ he explained. ‘It’s what I used to call her when she was, when she was . . .’ He broke off awkwardly. He’d been about to say, ‘When she was my age,’ but realised that that wouldn’t help matters at all, ‘when we first met,’ he ended lamely.

  ‘And how long ago was that? With respect, Tom, you’re only a boy and she’s quite elderly. And I don’t mind telling you, I
really don’t think it’s respectful referring to her as “Cat”.’

  ‘She doesn’t mind. She likes that name.’ Tom sighed. ‘Look, I really do know her,’ he said. ‘If you’re thinking that I made it all up, I . . .’

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt for a moment that you know her. And, yes, for your information, Miss McCallum is back in residence. Apparently, she arrived late last night. Her manservant must have told her all about our attempts to contact her, because a messenger arrived with a note from her this morning.’

  ‘Oh really? What did she say?’

  ‘The note wasn’t for me,’ Fran assured him. She picked up a cream coloured envelope from the table and handed it to Tom. On it was written, in an ornate hand, just two words: Tom Afflick.

  He gazed at it for a moment, then tore it open and scanned the single sheet of paper within.

  Tom

  Can it really be true? Have you actually returned?

  Or is it just the sick fancy of a demented old woman?

  If it really is you, please, visit me with all haste.

  I curse the fact that I was away in England if it

  means that I have missed the event I have waited

  a lifetime for. Please, do not hesitate. I shall have

  no thought of rest until I have seen you again.

  Cat

  Tom folded the letter. He looked up at Fran who had been studying him intently as he read it. ‘I need to go and see her,’ he said.

  Fran nodded. ‘Of course. You’ll have some breakfast before you leave?’

  ‘Umm, no, that’s all right, thanks. It sounds like she’s pretty anxious to see me.’ He started to get up from the table, but Fran put a hand on his arm to keep him in place for a moment.

  ‘I hope we will see more of you before we go back to Davos,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that Lou is very fond of you, as indeed, we all are. I think Lou regards you as some kind of . . . muse. You’ve certainly fired him up with regard to Treasure Island. He’s already begun on those revisions, you know. I told him he should rest for a while, but he’s having none of it. He’s sitting up in bed, editing page after page. It’s as though he’s on a mission.’