Tom smiled. ‘It’ll be worth it,’ he said. He looked at Fran. ‘Did it ever occur to you,’ he said, ‘that maybe it isn’t tuberculosis that Lou has?’
She frowned. ‘What else could it be?’ she asked him.
He thought about telling her that it was actually sarcoidosis but quickly realised that there would be no point. The illness wouldn’t be identified for another hundred years or more. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, flatly. ‘Just . . . something they don’t have a name for yet?’
Fran shrugged her shoulders. ‘How I only wish there was a cure for whatever it is,’ she said. ‘It is the curse of his life at the moment. And I sometimes fear that it will not be a long one.’ She made an attempt to brighten up and forced a smile. ‘Anyhow, please look in on him and say goodbye before you leave,’ she begged him. ‘And listen, we’re having a little get-together this evening for Christmas Eve and all. William will be there and a few other of Lou’s friends. If you’d like to come, we’d be absolutely delighted to see you. And Miss McCallum too, of course, if she’s up to visiting.’
‘Okay, I’ll mention it to her,’ said Tom. ‘Thanks for everything.’ He stood up and was about to reach out and shake her hand, but on second thoughts, he leaned forward and planted a polite peck on her cheek. She gave him an odd look and then smiled. ‘You Manchester people are so forward,’ she said, but he could see that she was actually rather delighted by the informality of his action.
‘That’s us,’ admitted Tom, as he headed out of the room. ‘Oh, yeah, we’re famous for it.’
Up on the first floor he found Lou in his room, sitting in a big double bed. He was propped up on mounds of feather pillows with a blanket draped around his shoulders and was scribbling furiously away on a sheet of manuscript paper with a simple metal dip pen. The pages rested on an ingenious wooden writing box which sat on the bed in front of him. Lloyd was lounging on the carpet next to the bed, playing with some brightly painted lead soldiers. Both Lou and Lloyd looked up as Tom stepped into the room.
‘Ah, there you are!’ Lou looked pale and washed-out, Tom thought, and he noticed that his free hand held a bundled up handkerchief that was liberally spotted with dried blood. An idea occurred to Tom. What if, on one of his trips back to the present-day, he could go to a doctor and pick up a prescription? Something that would actually help the symptoms of sarcoidosis. If indeed, there was such a thing. But, he thought, how would he ever convince a doctor to give him the medicine? It wasn’t as though he could fake the symptoms. He remembered the miracles his pack of antibiotics had effected in 1645, how he had managed to cure two cases of bubonic plague with them. But in that instance, he’d actually had the pills in his pocket when he’d first travelled back.
‘As you can see, I’m already working on the rewrite,’ said Lou, interrupting his thoughts.
‘Huh? Oh yeah, good for you,’ said Tom. ‘I just popped up to say that I’m heading over to see Cat, I mean, Miss McCallum.’
‘Yes, Fran said she’d sent you a note. But please tell us we haven’t seen the last of you.’ He glanced at Lloyd. ‘We like having Tom around, don’t we, Lloyd?’
‘Oh, yeah, he’s a tonic.’ Lloyd was studying Tom with a knowing smirk on his face and Tom remembered that the boy now knew everything about him. ‘You be careful out there, Tom,’ he said. ‘We don’t want you coming to any harm.’
‘No, I’ll er . . . watch out,’ said Tom. ‘Thanks.’
‘Did Fran mention the party tonight?’ asked Lou.
Tom nodded. ‘She did.’
‘See if you can get Catriona to come along,’ Lou urged him. ‘She’s fine company when a fellow can coax her out, but she so rarely goes anywhere these days. I’m sure she’d enjoy the company of some other writers. And you know, there’s many of us in the literary world who feel that The Path of Truth is one of the great novels.’
‘Yeah, it’s a top book, isn’t it?’
Lou looked surprised. ‘You’ve read it?’ he cried.
‘Yeah, ‘course I have. I’ll tell her you said that, if you like.’
‘By all means.’ Lou shook his head. ‘I must say Tom, you’re full of surprises. Anyway, I’m sure you’re looking forward to seeing her again.’
‘I expect Tom and Miss McCallum have a lot to talk about,’ said Lloyd, slyly. ‘Maybe they want to discuss the good old days.’
Lou looked from Tom to Lloyd and back again. ‘Am I missing something here?’ he asked.
‘No, nothing!’ said Tom, a little too loudly. He pointed to the sheets of paper beside the writing box. ‘You just crack on with that. I’m really looking forward to finding out what happens in the stockade.’
As soon as he’d said it, he knew he’d made a mistake.
‘The stockade?’ echoed Lou. He was staring intently at Tom.
‘Er, yeah, that’s where I got to on the train. You know, the bit where Jim and Squire Trelawney and the others, they go in the old stockade and the . . . the pirates have got them surrounded, so . . .’
‘But that chapter hasn’t appeared in Young Folks yet,’ protested Lou.
‘Oh, I . . . I’m sure it has.’
Lou shook his head. ‘That’s still another two editions away.’ Lou looked suddenly rather stern. ‘Perhaps you’d like to explain, Tom, how you know all about a scene that has yet to appear in print?’
There was a terrible silence, while Tom tried desperately to come up with a convincing answer. ‘Well, I, I . . .’ His mind was a blank.
But then Lloyd said, ‘I told him about it, Papa.’
Tom stared at Lloyd in amazement. ‘Oh, er . . . yeah, that’s right! We were talking about it, weren’t we Lloyd? I was wondering what happened next, and you − you sort of told me and . . . then I must have thought I’d read it for myself.’ He slapped his forehead. ‘What am I like?’ he said. ‘Duh!’
‘I see.’ Lou seemed to accept the explanation, but he gave Lloyd an admonishing look. ‘I’m surprised at you,’ he said. ‘What have I told you about giving the story away? Always let the reader . . .’
‘Discover it for himself,’ finished Lloyd. ‘Yes, sorry Papa. I guess I wasn’t thinking.’
Lou gestured to the half-written sheet. ‘Well, I’d better get back to it. I hope we’ll see you tonight, Tom. And if not tonight then definitely before we head back to Davos.’
‘Sure, no worries.’ Tom glanced at Lloyd and saw that the boy was studying him, a superior smirk on his face. Lloyd had got him out of a sticky situation all right, but Tom wasn’t stupid enough to think that the boy had done it out of the goodness of his heart. There’d be an ulterior motive waiting to be revealed somewhere further down the line, of that Tom was sure.
‘Well, catch you guys later!’ he said and turning away, he headed along the landing and down the stairs. He needed to visit Cat and he sincerely hoped that this time nothing would happen to prevent the reunion. He grabbed his coat from the stand in the hall on his way through and opened the door. Outside, the Edinburgh day looked perfectly normal. He stood for a moment and then went down the steps, one at a time, placing his feet with great care, terrified that the stones would turn to liquid beneath them and pull him in. But this time they stayed reassuringly solid.
He made it down to the pavement and hesitated, looking suspiciously around. Strangers moved to and fro along the street but for the moment at least, there was no sign of a mysterious cloaked figure.
‘So far, so good,’ he muttered and began to walk.
Twelve
Cat’s house in Lauriston Street was a grand affair, a lofty, grey stone mansion in the heart of the old town. Tom climbed the steps to the door and rang the bell. Now that the moment was close at hand, he felt strangely anxious. After all, the last time he’d seen her she’d been his age. Now she was an old woman. However things turned out, it was going to feel
very weird.
The door opened and a man in a tail coat and striped trousers stood there, gazing down at Tom with a grim
expression on his face, as though he didn’t much like what he saw. ‘May I help you?’ he said, flatly.
‘Er, I’m here to see Cat . . . Catriona. I mean, Miss McCallum! My name is Tom Afflick.’
The reaction was dramatic. The man swung the door wide and ushered Tom inside. ‘If you’d be so good as to follow me, sir,’ he said. ‘I shall take you directly to her.’ He waited till Tom was inside then closed the door and led him along a hallway, a much wider, grander one than the Stevenson’s hired place. Through open doorways to his left and right, Tom glimpsed massive rooms, richly furnished with gilt chairs and tables, the walls hung with huge oil paintings. Cut glass chandeliers hung from the ceilings, reflecting the light from massive windows. Finally, they came to a door at the very end of the hall. The man knocked politely then turned the handle in one white-gloved hand and, holding the door open, he stepped aside and bowed his head, waiting for Tom to enter. Tom did as he was bid, feeling faintly embarrassed by the man’s politeness. He stepped into the room and the door closed behind him.
She was sitting in a chair reading a book, but she looked up in surprise as Tom entered and one hand flew to her mouth while the book slipped from her other hand and tumbled, forgotten, to the floor. She got to her feet then and Tom could see how much she had aged. Her hair, once long and blonde, was now as white as a fall of snow, tied back from her face, which was lined and creased by the passing years. But her eyes were just as he remembered them, keen and glittering with intelligence. Behind her, above a marble fireplace, hung her portrait, as she had looked in her fifties. Tom knew the picture well. The last time he’d seen it, it had been hanging in the National Museum of Scotland, above a glass case of Cat’s possessions and a brief history listing the various novels she had published. One particular story, that had never seen publication, was an alleged early science fiction novel called The Traveller In Time. A book she’d dedicated to Tom.
There was a long silence while they stood looking at each other. Then Tom felt that somebody needed to speak. ‘Hey, Cat,’ he said, affecting the broad Mancunian accent that he knew she loved ‘‘Ow yer doin’, chuck?’
Her eyes filled with tears. She hurried over to him and they embraced. In his arms her thin figure seemed to have no substance at all and she was trembling against him, as though trying to suppress powerful emotions.
‘So it’s true,’ she whispered at last. ‘I scarcely dared to hope, but it really is you. After all these years.’ She stepped back from him and held him at arm’s length. ‘And you look exactly as I remember you,’ she told him. ‘Exactly.’
‘Steady on,’ he told her. ‘I’m a whole year older than I was!’
She seemed to grow suddenly self-conscious and lifted her hands to cover her face. ‘But what must you think of me?’ she cried. ‘What a horrible sight, I must be. Oh Tom, why did you have to wait so long?’
He took her hands in his and pulled them back down to her sides. ‘I didn’t have any say over it,’ he assured her. ‘I never do. It’s just chance that brought me to this year. But I’m glad it did. I always hoped I’d see you again, one day.’
‘But not like this,’ she said and another tear trickled down her face.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he assured her. ‘The main thing is, we’re together again and that’s really cool.’ He gave her a warm smile. ‘So, tell me, what’s been happening? Did I miss much?’
She shook her head. ‘Where would I start?’ she asked him. ‘So many years have flown . . . more than fifty of them.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I . . . I’ve published some books,’ she said.
‘I know. There’s information about you in the National Museum of Scotland. Or at least, there will be.’ He pointed to the picture above the fireplace. ‘And that picture’s there too. In the future, Cat, you’re going to be a big name in feminism.’
‘In what?’ she murmured.
‘Er . . .’ He tried to think of a simpler way to put it. ‘In, women’s rights? You remember when we first met, how you used to say that women should have the same rights as men and how they should be treated as equals? Well, in the future, they will be and it’s because of people like you that it happened . . . or will happen.’
She looked stunned. ‘I’ll be remembered?’ she whispered. ‘I never dared hope for that much. You know, I wrote a book about you, Tom. The . . .’
‘. . . Traveller In Time. Yeah, I read about that in the museum. They reckoned you invented science fiction with that one.’ He noticed her puzzled look and elaborated. ‘That’s going to be big too.’
‘I’m not familiar with the term,’ she told him. ‘I believe the novels of Jules Verne have been described as scientific romances.’
‘Yeah, well you got there before him, didn’t you?’
‘But my story isn’t fiction. It’s an account of what happened to me. To us.’
‘Yeah, but people aren’t going to know that, are they? They’ll think you just made it up.’
There was a silence then, as they stood gazing at each other. Then Cat seemed to recover a little. ‘Well, come and . . . come and sit down. And take off your coat if you’re staying. I’ll get you some tea. You do still drink tea, I suppose?’ Tom nodded and she pulled him across the room to a sofa and motioned for him to be seated. He threw his overcoat across the back of it and sat down. Cat picked up a little brass bell from a table and rang it. Almost instantly, the manservant bustled in to the room. ‘Yes, madam?’ he asked impassively.
‘Please bring us some tea, Angus,’ she told him. She glanced at Tom. ‘And scones?’ He nodded eagerly. ‘And fresh scones. The very best that Moira has.’
Angus bowed. ‘Of course, madam,’ he said and went out of the room, closing the door behind him. Tom couldn’t help but chuckle. Catriona looked at him enquiringly. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘You’ve come a long way from Tanner’s Close,’ he observed. ‘You’re obviously minted.’
She frowned, not recognising the term.
‘I mean, dead rich!’ He waved a hand at his lush surroundings. ‘How did all this happen?’
She sighed, rolled her eyes then took a seat beside him. ‘The only way that any woman of my class ever achieves such things,’ she said. ‘I was lucky in matrimony.’
‘Huh?’
‘I married a rich man. The owner of a flour mill.’
‘You’re married?’ Tom looked nervously around, half-expecting to see a strange man lurking in the background.
‘I was married. My husband, Josiah, died three years ago.’ She gave Tom a challenging look. ‘Well, I couldn’t wait around forever in the hope that you’d return, could I? And Josiah was a good man, a kind man.’
‘And a rich man,’ added Tom. ‘Obvs.’
Cat looked worried at that. ‘I don’t want you to think that I’m some kind of gold-digger,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t rich when I met him, but the wealth came as he developed his business. We were happy together, the two of us, but I couldn’t give him children, which was a great regret to both of us. When he died there was nobody to inherit, so . . . all the money came to me. And when I am gone, it will go into a charitable trust I’ve established to help young women from poor backgrounds better themselves.’
‘Wow, that’s pretty cool,’ said Tom. ‘But something was puzzling him. ‘So, if you were married . . .?’
‘Yes?’
‘How come you’re still a McCallum?’
‘Because I insisted on keeping the name,’ she told him. ‘I’d already published my first novel using it and, as I explained to Josiah, a woman is not a commodity to be purchased and adjusted according to the whims of a man. I told him if he wanted me, he must accept that notion. Happily, he agreed to it.’
‘Hey, there’s no messing with you, is there? I can see why your picture’s in the National Museum.’
She waved a hand to dismiss the idea, as though it was of no great importance. ‘But what of you, Tom? What’s happened to you since you left me stranded
on Arthur’s Seat all those years ago?’
‘Not much,’ he assured her. ‘Remember, it’s only been a year for me. I’ve been at school, hanging with my mates. I’ve reached another level on Grand Theft Auto.’ He smiled, as he realised how meaningless that must sound. He thought back to that day on the hill and remembered why they had gone there in the first place. ‘One thing I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘The coffins?’
‘Ah, the coffins.’ She nodded, smiled wistfully. ‘There’s been so much speculation about them over the years, hasn’t there?’
‘Yes, but when they were found, it must have been, what . . . only eight years later? You must have heard about it?’
‘I could hardly miss it,’ she said. ‘It was in all the papers. People talked of witchcraft and sailors drowned at sea and all manner of strange things.’
‘So, why didn’t you tell people that you’d put them there? And why?’
Cat sighed. ‘There didn’t seem to be much point,’ she said. ‘My brother was dead by then and . . .’
‘Fraser?’ Tom stared at her. ‘Oh, no, Cat. What happened to him?’
‘War happened to him,’ she said. ‘Oh, you remember what he was like, Tom, with his toy soldiers and his military books. He enlisted in the British Army at his first opportunity and ended up as an officer, dying in some obscure war in the Cape of Africa, a place I cannot even pronounce.’ She stared at her hands for a moment. ‘Such a waste. Yet, somehow, also an inevitability. He was the one who made the coffins, of course, with a little help from the two of us. When I heard that they’d been found, I thought to myself, well, there’s too much in this world that is explained. Why not leave a little mystery for people to ponder? I’ve always been rather fond of a good mystery.’
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