She looked at Tom. ‘I suppose I could have told everyone the truth. That I left them there as a tribute to Jamie Wilson and the other victims of Burke and Hare, when I was a girl of fourteen, aided by a boy who had travelled back in time. Oh, I’m sure they’d all have been perfectly happy to accept that story.’ She chuckled and the years seemed to slip away from her. He could see once again the mischievous girl he had first met back in 1828. ‘I suppose I could leave a letter to be opened after my death, explaining everything, but even that idea seems somehow unnecessary.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘What of that, Tom? In that museum of yours, I suppose it must have registered the year of my death?’
‘I suppose so. I really don’t remember,’ he said and was shocked to realise that this was true. He must have seen the year of her death, in passing, but it hadn’t really registered with him at the time. And now he was glad that he couldn’t recall it.
‘Well, whatever it was, I don’t imagine I have all that long left. These days I feel my age in every bone.’ She looked at Tom sadly. ‘And here’s you, so young, so full of life, as though the passing of time means nothing.’
She seemed to sense his discomfort and made an attempt to change the subject. ‘So, have you an idea what did bring you back to this particular year?’
He nodded. ‘Robert Louis Stevenson,’ he said. ‘I think you know him. I was reading one of his books just before it happened. Oh, not one that’s been published yet − something that will be out in a year or so. Cat, he’s going to be huge.’
She looked puzzled. ‘He’s such a slim young fellow,’ she said.
‘No, I mean he’s going to be very famous. Even in my time, people will be reading his stuff.’
‘Yes, well of course I did realise that you were staying with the Stevensons. And I have met him on several occasions. He seems an extraordinarily talented young man . . .’
‘Oh, you don’t know the half of it. Cat, he’s going to be bigger than J. K. Rowling.’
‘Who?’ she muttered.
‘Bigger than−’ He tried to think of an example of a writer who would mean something to her, but couldn’t think of one. Then a thought occurred to him. He reached into the pocket of his overcoat which was still draped over the back of the sofa and sure enough, there were the rolled sheets of paper that Hamish had given him in the Writers’ Museum. Which made him realise that it couldn’t all have been a dream, otherwise he wouldn’t have these printouts in his pocket. He unfolded the pages. ‘Here, let me show you these,’ he said. ‘It’s hard to explain exactly what they are, but in the future . . .’
He broke off, puzzled, as he realised that most of the pages were blank. He saw that the Wikipedia entry, which had previously run to something like nine pages, now only extended to two. Tom scanned them in dismay. Apart from the few short stories and essays that Lou had already published by 1881, there was only one other publication mentioned, the serialisation of Treasure Island: or The Wreck of the Hispaniola in Young Folks magazine, under the name Captain George North.
‘Oh, no,’ he murmured.
Cat gave him a look of concern. ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked him.
‘It’s just, according to this, Lou isn’t famous any more. Or at least, he isn’t going to be if I don’t make some changes at this end.’
She gave him a shrewd look. ‘Are you tinkering with time again?’ she asked him.
‘Not exactly. But, I think I might already have changed it a bit, accidentally.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘Well, don’t worry, it ain’t over till the fat lady sings.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Never mind.’ Tom stuffed the sheets of paper back into the pocket of his coat and told himself he’d apply himself to this new problem just as soon as he got an opportunity. For the moment, there were other things to talk about. ‘Before I forget, Cat, the Stevensons are having a little get-together this evening at their house and we’re both invited.’
Cat looked doubtful. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t get out much these days. Nobody wants a lonely old woman making everybody melancholy.’
‘Well, you won’t be lonely tonight, will you?’ he assured her. ‘I’ll be your date. And Lou was telling me that he really rates your writing.’
She looked doubtful. ‘He said that?’
‘Yeah, absolutely. He thinks you’re brilliant. There’s going to be other writers there too. William Whats-His-Face, the one-legged poet?’
‘Mr Henley?’ she ventured.
‘Yeah, that’s him. Bearded guy, looks like a pirate. And maybe even the bloke who’s going to write Peter Pan, but hasn’t quite got around to it yet. And . . . oh, loads of others.’ He looked at her. ‘You will come, won’t you?’
There was a polite tap at the door and Angus entered, carrying a silver platter heaped with tea things. He set them down on a low table in front of the sofa and Tom was delighted to see a plate piled high with fresh cream scones.
‘Shall I pour the tea, madam?’ asked Angus.
‘No, no, we’ll see to ourselves,’ she told him. ‘And tell Cook there’ll be a guest for dinner this evening.’ She looked at Tom. ‘If you can stay that long,’ she said.
‘I’ll try,’ he told her and slipped her a wink.
Angus bowed and went out again, closing the door behind him.
‘Hey, this is a bit of all right,’ said Tom. He picked up the silver teapot. ‘Shall I be Mother?’ he asked, with a wink.
She laughed. ‘Oh, you and your Manchester expressions!’ she exclaimed. ‘I noted them all down in my journals, you know. And I put some into The Traveller In Time.’
He poured tea. ‘Yeah, so I believe. In the museum, it said something about your language being “experimental” for the time.’ They both chuckled at that. ‘I wish I could have read the one about me. But you never published it, did you?’
‘No. I thought it would have raised too many difficult questions. And I was still a young girl when I wrote that one. It was quite . . . immature.’
‘I read another of yours, though,’ he told her. ‘The Path of Truth?’ This was true, though he’d had the devil of a job getting hold of it. In the end, he’d managed to find it online through Project Gutenberg and had read the whole thing on his computer. It had taken him weeks to get through it.
‘You’ve read that?’ she murmured. ‘Goodness knows what you must have made of it.’
It was true, it had been a struggle and his mates at school had wondered why he was reading some out-dated melodrama about a young woman, attempting to make her way in Victorian society, but he’d stuck with it, mostly because every other page or so there’d been something that reminded him of the young girl he’d known. ‘I thought it was sick,’ he told her. Then added, ‘That means good, by the way.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘But I suspect you’re being kind. That’s not a book intended for a young boy, particularly one from the twenty-first century.’
‘I read it just the same. And I’m not the only one who thinks it rocks. Lou, that’s Mr Stevenson, he told me it was one of the “great novels”. Seriously, he thinks you’re the dog’s . . . he thinks you’re like, a genius.’ Cat watched as he stirred two big spoonfuls of sugar into his tea. ‘Try a scone,’ she suggested. ‘Moira’s very good in the kitchen but I’m afraid I’m a poor subject for her talents.’
He helped himself and took a huge bite. ‘Umm, good,’ he said, through a mouthful of food and Cat smiled fondly.
‘Ah, I remember the days when I could eat like that,’ she said. She, too, picked up a scone, and took a tiny nibble from the edge of it. ‘I so wish my mother could have been alive to see my changing fortunes. She would have loved these scones. She was a fair baker herself, but we could never afford the fresh cream.’
‘Mary?’ Tom put his plate down for a moment. ‘What happened to her?’
‘She died perhaps five years after you left. She took a fever one summer and there was nothing we co
uld do for her. It broke my poor father’s heart. Oh, he carried on long enough to see me married, but he didn’t dally for long after that. I always think that losing my mother took much of his heart away. He never had an interest in any other woman after her death.’ She sighed. ‘Listen to me,’ she muttered. ‘I’m like a prophet of doom! Little wonder nobody wants to share my company! Here, Tom, eat up.’ She picked up his plate and thrust it back into his hands. ‘Enough of the sad recollections, we should be looking to the future. Where I’ve no doubt you’ll be returning, all too soon. Have you any idea how long you’ll be staying this time?’
He shook his head. ‘I really don’t know. And Cat, do you remember the last time I was here, I told you that there was someone . . . something chasing me?’
She nodded. ‘I do remember, though I never saw him.’
‘Well, he hasn’t given up yet. I’ve seen him a couple of times already and I get the feeling he’s kind of . . . homing in on me.’
Cat looked perturbed. ‘Then we must do something about it,’ she urged him. ‘Should we call upon the services of the constabulary?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think there’s much the cops can do about McSweeny. When I first came back in time, he was just a man. Now he’s . . . something else.’ He frowned. ‘But don’t worry, he hasn’t caught up with me yet.’
He took another bite of his scone. ‘This is delicious,’ he said. ‘Your Moira would go down a storm on the Bake-Off’
‘The what?’
‘Sorry, it’s just this thing my mum likes to watch.’
They spent the afternoon in happy conversation and then ate dinner together, a sumptuous meal of several courses, served on silver plates in a huge dining room beneath a massive oil painting of a man dressed in a tail coat and an embroidered waistcoat. He was posed in front of a huge brick building with a sign above the door: Josiah Finley, Flour Merchant. He looked a decent enough bloke, Tom thought, even though he seemed to have lost most of his hair by the time the picture was painted.
‘I wonder what Josiah would have thought?’ murmured Cat. ‘If I’d ever told him about you.’
‘He’d have probably thought you’d been on the bottle,’ said Tom and they both laughed.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years. I think I will come with you to that party.’
When the last course had been eaten Cat excused herself and went upstairs to prepare herself for the night out, leaving Tom to ponder his latest predicament. So, one moment Treasure Island was dedicated to him, the next, the book wasn’t going to be written at all. So what had changed? And more importantly, what was Tom going to do about it?
He decided that he was going to go to the party with one aim in mind: to ensure Lou got back to work as soon as possible. And Catriona was going to have to help him.
Thirteen
When Tom and Cat arrived at the party, everything was in full swing; or, at least, in what Tom assumed passed for full swing in 1881. A maid politely took their coats and a manservant, who Tom assumed must have been specially hired for the occasion, escorted them to the front room, which was packed with little huddles of people, sipping glasses of sherry and talking earnestly with each other. Lou spotted the new arrivals straight away and hurried over to greet them, only to be joined a moment later by Fran.
‘Ah, Tom, you made it,’ said Lou. ‘Excellent. And you persuaded Mrs McCallum to come also.’ Lou reached out, took Cat’s hand and politely kissed the back of it. ‘I’m so pleased you decided to grace us with your presence. This is a true honour.’
‘Somebody managed to talk me round,’ said Cat, giving Tom a sidelong look. ‘I confess I’m not a great party-goer these days.’
‘So, how exactly do you two come to know each other?’ asked Fran. ‘We did ask Tom earlier but we didn’t get an awful lot of sense out of him.’
Tom and Cat had anticipated this possibility and had already prepared a story together.
‘I’m an old friend of the family,’ said Cat, without raising so much as an eyebrow. ‘I got to know Tom’s mother through our membership of the Edinburgh Society for Women’s Suffrage. I’m sure you’re familiar with it?’
‘Oh, er, of course,’ said Fran unconvincingly.
‘When Catherine told me that she and Hamish were planning to travel on the continent, I naturally offered to look after my godson during their absence.’
‘Your godson?’ Lou raised his eyebrows. ‘You never mentioned that, Tom.’
‘Didn’t I?’ Tom shrugged. ‘Must have slipped my mind.’
‘Tom has a tendency to miss out the important details,’ said Cat. ‘Now, Mr Stevenson,’ she continued, taking control of the situation, as advised by Tom earlier. ‘I must tell you that I have been absolutely loving the serial in Young Folks magazine.’
Lou looked shocked. ‘You’ve read that?’ he gasped. ‘Oh, but it’s only a frivolity, a story for children . . .’
‘Tom first brought it to my attention,’ said Cat. ‘Naturally, I doubted that something of any stature might be found between those covers and yet, I was obliged to eat humble pie. I think you seriously underestimate it. I have been thrilled by what I’ve read so far and am already awaiting the next episode with baited breath. Let us not forget, that the things we read as babes in arms resonate with us for the rest of our days. And the Wreck of the . . . the . . .’
‘Hispaniola,’ Tom prompted her.
‘Indeed, thank you, Tom. That story, Mr Stevenson, is something of lasting value. Why I shouldn’t be surprised if it is still being read in fifty, a hundred . . . five hundred years from now!’
Lou swallowed. ‘You honour me, Mrs McCallum. That, coming from the woman who wrote the Path of Truth, is a rare accolade indeed.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s strange, because only this afternoon, as I worked upon the manuscript, I was suddenly filled with the sense that I was wasting my time, that nobody would accord such a simple tale anything more than it has already achieved.’
‘Not so, Mr Stevenson. I am convinced of its genius, just as Tom is. But one thing is certain. It needs to be a book. And I would strongly urge you to proceed with that aim firmly in mind.’
For a moment, Lou seemed bereft of words. Then he recovered himself.
‘Well, Catriona, if I may be so bold as to use your Christian name, I must introduce you to somebody who I know has been dying to meet you.’ He looked at Tom and Fran. ‘If you’ll excuse us for a moment.’ He led Cat across the room towards one of the huddles of people, leaving Tom standing rather awkwardly with Fran, who he had already discovered was of a more suspicious nature than her husband.
‘So, you’re Mrs McCallum’s godson,’ she murmured. ‘How strange that she’s never mentioned you before.’
‘Cat’s a busy woman,’ said Tom, evasively.
‘And how odd that the two of you are so convinced of Lou’s genius. Almost as though you’d prearranged the conversation.’
Tom laughed nervously. ‘Yeah, like that would happen,’ he said.
‘So you must have known Catriona’s husband?’
‘Oh, er, Josiah? Yeah, course I did. Nice bloke. And er, a great . . . a great bread-maker.’
‘And such a shame what happened to him, don’t you think?’
‘Umm . . . yeah. Yeah, real shame.’
There was a long silence, while Fran studied him with interest. She seemed to be on the verge of asking another question, but then seemed to decide to let the matter pass. ‘I’ll get somebody to bring you a glass of cordial,’ she said. She pointed. ‘Lloyd is over there, talking to Mr Barrie.’
Tom looked in the direction she’d indicated and saw Lloyd lounging in a corner, chatting to a short, rather weedy-looking young man with black hair and a thick moustache. Lloyd appeared to be holding forth about something while Mr Barrie listened, a glum expression on his face. Tom sauntered over and nodded a greeting to Lloyd who glared at him, clearly far from happy to see him.
; ‘Ah, who’s this?’ asked Mr Barrie, as though grateful to have some other company.
‘This is the mysterious Tom Afflick,’ said Lloyd, making no attempt to disguise the mocking tone in his voice. ‘From Manchester, England. Tom, this is Mr Barrie.’
‘A pleasure.’ James shook Tom’s hand. ‘So what’s so mysterious about you?’ he asked.
‘Oh, nothing really,’ Tom assured him. ‘Lloyd’s just kidding around, aren’t you Lloyd?’
But Lloyd wasn’t giving in quite so easily. ‘Tom appeared out of nowhere and started telling everyone what to do,’ he said bluntly. ‘Now he’s got Papa running around like a dog with six legs, doing everything that Tom tells him.’
James smiled. ‘Surely not?’ he said.
‘I’m just giving him a bit of advice about Treasure Island,’ said Tom. He glared at Lloyd, challenging him to contradict the title, but he didn’t. ‘Mr Henley was telling me you’re a bit of a writer too,’ he said, trying to shift the spotlight away from himself.
‘Oh, merely a dabbler,’ insisted James. ‘I’ve written a few drama reviews, but I intend to get more serious about it once I’ve graduated. I’m studying literature, of course.’
‘So you’re thinking of writing for children?’
‘Oh, no.’ James looked affronted. ‘No, for adults. I’m not sure whether to write novels or plays.’
‘I’m sure Tom will help you decide,’ said Lloyd acidly.
Tom ignored him. ‘Well, I think you should consider writing for kids, somewhere down the line,’ he said.
‘For kids?’ muttered James, clearly intrigued. ‘You mean children? What makes you say that?’
‘Oh, I just have the feeling you’d be good at it.’
‘See,’ murmured Lloyd. ‘What did I tell you. Mysterious.’
The evening proceeded agreeably enough. Tom eventually found himself standing with Cat at the back of the room, chatting quietly and making sly remarks about the other guests. Cat had also exchanged a few words with James Barrie and confided that she thought him a bit of a “wet blanket”, whatever that was. She was amazed when Tom told her that Barrie too was destined for great success as a writer. She whispered that he didn’t seem to have much of a character, that he seemed very immature. Tom thought about that and realised that maybe the story of Peter Pan was really all about the author.
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