A Traveller in Time

by Alison Uttley

  The rosebud skirts of the dressing-table had been starched, and upon them lay a brand-new pincushion in which Aunt Tissie had stuck pins to make the word “Welcome”. We laughed at the irregularity of the letters, for we could imagine her short fingers struggling to keep them even. A new chintz cover was on the wicker chair and a fresh patchwork quilt lay on Alison’s bed. It was really a very old one brought out of the oak chest, but it looked as if it had just been made.

  Ian called us to his room to see the surprise Uncle Barnabas had provided for him. It was a stuffed jay sitting on a bough in a glass case, and although I didn’t like it and wouldn’t have slept with it in my room, Ian was delighted.

  “Jays are robbers. They suck the pheasant eggs and steal young birds,” he protested hotly.

  We sat round the tea-table talking nineteen to the dozen, hearing the gossip about pigs and cows and horses. A tree had been struck by lightning, and the church roof had to be mended where rain came in. The gamekeeper’s wife had had a new baby and the colt won second prize at the show. We told our news too, of a play we had seen and the Lord Mayor’s Show. My father had written a book but it wasn’t yet published.

  We washed up and put the china away before we went out to see the newly mown fields, to run down the hill-side to the brook and up the opposite hill to the crest where the moorland lay golden with gorse. The moon had risen and the stars were out before we came in to supper, Ian and Alison to a meal with my aunt and uncle, I to a bowl of bread and creamy milk which I ate on a stool by the fire, just as if I were still a child.

  We went to bed without candles and undressed by moonlight. Alison and I swathed ourselves in Aunt Tissie’s voluminous, best nightgowns which had been airing by the kitchen fire, but they still had a delicious odour of lavender and the ancient box in which they had lain for many a year, and nothing would ever remove this smell. We danced in the patch of light on the floor holding out our full white skirts, pretending we were ghosts as we waved the long sleeves and bowed and swayed. Then we heard Aunt Tissie coming and as we didn’t want to offend her by mocking at her absurd nightwear we skipped into our beds and lay there very still.

  “Don’t be alarmed if you hear the Irishmen singing in the yard to-night. They often sing when they come back from the Blue Bell—mournful songs I grant you, but they like them and it gives them pleasure.”

  She tucked us up as if we were small children and took away our dusty shoes for Jess to clean.

  “Good night, my children. Sleep well. I’m that glad to see you, you don’t know.”

  We heard nothing of the Irishmen’s songs for we slept too soundly, and we didn’t wake till nine o’clock, when the clatter of the horse in the yard and Jess’s voice as he dragged the heavy trunk from the cart and dumped it with the milk churns roused us.

  We unpacked and put on our summer frocks. Aunt gave us each a blue cotton sun-bonnet, frilled and piped in an old-fashioned way, and Ian had an ancient straw hat which she insisted he should wear or he might get the sunstroke. He looked like a Spanish brigand as he rode off bare-back on the cart-horse and with the wide hat flapping on his shoulders and we were like a couple of dairymaids going a-milking.

  Uncle Barnabas drove the mowing-machine and Jess and the Irishmen scythed round the meadows under the rose-covered hedges. Away across the fields we saw the other three men tossing the hay. Jess took us to the barn and gave us each a fork and taught us how to ted the grass. At eleven we sank down under a tree and Aunt Tissie brought out herb beer which she had cooled in the spring. Our arms were burnt, our legs were prickled and stung, our faces were freckled, but we stuck to the work, determined to show Uncle Barnabas we were worthy of our farming ancestry. All he said when we hurried off, answering the dinner bell with surprising alacrity, was: “Well, you’ve not done so badly for beginners.” In the afternoon the sun was more powerful and our energy less. The tedding had brought us close to the banks where birds and beasts lived, and flowers bloomed abundantly. We found a wild-bees’ nest, a flock of butterflies, a writing-master’s nest with the scribble on the eggs. Uncle Barny said the words were: “If ye steal me I’ll harm ye,” in bird language to warn off the robber.

  Then Aunt Tissie called me indoors, for I wasn’t strong enough to work all day and she had promised Mother I should lie down each afternoon. I walked reluctantly back to the house, annoyed that I had to leave the fields behind, but when I got to the cool geranium-scented porch, I was glad to sit down. My legs ached, and my arms were weary with the loads I had tedded.

  I walked upstairs, thinking of the book to read, but when I pushed open my door I had walked unknowingly into the past, to the manor house of the Babingtons, and there in front of me was Master Anthony writing with a quill on a pile of papers which lay before him. He swore when he saw me, springing to his feet in alarm and covering the sheets as if he feared their discovery. Then he laughed and held out his hand and smiled so kindly I thought I had never before seen him look so happy.

  “Where have you been, Penelope?” he asked, “You suddenly come upon me like a ghost walking in.”

  “In London, Master Anthony, at school,” said I.

  “Did your tutor teach you that Her Grace the queen escaped? Did he know that? Did he tell you she got away?”

  “No,” I stammered, bewildered by his certainty. “Did she escape?”

  “Certainly she did, and in the near future too,” he laughed teasingly. “I’ve been spending a profitable time in Paris, and here is my result.” He pointed to the letters and sprinkled sand from a box to dry the ink.

  “Master Anthony,” I said, and I walked across the room with my back to the door. “I found your jewel, the picture of the queen.”

  “You found it? Where? Where is it?” he cried, his eyes bright with excitement. “Where is it, Penelope?”

  “In my room, hanging on the wall,” said I slowly, hesitating as I tried to bring my own room back to memory.

  “Get it now, immediately,” he commanded.

  “I can’t go back, Master Anthony. It is safe, I wanted you to know it was found, but I can’t go back.”

  “Go back where?” he asked, but I shook my head. I could not explain, and besides I wanted to see Dame Cicely and Francis and the old kitchen of Thackers again.

  There were footsteps running up the corridor and Francis rushed into the room shouting “Tony! Tony! Leave your papers and come out. The horses are ready. Come along now.”

  Then he saw me and started with surprise.

  “Penelope! At last you’ve come back. I thought you had gone for ever,” he cried, and he held out both his hands and clasped mine, and then he kissed me with an eager kiss as if I were a long-lost sister.

  “Penelope has found the jewel,” said Anthony.

  “That’s a lucky omen,” Francis said quietly. “But it doesn’t really matter, Brother Anthony. You met the queen’s friends without it, and you got the letters and cipher. It doesn’t matter, except that we are glad it is found by one who will love and treasure it.”

  “But it is in Penelope’s room. In the servants’ quarters, I suppose. I have bidden her get it, but she says it is impossible.”

  “It will always be impossible, Tony,” said Francis, in a grave voice, and Anthony and I stared at him as he said this. “She cannot bring it back to the past, she can never return it to you, but you have the satisfaction of knowing it is safe.”

  It was true. I could not alter the past, neither could I save the queen, nor warn Anthony of the evil which awaited him. Anthony and I looked at one another, and in that look he knew all for one long moment, and then I turned my head away, saddened by his fate. Like a flash I realized it all, and then the glimpse of foreknowledge was gone.

  “The sun shines, Anthony. Forget these affairs of State and gallop over the hills. Penelope shall come with us. There’s the little skewbald mare eager for a gallop,” said Francis.

  “You can’t ride like this,” he continued gaily, and he touched my
blue cotton frock and sunbonnet with scornful finger. “You’re wearing your night-rail and bed-cap I believe. There’s a dress belonging to my sister Alice in the wardrobe chamber. She is about your height, and it should fit you. Don it and come along.”

  He hurried me into the little room opening off the painted chamber, and there he rummaged in a carved chest, tossing aside many a silk and satin embroidery. He threw out two or three dresses, all rich and lovely to my eyes, outworn by his sisters and left behind at Thackers for country wear when they visited their old home. I could choose which fitted me and then come down to the stable-yard where he would await me.

  I slipped off my cotton frock, and tried on the elaborate riding dresses, which were heavy and thick. One of them was exactly my size, and I slipped my arms in the sleeves and drew on the skirt. It was made of Lincoln green cloth, somewhat worn and mended, but embroidered and laced, with gloves fringed and tasselled and hat and shoes to match. I struggled with the strings and gilded buttons and I squeezed myself into the narrow-waisted bodice. I pinned my hair with a silver pin and tilted the plumed hat over it. I drew the uncomfortable stiff gloves over my hands, and looked round but there was no mirror. Then, gathering my skirt high out of my way, I went downstairs to Francis who was waiting in the courtyard with the groom and horses. Tabitha came running from the kitchen, startled at seeing me, shouting with excitement and joy.

  “Where hast thou been all this time?” she cried, and she clung to my arm. “We thought thou wast losted in the woods, or gone off with the gipsies, or stolen. Only Master Francis said thou wert back at thy home, he knew for certain-sure. He told us not to worry, for thou wouldst come to us when it pleased thee, and not before.”

  “I have been with my father and mother in Chelsey, dear Tabitha,” said I, shamefacedly, for I half remembered the truth but could not try to explain to her, even if I had been able, so I left her in her simplicity.

  “Thou shouldst not leave us like that with never a word when we all love ye,” chided Tabitha, and she gave me a sharp tap to emphasize her affection. “Thy Aunt Cicely was put about, and Jude pointed to heaven and earth, and led us to the graveyard, which worried us. He showed us Penelope’s grave, the little maiden who died, and poor fool, he must have took ye for the risen ghost of the girl!”

  “Stop your idle chatter, Tabitha,” interrupted Francis. “Don’t be so curious about what doesn’t concern you! She’s here and going riding.”

  “Well a day! Take care of thyself at the Fair, Penelope, and keep away from the bear-wards, for their savage beasts would as soon eat thee as not, for thou art a tasty morsel with thy red cheeks and bright eyes!”

  Tabitha flounced off, half angry at Francis, half delighted that he had asked me to go to the Fair with him. It was an honour for a kitchen-girl she thought, and she made a romance out of it.

  “Her’s come back, growed bigger and a lovely maid,” I heard her shout as she ran back to the kitchen. “Her’s been in Lunnon, among her kin, but her says nowt, and is mystery itself. Her’s the same dream-filled wench, but I loves her like my own sister, and so does Master Francis, and better I warrant.”

  Then out ran Dame Cicely and kissed me standing tiptoes, and cosseted me, and asked innumerable questions which I couldn’t answer.

  Anthony rode out of the yard on his grey mare on secret business to one of his manors, and Dame Cicely retreated and watched him go with deeply anxious eyes, forgetful of me. I mounted with the help of a groom and sat on a hard uncomfortable saddle, thankful that I could ride and should not disgrace myself unless my long skirts caught somewhere. We trotted along the lanes by the brook-side, curving round the steeply wooded hills, past hamlet and village to the ford. In front of us was a yeoman farmer and his wife riding pillion behind him. One hand clutched her husband’s coat and another held the panniers of eggs from jolting. Francis nodded to them and spoke a few words, for they lived on the estate. They drew aside into the bushes to let us pass, and the stout red-faced woman who wore a little white ruff round her neck, smaller than the one I wore, gave me a warm smile as if she knew me for Dame Cicely’s niece. They paid toll to the surly fellow who kept the ford, for the toll-collector took from all who came to sell goods at the market.

  We spurred our horses and galloped along the road to the hill which led to the old market-town. Men were quarrying on a bare hill-side, and others were working at the lead-mines which honeycombed the district. We rode along a side track through fields and commons glowing with foxgloves and sweet little pink roses and yellow pansies.

  It was an important Fair and the streets and market-place were thronged with jostling people who pushed one another with no apologies, elbowing rudely but good-humouredly, hailing acquaintances, using strange oaths, with many rough jokes and much laughter. We dismounted for a few minutes and went into the church to see the ancient carvings of cat and deer, and the stone angels. There was a miner, too, carved like one of the dwarfs which the countrymen said haunted the old lead-mines, working day and night tap-tapping to lure men to follow. Francis seemed particularly interested in this carving I noticed. We knelt down before the altar, and said a prayer, along with many a countryman who had come to the Fair. Then we went out into the sunshine where a man waited with our horses.

  Cows and horses stood in the market-place and street, with men holding their halters. Some had come from Thackers, Francis said, and he rode among them to see that they were properly displayed by the cowmen and groom. Thin pigs snuffled in the ruts among the dirt, each tied by a string to its hind leg. They squealed as people prodded them and the more they shrieked the more mischievous boys poked them till there was a noise like Bedlam, which Francis thought very amusing.

  We rode slowly among the crowd to see a juggler in the open square playing with eight balls at once, then turning rapid somersaults, and stealing like a cat after a small boy dressed in brown velvet as a bedraggled mouse with a long tail. The child was thin and wretched, and he ran this way and that, but the cat always caught him, to the crowd’s delight.

  Then came a couple of pedlars, and Francis beckoned to them and bought me a bunch of ribbons and a silver pin to fasten my “partelet” which was really my neck handkerchief. I felt proud and happy and I looked across at the little old timbered houses among the trees with the sharp hills surrounding the town like a rampart. Anthony was a man of importance there, for he owned most of the land and men doffed their hats and bowed to Francis. Francis bought a ballad printed on a long strip of paper with a woodcut at the head. “The Children of the Wood” it was called, and he read the first line aloud, so that people stopped to listen.

  When the Cock in the North

  Hath burgled his neste.

  The pedlar then brought forth another ballad, written on the hanging of Edmund Campion, the priest who was a friend of Anthony’s but Francis thrust it aside, turning pale with horror, and chose a ballad on the earthquake of 1580, which he read to me. Even as he paid the ballad-monger with pence from his fringed purse a drove of cattle with frightened eyes and tossing horns came along, splashing through the mud and rushing among the crowd, scattering them. We rode away to get from the pressing mob. The wooden shops were open booths with dropped shutters in the front, and ledges upon which goods were displayed. In one were dolls, hobby-horses with carved heads and painted nostrils, balls and ninepins. In another crockery, brown jars and bowls with a small device.

  There was a play performed on a wooden platform of “The Raising of Lazarus” which made the crowd shiver with terror as they saw the shrouded figure rise from his grave and come gliding towards them. While we were watching this there came a ragged vagabond, a most ill-favoured dirty scoundrel, with his legs wrapped in filthy bandages and horrible sores exposed. His evil face was bound in a blood-stained cloth, and Francis told me he had dipped it in a cock’s blood to make it worse, and the sores were all painted on him. He begged loudly, and held out a bag for money and scraps, compelling people to give to him. He seized
my foot and held it tightly as he pushed his vile-smelling bag under my nose, and uttered outlandish cries. Francis beat him off with his whip, and threw him some pence. He seemed to think nothing of it, but I was filled with alarm. Gipsies and rogues had their habitation in the Peak hills among the rocky caverns, Francis said, and they started from there to travel the roads of England, speaking their own thieves’ language, stealing from country folk as they travelled to London. They missed the sheltered hamlets, and Thackers never saw them.

  He pointed out an old man with a long tangled beard, and poor worn hands trembling so much I was filled with sorrow for him. He was a labourer without work, but his hands were skilled and he was getting a small living by peddling his wares. He carried a tray of toy lambs with painted faces and ribbons round their necks and gilded horns. He sang a wailing little song as he offered his goods:

  Young lambs to sell, young lambs to sell,

  If I’d as much money as I could tell,

  I wouldn’t come here with young lambs to sell.

  Two for a penny, eight for a groat,

  As fine young lambs as ever were bought.

  “Oh, give me two,” I cried, and Francis bought a couple. I tucked them in my bodice, with the tin horns caught in the laces, and the soft wool warm against my neck.

  We sampled gilt gingerbread, in the shapes of men and women in ruffs and wide dresses and trunk hose. We bought flat cakes, spiced and honeyed, and sugar-breads for Mistress Babington who had a sweet tooth.

  Francis looked at a leather-shop filled with whips and saddles and he ordered a pair of long boots of undressed brown hide. Next to it was another toy booth with people crowding round, and I stood by, holding my mare, while Francis talked to the boot-maker and had his measurements taken. There were brightly coloured wooden peg-tops, green and scarlet, and wooden whips with leather lashes, which children in long stiff clothes bought. There were skittles carved out of wood, like those I had seen in the skittle-alley, for the men’s games. But in the centre was a fine wooden doll, dressed like one which I had seen at Thackers in the wardrobe chamber. It wore a white ruff, small and stiffly pleated, and a kirtle of embroidery with beads stitched upon the bodice. Its hair was piled under a white, lace-edged coif, and on its shoulders was a cloak of velvet. It was a grand lady of a doll, and not for poor people. The crowd edged round admiring it, calling to their friends to come and see, so I drew my little mare away, glad she was so docile among strangers.