Persistence of Memory

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Persistence of Memory Page 26

by Winona Kent


  The wagon, and its driver—wearing clothing that would not have been out of place in 1825, including a bright red handkerchief knotted around his neck—awaited.

  “Hello, Mr. Deeley,” Charlie said, with great fondness.

  “Hello, Mrs. Collins,” Mr. Deeley replied, with equal affection.

  He helped her aboard. And then assisted the children. And finally, Nick, who had decided to join them, as he had a free afternoon and was as nosy as an old woman when it came to Charlie’s love life.

  After ensuring that all of the children, and Nick, were safely accounted for, Mr. Deeley took his place beside Charlie on the seat, and jiggled the reins.

  “Our first stop,” he announced, “is The Dog’s Watch Inn. You are all too young to have seen the inside of this establishment, but I can tell you that it once did double duty as the village lock-up.”

  “I’m not too young,” Nick said.

  “And I’ve been in the village lock-up,” Charlie added, sharing a secret smile with Mr. Deeley.

  Mr. Deeley drove the wagon into the pub’s parking lot, and stopped.

  “Downstairs is a horrible dark cellar where the inhabitants of this village—guilty and innocent alike—were imprisoned until it was their turn to stand before the magistrate.”

  “Were there rats?” asked the red-headed boy.

  “Rats,” Mr. Deeley confirmed. “Spiders. Great creepy crawling things with six legs and enormous eyes.”

  The children peered over the sides of the wagon at the pub, studying its foundations with a renewed interest.

  Charlie turned around, so that she was facing Nick.

  “I’m perplexed,” she said. “How is it that Ron Ferryman and Mrs. Collins switched places with me and Mr. Deeley, and Mrs. Collins arrived as herself in 1825, but Ron Ferryman was immediately mistaken for Mr. Deeley?”

  “I don’t know,” Nick answered, truthfully.

  “And how is it that I can arrive back here, and everyone knows it’s me…but Mr. Deeley is not mistaken for Ron Ferryman at all, and is immediately accepted as himself, with no questions asked?”

  “It’s one of those mysteries,” Nick replied, “that has yet to be solved. And the best I can do is theorize that when Ron Ferryman accidentally crossed into Mrs. Collins’ spatial plane, her act of throwing the bottle past his head resulted in a spurious positive charge at one end of the space-time continuum. Which in turn caused a simultaneous delinquent discrepancy at the other end. And there was an anomaly in the persistence of memory.”

  Charlie looked at her cousin. And then at Mr. Deeley. And then at her cousin again.

  “An anomaly in the persistence of memory…?”

  “It’s a term we use in physics,” Nick said, “to account for anything to do with shifts in collective awareness which can’t otherwise be scientifically explained. If you’re active in the anomaly—if you’re a catalyst, for instance—you cause a ripple, an incongruous plop, that can’t be rationalized, although you can very definitely observe the result.”

  “That’s all you are, then,” Charlie said, nudging Mr. Deeley. “An incongruous plop.”

  Mr. Deeley considered this suggestion for some moments.

  “He really doesn’t know, does he?” he concluded.

  “He doesn’t,” Charlie said.

  “Next,” Mr. Deeley announced, to the children, “I am going to take you up the hillside, and show you what used to be a very grand manor, with servants and gardens, a stable, horses and a truly excellent groom.”

  “Will there be tea?” the red-headed boy inquired, mindful of the refreshments promised in the brochure that had advertised the tour.

  “Tea,” Mr. Deeley confirmed, “fizzy drinks, sandwiches, crisps and chocolate. Served in a very special picnic spot up on the hillside.”

  He nudged Charlie back.

  “I anticipate no incongruous plops.”

  He jiggled the reins attached to the Clydesdale’s harness.

  “Come along, Marie-Claire…let us continue our adventure.”

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