Grandma is expecting her. She has washed away her tears and changed into a green silk dress from the wardrobe, and satin slippers. She makes a deep curtsey to this lady, who might be able to help.
“You may rise,” says the lady, approving the gesture.
“Thank you. Has the fox…”
“The snow fox has told me about your situation,” says the lady. “You are unlikely to escape this cell by yourself. Would you like me to help?”
“Can you get me out of this cell?”
“In an instant.”
“And after that? How am I to escape the prince?”
The lady’s smile is reassuring. Her eyes look kind. “I will wipe you from the prince’s memory. He will not know that he has ever set eyes on you. If he passes you again, he will not even see you.”
“That sounds perfect,” says Grandma, hope quickening. “No one would dare to remind him. But what will you take in return?”
“My terms are standard.”
“Let’s be clear.”
“The first boy of your line.”
Her first-born son. Well, the lady cannot know what my grandma knows: that she is bound to have daughters if she marries her beau. That’s something she is pretty determined to do.
“I agree, then.”
From a pocket in the crimson gown, the lady brings a contract and a quill. The nib has already, somehow been dipped in ink. Grandma signs. The thing is done.
∞¥∞Ω∞¥∞
There’s a lot more I could tell you about my grandma and grandpa. They do marry, though not before a few more years have passed, and a lot more dances. Nobody ever does remind the prince; not even the stepma. I’ll tell you more about Grandma and Grandpa when we meet, if you like. For now, you just need to know this: Grandma has a daughter. The crimson lady drops by, bringing flowers. She looks into the cradle, looks into my mother’s infant eyes, nods to Grandma, and leaves without a word.
My grandparents stop at one child, reminded of the pact and not wanting to tempt fate.
Grandpa is a good husband, and becomes a good merchant. Grandma is a good farmer. The two of them bring up their daughter very well.
My mother has a happier time of childhood than my grandma did, and not so many adventures. Like my grandmother, she falls in love young, but unlike Grandma, she doesn’t have much patience.
When they learn that Mum is pregnant, my grandparents think about the green-eyed lady for the first time in many years, and they consult a lawyer about the terms. And yes: as you’ve guessed, they find out that “the first boy of your line” could just as well be a grandson and Mum is bound just as tightly by her mother’s signature on the contract. Grandma tells Mum and Dad the bad news.
It might not matter, if Mum is carrying a girl. There are tests they can do, even then, to find out.
They find out that she is carrying a boy. She is carrying me.
Mum was four months gone before they knew she was pregnant. Grandma and Grandpa, Mum and Dad spend the next three months thinking and putting the best lawyers they can afford onto finding a loophole in that contract. They don’t find one. So there is nothing for it, they think, but to flee.
Grandpa puts his geography to good use, tracing a route across a map of the Old Country, through the twisty, ever-changing paths that will bring them, if they time it just right, across into our world. He puts his merchant wits to good use, too, filling their pockets with the silver-bells that grow wild along the forest edge and with a small purse of gold, for emergencies.
He hugs them, and Grandma hugs them, and they say their goodbyes. Dad makes his farewells to his family, too. There are tears. They know that they will never see each other again.
It’s an adventure, too, Grandpa’s path across the world. They meet Grandma’s dingo, who helps them along part of the way. If this email weren’t already so long, I’d tell you more about their journey, but you already know they get here safe.
After arriving in this country, they polish up their silver-bells and sell them as trinkets. They sell their coins, too, for the gold in them, and find they have more money at the end than they had expected. They have enough to buy a house and fit it out: a safe place to bring me into the world and bring me up.
∞¥∞Ω∞¥∞
That brings us back to me. I had a good childhood. Not a happy one, maybe; I wasn’t a happy child, but I was safe and healthy and strong. Mum and Dad lived out their lives here. Short lives, by any standard, but happy. They were always so much in love.
I never went out much more than I had to. After Mum died, I stopped going out at all. Like I said, it’s not a bad life, but I have to be honest: I do know there is more. So I’m taking baby steps to get myself out again. Putting my profile up on that dating site was my first little step, and you’ve given me the courage to take the next one.
∞¥∞Ω∞¥∞
There’s one more thing you should know. I may be a shut-in, but I’m not naive. I know you already knew part of this story. I traced your IP address and I know you’re not from around here. A twisty and changeable traceroute it was, too, but my skills on the computer are pretty good.
It’s not good for my health to stay here, and my family always were hopeless romantics. I’m more than halfway in love.
Beautiful lady, crimson lady, I’m ready to take that next big step, with you.
∞¥∞Ω∞¥∞
Number 73 Glad Avenue by Suzanne J Willis
“What time does the clock have, Charlie?” Mary looked left, dark, bobbed hair brushing her shoulders. She heard him mutter then carefully shut the doors, locking the timepieces away, before walking around to face her, his little tin feet clicking softly against the wooden floor.
“12 May 1923. Six pm.”
She looked down at Charlie as he packed the powders and glass vials, which were no bigger than her thumbnail, into the black leather doctor’s bag, before climbing in and settling into the spare space at the side. At twelve inches tall, he just fit inside, with a whisker of room between his head and the bag’s brass clasps. “Comfortable?” she asked.
“I’ll be better when we’ve arrived. Let’s get going.” He clapped his hands together then waved as she shut him in.
Mary walked down the street. Silver waves of time flowed around her in a shimmering cascade as the buildings, the path, the people disappeared or grew or shrank into their new lines as required. Each step carried her quite gradually from 1852 to 1923, the bag clenched firmly in her hand, and she gave a little shiver. It’s so different, she thought. All the beautiful clean lines, the geometric shapes of the buildings fronted with sunbursts and arching curves: the simple luxury of it all. Visiting the twenties — whether from the past or the misty future — never ceased to amaze her. There was something so fresh and almost, well, bouncy about it. It was an era in which Mary felt revived, which was no easy feat given that she and Charlie were constantly scissoring back and forth between the decades, centuries, epochs.
It had been so long now, Mary had quite forgotten how their journey back and forth through time was supposed to end. She shook that thought away; better to let these things work themselves out.
The air stilled and she looked around. Horse-drawn carriages had given way to automobiles, sleek and chrome, slinking down the road. A shiny brick-red model passed by, the jaguar in mid-leap on the hood shining under the late afternoon sun. The driver whistled at Mary and tipped his hat as she smiled back.
“What is that infernal racket?” came Charlie’s muffled voice from inside the bag.
Mary listened for a moment. There it was — the unmistakable sound of jaunty pianos and sexy, snaking trumpets. She realised she was tapping her foot.
“It’s jazz, Charlie, you old stick-in-the-mud. And I quite like it.”
He mumbled a reply.
“It’s strange, though. Today doesn’t feel terribly important. There’s usually someth—”
“Number 73 Glad Avenue,” was the exasperated response
from the bag.
“Right you are, Charlie.”
∞¥∞Ω∞¥∞
Number 73 was set on a huge expanse of land fronting the river. Geraldine, their employer for the evening, led Mary into the front room that overlooked the lawn rolling down to the river bank, a dark emerald in the dying light.
“And here’s the bar.” Geraldine pointed to the buffet unit in the corner.
“Walnut, with marble top, if I’m not mistaken? And chrome trim.”
Geraldine nodded. “We had it shipped all the way from New York, you know. There’s not another one like it in the world.”
“It’s beautiful. And quite perfect for what we have in mind. I hope I don’t seem immodest, but you couldn’t have chosen a better hostess. You and your guests are in for a treat,” Mary smiled. “I do so love a good party, Geraldine.”
“You don’t appear to have brought much with you, dear,” Geraldine pointed at the black bag.
“There’s not a lot I need, as you’ll see.” Mary opened the clasps and brought out a miniature replica of the walnut and marble unit, placing it in the centre of the real one.
Geraldine looked shocked. “But how could you know?”
“Ah, now, a magician never reveals her secrets.” With that, she pulled Charlie from the bag and stood him up behind the little bar, where he looked for all the world like a china doll with twinkling blue-glass eyes and impressively thick moustache. Mary smoothed his ginger hair.
“He’s just adorable,” Geraldine said.
“And quite the star of the show, as you’ll see. I’m fine to see to things here, if you’d like to get ready for your guests. Of course, we do require payment up front…”
“Oh, naturally, yes.” Geraldine rummaged through the drawers of a dark bureau on the other side of the room. For the sake of discretion, Mary turned and walked over to the tall, arched windows. She looked at the long wooden jetty. A woman sat at the end, silhouetted against the sunset-flamed river, her toes skimming the water.
“Beautiful at this time of day, isn’t it?”
Mary smiled. “It’s like something out of The Great Gats—” she stopped herself. That’s not until 1925!
“From what, dear?”
“Oh, nothing. Who is that sitting on the end of the jetty?”
“That’s my older sister, Freya. She’s a funny thing, keeps quite to herself and … but I’m rattling on, here you go.” Geraldine held out a gold pocket watch; it swung gently on the end of its chain and caught the last rays of the sun. “It hasn’t worked for years, but it does pain me to part with it. It was my grandfather’s. Still, you come so highly recommended.” She paused, glancing at Mary suspiciously. “If you don’t mind my saying so, it does seem like an odd price…”
With a beatific smile, Mary reached out for the watch. As metal and flesh came into contact, the watch shivered, its gold sparking in the gathering dark. She shifted it in her hands: it warmed to her touch. Click. The cover sprang back to reveal the ornate hands slowly journeying around its pale face. The second hand was missing.
“Well, now, look at that. It seems to be working after all. Even has the right time.” She waved her free hand at Geraldine, dismissing her confusion. “Which means you must go and get ready.”
Once Geraldine was gone Charlie stretched and yawned on the bar, blinking his glassy eyes. He jumped into the bag, rummaged about then jumped out again with several vials. He began to mix the powders and fluids together in a bell-shaped bottle, humming softly to himself.
The jetty drew Mary’s gaze again. Freya was walking along it towards the shore, leaving a trail of silvered footprints shining like old stars.
∞¥∞Ω∞¥∞
Mary smiled at the women — flappers, she remembered — in their feathered headpieces and beaded frocks; at the men in their razor-sharp suits as they lit cigarettes in long holders for their paramours. Her own close-fitted dress was black, long-sleeved, innocuous; the only feature was a row of silver buttons down her back. But the colours the flappers wore! And the fabrics! The delicate, diaphanous skirts; the trailing ribbons from dropped waists; the long strings of jewels, darlings, the jewels.
The parquetry floor shook and the chandeliers tinkled as the guests shook and shimmied and stomped to the jazz band, its piano, trumpet and Sharkey Malone’s whisky-voice jumping across the night. No-one looked lonesome in a corner, or was without one of Charlie’s fabulous gin martinis or old-fashioneds. Everything was going to plan.
“I would honestly love to know how that little barman doll works. He seems so like-life … lifely … um, real.” Geraldine had crept up behind Mary and slung an arm around her shoulder. Her voice was a little slurred and her headpiece of peacock feathers and jet sat askew.
“He’s always a hit. But now, I think, would be a good time for the main event, seeing as the band’s about to break.” She signalled to Sharkey Malone, who pulled a worn little hipflask from his pocket and toasted in reply. “If you’ll just get everyone to—”
“Darlings. My lovely katty-kits. No, wait — my kitty cats…” Geraldine giggled and swayed as all eyes turned towards her. She waved a hand at Mary, who felt a little thrill run through her. This was what she had been waiting for.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’d like to form an orderly line in front of the bar, we have a rather special treat for the evening, courtesy of the lovely Geraldine,” Mary smiled winningly.
The crowd cheered as she walked to the bar and stood beside Charlie. Tiny ruby glasses, about twice the size of a thimble, were stacked on the right of his little bar. On the left were the bell-shaped bottle and two chrome cocktail shakers. The booze, she knew, would be on the shelf underneath.
“You really are an old pro, aren’t you, Charlie?” Mary whispered to him.
He replied with a wink.
“Whisky or gin?” asked Mary of the first guest, a plump woman with a fur-trimmed neckline and tight rings that made her fingers look like sausages.
“Whisky, thanks, honey.”
At this stage of the evening Charlie could relax a little. People were drunk enough not to notice that his movements were fluid, less like a spring-powered automaton. It was exhausting to keep that act up all night, she knew. He deserved to have a little fun with his favourite part of the night.
He poured the whisky into the shaker, over crushed ice, followed by a shot of something shimmering that looked like liquid violets.
“Hang on a minute, honey. That’s not anything that’s stronger than booze now, is it? If you get my drift.” The plump woman looked concerned.
“Madam, I assure you we serve nothing dangerous.”
“Now who’s the old pro?” whispered Charlie under his moustache. The shaker frosted over as he gave it a quick, expert shake. He lifted it high in the air, straining the beverage into one of the ruby glasses. A fine mist wafted from the liquid as it waterfalled into it; the sound of children’s laughter splashed up from the drink.
“Now isn’t that just the strangest thing?” The woman’s pink-painted lips curved into a smile, her chubby cheeks shining. She held the glass up to the light; crimson sparkles shone on the wall behind it.
Mary smiled back. “Now if you’d like to make your way to the lawn?”
The plump woman stood aside for a man in a brown fedora.
“Whisky or gin?”
They streamed to the bar, full of laughter and disinhibition. Mary watched Charlie pass another tiny glass of violet liquid to a smiling, swaying man, revelling in their abandonment.
Geraldine waved at Mary as the last guest wandered outside. “Bottoms up, darlings!” she cried, downing the drink in one mouthful as Mary switched off the lights.
Charlie wiped out the cocktail shakers as he looked out the window.
“Admiring your handiwork?” Mary asked.
“It never gets dull, does it? I mean, I never quite know how they’re going to react…”
“Look,” she whispered. The crescent moon
was slung low on the horizon, refusing to illuminate the garden with more than a wan glow. Geraldine laughed, a raucous guffaw from her belly. As it rang out, the laughter vapourised into yellow light, like boiling water into steam. It broke off into tiny pieces that flew up into amber lanterns that Mary had earlier strung through the trees, around the ironwork fencing, along the edges of the lawn. Luminous, the lanterns lit the party with the light of a worn-through sunset. Silhouettes of the ants and insect wings forever frozen in the amber filled the grounds.
“Beautiful as ever,” Charlie sighed. “It does seem sad, though, that they don’t ever remember it.”
“Perhaps. But it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t change them, that they don’t carry it with them.” Laughing softly, she pointed toward the plump woman who had taken the first drink. All her flapper frippery had fallen off, discarded on the damp grass. She stretched, her body elongating, the soft white flesh stretching and curving around the changing bones. An unseen vessel tipped over her head, spilling shining liquid until she was coated head to foot in chrome. Naked, unadorned, she arched her back in an imitation of the Diana lamps and ashtrays of the day.
“Amazing, isn’t it, what people can do when you take back just a little time from them?” Mary never grew tired of the endless shapes, the form and formlessness that rested under the layers of time that humans wore like a shell. She wondered what would happen if it was age, the strangely complicated effect of time, that was stripped away. But the drink took back time itself, bringing out all the possibilities that the years steal away.
“So that’s how you do it, then.”
Mary jumped. The arrival of the owner of that low, sweet voice meant that they had a problem on their hands.
Charlie froze, the tiny white towel swaying in his hand.
Freya, in cloche hat and almond-coloured wrapover coat, walked from the shadows, smiling. She looked like she was holding a secret inside her, beating like a second heart. Mary reached up to smooth down her hair, something she only did when she was unsettled.
One Small Step, an anthology of discoveries Page 12