“I see.” He came out from behind the counter and circled me. “You’re not from these parts, or anywhere near here.”
“No, sir. But I’m out on my own, looking to make an honest living. I don’t intend on settling here, just earning my way onward.”
“Hmm.” He frowned. “I don’t like drifters.”
“I understand, sir. All I ask is that you try me for a day. Making deliveries, shelving stock, anything you want. I’m young and strong and not afraid to sweat. I’m not asking you to trust me with anything valuable, just to give me a chance.”
He sighed. A woman, presumably his wife, exchanged glances with him from behind the ladies’ hats on the other side of the store.
“Hello,” I said, waving to her. “My name is Keigan Wainwright. It’s nice to make your acquaintance.”
She nodded to me, but said nothing.
“And before I go to work I intend to buy. I need proper winter clothes. Some shaving tools and soap. The necessities.” I figured, well at least I hoped, my boots would do. Judging by the prices posted in the window and signs in the store, it appeared I wouldn’t be able to afford the rest of the things I needed to get by until my first paycheck came in. If I wanted to keep a roof over my head, I’d have to wear my own boots.
“What kind of clothes were you interested in?”
“Whatever is proper for me to work in, and a second set of clothes for after work. I have practicality in mind here. A coat, too. Like I said, necessities.”
“You got any money at all?”
I nodded.
“How much?” He scratched thin hair upon the sparsely populated dome of his head. “Enough?”
I looked around at the clothing, checking prices on pairs of pants and shirts, and the shaving tools, a comb, a small pair of scissors for trimming my nails…
“I think so.”
“We have some fine second-hand clothing, if you’re interested,” Mrs. Wilson spoke up, and her husband immediately gave her a look that sent her back into silence.
“I don’t mind second-hand for a coat,” I replied, “But I was kind of hoping for new on the rest.”
I looked over the nearest stacks of clothes and saw that long underwear was the weekly special. It was a good thing; as cold as it was, I was going to need it.
“Long underwear, two shirts, two pairs of pants, socks, and the shaving tools. The rest will have to go to room and board. Then, as I earn more, I’ll get what I can.”
“I’d better see if we have anything in stock to fit you,” the man finally said, still clearly uncertain whether or not he wanted to hire me, but certain he wanted me to spend money in his store.
After my purchases were sized up, recorded on a receipt, and wrapped in plain paper tied with string, I paid the man and waited, still, to hear my fate.
“Look, I am willing to try you out on the postal job and picking up here and there in the store when we need it, but I can’t rent you the room. I have daughters, and…” His voice trailed off.
“Say no more, sir. I’m not from around here, I understand. Your family has to come first. I’ll figure something out.”
“How long are you looking to work?”
“Just through the holidays.”
“Very well. You show up tomorrow morning, clean-shaven and properly dressed, and we’ll give you a day’s trial.”
I held out my hand, and begrudgingly, he shook it. “I thank you, sir.”
“Just know this, lad. Family men tend to be well armed in this town,” he warned. “The Postmaster, to a greater degree. You don’t want to be trying anything stupid.”
“No, sir, I most certainly do not.” I said, thinking the stupidest thing I’d ever done in my life up until this point was listening to the ravings of a madman and ending up in this situation to begin with. “Thank you, I will be here bright and early.”
“Early!” Mr. Wilson called. “Before the sun is up! Four-thirty!”
***
I took my parcel of purchases and went on my way, back to the jewelry store. I caught Mr. Best as he was just about to turn over the ‘Closed’ sign.
“I got the job, Mr. Best,” I reported. “At least, on trial. I did not get the room.”
“Ah, not surprising. Wilson’s a family man…” He stopped.
“And I’m a stranger in town, I know. With no references, no relatives here, and no way to prove who or what I am.” I looked at him, wondering if my expression appeared as desperate as I felt. “I’d like to rent that room you offered before. I don’t care if I have to sleep on the floor. I just need a roof over my head. Freezing out here.”
I looked heavenward as the snowfall picked up.
“Well, the room isn’t much more than a squeaky little bed and a bathtub,” he said. “That’s the extent of the indoor facilities. Everything else is out back.”
“Understood.”
“Six dollars a month, as I said. No refunds if you leave early.”
I nodded. “Cash up front.” I reached for my wallet, and he shook his head, changing his mind from his earlier position on the matter.
“We can settle up later, son. I was just about to make my supper, are you hungry?”
I was starving. “Yes, sir.”
“C’mon, then. Meals come with the room.”
“They do?”
“Breakfast and dinner, though you’ll be up much earlier than I will, so I imagine fruit and bread will have to serve as breakfast for you. I work through lunch, most days.” I followed him around the back of the building to the staircase that led to his apartment. He paused, adding, “It’s enough to get by on, if you have to.”
“Thank you, Mr. Best,” I replied, struggling to reach for his hand to shake with the parcel and my backpack over my shoulder. He took the parcel from me and then shook my hand.
“Come along, Mr. Wainwright. We’re cold and hungry. There’s a warm stove and larder full of food in there. Let’s go see what we can find in it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
A QUICK WASH in a tub of freezing water made me shiver. I hurried to dry off with the one small towel I had been given, but my skin still felt wet as I struggled into my new winter underwear. I stood for a long moment next to the small, pot-bellied stove in the corner, the room’s only source of heat. I sighed and threw another log into it, grateful that Mr. Best said heat was also included with the room rental. I wondered if he’d have charged another tenant for the wood, but either way, I was grateful for his kindness.
My lungs ached from the cold. I reached into my backpack and grabbed my inhaler, shaking it and taking two puffs. This one was almost empty, but fortunately I’d picked up a new one at the pharmacy the day before all this craziness started, and it was still in my pack. It should last me, if I were careful, until I was able to get back on New Year’s Eve. Assuming, of course, the wormhole, and the Aurelia Belle, were running on schedule this time.
I pulled on my new pants, shirt, and socks, then moved down the hall into the small kitchen, where I found Mr. Best wearing an apron over his work clothing and stirring a pot on the stove. It was a beautiful appliance and reminded me of the one I’d seen in the Stationmaster’s house back at Wishing Cross Historical Village. I remembered the woman there saying it was the top of the line and would only be owned by someone who made a very comfortable income for the time.
“You’ll have to forgive me, I’m still learning how to cook for myself.” He looked at me sheepishly. “She’s been gone two years now. You’d think that I’d have managed to learn more from those recipe books of hers. But no matter what I do, the food never seems to taste the same.”
He glanced toward the table then, and my eyes followed the path set by his. In the middle sat an incredibly lifelike portrait of a lovely woman I could only imagine was the ‘she’ in question, the woman who must have been his wife. My focus turned to his left hand, in which he held the spoon he was using to stir the food. Upon it there was still a thin, gold wedding band. She
was gone, but clearly he still hadn’t let her go.
Women didn’t seem to live very long in this time, I noticed. I’d been all over town, and of all the people I had come across, I’d only seen one woman old enough to have gray hair: Mrs. Wilson.
He noticed as my attention returned to the drawing. “She was a beautiful woman, in appearance and in spirit. My favorite subject to draw.”
“You drew this?” I gestured toward the image. “It’s amazing.”
“You’re very kind, but with such inspiration to work from, you can hardly go wrong.” He looked away again. “I haven’t figured out yet just what I’m supposed to do without her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We had twenty happy years…longer than a lot of people get. I was lucky,” he said, sounding as though he was trying to convince himself as he spoke. “Very lucky.”
I didn’t want to upset him any further, so I changed the subject. “What is it you’re making?”
“Vegetable stew of sorts. They just got a shipment in at the General Store. I don’t much care for meat that isn’t fresh. The dried out stuff they sell is worse than no meat at all in my estimation.” He reached into the cupboard and brought out a cutting board, then turned to another and retrieved a loaf of bread. “Afraid I’m out of butter, but this goes pretty well with the stew gravy. At least, it did when Sarah made it.”
He sliced a few pieces, then left the rest of the loaf on the board as well, and placed it on the table.
“Can I try something?” I asked, gesturing toward the stove. I was no gourmet, but I’d done my fair share of cooking in the last year and a half under Grandfather’s watchful eye. “Probably just needs a little salt. Do you have any?”
“On the table.”
I saw twin silver shakers and retrieved them both: salt and pepper. “May I?”
He nodded.
I added a little of each, stirred the pot a bit, and then grabbed a slice of the bread. I sought his permission with a glance, and he lowered his eyes in approval. I tore it in half and gave him the larger part. We each dipped our bread into the stew and then tasted it.
He thought a moment. Then he did something no one else in town had done in my presence since I’d arrived; he truly smiled.
“Not bad, son. Not bad at all. Why don’t you go into the sideboard over there and set the table for us, hmm? I’ll keep an eye on this, I think the potatoes are almost done now.”
I did as I was told and wondered if I’d been his first dinner companion since his wife died.
He looked at the table with two place settings on it and sighed. “A long time, I’ve been eating on my own,” he said softly, then cleared his throat and returned to the pot on the stove. He took another piece of bread and dipped it in, tasting the stew again. “No, this isn’t bad at all.”
I rolled up my sleeves and washed my hands in the basin across the room. My shirt was a little big, but it was the best fit they’d had at the General Store. Mr. Best washed up as well before we sat down to dinner.
Mr. Best served us both. I waited a moment to see if he were a religious man, though I’d seen nothing around the apartment to indicate he was. The space was sparsely decorated, devoid of what could only be called a ‘woman’s touch’. I wondered if he couldn’t stand to have any reminders of his late wife around, except for the one picture.
Without saying a blessing over the meal, he picked up his fork and prepared to eat. He saw my hesitation and gestured toward my food with the utensil. “Go on then, don’t let it get cold.”
I started to devour everything on the plate as if I’d never eaten before. He seemed to be hungry at first, but stopped eating while his plate was still half full. I caught him staring at his wife’s portrait again and had no doubt why he’d lost his appetite.
We sat in silence. In the quiet, the clock on the far wall seemed to tick louder and louder by the second until finally it chimed the hour: seven o’clock.
“I haven’t had any dinner guests since Sarah—” he explained, then paused, unable to add the necessary word to finish his sentence. “I don’t generally eat a lot. Tonight I did better than usual.”
I nodded, afraid to say much.
“Your plate is empty, Mr. Wainwright. Would you like seconds?”
I didn’t want to appear greedy, but I was still starving.
“Don’t worry, boy, it’s fine. I would hate to see it wasted.” He took my plate and rose, filling it again at the stove, and then handing it back to me. He sliced some more pieces of bread and nodded toward them.
“Thank you,” I said, gratefully setting them on the edge of my plate. “You are very generous.”
“All part of the service we offer,” he said, bowing slightly as he began to clear his plate away. “Usually I would ask a boarder to help with cleaning up after dinner, but you seem tired, Mr. Wainwright. I would suggest early to bed would be a good idea for you, especially if you begin your new job in the morning?”
“Bright and early,” I replied between bites as the second serving of food quickly vanished from my plate. “I have to be at the store at four-thirty.”
“That is early. But then the trains start pulling in about quarter to five, so it’s not surprising.” He sized me up once more with a discerning expression that frightened me. “You’re the first person I’ve met who arrived on the special. Where exactly did it depart from?”
Again, I was afraid to speak.
“It’s all right, you don’t have to tell me tonight. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to get better acquainted later on.”
Suddenly my stomach knotted, and I felt like the walls were closing in around me. “I am very tired, sir, is it all right if I am excused?”
“You’re a grown man, you can leave the table when you wish,” Mr. Best replied. “If you need anything while you’re getting used to the place, don’t hesitate to knock on my door. I’m usually up quite late reading.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Mr. Wainwright?”
“Yes, Mr. Best?”
“Welcome to Wishing Cross, wherever you’ve come from. I hope your time here will be meaningful.”
I had no strength left to question what he might mean. I just gave a nod of acknowledgement and made my way to my room.
Never had a bed looked quite so inviting.
Maybe if I fall asleep, I’ll wake up back in Grandfather’s old apartment, and this will all be a dream, I thought, as I pulled the quilt tight around me and set the alarm on the small clock on the bedside table.
I took the book out of my backpack, and when I did so, I was surprised to discover it appeared to be in better condition than when I first saw it back in 2015. For one thing, the binding didn’t appear near to cracking in two anymore. The leather on the spine and cover was supple, and the pages…
When I dared to open it, the pages felt sturdier, less likely to crumble to dust if I attempted to turn them.
I kept it as far from the flame of the candle on the bedside table as I could while still being able to see it, and I made a mental note to pick up some more candles at the General Store tomorrow before I came back here.
To my surprise, the text on the first page was now clearly visible, even in such low light.
Wishing Cross Station: 1862: Property of S.J. Sutton
I turned the next few pages, scanning them as I went. They appeared to be mundane records of trains coming and going, with small notes made in some of the margins in almost indecipherable handwriting.
It was incredible, the book being readable now that it was back in its proper time; or at least, given the date typewritten in it, close to it.
If it were property of S.J. Sutton, should I return it to whoever was Stationmaster now? How did it come to be in J. Howard Fox’s possession? All of these questions would have to wait, I knew, because my eyes refused to stay open a moment longer.
I blew out the candle and pulled the blanket up tighter still.
Soon sle
ep took me, and I neither moved nor dreamed, only sailed, unconscious, through the night until the unholy bell on the clock sounded, announcing it was time to rise long before the sun.
CHAPTER NINE
I AWOKE to discover I was still in Wishing Cross, and not the one of J. Howard Fox’s imagination, either, but as living and breathing a town as I’d ever encountered in my own time.
I lit the candle on the bedside table again, the room so simple it didn’t even have a gas-lit lamp in it. I used the cold water in the washstand pitcher to soap up my new shaving brush. I was glad I’d been taught by my Grandfather to use a razor when I was younger; he’d believed it was the ‘only way’ for a man to get a close shave. His beard was heavy, as was mine, and he never liked the stubble when I wore it.
Maybe that was why I wore it, just to give him something to gripe at me about. Or maybe I’d just grown lazy.
My skin felt unnaturally soft after the shave, as unnatural as the whole of the situation I found myself in.
I hurried to dress and made up the bed before I took the candle with me and exited my room.
I stumbled into the kitchen, seeking something to put in my growling stomach before I left for my first day of work in 1880. I found a note waiting for me on the kitchen table and strained to read it.
There is bread and fruit in the larder. Help yourself for breakfast and even take some extra with you for lunch, if you like. Good luck on your first day. Don’t forget to take your key, which I’ve left with this note. See you at dinnertime. ~Best
I made as little noise as possible in the kitchen, especially considering that the appliances and cupboards created a racket of differently pitched squeaks no matter how gently you opened their doors.
I found the key and tucked it into the pocket of my coat. The coat was too big for me, just like the rest of the clothing, and it would make getting around difficult until I became accustomed to its weight. It was, however, much too cold outside to go without it.
Wishing Cross Station Page 5