by Helen Peters
“Good morning.”
“Morning,” I said, trying to speak in a normal voice while my mind attempted to process this incredible fact. From the perfectly ordinary way she had greeted me, it was obvious that the whole time I had spent in the past had taken no time at all in the present.
Anna looked at me more closely and frowned.
“You look exhausted. Did you have a bad night?”
I considered the question.
“Not entirely bad,” I said, “but not exactly restful either.”
“I’ve got to shoot off, I’m afraid,” she said, grabbing her bag from the table. “Site meetings at the burial ground. Do you want to come along?”
“Oh, er, no, I’ll stay here, thanks. Homework and stuff, you know.” I walked over to my food cupboard to find something for breakfast.
“Do you want the heating on?” asked Anna. “It’s that switch by the door.”
I flicked the switch down.
“Chilly this morning, isn’t it?” she said. “But the flat warms up in no time once the heating’s on.”
I thought of the hours it had taken every day to keep a room warm in 1814: cleaning out ashes, laying fires, lugging coal buckets, trying to coax sparks from flint and steel. And now we could heat an entire house at the flick of a switch. Never again would I take that magic for granted.
When Anna left, I felt restless. I took the spare set of keys and headed outside.
The garden hit me like a slap in the face. Instead of flowerbeds and lawns and hedges alive with blossom and birdsong, I was faced with the grey tarmac car park and the strip of grass bordered by bare wooden fence panels. The background noise was the dull drone of car engines from the main road in the distance.
I walked round to the side of the house. Anna had said the stable clock was still there, so maybe the developers had left the stable block alone.
At the entrance to the yard was a gate with a smart sign on it: The Old Stables. The stables and the laundry building had been converted into houses. There were paving stones where the cobbles used to be, and all the doors and windows were modern. But the bricks looked the same, just a little more weather-beaten, and so did the tiled roof with the clock tower on the top. The clock’s golden hands stood at exactly twelve o’clock. I glanced at my watch. It was half past ten.
The gate was locked. I turned back and walked past the front of the house again, round to the left, where the lawns and flower gardens had once stretched all the way to the fields. Now there was only a narrow path bordered by a high fence.
I walked to the back of the house, where the arched doors in the old brick wall used to lead to the kitchen garden and the orchard. The wall had gone, and so had the orchard and the garden. There was just a tiny fenced-in patio with a plastic table and chairs. And beyond the patio, more houses.
Surely they’d have left the wood though. They couldn’t have cut down the bluebell wood. They wouldn’t have been allowed to.
But there was no wood. There was nothing to suggest that there had ever been a wood. There was just a bare fence enclosing plain modern houses.
A little patch of blue next to the fence caught my eye. I walked over to it.
It was a single bluebell plant, its bell-shaped flowers bowing to the ground.
I dropped to my knees and buried my face in the cluster of bells. And as I inhaled their lovely rich scent, I was transported back to the bluebell wood, in my long cotton dress and leather boots, breathing the flower-scented air, marvelling at the shimmering haze of colour that stretched into the distance like a magic purple lake.
Where had all the bluebells gone?
Buried under concrete, under the foundations of houses. Suffocated, stifled, shrivelled to nothing.
And suddenly, like a blow to the stomach, it struck me properly for the first time.
Sophia was dead. Polly was dead. Robbie was dead. Nothing would be left of them but skeletons in the ground.
I curled up in a ball on the grass and cried until I had no tears left.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A Time to Seek
I woke in the chill of a grey afternoon, stiff and frozen to the bone.
I opened my eyes. There was the grass and the fence and the single bluebell plant.
A violent shudder went through me. I heaved my stiff cold body off the ground and hobbled into the house.
Back in my bedroom, I traced the writing on the window with my fingers. It was my only link to the past. Everything else had changed. The door was different, the fireplace had gone, there was a different rug on the floorboards.
I drew in my breath.
The floorboards!
What if…?
Heart hammering, I pushed back the bed.
And there it was. The floorboard that was shorter than the others.
The nails at each corner looked as though they weren’t quite as tightly fixed as those in the surrounding boards. It wasn’t something you would notice unless you were looking for it, but they definitely looked a tiny bit higher.
It would only be an empty box. But it would be something. It would prove that it had all been real. And it would be something to keep. Sophia would have wanted me to have it, I was sure.
I fetched a knife from the kitchen, knelt on the floor and pushed the blade under the head of the nearest nail. I thought it would come up easily, as it seemed to have done for Sophia. But the nail was stuck fast. Had Sophia been stronger than she looked?
Then I remembered. The nails had probably not been disturbed for two hundred years.
I rummaged in the kitchen utensil drawer and found a flat metal tool, the sort you use to turn roast potatoes. But the metal was too thick to fit under the nail. I had to slide the knife under and chip away at the wood until I had made a gap deep enough to wedge the tool underneath. Then, using all my strength, I pushed on the other end.
And the nail started to move. Millimetre by millimetre, it rose from the wood until, with one final push on the lever, it flew into the air and landed with a ping on the other side of the room.
Trying to stay calm, I turned my attention to the second nail. With the same painstaking effort, I prised it out of the board. Then the third. After what seemed like forever, the final nail came out.
My hands shook as I squeezed my fingertips into the gaps at either end of the floorboard. I screwed my eyes shut. If the gap between the joists turned out to be empty, I didn’t think I could bear the disappointment.
Keeping my eyes shut, I lifted the board out and laid it on the floor. Then I took a deep breath and forced myself to look.
It was still there.
Coated with dust, it sat snugly in the gap between the joists, just where I had watched Sophia replace it before she had left Charlbury forever.
I sat there, smiling and smiling at the dusty wooden box. I couldn’t believe it was still there. For two hundred years, it had sat under these floorboards, quietly gathering dust, while people lived their lives around it, never knowing it existed. It was amazing to think that the last time it had been touched was when Sophia took out the bracelet that would enable her and Robbie to start a new life together. And I had been there with her, standing in this exact spot, two hundred years ago. Or a week ago, depending on how you looked at it.
So it really had all been true. I would never have to doubt my sanity again. I had proof. And it was something I could keep forever, to remind me of my ancestors.
A thrill like electricity ran through me as I lifted it out and set it gently on the floor. It was surprisingly heavy.
I opened the lid, and my mouth fell open.
Because the box wasn’t empty.
It was stuffed full of papers. And on top of the papers sat an old book.
I stared at it, frowning in bemusement. Who had put these things here?
I took out the book, set it aside and looked at the envelope on top of the pile of papers. There was one word written on the front.
Evie.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
A Time to Keep
With trembling hands, I picked up the envelope. The paper was thick and smooth. The name was written in black ink, in neat sloping handwriting.
I knew that writing.
Feeling light-headed, I opened the envelope and unfolded the sheet of cream-coloured paper inside it. The paper was covered in the same handwriting.
My dear Evie,
If you are reading this, I shall be so happy, since it will mean that you are alive and well. My beloved husband and I have searched for you in every way we could think of, and this is my last, desperate attempt to contact you. I thought there might be a slight possibility that, since the house is now shut up and deserted, with only the butler and housekeeper resident, you might one day be tempted to return to Charlbury and retrieve this box.
You might not even know that, thanks to your ingenuity and courage, Robbie and I did successfully elope and were married at Gretna Green. We travelled back to London, sold my dear grandmother’s bracelet and rented a little house. We took my grandmother’s surname, Cranfield, in gratitude to her. Only then did we have time to reflect on the extraordinary sacrifice you made for us. I realised, with horror, that I had been so absorbed in my own situation that I had allowed you to sacrifice your freedom, and quite possibly your life, for my own selfish ends.
We made enquiries through Robbie’s aunt Elizabeth in the village, but it appeared that nobody knew what had become of you. “Sophia” had vanished without a trace. Rumours were in circulation that she had died in her room, even that my father had murdered her. Yet George, the footman, told Elizabeth that my father was unwell on the night you disappeared and that he and Mr Paxton had been attending to him almost constantly. He is certain that “Sophia” somehow managed to escape from the locked room.
I cannot conceive of how you were able to effect this extraordinary feat, but the fact that you achieved it is one more example of your bravery. Your strength of character and selflessness, dear Evie, have been an inspiration to my husband and me throughout our lives. We always felt that we must achieve something worthwhile to honour your sacrifice.
As we had promised we would, we dedicated our lives to campaigning to improve the appalling lot of children in this country. I have placed in this box a copy of our little book, which, along with the far greater works of Mr Dickens, Mr Kingsley and many others, had some small effect in changing the laws of the country to improve the terrible plight of millions of children.
My darling husband passed away last year, after a short illness. He and I were twin souls, and I grieve for him more than I can express. But our dear son, Theodore, has, now that we are well out of danger, reverted to his father’s name, Tregarron. Since Robbie was the only person in the world with that name, we particularly wished it not to die out. I am fortunate enough to be blessed with a beautiful grandson, Arthur, who will continue the name into the future.
When I reflect upon my life before my marriage, I marvel that I was able to summon up the courage to defy my father and elope with Robbie. It was only through your extraordinarily noble help and support, dear Evie, that I was able to do so. My life as Sophia Cranfield has been so rich and full of adventure. I tremble to think what my life as Mrs Charles Ellerdale would have been. Yet so very many women, rich and poor alike, lead such lives of fear and misery. There is much work left to do.
I wish so very much that I could have found you, Evie. Robbie and I made enquiries through every avenue we could think of. We even took out an advertisement in The Times to try to trace you. But none of our enquiries produced any fruit. It was as though you had vanished from the face of the earth. It did not help, I suppose, that we never were able to discover your surname. Mrs Hardwick, who had engaged you and must have known your full name, left Charlbury soon after you did. She provided no forwarding address. And the strangest thing was that when George looked in the housekeeper’s records, which Mrs Hardwick kept meticulously, there was no trace of your name. It was as though you had never been at Charlbury.
I know it is probably foolish to hope that you will return and look for the box, but I have made this one last journey back, to put these things here, just in case. Along with the book are some newspaper clippings – reviews of the book and reports of our campaigning work – the work that you made possible when you helped us to escape.
I hope so very much that you have led a happy and fulfilling life, dear Evie. I am an old lady now, and you, I suppose, are an old lady too. It is strange, but although I know I have aged, I cannot imagine that you have done so at all. I still picture you as the girl of thirteen whom I knew for a brief time all those years ago.
If you are reading this, dear Evie, then you have fulfilled my final wish.
Yours ever,
Sophia
Charlbury, 24th April 1870
Sitting on the bed, I read the letter over and over again.
Somehow, this made everything different. Sophia had reached out to me from the past. Two hundred years after we met, we could still communicate with each other.
Once I had read the letter so many times that I almost knew it by heart, I folded it up again and carefully slid it back into the envelope. Then I picked up the pale-blue hardback book that had lain on top of the letter. I read the title and the authors’ names.
LOST IN THE CITY
ROBERT AND SOPHIA CRANFIELD
I opened the book and my heart leapt as I saw the illustration on the title page. It was the drawing Robbie had given Sophia in the stable yard on the first day I met him: the picture of two exhausted, starving children, dressed in rags.
I turned the page. The next was blank, apart from one line of text in the centre.
For Evie, wherever she may be
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A Time to Heal
Drowsily, I fumbled for the clock and switched off the alarm. It was 11.55pm. I had set the alarm before I went to sleep. I just needed to be sure.
I sat up in bed and waited for the living-room clock to strike. As the twelfth stroke of midnight died away, I listened intently.
Outside, an owl hooted. I heard the creak of bedsprings as Anna moved in her sleep. I continued to wait, but nothing changed. There was no tapping on the windowpane. No sound from the stable clock. Everything was normal.
I walked to the window and opened the curtains. My reflection stared back at me. I lifted my arm. My reflection did the same. I reached up to draw the curtains together again, and my reflection reached up too.
I smiled as I closed the curtains, and my reflection smiled back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Home
The carrier bags dug into my hands as I walked home from the shops. As well as the basic groceries, I had bought everything I could think of that Mum might like: chocolates, peanut butter, cheese, grapes. Even, for some reason, a pineapple.
When I had left home five days ago, it had felt like winter. Now spring seemed to have arrived all at once. It was warm and sunny, with fluffy clouds floating high in the blue sky. The cherry trees along our street were all in bloom, and tulips and narcissi brightened the front gardens.
I walked past the garage forecourt, where plastic sacks of coal were stacked against the wall. That would be a nice surprise for Mum.
The woman at the counter looked at me doubtfully.
“Are you with someone? In a car?”
“No,” I said. “I’m walking.”
She looked at the carrier bags in my hands. “How are you going to get it home then?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll manage.”
I clutched the sack of coal against my chest with both arms, with the shopping bags dangling from my wrists. It was lucky I didn’t have far to go.
I turned off the main road into a side street, and sat on a low garden wall to rest for a minute. I leaned the coal against the wall and eased the carrier bags off my sore wrists. At least my hands were healing.
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p; The wall belonged to a tall, old house with long sash windows. A date was carved into the stone above the front door. 1792.
So this house had been here when Robbie and Sophia were alive. This part of London would have been a village in those days, surrounded by fields. Maybe Robbie and Sophia had come up here sometimes, on a rare day when they weren’t campaigning, or writing their book, or lobbying Parliament to introduce universal education. Maybe they had walked past this very house.
I looked at the worn stone step in front of the garden gate. Generations of family and servants and visitors must have crossed that threshold. How many thousands, millions, of footsteps did it take to wear a groove that deep in a slab of stone?
From the papers in my box, I had discovered that Robbie and Sophia’s book, the story of two brothers apprenticed to a chimney sweep, had caused a sensation. It had helped to change attitudes to child labour, and eventually helped to change the law.
A breeze blew across the pavement. Something sparkled in the sunlight. A spider’s web, suspended between the gatepost and a bush. A huge, perfect web, moving backwards and forwards in the breeze, stretching and bending, but never breaking. Fat little dewdrops perched on the almost invisible threads, perfectly balanced, a tiny rainbow held in every minuscule sphere.
I crouched in front of the web, marvelling at the miracle of it, at the threads that looked so fragile, that individually could be destroyed in an instant by a careless hand, but were stronger than steel when woven together. I took from my shoulder bag a little notebook and pencil.
As I crouched there, sketching the spider’s web, a robin fluttered down from a bush and perched on the wall, its head on one side, the round black eyes looking enquiringly at me.