by JL Merrow
“Her, actually.” Robin sniffed and placed Teddina carefully on his lap. “And no. Mum doesn’t even know I’m doing this. She’d probably pitch a fit if she knew I was hanging around with homeless people like John.”
“Hah. Remind me to go round your house tomorrow when the Echo comes out with the ad in. That’s gotta be better than watching EastEnders any day.”
“Oh, God. She won’t see it, will she? Mum doesn’t think the Hitchworth Echo is a proper newspaper. She never looks in it. She only uses it for people to put their shoes on when they come into the house.”
“Can you afford to take that chance? I can see her now, spreading out those pages on the carpet to stop any of that nasty dirt touching it—and oh, who’s that in the picture?”
“Oh God. No.” Robin grabbed Teddina, and held her firmly up in front of his face.
“Can we lose the teddy bear, please?” came a yell from the front, where the photographer was setting up.
“It’s so it’ll appeal to families,” Robin yelled back in desperation.
“And furries,” Azrah muttered, thankfully too low for anyone else to hear.
The photographer shrugged, and presumably decided either (a) the client was always right or more probably (b) it was too flippin’ cold to stand out here arguing when there were warm pubs aplenty.
He spent the next ten minutes taking a couple of dozen shots from various angles, and Robin didn’t come out from behind Teddina until Azrah had sworn on Mr. Bouncy’s life it was all over. It was a relief to get changed back into proper clothes, duty finally done for the day. Well, all except buying the promised cod, chips, and Bonios for John and Sheppy. He bought a container of soup for himself—the smell of the chips was making him queasy—and “accidentally” picked one up for Sheppy’s Mum as well. They all had a nice little natter over their food, with John explaining he’d been in the army until he got PTSD and Sheppy’s Mum not saying anything about her past whatsoever. They both told him off for staying out in the cold with them.
Robin felt unusually contemplative as he caught the bus home.
Tuesday evening was the monthly Hitchworth Steampunk Society pub social night, which for Archie meant a rare chance to be one of the least weirdly dressed people in the room. Bridge gave him a lift as she wasn’t drinking—Archie was pretty sure it was down to the calories, but no way was he going to ask. Jerrick was being looked after by her mum and dad. Lyddie had offered to have him, but she’d also muttered something about taking the opportunity to tell Bridge off for doubting Archie, so he’d thought it best to decline. She’d forget about her anger soon enough. Lyddie was like that. Unfortunately, Bridge wasn’t. She could turn grudge-bearing into an Olympic sport. Still, she seemed to be in a much better mood tonight, chatting away and cracking jokes.
Although the one about checking the coast was clear of Archie’s so-called stalker hadn’t struck him as all that funny.
Archie hadn’t known what to think about his encounter with Robin on Monday evening. He half wished he’d made more of it at the time—he’d hardly spoken to the bloke—but it’d been awkward with Bridge there being all passive-aggressive with the chips. She clearly hadn’t changed her views since Sunday lunchtime.
Robin had been dressed in a suit, presumably on his way home from work, so he was definitely older than school age. What did he do for a living that required him to stay so late—and maybe even take work home? Although that box could have held anything. It would have made a good conversation starter, if Archie had had half a brain cell about him. He felt a pang in his chest at the lost opportunity to get to know the guy better.
Then again, with Bridge in that mood, it might’ve ended in ketchup bottles at dawn, so perhaps it was just as well.
There was no parking at the Brick and Bottle, so they had to walk a short way through the centre of town, Bridge drawing more than a few glances in her heavy brocade coat and bustle skirt. She’d gone for a sort of Victorian mourning look tonight, and the ends of the gauzy black scarf tied around her top hat fluttered in the breeze. There were a couple of good-humoured catcalls from rough sleepers they passed on the way, and Archie’s trouser pockets were soon lighter by a few pound coins. John, who dossed down on the square near Willoughbys, offered him a few leftover chips from the fish supper some Good Samaritan had bought him, but Archie turned him down when he saw Bridge’s wistful look. “I think they’d gone cold anyway,” he whispered to cheer her up once they were a safe distance away.
“You think that makes a difference? Worst thing about being on a diet. I keep getting cravings for stuff I don’t even like, normally. I mean, I haven’t fancied chips since the first week I got that job at the chippie, and now I literally want to grab them out of the hands of the starving.”
“Want me to tighten your corset?” Archie grinned as they pushed open the door of the pub. “That’ll stop you eating anything.”
“Won’t stop me wanting to. Oh look, the Doc’s here,” Bridge nodded at where the plague doctor was sitting at a table in their usual niche at the back, talking to Nikki. She was always the first one there. She said, what with all the faff of travelling in a wheelchair, she didn’t want to have to worry about being late as well.
Archie reckoned the Doc liked to get there early to maximise his chances of creeping out the punters. The regulars at the Brick and Bottle didn’t pay him much attention these days, being used to a six-foot-six apparition in a bird-shaped mask, wide-brimmed hat, and black duster leaning over the bar to order a pint with a straw, but there were always one or two newcomers for him to put the wind up.
Archie was pretty sure the Plague Doctor was a him. He certainly never corrected anyone’s pronouns, and statistically speaking most people that tall with a voice that deep were guys. Archie was a bit short on any other physical clues, though, seeing as the Doc always kept in character and never took his mask off, at least not anywhere Archie had ever seen him.
Presumably he had a whole other life somewhere. Archie often wondered if he’d met the bloke in mufti, and had developed an embarrassing habit of peering suspiciously at anyone he encountered who was his height or taller. Although Bridge had pointed out the Doc’s footwear had two-inch heels, and could have lifts in to—hah—boot.
Archie waved at him, and the Doc raised his nearly full pint glass and took a sip through the straw. “Right, they’re sorted, so what are you having?” Bridge asked.
“G&T if they’ve got the Lincoln Gin back in. If not, I’ll have a rum and Coke.”
“Rum and Coke? That’s not very steampunk.”
“Hey, pirates drank rum. And they’re sort of steampunk.”
“Yeah, but they didn’t drink Coke. On account of it not having been invented until, like, the 1900s or something.”
“Time-travelling pirates might, and they’d be even more steampunk. And anyway, Coke was invented in 1886 which makes it totally steampunk.”
“You do realise what knowing the exact date Coke was invented says about you, don’t you?”
“That I’m an educated, well-informed gentleman?” And that it helped to be able to give younger visitors to the museum some information they could relate to.
“You keep telling yourself that. Nerd.” She turned away to the bar, probably so she’d have the last word.
Archie went to join the Doc. “How are you keeping?”
“Good, good. The pestilence has not ensnared me with its fatal miasma. Although I think I might be coming down with a cold.”
“Yeah, there’s a lot of it about.” Still, with that mask on there was no danger of the Doc spreading his germs to anyone else. Archie would rather not catch anything he might pass on to Jerrick while the kid was so little, thanks.
Soon after Bridge got back with the drinks, Lord Peregrine and Lady Edith Bressingham-Steam arrived in state, the crowds around the bar parting with the ease of long practice to allow room for Perry’s cane and Edith’s impressively wide leg-of-mutton sleeves. There were very few doorways she co
uld have got through without turning sideways, so it was just as well she wasn’t wearing one of her equally impressive bustles or she’d have been doing the sand-dance just to get around. She hand-made all her and her husband’s outfits, and her ball gowns were amazing. Tonight she was channelling Queen Victoria herself in a Black Watch tartan skirt-and-jacket combo, with a matching waistcoat for Perry under his frock coat.
Bridge nudged him. “I love those two. They’re like a real-life romance novel.”
“If you’re talking about Fifty Shades, I don’t want to know.”
“I was thinking of one of Mum’s doctor-nurse romances, actually, so get your mind out of the gutter. You know that’s how they met, right? Perry was a dashing young doctor just arrived from Jamaica, and Edith was a midwife. They fell in love over an emergency caesarian.”
“Sounds unhygienic.”
Bridge tsked. “You’ve got no romance in your soul.”
“If your idea of romance involves blood, gore, and danger of death, then no, I haven’t. And were you aware the Herts vampire society is looking for new members?”
“Stop making stuff up. There’s no vampire societies in Hertfordshire. You have to go into London.”
“I am so not asking how you know that.”
“I am so not volunteering that information. But seriously, don’t you think they’re romantic? Still together after all these years. I mean, come on, they’re like ancient. Older than my gran. And they’d have had the whole racial-divide thing to worry about back then. It was a much bigger thing in them days.”
A couple more members turned up in normal clothes, pulling hats out of bags and putting them on as they reached the group. Not everyone could get away with as much as steam casual for their day jobs.
Archie was one of the lucky ones with his job at the workhouse museum, where they actively encouraged him to dress in Victorian gear—although he had to leave his steampunk goggles at home. It was fair enough, as even his proper vintage welding goggles were at least twenty years too young to be in period, and it wasn’t like anyone had ever welded in a workhouse anyway. They’d have been too busy picking oakum and looking forward to Sunday, when they might actually get to see their spouse for an hour or two. Much as he loved the Victorian era for its style, inventiveness, and insistence on good manners, Archie had to admit their idea of social welfare had been a bit crap.
Perry’s grizzled curls glistened in the lamplight as he tapped on his glass with one be-ringed finger. Pomade, Archie guessed. “Ladies, gentlemen, and other esteemed members, welcome to our humble gathering.”
If you listened really hard, you could just make out the warmth of Jamaica in Perry’s tones. But you had to listen really hard. Maybe accents had been a lot more important when Perry came to Britain too.
Perry went on, “First on the agenda tonight—”
“Since when do we have an agenda?” Bridge yelled with a grin.
Perry raised his glass to her. “My dear lady, the agenda may not have been visible at previous meetings, but I assure you, it was always present in spirit. Now, if I may continue”—he fixed Bridge with a twinkling dark eye and she toasted him with a wink—“our first order of business is the proposed change to the name of our splendid society. As many members know, it has been brought to our attention that Hitchworth Steampunk Society, or HiSS, causes potential confusion with the Historic and Interesting Surrey Steampunk Society, or HISSS. Therefore, we invite alternative suggestions from the floor.”
“Splendid Hitchworth Eccentrics and Explorers of the Paranormal?” the plague doctor suggested. “Although the acronym is perhaps somewhat lacking.”
Yeah, Archie didn’t reckon SHEEP really cut it, either. “Maybe if we added “Electric” at the start, to give us Electric SHEEP? No, hang on, that’d be cyberpunk. Ignore me.”
“How about Steampunks of Hitchworth, Including Time-travellers?” Bridge called out.
“I like that one!” That was River, who tonight was dressed down as David Tennant’s Doctor Who. They looked good in the sharp suit and overcoat, but Archie’s fave was their TARDIS outfit. It was epic, complete with flashing light on the top hat and woop-woop noises.
Somebody laughed, and River frowned. “Wait a minute . . .”
Perry had to call for order after the rest of them worked out that acronym and choked on their drinks.
“Sorry,” Bridge said, cheerfully unrepentant.
River rolled their eyes like a teenager. Fair enough; they were a teenager.
“We have a suggestion: Steampunk, Historically Eccentric and Retro-futurist Paranormal Alliance, or SHERPA.” That was Pearl, of Roger-and-Pearl, a fun couple in their forties who always turned up in matching pith helmets. Pearl was wearing her dinosaur-print bustle tonight.
“Isn’t that a bit, well, imperialist?” Archie couldn’t help thinking of Victorian explorers getting all the credit while native guides and bearers did all the work.
“In fact, it’s a subtle tribute to the real hero of the first successful Everest ascent, Tenzing Norgay,” Pearl corrected in her school governor voice.
Archie had often thought she’d have made an excellent actual female Victorian explorer, never mind just dressing as one. He could see her taking no nonsense from any men who tried to tell her a woman’s place was in the home.
“Commendable, and well overdue.” Perry’s voice was warm and approving.
Archie wasn’t totally convinced it might not be taken the wrong way, but he wasn’t about to accuse a black bloke of not knowing racism when he saw it. “Okay, fair enough.”
“Votes, then?” Lady Edith quavered.
“Hang on a mo.” Bridge had been frantically scribbling on a beermat. “What about Alternative, Eccentric Time-travellers of Hitchworth and Esteemed Retropunks? AETHER.”
There was a general, impressed ooh. If there was one thing steampunks agreed on, it was the excellent qualities of aether. Aether was like steampunk vibranium. You could claim any properties for it you wanted, use it to fuel your imaginary airship or run your hypothetical communication device, and there were no pesky real-life limitations to get in the way. Just like goggles on top hats, octopodes on outfits, and cogs on everything under the sun were a hefty visual signpost that steampunk was being perpetrated here, aether was a sort of verbal clue to expect steam-powered servants and clockwork spaceships.
“It doesn’t include the word ‘steampunk,’” Pearl complained.
Bridge raised an eyebrow in a way that managed to subtly suggest the girding of loins and polishing of knives and other bladey things. “Does it have to?”
Pearl sniffed. “We are a steampunk society.”
“Yeah, but some of us are into dieselpunk too. Retropunk’s like an umbrella term. It’s more inclusive.” She folded her arms.
Archie fought the urge to applaud. Way to take the moral high ground, Bridge.
“We’ll have a show of hands,” Perry said firmly. “Who’s for SHERPA?”
AETHER won by a stiffly waxed whisker. Bridge beamed. Pearl looked disgruntled but shook Bridge’s hand with polite resignation.
“Now, plans for the festive season,” Perry announced with an expression of profound relief. “Who will join us for a group visit to the Victorian Market?”
River raised a hand. “Would we need to be proper Victorian, or can we dress steampunk?”
“Good question, young River. I’ve spoken to the organisers, and they and I—and my dear Lady Edith, of course—feel it would be more appropriate for us to come as a visibly steampunk group.”
“Cos they don’t trust us to get Victorian right,” Bridge muttered to Archie.
“What if we’re trading at the market?” Nikki’s clear voice carried across the hubbub, and the feathers on her hat bobbed as she spoke. “I know Dora’s got a stall.”
“Dora’s not here tonight, is she?” Perry’s gaze searched the room.
“Probably frantically crocheting stock for the market,” Bridge whisp
ered in Archie’s ear. “That or panicking about it on social media.” She pulled out her phone and, after a moment, cackled as she showed Archie a post from DoraLadyExplorer that started Dammit dammit dammit I will NEVER book a stall again . . .
Perry coughed. “I’m sure traders will have been given the market guidelines.”
“Dora’s always in full Victorian anyway,” Archie pointed out. Dora was a fully paid-up member of the Steamstress Squadron and stitched her own historically accurate outfits, corsets worn under the clothes and, according to Bridge, traditional split-crotch bloomers too.
He hadn’t asked Bridge when she’d got to see Dora’s bloomers. There were some things no man was meant to know.
“Yeah, but there might be someone else trading?” Nikki looked around the group. “What, no one?”
River made a face. “You have to be over eighteen.”
“Ah, that’s a shame.”
Archie agreed. River made jewellery and badges, which would have been a hit with the Christmas shoppers.
They finally got down to the business of agreeing on a date for the group visit—in just over a fortnight, the Thursday after the town Christmas lights-up—and the meeting moved onto the drinking-and-nattering bit.
Archie found his attention drifting. Wouldn’t it be weird if Robin happened to walk into the pub? Given how much they’d been bumping into each other lately, it wasn’t totally impossible. Lyddie reckoned all these chance meetings meant they were fated to be together. Archie wasn’t sure if he believed in fate, but if there was some kind of higher force out there, it definitely seemed to want to guide his footsteps Robin-wards. Or the other way around.
And if Robin did happen to come in for a pint, that’d mean he wasn’t too young for Archie, wouldn’t it? They were pretty hot on checking your ID here if you looked under twenty-five. All the underage drinkers went down the other end of town to the Dog and Ferret, where the bar staff didn’t give a toss how old drinkers were as long as they had money.
Then again, Robin already thought he was weird. Archie gazed around at his companions, clad in an eclectic mix of neo-Victorian and science-fiction styles with the odd whimsical nod to Alice in Wonderland or Doctor Who, and tried to see them with new eyes. He swallowed. If Robin walked in now wearing his fashionable yet conservative work suit, would he come and sit down with the group, maybe compliment the odd outfit or hat—or run a mile?