by JL Merrow
Robin’s heart tried to simultaneously plummet into the basement and leap out through his throat. Did they know about Lyddie? Could they cause trouble for her if they did?
“I’m afraid we’ve still no idea who it is, or even how seriously we should take this threat of a demonstration,” Gail said.
Robin’s heart settled back down in his chest and slowed its beat to merely stratospheric speed. “I think we have to take it very seriously,” he felt duty bound to say.
“Thank you, Robin,” Gail said with a touch of impatience.
“Yes, thank you, Robin,” Mr. Willoughby said in a much more flattering tone.
“You don’t think it could be . . .?” Miss Willoughby gave her brother a significant look.
His face hardened. “I hope not. Not after all these years.”
“But—”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” The silent And that’s the end of the matter was clearly audible.
Robin had a moment’s panic—had he meant bridge or Bridge?—but told himself firmly to stop hearing things that hadn’t actually been said. It was probably one of the signs of madness. Did he have hairy palms? No, no, he was fine; they were only sweaty.
“Robin?” Gail said sharply.
“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Did I miss something?”
“Mr. Willoughby asked you a question.” There was a clear, unspoken, And your answer had better be good.
Oh, God, he was doing it again.
“I asked you for your full name.”
Okay, he could answer that one. In fact, Gail could have answered that one for him, which might have been helpful in the circumstances. “Robin Christopher.”
“Robin . . . Christopher. Oh, dear me.” There was a wheezing sound that, Robin realised after a horrified moment, was the old man laughing. At his name.
It was no worse than he’d experienced at school. “If you don’t need me anymore, I should probably get back to my department,” he said, trying not to let the hurt show.
“Yes, yes. That will be all.” Robin was dismissed with a wave of one crepey hand. “Now, we need to get an announcement about this initiative into the paper as soon as possible . . .”
Mr. Willoughby’s voice cut off as Robin closed the door behind him.
Great. He’d worked all night, he’d been laughed at, and he’d missed his lunch as well. The elation he knew he should be feeling at having his idea approved seemed to have got lost en route.
At least Gail had been looking happier at the end there.
The adrenaline crash after the meeting with the directors was truly epic. Robin was little more than a zombie with a name tag for the rest of the day. Going home, he nodded off repeatedly on the bus. Luckily his route had plenty of potholes to jolt him awake again, so he didn’t miss his stop. He staggered back to his flat in a daze.
But it was done, now. He’d pitched his idea to help the homeless, and it’d been approved. Finally, he felt free to get back in touch with Archie. Robin collapsed down on his sofa. He’d have a brief rest, get some food inside him somehow, and text Archie.
Robin closed his eyes and didn’t wake up until 6 a.m.
Archie was glad it was the AETHER visit to the Victorian Market on Thursday evening. He was beginning to worry he was getting the brush-off, and he seriously needed a distraction.
Maybe Robin was snowed under at work? Tax returns were due in soon, so maybe that was it. Yeah, Archie was probably worrying about nothing. Of course, he didn’t know if Robin even worked in tax. A lot of accountants just did auditing and accounts and stuff, didn’t they? But Robin had said he didn’t like talking about his job, so Archie had respected that. He was kind of wishing he knew something, though. Apart from the name of his firm, which Archie was not going to be all stalkerish and search out online.
Archie was starting to wonder if the benefits of staying off social media really outweighed the disadvantages. If he’d been on one of the popular platforms, he and Robin could have friended each other, and then it wouldn’t have been weird Archie checking out what was going on in his life. It didn’t seem right, trying to look him up when Robin couldn’t do the same to him.
If Robin was on social media. Archie had assumed he was, because wasn’t everyone, apart from him? But then wouldn’t Robin have asked Archie for his details? Most people did.
He sighed. He’d just have to be happy with what Robin told him. If he ever saw him again . . . So yeah. Steampunk as a distraction. Yay!
The meeting point was at the corner of the market square nearest to the pub. Bridge had suggested they meet in the pub, but Perry had politely reminded her how difficult it was to get steampunks out of the pub once they’d made themselves comfortable. It also made it easier for people with mobility issues, meaning Nikki, if they didn’t have to get themselves into a building only to have to get out of it five minutes later.
Luckily, although it was a cold night, there was no sign of rain and not even much of a breeze. Archie was one of the first to get there, finding Perry and Edith well wrapped up in thick woollen capes. A few others were there as well.
“No plague doctor?” Archie asked when he’d greeted them. “It’s not like him to miss an opportunity to go out and alarm the general public.”
“He said he had a prior engagement,” Perry told him.
“Actually, he said he had to lance the boils of some poor dying souls over Leeside way,” Edith put in. “But we took that to mean he had a prior engagement.”
Archie laughed. “Yeah, let’s hope so. Oh, hey, Nikki’s here.” A taxi had pulled up and Nikki, and her wheelchair, were emerging from it.
It took some time before Nikki had got herself sorted and rolled over to them, bundled up as she was in an immense woolly shawl over her jacket. “I just can’t get warm,” she said cheerfully, arranging a thick tartan blanket over her legs. “The heating broke down while I was out at the shops, and the house was like the North Pole when I got back. I kept expecting to get mauled by polar bears.”
“Anything I can do?” Archie asked, concerned. “I don’t know much about boilers, but I could take a look. And I know Bridge’s family have a couple of electric heaters you could borrow, because they lent them to us one time.”
“Aw, thanks, but no, it’s fine. I’ve got the engineer coming tomorrow, and the neighbours came round with like half a dozen fan heaters to keep me from freezing overnight.”
“Okay, but if there’s anything, you just let me know, okay?”
“Will do. Thanks. Ooh, here’s some more coming.” Nikki waved vigorously at several members of AETHER who’d arrived together.
Bridge was next to get there, wrapped up in a long, hooded cloak and the usual wide petticoats, so she looked roughly conical. Archie grinned at her. “Is there going to be room for anyone else in that market with you and your skirts?”
“Oi, there’s women in there wearing full crinolines, so don’t get judgy on my clothing choices.”
“Yeah, but I bet they’re mostly behind the stalls, not walking around between them.”
She shrugged. “Eh. Actually these petticoats are a good way of enforcing your personal space. You should try it sometime. Your boy not here? He seemed pretty into the steampunk lifestyle on Sunday.”
Archie’s smile faded. “He seemed pretty into a lot of things on Sunday.”
She stepped closer. “What’s happened? You two haven’t broken up already, have you? When I saw you Monday night you said it was all going well.”
Archie wished he hadn’t said anything. “He’s just been a bit distant since then. Come on, time to get your smile on.” The last stragglers had arrived, and Perry was mustering them for a group photo.
“Fine. But if I find out he’s been messing you around, I’ll be shopping for a set of antique nutcrackers in there.”
After the group photos were done, they trooped into the market en masse, gathering stares that ranged from appreciative to bemused.
Willoughbys, Archie couldn’t help noticing as they walked past, was all lit up for Christmas, and seemed to be busy with some kind of special event. Taking advantage of the Victorian Market to pull in a few punters, no doubt.
“Ooh, gin!” Bridge cooed, and dragged Archie to the first stall. “Are you doing tastings?”
“I thought you were off the alcohol?” he muttered as the stall-holder, dressed in bow tie and boater, poured them a couple of tots of sloe gin.
“Eh. Life’s too short. So’s my patience. Bottoms up!”
They tasted a total of four gins and gin liqueurs at that stall, and then moved on, Bridge with a bottle of the really sweet stuff for her mum. There was a good crowd at the market, and Archie and Bridge got separated early on. It wasn’t easy to keep track of someone when you kept getting distracted by more stuff to look at.
There was a lady Archie recognised as having done a talk at the museum a while back, strolling around in full Dickensian carol-singer getup. She had a basket of bonnets over her arm, and was merrily accosting men, women, and children alike and getting them to try on her wares—often over their own hats, which led to some pretty bizarre selfies.
Archie lifted his top hat to her, and she curtseyed. “Try a bonnet, fine sir?”
“Thank you, but I believe I’m well served in the millinery department.” He ended up lending his hat to a lad of about ten, so his dad could get a photo of him in a top hat and his little sister in a bonnet. And then, of course, they had to get a picture of Archie in full splendid.
When he looked around after that, he couldn’t see a single member of AETHER, so, feeling a bit lost, he headed to the next gin stall for another tasting.
Archie eventually caught up with Nikki at yet another artisan distiller’s, where she was sampling their green tea gin. “Any good?” he asked.
Nikki made a face. “Not really my cuppa. And I swear, if one more person warns me about getting caught drunk in charge of this thing . . .” She slapped the side of her wheelchair.
“It’s a classic for a reason. And that reason is that most people don’t think before they speak.” Archie basked for a moment in the warm glow of the gin he’d drunk. They only gave tiny tots, but once you’d had a few, they added up. “Want to come and help me find a Christmas present for Lyddie? She likes unusual stuff.”
Nikki laughed. “Are you suggesting I know all about unusual? Because if so, good.”
They made their way through the market—not so easy, when it was this crowded—and stopped at a few stalls. There was one with some witchy crocheted gloves Archie thought Lyddie might like, but he decided to wait until he’d seen all the stalls before buying. And it would’ve felt disloyal to buy anything crocheted without at least checking if Dora had similar stock in trade.
“Just how many of these stalls are selling gin?” he wondered as they passed yet another distiller’s. “No wonder you had to be eighteen to trade here.”
“Poor River. D’you think they’ve managed to convince anyone they’re old enough to drink?”
“In a word, no. Although to be fair we don’t know if they even want to drink.”
Nikki shrugged. “True. Oh, let’s go and look at the wooden toys. Did I tell you I’ve got a new nephew?”
They wandered around the market together, dropping in at Dora’s to say hi and then dropping back out quickly to leave more room for paying customers. Nikki bought a few things here and there, stashing them in the bag hung on the back of her chair. Archie ended up with a bottle of gin, and started thinking about getting back to that stall at the start before they sold out of the crocheted gloves.
“While we’re this end of the market, I really need to pee. It’s all that gin.” Nikki giggled. “Still, it’s been keeping me warm.”
“I’ll come with you.” The public toilets were down a long, dark side street, and he wasn’t about to leave her to go on her own.
“You’re a proper gentleman, Archie Levine.” She rolled herself down the street, progress much faster than it’d been in the market.
When they got there, though, the accessible toilet, in defiance of its name, was locked. A notice helpfully gave instructions for getting hold of the key during working hours.
Nikki’s cheerful façade showed the first cracks. “Well, bugger. So outside working hours we’re just supposed to cross our legs, are we? Or maybe disabled people are just supposed to stay home in the evenings. Couldn’t have us going out. We might enjoy ourselves, and that’d never do.”
“This is rubbish.” Archie suppressed the urge to give the door a good, hard kick. “It never used to be locked, did it?”
“No. There’s progress for you. Looks like it’s Willoughbys, then. Good thing it’s Thursday. Sorry, Arch, I know you hate that store, but they’re the closest place I know around here with an accessible loo.”
“Hey, if you’ve got to pee somewhere, it might as well be on Willoughbys. Think I’ll join you, in fact.” He wasn’t just being gentlemanly. By now he really did need to go, and there was no way he was going to ask Nikki to wait here while he nipped in the gents’.
Nikki laughed and turned her chair around.
As the store was staying open throughout the day and into the evening, Robin didn’t have a lot of time to get ready for Customas. There was often a lull after six, but tonight the customers kept on coming, leaving Robin feeling frazzled and rushed by the time he managed to get away from his counter. It was probably down to the Victorian Market giving people another reason to stay in town. Which was good, of course, but exhausting.
Azrah had told him to meet her at the stockroom at half past six. She hadn’t been very clear on what for, except that it was to do with setting things up. He still wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to be doing after that either, but he had a vague idea it involved meeting and greeting, so it couldn’t be all that taxing, could it? When asked, Heath had kept tapping his nose in a gesture that got steadily more annoying until Robin had been seriously tempted to borrow a knife from kitchenware and remove either nose or finger or both.
At least, since he hadn’t been asked to bring either guitar or ukulele, it couldn’t involve him out the front playing jolly Christmas tunes, which had been a bit of a worry, since he didn’t know how to play any.
Mind you, having been stopped three times on the way to the stockroom by shoppers wanting help to find clearly signposted departments—once while the customer was actually standing in the department they were looking for—Robin was beginning to doubt his ability to keep his customer-service smile intact until the start of Customas, let alone the end.
“Finally,” Azrah seethed as he rounded the corner into the stockroom at a run. “Customas starts in fifteen minutes. Pull your finger out of your whatsit and get this costume on.”
Robin skidded to a halt. “This what?”
“Costume.” She gave an evil smile. “Surprise! You’re going to be literally Sales Assistant Robin.”
She stepped aside, and Robin’s gaze fell on a costume, wrapped in a clear plastic sack, that he’d taken for a bizarre item of stock.
It was worse than Robin’s worst nightmares, and he’d had some spectacularly bad dreams in his time. It was enormous. And spherical. Whoever had designed it seemed to be under the impression that E. rubecula, robin redbreast, was basically a ball with a beak. Covered with fake fur, and with a ridiculous tuft of feathers masquerading as a tail.
“That’s not a robin! It looks more like a turkey.”
Azrah cackled. “Let’s hope no one tries to give you a good stuffing. Nah, from the back, maybe, but from the front you’re okay. Turkeys have that long, red neck and the droopy nose thing. This bird’s got no neck at all.”
“How am I supposed to move in it? How am I even supposed to see out?”
“I don’t know, do I? Put it on and have a go.” Azrah folded her arms. “But you’re never going to get that into one of the changing room cubicles. You’ll have to get into it out here.”
At least she hadn’t suggested he change on the shop floor. “Couldn’t I just stay in my normal clothes?”
“If you want to be a total Scrooge, maybe. I’m sure Gail will understand your vanity trumps loyalty to the store, and it won’t impact your career in any way, shape, or form.”
Robin’s shoulders slumped. “How do I get into it?”
“What am I, world expert on costumes? Like a dress, I s’pose. You know. Pull it over your head.”
“No, I don’t know, because I don’t make a habit of wearing dresses.”
“Well, it’s not rocket science.” She grinned. “Go on, just stick your head up its bum.”
“Oh, come on. There’s got to be a zip up the back or something.”
“And how’s that supposed to work with the tail? Come on, whip it out and we’ll have a look, all right?”
Not without difficulty, Robin pulled the monstrous thing out of the plastic sack and turned it over, exposing a large hole in the base.
Great. He really was going to have to stick his head up its bum.
Robin gritted his teeth, took off his jacket, and got down on his knees.
Once he’d clambered inside the robin, he had to be helped to stand. He could barely see out of the eyeholes in the beak, and could only walk with a lumbering waddle.
His arms were of no use to him whatsoever, being wholly contained inside the costume, while his legs, the mirror told him, stuck out the hole in the bottom like spindles in slacks.
Azrah frowned. “Hm. How many birds do you know that wear trousers? They’re going to have to go.”
“What? I’m not walking around with bare legs!”
“Too right you’re not. I can see the headlines now: ‘Festive bird arrested for indecent exposure.’ No, you’re going to need tights.”
“You planned this, didn’t you? Anything to get me in a pair of tights.”
She ignored him. “They’ll need to be thick ones—unless you’re willing to shave your legs? Or we could get some wax from Cosmetics?”