The Accidental Time Traveller

by Janis Mackay

“That’s right,” I said, feeling a lump in my throat after I’d already swallowed the Milky Way.

  “Yes,” said Agnes, “all of that, and then there’ll be the growing up.” She took Agatha by the hand and looked at her. “When there’ll be the dancing with the bonny gallants and you’ll marry one of them, the very best one, and have children.”

  “And grandchildren,” said Agatha who looked like she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She licked the last bit of tangerine from her lips. Her face was flushed. Her eyes shone. “And great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren.” She smiled at Agnes and whispered, “and great-great-great-great-grandchildren.”

  Agatha tugged Agnes up onto her feet and the two of them spun round and round in the snow. Flakes whirled up, then they fell back, laughing. “Let’s make an angel,” Agatha shouted and flipped her arms up and down. Agnes did the same. Robbie and Will threw a few snowballs at each other and ate more sweets.

  Meanwhile I got busy. I placed the bottle of water by the yew tree. For a moment I stared at the letters carved there: AB It struck me how it was the beginning of the alphabet – like the beginning of everything. I pushed the crystal and watched it sparkle and swing.

  It didn’t take long to set everything else up. I took a deep breath then called to Agatha, “If you really want to go home, it’s time now.”

  “One moment,” she called, grabbing Agnes by the arm and pulling her into the den. In minutes, they’d stepped back out. Agnes was dressed in my blue trousers and red hoodie. She was carrying the old coat Mrs Singh had given Agatha that day she arrived. “The coat is for my dad,” she said.

  Agatha was wearing the clothes I had first seen her in, except of course, the long red hair was gone. “Now I am ready to go home,” she cried and stepped towards me. Her pocket, I saw, was crammed full of drawings. I spied the top of the Christmas card I had made for her.

  “Wow!” Robbie and Will cried. “You really are old fashioned. This is seriously for real.”

  “What did I tell you?” I said, my mind leaping about for how to involve them.

  “What do you want us to do?” asked Will.

  I thought of Macrimmon. “If you could stand just outside the hedge and make sure no one comes in, that would help us focus. And imagine like mad that this is going to work, ok? Picture Agatha back home, two hundred years ago.”

  They nodded eagerly, like they were glad to have a job to do and, ran towards the hedge waving to Agatha.

  “Bye, Agatha,” they both shouted, “it was great to meet you. Have a merry Christmas in 1812!”

  “It was great to meet you too, dear Robbie, dear Will,” she called. “I will have a right merry time, be sure of that.”

  Robbie and Will hurried off to stand like bouncers by the entry to the garden.

  Then me and Agatha and Agnes made our way over to the yew tree. Agnes, with her haircut, now looked spookily like Agatha. We walked over the snow, which was beginning to turn slushy, in silence. I saw Agatha gazing at her initials in the trunk.

  I took the ring out of the box. It felt warm. “Right,” I said. It was like my heart was in my mouth. “We’ll do what we did before, except this time it’s going to work.” I slipped the ring onto Agatha’s middle finger. It fitted perfectly.

  She gasped. “Oh Saul, oh mercy. Bless you!”

  Agnes stared down at the ring, and smiled. “Goodbye, dear Agatha,” she said, “and thank you so much. Thank you for visiting, thank you for everything.”

  “Thank you,” said Agatha. “It isna every day you meet your great-great-great-great-great-grandchild, is it?” Then she turned to me and smiled her widest smile. “And it isna every day I meet a courageous and wondrous boy such as you. I will never forget you, dear Saul. Never ever. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye Agatha,” I said, swallowing hard. She smiled at me and I hardly knew what I was doing, but I gave her a big hug, then let her go.

  Agatha stretched her arms out to the side. The sun caught the gold ring, flashing dazzling bright rainbows all over the garden. She turned in a slow circle, as though she was taking notes for the very last time. The den. The white hills of the Borders. The empty land where her grandfather’s house had once stood. The fire in the middle of the garden. Her snow angel. Agnes’s snow angel. The hedge where Robbie and Will were. And Agnes and me.

  She looked like an angel herself. I felt tears in my eyes. This was it. I knew after today I’d never see her again. Slowly she brought her arms down by her side, looked at me and nodded.

  “Ready?” I said. We stepped towards the yew tree. She stretched out the hand with the ring on it and placed it against the bark of the tree. I put my hand over hers and Agnes put her hand over mine. “Believe it,” I whispered.

  In front of me, Agatha stood tall. “I do,” she whispered, “with all my heart, I do,” and with a shiver up my spine, I started to hum the old tune.

  I felt the warmth of Agatha’s hand under my palm. I felt the wind on my cheeks. I could smell the wood smoke. I heard a robin chirp. The crystal flashed. I heard the water in the bowl stir and splash of its own accord. Still I hummed the tune and it was as if the tree itself shuddered. Goosebumps ran up and down my spine. I felt my eyelids droop.

  I don’t know how long I was there, singing and wishing and believing. Slowly I became aware of a drip-drip-drip sound. I stopped humming. What was it going drip-drip-drip? Tears? Or snow melting from the branches?

  In the distance I heard the church bell strike one o’clock. I could feel the sun warm the back of my neck. I felt the rough bark of the yew tree under the palm of my hand. I felt the warmth of Agnes’s hand resting on the back of my hand. I felt like I was waking from a very long sleep. And I felt something else, something small, hard and warm against the back of my middle finger. I opened my eyes.

  “She’s gone,” Agnes said.

  I felt drowsy, but happy, like when you wake after a really good dream. There was only Agnes and I standing under the yew tree. I looked around. “And the snow is melting,” I said.

  I took a half-step back and heard a small gasp escape from Agnes’s lips. “Look!” she said, “Oh, look!” She held up her hand. A ray of sun flashed from the gold ring on her finger. “I got it back!” she said. “My mother’s wedding ring. I got it back!”

  I nodded like I understood. Somehow I had helped Agatha with time travel, but time itself was still a mystery. “That’s great.” I really meant it.

  I moved away from the yew tree. The fire was still burning brightly. Robbie and Will were standing faithfully outside the gap in the hedge.

  Will leaned down to look through. “Has she gone?” he called.

  “Yes,” Agnes and I both called back. “She’s gone.”

  They scurried through, and ran across to us, looking about, stunned. I grabbed two bags of sweets and shoved them in their hands, as though that would make everything normal.

  And I looked back at the tree, just to make sure. I couldn’t really believe it myself. Water was dripping from the branches. It was like the yew tree was watching the turning of time, and crying.

  31

  Three nights later, on Christmas Eve, me, Mum, Dad, Esme and Ellie were all together in the living room. The Christmas tree lights were flashing on and off and the twins kept trying to reach out to them. Under the tree were a few Christmas presents. Dad had his big Christmas book out and he read to the twins in his Santa Claus voice, just like he’d read to me when I was little.

  Twas the night before Christmas

  And all through the house

  Not a creature was stirring

  Not even a mouse…

  Then, when Dad finished his story it was my turn. “Remember Randolph, Mum?”

  “Uh-huh. The one Dad said was really a girl?”

  I nodded. Dad sunk back into the sofa with his arm round Mum. The twins were asleep on the sheepskin rug. Mum sipped her glass of red wine. “And? What about him? Or her?”

  “Well, remember
when I was grounded, and you sent me out to buy Jaffa Cakes?”

  “And you were away for ages. And it started snowing. Yes, I remember.”

  “Something tells me,” said Dad, “that the Scottish Borders Young Historian of the Year has got a really good story up his sleeve.”

  I coughed, then carried on. “Well, the thing is, this girl almost got knocked down by a car. It screeched. She screamed. I swung round. She stumbled across the road, tripped over the kerb and grabbed me.”

  This, I swore, was going to be my last ever lie – and this one was white coloured. Time travel was too weird, and it seemed like there were some things that kids could believe in and adults just couldn’t. So I told them the story of Agatha Black, with changes. “Well, she was lost, you know,” I told them. “And after she nearly got hit by that car it made her go a bit funny, a bit freaked out. So we hung out for a few days, her and me. I thought it would be easier if we pretended she was a boy. Anyway, I helped her a bit with things. And she helped me. It was fun, actually. She knew loads about history, and she taught me to play chess. I would never have won the history competition without her. Anyway, she’s back with her dad now. But she needed some help with the journey home. They don’t have any money. I knew it was important, and she was a really good friend, so I… um… I helped her out.”

  When I came to the end of my story, it dawned on them that there was nothing left of my winnings, and I saw their faces fall. Ever since the prize ceremony, Mum had been suggesting I open a bank account. I’d been shrugging it off. Dad had been telling me to keep my money for the sales, then I could go on a spending spree.

  “You gave it all away?” Mum shook her head in disbelief. I nodded.

  “All of it?” Dad said, and I told them about the twenty-pounds worth of sweets and crisps.

  “I can’t believe it,” Mum said, finishing her wine. She looked at me and shook her head. “You know something, Saul?” I shook my head, wondering what was coming next. “You didn’t need to pretend she was a boy.”

  Dad put his hand on my shoulder. “Your mum’s right. But you know what, son? I’m proud of you. If we can’t help other folk then we’re not worth much.” And he hugged me, and so did Mum. And I went off to my room that Christmas Eve the happiest boy in Scotland.

  But I couldn’t sleep, not right away. I peered out of the window. Most of the snow had disappeared. Just a few white patches were left, lit up in the moonlight, and a shrunken snowman. I pressed my nose against the window and stared out at that tiny snowman for ages, remembering Agatha Black running around the garden laughing, rolling her head, as if it was the best fun ever. And I wondered what she was doing on Christmas Eve, 1812. I hoped, whatever it was, she was laughing, and clapping her hands, and having a right merry time.

  In the morning the church bells pealed out Christmas carols. Mum rang a bell through the house and shouted, “Merry Christmas, ho-ho-ho!” and Dad came into my room dressed up in his Santa costume. The first thing I opened was my stocking at the end of my bed. Inside was a tangerine, an apple, a chocolate golden coin and a torch. I ate the tangerine slowly, imagining it was the most delicious thing in the whole world.

  Then I bounded through to the living room, gave Ellie and Esme a kiss for their very first Christmas, then set about opening my presents. I tried to look really surprised at the DVDs, unwrapping them and grinning. I gave Mum and Dad a drawing of our house, which they said was brilliant. Then I tore the paper off socks, books, slippers, selection boxes and a £20 top-up voucher for my phone. Mum was shaking rattles and teddies in front of the twins.

  Then Dad disappeared. I heard the front door click open. I heard him wheel something in. My heart thudded. “Merry Christmas, Saul!” he shouted, nudging open the living room door with the front wheel and pushing a green BMX right up to me. “It’s not the top of the range, son,” he said. “Not even brand new to be honest, but I fixed it up. It’s a fine bike, and we hope you like it.”

  I whooped, jumped up, hugged Mum and Dad and took the handlebars of my very own BMX. It wasn’t the one I’d imagined in my magazine. It wasn’t like Robbie’s. But I didn’t care. It looked great. And it was mine.

  “Majestic!” I yelled.

  32

  Visiting the graveyard was Agnes’s idea. She’d kept going on about it, about how she’d discovered on a map the exact location of this old graveyard, outside Peebles, and how she was pretty sure Agatha Black would be buried there. I didn’t like thinking about Agatha Black being dead. It didn’t feel right. So I kept putting Agnes off, suggesting other things to do instead, like teaching me and Robbie and Will to catch fish with our hands. Agnes called it guddling and we got pretty good at it.

  It was 1st March, 2013, and the days were getting longer. It was still cold but you could smell spring in the air. I’d even seen a few daffodils. Agnes had taken on Agatha’s thing of decorating the den. She had a few flowers dotted about the place because me, Will and Robbie said she could, but she wasn’t to overdo it. Sometimes she did overdo it but we didn’t really mind. We had all decorated the walls with the few drawings that Agatha had left behind, even although they were kind of strange: pylons, light bulbs, popcorn and street lights. The drawing of me had gone. Now when I go into Mrs Singh’s shop I imagine me on the wall, next to the tins of soup!

  Mostly our gang played all our games like we’d always done, and forgot that Agnes was a girl, or, well, we knew she was a girl but it was no big deal. She joined in with everything. The best was when she showed us how to climb the tree.

  Her dad still played his fiddle on Peebles High Street and Agnes said people really liked hearing music on the street. It cheered them up.

  Anyway, this Saturday, 1st March, it was just me and Agnes, and we were playing chess in the den. She was wearing a pair of jeans she’d found in a charity shop and she was looking pretty cool. “If I win,” she said, whipping my queen off the board, “I get to choose what we do next.”

  “Ok,” I said, thinking it would be fishing or tree climbing or rabbit catching. Agnes liked stuff like that.

  “Check mate,” she said, snatching my poor king away. “Graveyard!” she announced, scooping all the chess pieces into the biscuit tin.

  I was going to protest when she butted in. “You said ok. Come on, Gang Chief. You can’t go back on your word. Don’t you want to know what happened?”

  I shrugged. That was just the problem. If it was something bad, I didn’t want to know. What if Agatha Black had gone back to 1812, caught the measles and died? Or what if she got hung because they said she was a witch? Or what if Dick sold her to the body snatchers? Or what if she never did get back? When I thought about all the “what ifs?” I got a sore head.

  Agnes pulled at my sleeve. “Come on, Saul. It’ll be an adventure.” Then she ran out of the den, grabbed her bike (Robbie had given her his old one after he got a newer model) and squirmed through the gap in the hedge.

  I followed her, steering my BMX out and over the wasteland. We started pedalling as soon as we reached a road, racing each other out to the edge of Peebles. The old graveyard was in the country near Neidpath Castle, not the one I walk through to get to school. Agnes said her grandmother often went to this country one, with flowers.

  We wound up a narrow lane, going further up and up into the hills. My bike was great. I didn’t care that it wasn’t the most expensive kind. Since meeting Agatha Black I’d learnt a lot of things. Loving my second-hand bike was one of them.

  I slowed down as a stone wall came into view behind a clump of fir trees. What else, I wondered – my heart pounding hard and not only because of the cycling – was I going to learn? “I think we should leave our bikes here,” I said, propping mine against the stone wall.

  Agnes did the same, her face all pink and shiny. She smiled at me, nervously I thought, the way she chewed her bottom lip. “You ready for this, Saul?”

  I nodded, but the truth was I wasn’t. I wanted to remember Agatha alive, the way she
was just before Christmas. I wanted to remember her laughing and making fire and telling her stories and being so sad for Bob Cratchet. It didn’t seem right that we were going to try and find her grave.

  The old graveyard, next to Neidpath Castle, is one of the creepiest places in Peebles. We walked around the outside, looking for a gate. Near us, mountain-bikers whizzed by on rough tracks, throwing up mud and panting hard. This hill was famous for bike trails. The bikers zooming past weren’t thinking about the ancient skeletons close by.

  Agnes and I didn’t say a word but padded on over the mossy ground. We found a rusty high gate, but it was locked. An old sign on the gate said

  OPEN SUNDAYS 2-3PM

  Agnes hoisted herself up and clambered over. I followed her, wobbling on a rusty bar and struggling to get my leg over the top. Then I had to jump about ten feet down. I landed in springy moss and rolled over. Sitting in the thick grass I swallowed hard. We were in the ancient graveyard.

  Agnes was already peering at a gravestone. “Wilemina Baxter,” she read, “died 1871, aged 17.”

  I got up and looked around. There were loads of gravestones. Some were stone angels with broken wings. Some were simple crosses. Others were slabs in the ground, mossed over. I staggered backwards, realising I was standing on one.

  “Poor Wilemina,” Agnes said, “I wonder what she died of?” She moved on. “This one – Helen – died aged two! Probably consumption.”

  I cast my eyes around the old cemetery, and shivered. It would take forever to examine every stone. A blackbird landed on a gravestone in front of me. It sang and flew off. I watched it go, swooping up and down and disappearing into the dark green branches of a tree. “There’s a yew tree,” I said. “Look! Over there!” The branches of the tree hung over mossy graves. “Maybe she’s under there,” I said, pulling Agnes away from wee Helen. I felt a prickle up the back of my neck. “But I don’t know if I want to know.”

  “We’ve come this far,” Agnes said, “we might as well know. Come on, and you’re probably right. It would be like Agatha to ask to be buried under a yew tree.”