The Realities of Aldous U

by Michael Lawrence

  Sitting on the boat gazing across the lake which concealed the river she’d known all her life, thoughts tumbled through Naia’s head like loaded dice. Three times now, without realizing it, she and Alaric had visited another period of time rather than an alternative reality – unless time was another form of reality. There was scope here for considerable reflection, but of more interest to her at the moment was that another of the people they’d met there was her grandfather’s older brother, Aldous. In the cemetery of her original reality there was a headstone which declared that an Aldous Underwood was buried there. The final date on the stone was 1945, which made him eleven, or very close to eleven, when he died. If the Aldous whose bones lay beneath that headstone was the one with the boat, he’d had very little time to live when she and Alaric met him. He hadn’t looked sickly, which suggested that something happened in the weeks or months following the date of their meeting. Something fatal.

  Naia pushed herself away from the boat and began picking her way along the bank, stooping occasionally to trail her hands in the water. Along with everything else, she’d been trying to work out the reason for the intense fatigue she experienced on returning from what she now knew to be 1945. In some ways it was even more debilitating – and it was certainly longer lasting – than the pain that had ripped through her when she passed from her true reality into this, back in February. So what was the difference? Well, the main one, surely, was that her reality and Alaric’s ran parallel. They lived the same hours, minutes, seconds. Their recent excursions, however, had been to a previous day. Was that it then? Trading parallel realities brought pain because it wasn’t a natural thing to do, but passing from a present day reality into an earlier one drained strength and energy? Maybe. But whether it was a fair conclusion or pure fantasy, she was in no hurry to experience such helpless exhaustion again. Curious as she was about life at Withern Rise back then, and long-dead relatives, she would be keeping well away from that tree for a day or two.

  The tree. The envelope in the message hole. With so much going on it had slipped her mind. She rounded the corner of the house, entered the south garden, waded to the Family Tree. She hesitated before dipping her hand into the message hole and lifting out the envelope. She had just cleared the hole, envelope in hand, when she had the oddest feeling of being watched, and turned just in time to see binoculars lowered amid a break in the foliage along the drive. She glimpsed a face.

  ‘Excuse me?’ she said.

  The watcher responded by withdrawing in haste. Then she heard him splashing away, toward the gate. Now what was he up to, whoever he was?

  She headed back to the house and climbed in the window – a routine mode of entry by now – and removed the waders. A minute later, up in her room, she broke the envelope’s seal and extracted a folded sheet of paper covered in typing. Same primitive manual typewriter as before, but the content wasn’t the same at all.

  WARNING

  Entire universes, virtually identical, co-exist less than a hair’s breadth of one another. These separate realities construct their histories without any more awareness of one another than an insect is aware of communication satellites.

  Just as well.

  Imagine if we all knew that alternative versions of ourselves were washing their hair at the instant we were washing ours, eating a boiled egg when we were eating one, or, for that matter, brushing their teeth while we were taking a shower. For the most part the realities don’t overlap or encroach, but there are some which draw you into them. For the most part, these are earlier realities which continue to exist when standard time moves on.

  They should be resisted.

  Aldous U.

  Withern Rise

  She read the document several times. Earlier reality? Hadn’t she just been thinking that the Withern Rise of 1945 might be just such a thing? It was as if the writer had read her thoughts, or knew where and when she’d been. The writer. The old man who called himself Aldous Underwood? It had to be him. But the one time she’d spoken to him he hadn’t seemed all that bright. How could someone like him even think this way, let alone know such things? And what was ‘They should be resisted’ all about?

  She needed to ask these things face to face; hear from his own lips what he knew – and find out why versions of him in two realities were writing such things and putting them in the Family Tree. And there was something else. If his name really was Aldous Underwood, was he the boy she and Alaric had met in 1945? And if he was, whose grave was it in the cemetery of her old reality?

  Wednesday: 10

  The new waders gave Aldous the confidence to go wherever he pleased, short of the actual river, and for much of the day he had wandered where the floodwater was highest. Before the floods he had walked miles every day, thrilled to be back in the land of the living, rediscovering parts and places unrecalled till he saw them again – such as the livestock market his father used to take him to. As a boy (the boy he still was inside) it had been such a thrill to watch the bidding for horses, sheep, pigs, poultry. The marketplace had been supplanted by a squat office block long since, yet he fancied he could hear the voices of the bidders and the auctioneer even now.

  The town ended some fifty yards past the old market site, at a cattle grid, beyond which sprawled the Common, haphazardly puddled rather than covered by water like much of the land nearer the river. Cattle grazed here still, though fewer than when he’d come here with Father. The single-track road through the Common ran all the way to the old paper mill – in the process of being demolished to make way for flats – and half a mile further on he headed across country toward Eaton Fane and Great Parr, small self-contained villages once, whose original buildings now stood at the heart of bland modern housing estates.

  By mid-evening he was back at the river, on the bank across from his childhood home. For want of something better to do, he hauled himself up into the hammock and removed the waders, lodging them in the branches behind his head and lying down to wait for sleep. It was still a novelty not to dread sleep, and every now and then he would wake in the night trembling from a dream that had returned him to the clinic and all that it represented. Last night he’d woken so suddenly that he had almost jerked out of the hammock in fright upon seeing, in the very dim light, the shape of some monster about to pounce. It was only the dangling waders, but his nerves had taken some minutes to settle.

  Tonight he’d just got comfortable when his gran came into his mind. He remembered how she used to tuck him in and sit by his bed, reading stirring tales of giant killers and boys living in the jungle, of Viking marauders, quests for holy grails, adventures on the high seas. He could still hear her voice, its melodic tone, the chuckle when she read an amusing passage. He saw himself lying there, listening, curtains drawn back so he could gaze at the barely moving reflections on the ceiling cast by the water below his window. Gran’s voice. Gran’s stories. Gran’s lips on his forehead.

  ‘Night, Tommy.’

  The pleasant drowsiness burst like a pricked balloon. Tommy? She’d never called him Tommy. Why would she? He was Aldous. Aldous Underwood of Withern Rise, aged eleven. And he was going to die tomorrow.

  THURSDAY

  Thursday: 1

  Larissa had summoned her brother and his wife and the four children to the kitchen to announce her decision. Larissa was fond of the kitchen, with its enormous range and flagstone floor, the walk-in pantry, the Sheila Maid on pulleys. She was often to be found here, deep in the old rocking chair, feet on a stool in woolen half socks, while she read an Austen, a Trollope or a Galsworthy. Once a small speckled frog had hopped through the open door while she was thus engaged, whereupon she leapt up and chased it round and round the table, without much idea what she would do if she caught it. Decision was not called for, however, for on its final circuit the impertinent creature hopped out of the door and across the garden.

  ‘You’re leaving for France?’ A.E. said on hearing the news. ‘Liss, there’s been a war in Europe, haven
’t you heard?’

  ‘The war in Europe’s over,’ she replied firmly. ‘So I can travel freely once more.’

  ‘Why France?’

  ‘I had a friend there, in a little village near Poitiers. I want to see if she survived the… hostilities.’ The last word was uttered with steely disdain.

  ‘Poitiers?’ Marie said with a flash of interest. ‘Poitiers is little more than a hundred kilometers from Limoges.’

  ‘What about it?’ Larissa said.

  ‘Well… I’m from Limoges.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, dear, but your place of birth has nothing whatever to do with my reason for going somewhere else entirely, whatever the proximity.’

  ‘No, no, of course, I just…’

  ‘Quite,’ said Larissa, concluding that part of the discussion.

  ‘You haven’t heard from this friend?’ A.E. asked her.

  ‘Until France capitulated – ’ an accusatory glance at Marie ‘ – we wrote all the time. Her letters ceased quite suddenly then.’

  ‘Did you keep writing to her?’

  ‘For a few months. It began to seem pointless when there were no replies.’

  ‘When will you come back?’ Mimi asked, eyes very big and bright.

  Her aunt stretched forth a long arm. Mimi stepped forward.

  ‘I can’t say, dear. I’ll write. Postal services should be back to normal before too long.’

  Mimi bit her lip. ‘Letters won’t be the same.’

  Then Larissa did something that startled everyone. She took Mimi’s head between her two hands, drew it down to her mouth, and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. Then she folded the girl into her arms and held her close, gently stroking her hair. Such displays of affection from this independent, self-possessed, occasionally formidable woman were unprecedented. No one knew where to look – except A.E., who turned to the window. He was fond of his big sister. She had pampered him when he was little.

  ‘When will you be leaving?’

  ‘In a day or two. I have passage to arrange.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘We’ll miss you.’

  Larissa smiled. ‘You’ll get over it.’

  Thursday: 2

  Stone Public Library was not a regular haunt of Alaric’s, but today he had a mission: to see what he could learn about life in Eynesford in the mid-1940s. He might have obtained more information online, but Ivan’s broadband connection was down, and he didn’t own a computer himself. There were computers in the library, but he hated looking things up in public places. You never knew who might suddenly be standing behind you.

  To get to the library he had to wade through the village, into Parable Road by St Cecilia’s Church, past a breaker’s yard, a small graphic design studio, and a fine Georgian residence which had recently been turned into solicitors’ offices. To his left, here, the narrow tributary that had once fed the woodyard was contained by a steep bank of earth and grass. Other parts of the town, like the village, had not been so well protected. At the end, where the road turned sharp right toward the junction with the High Street, he stopped before a large gray slate set into the wall beside the steps of the marina bridge. Etched into the slate were markers showing the flood levels attained in June 1945 and March 1947. The second level beat the earlier by some way, which meant that the high water level reached in 1945 – itself higher than today’s – was surpassed less than two years later.

  Thursday: 3

  Naia had no idea where to look for the old boy. He could be anywhere. All she could do was walk around and hope to come across him. The water was a little lower today. Plants that had been completely covered were struggling to reveal themselves once more. Making her way round the vegetable garden and out of the side gate, she was about to start up the lane to the village when a voice hailed her.

  ‘Naia! Hello! Taking the waters?’

  She looked back. Mr. Knight had just turned the corner where the river path was visible until a few days ago. She hesitated. Mr. Knight was a nice enough man, but she didn’t know him well enough to chat easily to. She didn’t rush away, though. Having twice seen him in the company of the man she was looking for, he might know a thing or two about him. She wasted no time getting to the point when he caught up with her.

  ‘You mean Aldous?’ Mr. Knight said when she put her first question.

  ‘Yes. If that’s his real name.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’

  ‘Well… you know… Underwood?’

  ‘Same as you.’

  ‘Yes. If he was a relative I’d know about him.’

  ‘Does that necessarily follow? I’m sure I have relatives I don’t know.’

  ‘Maybe. But he’s here. Suddenly. What do you know about him?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I thought you might know something. I’ve seen you with him.’

  ‘We walk together sometimes,’ Mr. Knight said. ‘Not much else. We don’t go on pub-crawls or to the dog track.’

  ‘But you talk,’ she said. ‘While you walk.’

  ‘Yes, we talk.’

  ‘So he must have told you stuff. About himself.’

  Mr. Knight looked down at her, as though considering her, or what to tell her. She was tall, but he was taller. A broad-shouldered man with thick gray hair, swept back, a prominently bridged nose, and a mouth that seemed constantly on the verge of smiling, his was a generous face, but one used to keeping its own counsel. Finally, he said:

  ‘Whatever Aldous might have told me about himself, he didn’t give me permission to broadcast it far and wide.’

  ‘This isn’t far and wide,’ Naia said. ‘It’s just me.’

  ‘Yes, well, you weren’t on any list he gave me.’

  ‘He gave you a list of people you could tell?’

  ‘What I mean is, I have no authority to tell anyone anything about him.’ He started past her, but paused after two strides, and turned. ‘He’s harmless enough, if it’s any consolation.’

  ‘I did wonder,’ she said.

  ‘Not used to people, that’s all. Shy. Had a sad life.’

  Her interest quickened. ‘Sad? Tell me.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not my place.’

  He walked on. She went after him, managed to maintain his pace through the water, if a little behind him. They had almost reached the end of the lane when Mr. Knight stopped; turned to her once more.

  ‘You know about his living conditions?’ She shook her head. ‘He lives just across the river from you.’

  ‘Across the river?’

  ‘On the bank. In the trees.’

  ‘He what?’

  ‘He sleeps in a hammock.’

  ‘A hammock?’ she said, astonished. ‘In the open?’

  Mr. Knight’s lips twitched. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he so poor that he can’t afford a room or... anything?’

  ‘I don’t think he lives there out of poverty. Doesn’t like to feel enclosed, that’s all. And he’s not so badly off now the trees are full. He’s fairly sheltered there.’

  ‘But all the water,’ Naia said.

  ‘He doesn’t seem to mind it.’

  He turned away, and with a high wave set off along the village street.

  Thursday: 4

  Dating back to mid-Victorian times, Stone Library, red-bricked, imposing, was elevated above today’s water level by six of its eight concrete steps. Alaric found his way to a section devoted to information books about the area. Among these were a handful of thin volumes by local authors which dealt with the histories of the town and several of the neighboring villages. In one, an entire chapter was devoted to the floods of 1945 and 1947. One of the reasons given for the river’s tendency to rise so significantly and rapidly during those years was the town bridge. Built in a less frantic period, when fewer demands were made upon it, the bridge was at that time supported by a series of narrow arches which prevented the river from flowing as freely as it needed to following heavy rains. In the early 1950s the bridge was
rebuilt, with fewer supports, and flooding ceased to be a threat – until now.

  Summer flooding had never been a common occurrence, but until modern times the Great Ouse burst its banks during many a winter. The winter of ’47 saw flooding of epic proportions. Thick ice and snow from January onwards had brought much of the area to a standstill. But then, in the middle of March, a very fast thaw set in. Snow and ice melted quickly, the river rose dramatically, and within two days the area was badly flooded. The waters of this flood and the flooding of two years earlier found their way into a great many buildings. Shops and business premises were summarily closed and householders driven into the upper reaches of their homes. The water was so deep that at one location (a cottage in a dell near the church at Eaton Fane) an elderly lady by the name of Mrs. Grieves, hearing a tapping sound at her bedroom window, turned to find a swan pecking the glass. Horse-drawn farm carts with huge wheels were brought in to ferry people around parts of the town, and between villages. Where the water was slightly shallower, lorries were used as buses. Many people got about by boat. Shopkeepers went house to house in punts, dinghies and rowing boats, ringing bells to draw people to upper windows. Provisions were hauled or handed up on poles or ropes or in baskets. One enterprising baker raised his wares on a hod borrowed from his bricklayer son-in-law.

  Small black-and-white photos were dotted throughout the chapter on the famous floods. Stone market place was clearly recognizable in the largest of them, but Alaric also identified several of the shop fronts, in spite of the changes made to them since the nineteen forties. Interesting as many of the pictures were, there was one that caught his attention above all the others put together. It showed the lane in Eynesford that ran past the primary school and Withern’s boundary wall to the river. Like the adjacent playground, the lane was completely submerged, but a young woman was wading along it, toward the camera. She held one arm across her middle, holding something inside her coat by the look of it, while the other was half raised, slightly blurred. The shape of her mouth suggested that she was speaking or shouting at the instant the shutter clicked. But what caught Alaric’s breathe was the girl’s face. She was a dead-ringer for Naia. There was no name under the photo, but she had to be an Underwood, looking like that. The question was, which Underwood? And why were there no pictures of her in the family album that covered that period?