by C. R. Berry
As Jennifer walked up the path to her front door, the rain stopped. How typical, since she was already as wet as the sea. Probably best to write today off.
“Hello love,” said her mother as she walked in. She was sitting in front of the TV watching Coronation Street, but turned her head and saw that Jennifer was drenched and shivering. “Oh, Jennifer, why didn’t you take an umbrella?”
Jennifer shrugged. In truth it was because her umbrella was flimsy and cheap and even negligible winds turned it inside out, let alone the bloody great gale that was blowing out there right now. She needed a new umbrella, a new coat, a new job. A new life.
Her mother stood up and walked over to her. “Go and get out of those clothes before you freeze to death. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.”
Jennifer smiled with that awfully British feeling of warmth when someone offers you a cup of tea. “Thanks, Mum.” She started upstairs.
“How come you’re home early today then?” her mother called from the kitchen. It was 8.15. Jennifer’s shift was supposed to finish at nine.
Jennifer stopped to reply, “Oh, urm… there weren’t many calls this evening, so they let us go early.” She wasn’t in the right frame of mind to face a tirade of criticism about her hot-headedness tonight. Best to postpone the firing story till the morning. She carried on upstairs to her bedroom.
She peeled off her soggy clothes and put on her dressing gown. She looked at her phone. Adam had replied to her message about getting fired. I’m coming over. She wasn’t going to argue. She could use the company. She texted back. Okay, thanks. Don’t say anything coz I haven’t told Mum.
She went downstairs to get the tea her mum was brewing, at which point she noticed the fresh-looking bunch of flowers sticking out of the kitchen bin.
“Are those from Phil?” Jennifer asked.
“Yup. Special delivery earlier this evening. He just text me to see if I got them.”
“Did you text back?”
“Yep. I told him to shove his flowers up his arse.”
Jennifer smirked. It was clear where she got her temperament from. Perhaps Mum would’ve understood her reaction to Mrs Winters? Maybe, but Mum had learned to put up and shut up when money was at stake. She would’ve expected Jennifer to do the same.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” said Jennifer. “I thought you two had a good thing going. Better than some of the others anyway.”
“It was never that great, darling,” said Mum as she dropped Jennifer’s teabag into the bin. “A few sparks at the beginning, but they died out pretty quickly if I’m honest. And I’ve had a lot better in the sack, I can tell you.”
“Mother! TMI.”
“What’s TMI?”
Jennifer sniggered. “You need to get down with the kids, Mum. Too Much Information.”
“Oooh.” She laughed as she handed Jennifer her mug. “Sorry!”
Her mother had not been lucky in love. Although Jennifer had no memory of her father – being two when he had an affair and Mum kicked him out – she certainly remembered the long line of men that followed in his wake. More misses than hits. But Jennifer got on well with several of them, which made her wonder whether Mum was the one with the problem. Much of Jennifer and Jamie’s childhood had consisted of toing and froing between different childminders because Mum – a marketing executive – was working flat-out to pay the mortgage and provide for the family. She had no time for a relationship. But things weren’t as desperate as they were back then. The mortgage was paid off. Jennifer and Jamie were grown up and fending for themselves (well, except when they were getting fired). Yet Mum remained career-driven. She could’ve made time for a man if she wanted to, but Jennifer wasn’t convinced she did.
Phil had been on the scene for nearly a year – longer than usual. He’d even moved in – another rarity. He was a personal injury lawyer and a good decade older than Mum, and his career meant a lot to him too. A good match, Jennifer had thought. But for some reason in the last few months, their relationship had grown stale. And unfortunately, Phil, one night they were out for dinner, had gone off on Mum for allegedly flirting at the bar with an old friend she’d not seen for years. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back and she kicked him out. An overreaction by some people’s standards, sure, but she had zero patience for jealous or proprietary men. As far as she was concerned, as long as she wasn’t cheating, she could do whatever the hell she wanted with whoever the hell she wanted. Anyone who said otherwise could piss off.
Jennifer was about to go back upstairs with her tea when the doorbell rang.
“Can you get that, love?” said Mum, who’d seated herself back in front of Coronation Street.
“Yeah, it’s probably Adam.”
She opened the door.
“Evening!” said Adam brightly. Bless him, he’d brought a bottle of wine. He murmured quietly, “Thought you might need this.”
She smiled as he came in.
“Hi, Kerry,” Adam called to her mum.
“Hi, Adam. You okay?”
“Yes, thanks.”
Jennifer got them a couple of glasses and she and Adam headed upstairs to her bedroom.
“So what happened?” he said immediately after slumping onto the chaise in the corner.
Jennifer parked her bum on her swivel chair at her desk. “Oh, this woman just really riled me. She thought I was cold-calling her, which I wasn’t, and was super-pissed off that I’d called her at the unholy time of 7.45. So, er, I might’ve given her a piece of my mind.”
“What did you say?”
“Told her she had an enormous stick up her arse.”
Adam laughed. “Yep, that’ll get you fired. So what you gonna do now?”
“Not work in a call centre.”
“I think that’d be wise.”
She smiled. She already felt better. Funny how Adam always managed to do that without really doing anything. He never failed to make her laugh, even when laughing was the last thing she felt like doing. He was, in all honesty, the most dependable friend she’d ever had.
Not that it had always been like that. In fact, in secondary school where they met, they hated each other. Jennifer thought Adam was goofy and a weirdo and Adam thought Jennifer was a bitch. She had a “right nasty streak” back then, Adam had told her. (She did have an attitude but liked to stress that Adam was a bit of an oversensitive soul in those days too.)
But then they ended up at the same sixth form college, minus all their friends, who’d either left school and started apprenticeships or gone to the tacked-on sixth form at their secondary school. Not knowing anyone meant they hung around together occasionally, got talking, realised they had stuff in common. Neither of them – unbeknown to the other at the time – had had a blast at school. With his floppy hair, short stature and unconventional good looks, Adam was an easy target for bullies. And while Jennifer wasn’t bullied as such, the girls she’d surrounded herself with never understood why she liked Star Trek and Doctor Who and offbeat indie bands instead of Beyoncé, boys and makeup. And her distance from them grew when she came out. All of them were straight and literally obsessed with guys, and a couple of them acted weird around her, like she might hit on them at any time (not untypical adolescent behaviour).
So to be honest, Jennifer didn’t really get them either. The fizzling out of those friendships-that-weren’t-really-friendships was best for all. And now the guy she’d so casually dismissed had turned into one of her favourite people.
Talk about misjudgement.
“So what’s the latest with Phil?” Adam also knew when to change the subject.
“They’re definitely over. Was just talking to her about it before you arrived.”
“That’s a shame. I quite liked him.”
Jennifer sipped her tea. It was super-hot and burned her mouth slightly. Her mum never put enough milk in. “Me too.”
“What happened exactly?”
“I don’t think she was ever
that into him, to be honest.”
“Even though he moved in?”
Jennifer nodded. “Yep, they got more distant after he moved in. Think she regretted it. She likes her own space. He did make a bit of a tit of himself, though. That was the trigger.”
“What did he do?”
Jennifer told Adam about the flirting incident.
“Ah, yes, I can see your mum not taking that too well,” said Adam.
“She certainly didn’t. I don’t think I would’ve thrown him out over it, though.”
“That’s true. If a girl had done that to you you’d probably have punched her in the eye.”
She laughed. “Shut your face.”
Her phone buzzed. She checked it. An email telling her that her comment on Gregory Ferro’s blog about there being no signal towers in the Middle Ages had been responded to. She’d almost forgotten about all that.
The email linked through to the blog, and the new comment.
It was Ferro himself. If these people can travel in time, which most scientists believe impossible, I’m sure they can manage phoning each other without needing signal towers.
Actually, a very good point.
She said so. Good point!
“Who is it?” said Adam.
“Just this guy whose blog I was reading at work. He thinks time travellers are messing with our history.”
“Sounds right up your street!”
Ferro replied. Who is this?
Jennifer. I’m a history graduate. Love this kind of thing.
“Shall I leave you and Mr Time Travel alone?” said Adam, both of his bushy eyebrows raised.
“No, hang on. He just asked me who I am, probably because I’m the only one who’s posted on his blog so far.”
“Well, don’t tell him. He could be a psycho-killer-rapist.”
She laughed. “I’ve just told him my first name and that I’m a history graduate. I’m being polite.”
“Okay.” Then, “Are you drinking that tea? Because I’m going to pour some wine.”
“Go ahead.”
She read Ferro’s reply to her comment. There’s so much more going on here. I just discovered something else today that will blow your mind. It’s certainly blown mine. I live in Norton Hill, Hampshire, in case you’re near there. If you’re interested, I’d be happy to show you my work.
For goodness sake, this guy lived round the corner! Norton Hill was like a twenty-minute drive from Deepwater, if that. What were the odds?
Weirdly enough, I’m not far from you. But as fascinated as I am by all this, I’m not really one for meeting up with randoms I talk to online.
Ferro replied. I’m a fifty-four-year-old writer and father of two who used to be a teacher. I promise you I have no plans to chop you up and bury you in my walls. The offer’s there. I would only be willing to meet you in a public place anyway because, for all I know, YOU might have plans to chop me up and bury me in YOUR walls.
Jennifer laughed. It was tempting. It really was. She wanted to know if these manuscripts were genuine, because if they were, this was huge. Well, potentially huge.
At the same time, what if he was, as Adam put it, a psycho-killer-rapist and this was just his way of grooming her?
At twenty-two, she was a big girl. She could handle herself. And if they met in a pub or something with people around, he wouldn’t try anything. And if he was as nutty as a fruitcake, he’d probably make good entertainment for an hour or so.
Fuck it, why not?
LOL. Okay, well there’s a pub in Deepwater I like called The Kipper and the Corpse. We could meet there if you want.
I don’t know it but I’ll look it up. When would you like to meet? Tomorrow at midday?
Her schedule was pretty clear now that she was unemployed. Yep, that works for me. See you then. And just to warn you, if you try anything funny I’ll kick your arse.
I promise I won’t.
Adam handed her a glass of red. She decided to skip the tea.
“Cheers to no more shit call centres,” said Adam. They chinked glasses. “Onwards and upwards.”
“Thanks, mate,” she said, and took a sizeable sip.
She debated whether to tell him about the meeting she’d just arranged with Gregory Ferro.
Nah. She’d tell him about it afterwards. He’d only worry.
4
November 3rd 1348
While her husband worked and her children played, Catherine Hawthorn made her way to Holy Trinity Church in the City of London with a trowel. Stopping in a small wooded area some thirty feet behind the church cemetery, she looked around and checked for witnesses. All clear. She lowered herself to her knees, drove her trowel into the ground and dug.
It took fifteen minutes of heaving thick mud out of the ground – still sodden from last night’s rain – to reach it. Out of the hole she lifted a tired-looking oak box with rusty iron bands. She used her gloved fingertips to brush off the mud and confirmed once more that she was alone with a glance in all directions. She then retrieved a tiny drawstring pouch from her satchel, tugged it open and tipped a key into her palm. She unlocked the box and lifted the lid and there it was. The impossible book – The History of Computer-Aided Timetabling for Railway Systems. Next she took a letter, fastened with a wax seal, from her satchel and placed it on top of the book. She closed the box, locked it, replaced the key in the pouch, placed the pouch and the box in her satchel and used her trowel to slovenly refill the hole she’d just dug, before hurrying away from the church.
She returned to the streets and hitched a ride in the back of a cart belonging to Mr Hughes, a wealthy merchant going to Westminster to deliver goods to the king. As she went, her heartbeat got faster and harder till she could feel it at the base of her throat and wanted to gag. She tried to swallow it back down but it didn’t budge.
Be calm, Catherine. This is the right course.
Thirty minutes later, the clatter of rickety wheels and horse hooves eased to a peaceful silence. They had arrived at the palace, the home of King Edward III and his court. The king’s secretary, Sir Mortimer Tully, stood waiting for Catherine at the gates. Mr Hughes had arranged the meet on her behalf as a favour to her husband, Peter, a cordwainer who had provided Mr Hughes with fifteen years’ worth of fine leather boots.
Catherine climbed down from the cart and approached Sir Mortimer. Mr Hughes drove the cart to a different entrance of the palace to offload his goods and collect payment.
The frowning secretary stood still and straight as a post. Catherine took a succession of deep breaths in an effort to quieten her heart and hoped the sweat collecting beneath her wimple did not send any stray beads down her face.
“I do not have long, madam,” said Sir Mortimer.
“Then I shall not keep you,” said Catherine, lifting the box and the pouch from her satchel and handing them to him. “Please get these to the king immediately. There is a letter inside the box that explains its contents. The key to open it is inside the pouch. I must be so bold as to humbly request that you do not open it yourself, nor let anyone see you with it. The contents of the box are for the king’s eyes alone.”
“You are bold,” said Sir Mortimer. “And why should any of this be of interest to His Grace?”
“I can only ask that you trust me when I say that it will be of great interest to him.”
Sir Mortimer raised a disapproving eyebrow. “It is lucky you are a friend of Mr Hughes.”
Catherine bowed her head. Yes. Very lucky indeed.
Sir Mortimer shrouded the box and the pouch in his cloak and strutted inside the palace. Catherine sat down on the steps before the gates and waited for Mr Hughes to return with his empty cart to escort her home.
December 1st 1348
The Great Pestilence had come to Cordwainer Lane in the City of London. The workshops had closed and the street sellers were gone. Residents were either stuck up in their homes caring for loved ones or begging God’s forgiveness at the church.
If there were people on the street, they were most likely to be plague doctors or body collectors. A fog of death and depression hung over what used to be a place of thriving commerce, a fog that seemed destined never to lift.
In one of the houses on the lane, a visiting plague doctor was about to confirm Catherine Hawthorn’s worst, though expected, fears.
“I’m sorry, madam. You have the Pestilence.”
He would have removed his wide-brimmed black hat as a mark of sympathy, but it was a shield from infection. So was his mask, which had glass eyepieces and a large, arched, stork-like beak, filled with herbs and spices to fend off the evil smells of the Pestilence. Gloves, boots and an ankle-length overcoat completed the ominous costume, designed to leave not an inch of his body exposed to the air.
Catherine’s eight-year-old daughter, Beatrice, sitting on the edge of the bed where her mother lay festering in sickness, crumbled in tears.
“Beatrice, it’s all right. Be strong,” said Catherine softly, knowing full well that there weren’t any words capable of consoling her. First the Pestilence had taken her little brother, Nicholas, then her father. Now it was about to take her mother.
“Drink the herbal mixtures I have recommended,” the doctor instructed.
“I will. Is there anything else I can do?”
“Yes, madam. You can pray. I will come by again tomorrow.”
Praying didn’t work when her son and her husband was lying here. The Lord God saw fit to take them anyway.
After the plague doctor left, Beatrice and Catherine prayed together. It was more for Beatrice’s benefit than Catherine’s. Catherine knew that these were her last days and she knew why. Hers was the first house on Cordwainer Lane to be afflicted with the Pestilence and it was because she had delivered The History of Computer-Aided Timetabling for Railway Systems to King Edward. God was punishing her for relinquishing her responsibility.
But why couldn’t He understand the logic of what she’d done? The impossible book that predicted an ominous threat to the realm, given to her ancestor Thomas Godfrey in the summer of 1100 by William II’s chief minister Ranulf Flambard, would not stay hidden, buried near Holy Trinity Church. Not when mass graves were being dug everywhere for victims of the Pestilence. The Godfreys had guarded the book for two and a half centuries; the people they were protecting it from were probably long gone. It was high time to discharge the burden the Godfreys had carried for generations and for the king to take responsibility for the book once more.
