‘We haven’t met before, have we?’ I asked at last.
‘No,’ said Drew. His eyes rested on my mouth for a moment and then he lifted them to meet mine. ‘I’d remember,’ he said, and there was a moment – just a tiny moment – when there was an unmistakable zing between us. Which was ridiculous, because he was much older than me, and definitely not my type.
I looked away, unaccountably flustered.
‘Must have been in another life,’ I said, and I laughed, not very successfully.
And then I shivered.
‘Cold?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Just getting used to the change of climate.’
Drew Dyer was clearly comfortable with silence, while my fingers were wound tensely around my pendant and my shoulders hunched against the intrusive tug in my head. She was there – Hawise. I could feel her, wanting me to remember how I had lain in the grass with my friend and my dog, and I set my jaw stubbornly. I wasn’t going to give in to it.
Deliberately I untangled my fingers from the chain and let it fall back against my neck as I thought about the clothes Elizabeth and I had been wearing. I’d never had any interest in history, but they seemed vaguely Tudory to me, and Drew Dyer was a historian of Elizabethan York.
I glanced at him as he walked beside me, his stride easy and unconcerned. It couldn’t be a coincidence. My subconscious had obviously stirred together a mish-mash of impressions from the night before and seasoned it with jet lag and a touch of culture shock.
Because it couldn’t be true . . . could it?
I bit my lip. ‘This area,’ I said, gesturing vaguely at the car park. ‘Have there always been buildings here?’
If Drew was surprised at the abruptness of my question, he gave no sign of it. He shifted his briefcase to tuck it under the other arm, and I had a sudden, shocking flashback to lifting Hap, holding him wedged under my arm. My subconscious again, I told myself firmly.
‘It was mostly market gardens around here until the nineteenth century,’ Drew said. ‘Further out was the common land, but this close to the city there would have been small allotments, orchards, that kind of thing.’
Orchards.
An inexplicable dread prickled over my skin, catching me unawares. I pulled the sleeves of my cardigan down over my fingers as I shivered.
Drew was still talking. ‘This path we’re walking on is an ancient right of way. In Roman times it was a road leading to the praetorium, where the Minster is now.’ He pointed ahead to the city walls with the cathedral behind. ‘Later in the Middle Ages they moved the gate to where Monk Bar is now, and they called this—’
‘Shooter Lane,’ I murmured, and he stopped and looked at me, astonished.
‘How on earth did you know that?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said honestly, and I shivered again.
I really had to get myself a warm jacket.
York is a very old city, and it shows. There are crooked, cobbled streets and buildings misshapen with age. There are narrow alleyways with quaint names and an ancient church every time you turn a corner. There are handsome Georgian houses jostling with half-timbered shops and modern office blocks, and dominating them all is the bulk of the Minster, looming above the city like a great limestone liner. It’s not quite as pretty as you think it will be, but there is a sturdiness to the city that has seen off the centuries. Swept up within the circle of city walls, indented like a child’s drawing, this is a practical place where people live and work and play, the way they have always done.
But that first day I knew none of that. I knew only that disquiet was beginning to claw at my spine once more, as we walked under a great stone gateway through the city walls. A taxi ride from the station in the dark with a taciturn driver was my only experience of York at that point, but I didn’t need Drew to tell me where we were. I knew the gate was called Monk Bar. I felt as if I had walked beneath it countless times before, and as we headed down Goodramgate, recognition began to clang like a bell inside me.
Déjà vu, I tried to tell myself, but the uncanny sense of familiarity and wrongness persisted. The streets weren’t quite right. The houses weren’t quite right. Nothing was quite right. Only the Minster towers, soaring above it all, looked as they should . . . but that couldn’t be right, either.
I caught the unmistakable whiff of open drains and sniffed at the air. Drew saw me wrinkling my nose. ‘Chocolate,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘The smell. It comes from the Nestlé factory.’ He pointed behind us. ‘When the wind is in the right direction you can practically taste it.’
I sniffed again. It didn’t smell like chocolate to me. I detected a much more pungent combination: wet straw and wood smoke, perhaps. Mud and freshly cut timber. Shit, lots of it. Stagnant water. Something earthy and raw that caught at the back of my throat.
Not a hint of chocolate.
A monstrous headache was building behind my eyes. The sense that I ought to recognize the street had grown oppressive, and I found myself staring from side to side, searching for something that would trigger a memory of when I might have been there before, and why.
Delivery vehicles were parked half-on, half-off the pavement in Goodramgate, holding up the traffic that was trying to make its way along the narrow city streets. I was frowning, which Drew evidently took for disapproval.
‘They’ve got to unload before eleven,’ he told me. ‘After that, vehicles are banned and the streets revert to pedestrians.’
He stood back and gestured for me to go ahead of him, past a lorry laden with scaffolding. There was only room for single file on the pavement, and even then I had to fatten myself against a shop window to squeeze past the wing mirror. As I turned my shoulder, the pavement tipped beneath my feet without warning and my heart jumped into my throat as I felt myself falling.
It’s still beating hard as I edge past the end of the cart and step over the gutter into the street, but I don’t understand why I am suddenly afraid. The feeling only lasts a moment, and then I shake it aside. The world is not out of kilter. Nothing is wrong.
The cart taking up most of the street is laden with tar barrels. A shaggy horse waits patiently between the shafts. Hap, scavenging in the gutter, gives its hooves a wide berth, but I stop to stroke its nose while the carter and his apprentice hoist barrels off the cart and roll them towards Mr Maltby’s door, ignoring the bad-tempered cursing of the countryman on his wagon who is trying to pass.
I like horses. I like the feel of the velvet lips feathering my palm, the warm, grumbly breath, the patient eyes. I wish I could ride. Even country girls get to perch on the rump of a pony sometimes, but I am a mercer’s maidservant and I must walk everywhere. Once I told Mr Beckwith that I would like a horse of my own one day, and he threw back his head and laughed so that I could see the gaping hole where the barber drew his tooth. ‘Where would you go on your horse, Hawise? You don’t need a horse to get to market.’
That is true. It doesn’t take long to walk from one side of the city to another. I have no need of a horse, and nowhere to go.
Scratching the horse between its ears, I catch myself feeling restless and make myself stop. I have tried so hard not to think that way. I must be quiet, I must be ordinary. I mustn’t think or wish or dream.
I am giving a final pat and turning to go on, when there is a loud scraping sound and a thud behind me. Too impatient to wait, the countryman has pushed on. His wagon has scraped against Henry Lander’s stall, and now it is stuck and Henry is shouting and swearing at the countryman in his turn. Edward Braithwaite’s apprentice is offering pointless suggestions from across the street, until Henry and the countryman turn on him. They are having a fine old row.
Between their cursing and the loud quarrelling coming from the alehouse, the air is rent with vexation, but beneath their noise and fury, the sounds of the street make a music of their own: a burst of laughter through a window, the snip of shears, banging and clanking from the spurrier’
s workshop. An apprentice is whistling. Somewhere a baby is crying. And, weaving through it all, the thrum of conversation. Isabel Ellis has her head together with two of her gossips. They are clustered in her doorway, leaning eagerly in to discuss what she has seen in the fields, or heard under a window. I can’t hear what they are saying but it will be something scandalous. Their faces are bright, their hands clapped to their mouths to hide their delighted shock.
They stop talking as I pass and watch me in silence. I know what they are thinking: there she goes, the odd servant of the Beckwiths with that strange dog of hers. I bite my lip and pretend not to notice. The consensus in the street is that Hap should have been drowned after the accident that cost him his paw. He is too black, too different. They don’t understand how clever he is. They don’t understand that now he is my only friend.
For Elizabeth is dead.
As always, the thought of her grabs me by the throat, and for a moment I cannot breathe for grief. Mr Beckwith had the old stable pulled down last September and built a fine new one, but the carpenters left an old nail in the yard, and Elizabeth stepped on it one day. It went through the sole of her shoe. Later, I remembered that day in Paynley’s Crofts when we lay in the grass and laughed – the day we met Widow Dent. ‘Beware the iron,’ she had said. We didn’t think she meant a little nail.
At first we thought it would be all right, but that puncture in her sole grew red and angry, and then the whole foot puffed up. We watched helplessly as the poison spread up her leg until it consumed all of her. Elizabeth died one day when the mist hung heavy over the city and spangled the spiders’ webs with tears. I held her hand until she had gone and felt pain close around my heart like a fist.
It was God’s will, I know, but oh, I miss her so.
Two small boys are chasing another, even smaller, one down the street. Their quarry dodges through the crowd. He bumps into William Paycock’s stall, swerves around Margery Dickson, and narrowly avoids falling over one of Percival Geldart’s pigs, but his luck runs out when he gets to me. He crashes into me and I stagger back.
I sucked in a breath at the impact as someone jostled past me on the narrow pavement and I fell back against a window, unable to tell at that point where I was, who I was.
‘Grace!’ Drew came up, frowning, and took hold of my arm. ‘That guy nearly knocked you off your feet!’
His grip was extraordinarily reassuring. ‘Really,’ I said, through the roaring in my ears, ‘I’m—’
‘Fine, I know,’ he interrupted me. ‘Where are you going?’
Back to the Mr Beckwith’s house, of course. I’ve been to the market. My mistress will be waiting.
I struggled to focus. ‘Solicitor,’ I managed. ‘I’ve got an appointment.’
‘What time?’
It took a few seconds to remember what he was talking about. ‘Ten-thirty,’ I said at last, a hand to my pounding head.
‘Then you’ve got time for a coffee.’
Drew took charge, steering me into a coffee shop and pushing me into a leather chair. The roaring had moved from my ears to my brain by then, and darkness was rushing in. Without thinking, I leant forward and dropped my head between my knees.
He put a steadying hand at the nape of my neck. I could feel it resting there, warm, safe. ‘You’re not going to throw up on me, are you?’
I managed to shake my head.
‘When was the last time you ate?’
I tried to think. They had served breakfast on the plane, but I’d been too tired to eat after I landed. ‘Somewhere over Turkey, I think.’
‘No wonder you’re ready to pass out.’ He took his hand away. ‘Stay there.’
I didn’t have much choice. My mind was reeling still, and my legs felt boneless, while my heart galloped with disbelief, but I managed to sit up at last and close my eyes.
‘Here.’ I opened them as Drew set down a cup of frothy coffee in front of me. ‘I didn’t know what you would like, but I got you a cappuccino. Eat the brownie too. You need the sugar.’
I hadn’t realized until then how hungry I was. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’re very kind.’ Shakily I reached out and broke off a piece of the brownie.
I love food. I hoard memories of wonderful meals I’ve eaten: duck liver with fried apple on a little square of toast in France; prawn curry by the beach in Goa; a bacon-and-egg sandwich, warm and fatty and oozing yolk on the train to Brighton; nasi goreng served on a chipped plate at a warung in Sumatra.
But none of them tasted as good as that brownie did. When I put it in my mouth, the sugar burst on my tongue in an explosion of sweetness and chocolate, and I chewed slowly, astounded by the lightness of texture, the density and complexity of taste.
‘God, what’s in this?’ I mumbled. ‘It’s fantastic!’
Drew raised his brows. ‘Well, you’re a cheap date,’ he said, and the creases around his eyes deepened in amusement. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone enjoy a plastic-wrapped brownie quite so much before.’
‘It’s just . . . it’s as if I’ve never tasted chocolate before,’ I tried to explain. ‘It’s incredible.’ I took a sip of the cappuccino. It was rich and smooth and creamy, and the froth left a moustache on my upper lip. ‘This is too.’
I was licking it off when my eye caught Drew’s, and I saw myself as he must have seen me, running my tongue round my mouth as if I were auditioning for a porn flick. I snapped my tongue back in my mouth and my colour rose. ‘Sorry! I get a bit carried away.’
‘Don’t apologize. My ex-wife spends her whole time counting calories, so it’s a nice change to see someone really enjoying her food. Are you like this with everything, or is it just chocolate and coffee?’
‘Do you know, I’d have said it was everything except chocolate,’ I said. ‘I don’t normally have much of a sweet tooth.’
I took another piece of the brownie. The second bite was just as miraculous as the first. I tried to look cool, but judging by the smile tugging at the corner of Drew’s mouth, I didn’t do very well.
‘Feeling better?’ he asked when I had finished.
‘Much.’
It was true. I could feel the sugar rushing along my bloodstream, steadying me. I picked up my cappuccino again and cradled the cup between my hands. Was it possible? Could those two vivid experiences, as Hawise, simply be the result of forgetting to eat?
Drew had been stirring his own coffee. He tapped the spoon against his cup and set it carefully in the saucer before looking up at me. Behind his glasses, I saw that his eyes were the bluish-grey of the English Channel and very astute. He might have enjoyed the play of sensation across my face, but he hadn’t forgotten that I had almost passed out as I reeled between one reality and another.
‘Why don’t you tell me what happened?’ he said.
Not many people look at you with that kind of attention, as if they are really seeing you. I shifted under his unwavering focus, aware all at once of the tiny spot on the side of my nose, of my hair escaping from its clip. My eyes slid away from his.
‘I don’t really know, to tell you the truth. I think you’re right. I was tired and hungry and my blood-sugar levels must have been very low. I just had this overwhelming sense of déjà vu . . . ’ I laughed nervously, embarrassed. ‘I was ready to swear I’d been here before, although I’m certain I haven’t.’
‘York’s a popular place for tourists,’ Drew said. ‘Most visitors have seen so many photos of Stonegate and the Shambles, or whatever, before they arrive that it all looks familiar when they actually get here.’
‘Maybe.’ I wanted to believe it, but I couldn’t. I’d seen iconic sights before. I’d been to the Pyramids and the Taj Mahal and Sydney Harbour Bridge, and not once had I felt like this. Besides, I was sure that no tourist brochure, no website about York would have pictures of two maids with a three-legged dog or the gutter choked with filth outside Mr Maltby’s door.
Pressing chocolate crumbs from the plate with my finger, I eye
d Drew Dyer under my lashes and wondered if I should tell him exactly what had happened to me on the way into the city.
He was leaning forward, contemplating his coffee, a tiny furrow between his brows and his fingers splayed around his cup. He had nice hands. Strong and square with clean nails. There was something solid and reassuring about him. I remembered that from the night before, when I had followed him up the stairs.
I tried to imagine telling him about Hawise, about how I thought she was in my head, and how in a blink of time I had seemed to slip back to the past. And then I remembered how my jaw had dropped when I had misunderstood Drew’s absorption in his old records. Drew hadn’t said anything, but I knew he’d thought I was ridiculous for even thinking he might have meant time-travelling.
Just as he would think I was ridiculous now. I didn’t blame him. If anyone had told me that story, I thought, I would be rolling my eyes and twirling my finger against my temple while I looked for the quickest way to end the conversation.
And I didn’t want to end it. I wanted to sit there, safe – that word again! – in the coffee shop with Drew Dyer, calm and sensible, beside me. Fiddling with the chain around my neck, I searched for a topic that would keep us sitting there a while longer.
‘Do you teach at the university here when you’re not on research leave?’
‘I used to,’ said Drew. ‘That’s why we came to York in the first place. I got my first lectureship here.’ He looked up at me and I was struck again by how acute his eyes were. ‘I got a job in London a couple of years ago, but I only teach three days a week and it was worth keeping the house here, so that I could see Sophie more regularly after the divorce. She took the separation badly.
‘Maybe there isn’t a good way to take it, when your parents decide they can’t live together any more,’ he went on, hunching forward over his coffee once more. ‘Karen lives in a village outside York with her new husband now. I thought it would be good for Sophie if she and I could spend more time together. I had this idea that she would be happy if she had a bit more continuity.’ His mouth twisted as he put his cup back in its saucer. ‘It hasn’t really worked out like that. Sophie has never settled at a school, and “happy” seems to be the last thing she’s feeling at the moment.’
Time's Echo Page 4
