What was the matter was the prospect of “seeing” one’s own death described in such a detached manner, in a voice which, though it came from my Aunt Julia, held no trace of her personality. Even Rutherford looked pale on hearing these accounts. He would no doubt be wondering why he did not feature prominently, dealing with the intruder’s threat long before he could reach my bedroom.
I also asked her more pointed questions about her collapse. In the daylight hours before my nightly visits to the hospital, I had taken the opportunity to consult with a number of doctors about epilepsy, as I tried to find out as much as I could about its symptoms, origins, and alternative treatments. The more Julia told me about her “fits” the less they sounded like “common or garden” grands mal epileptic seizures, and the more it sounded — and this will seem fanciful — like a human brain trying but failing to wrestle with some greater “force”. I only considered such an unlikely notion because of Julia’s well-known but oft-ridiculed psychic access to what she had always called “the other bits of reality”. I was wondering if one of these “other” bits of reality was endeavouring to force its way into this world — and if it had succeeded, taking root in a quiet part of Julia’s brain, away from her conscious perception. Such things, I had read, were not unknown, if one consulted the right history books.
Once we reached Pelican River, I planned to seek out my dear friend Gordon Duncombe, for his opinion on the matter. Gordon had manifold talents with electrical and mechanical engineering and had also been known to dabble a little with rather more “unorthodox” ways of influencing the world around him. One hesitated to describe him as an “amateur magician”, with his precious old books and fussy manner, but perhaps that’s, at least in part, what he was.
My greatest concern was for Julia herself. Was I even wise in taking her home? This question gnawed at me during the long and bumpy four-hour ride, listening to loose limestone gravel spraying up from the car’s tyres and rattling across its undersides. I knew that if I were to leave Julia to look after herself with the Perth medical community, she would be consigned to a home before she knew it. The first sign of another fit or attack would guarantee her fate. And if she were to describe her visions to a doctor, and that same chilling, detached voice emerged from her mouth, she would also quickly find herself incarcerated. Equally, I did not like the thought of sending her home to England. I could afford to have the best medical minds in Australia come to Pelican River to look at Julia, if the need arose — Antony’s life insurance and the modest proceeds from my previous novels saw to that; I was established as a woman of means, and I would look after Julia as best I could, and in the best, most peaceful environment I knew.
And yet, as we passed the sign for Pelican River — a sleepy little fishing town sixty or so miles south of Perth — I did wonder how whatever might be lurking in the back of Julia’s brain might feel about arriving in the very house featuring so heavily in those visions. Would this bring forth the events she had foreseen? Was it Julia, or something employing her body, that would steal through the house and kill me? Or — and this was some sort of comfort — was the fact that I had been warned enough to deflect that fate? After all, I could arm myself, both with weapons and with information. It might be possible to determine, for certain, what was going on with Julia, and prevent everything happening.
If only life were that easy, that tidy.
3
Rutherford brought the great vehicle to a stop out the front of my home. He climbed down and came around to help Julia and me disembark. Doing this, he settled into the usual routine, ordering the three other staff about, getting Young Ryan to come and help with the luggage, and asking Sally Hall if she and Vicky Tool had made up a room for Miss Templesmith, as per his telephoned instructions. Sally said they had prepared the Yellow Room, next to mine, thinking that Ma’am would want her relative close by. I greeted everyone, and told them they were doing a fine job, as always. Though I did pause as Ryan went by, and said, “The new hair cream not working out?” He coloured and said, “No, ma’am, sorry, ma’am,” and struggled into the house, bearing more luggage than his skinny body looked capable of carrying. I introduced Julia to everyone, and in particular to Sally and Vicky, and instructed them to take the very best care of her. “Aunt Julia’s not been well, and is in need of a good pampering.”
Julia was staring around her at the house — a modest red-brick two-storey Federation-style property with an extensive verandah all the way around. One of the house’s most novel features was the circular windows here and there, like portholes on a ship. “It’s bigger than I thought,” she said, smiling weakly back at me. She was also staring at the enormous, but very strange-looking, paperbark gums looming around us, their pale, peeling trunks looking as though they had some terrible skin disease. Native birds cawed and squealed and carolled noisily; the breeze carried the salty tang of the sea, and a faint waft from the fish canning factories on the foreshore. Julia, swatting at flies, seemed all at once aware, as she looked at these alien trees and heard those unusual birds, that she was indeed somewhere very different, and very far, from home. I knew she was an inveterate traveller, but she had never come this far, as if to another world.
Rutherford looked at me, concerned, and I could see he was wondering if bringing Julia here was a wise decision. I, too, was having second thoughts about this, but resolved to adhere to my plans. I told him to take the car around to the garage and give it a clean; it was white with gravel dust. “Yes, ma’am, as you say.”
At once pleased to be home after the ordeal of travelling to the “big smoke”, and yet also concerned at what the future might bring, I went inside. Regardless of all other considerations, I still had a writing deadline, and I meant to beat it. I left Julia in the care of my staff.
In the quiet coolness of the house, with its high ceilings, polished jarrah floors, tasteful but unfashionably minimal furniture, I breathed in the complex aroma of home. I could never describe its exact scent. Part of it was the very air of this region of Western Australia, part was the native-plant pot pourri, part was the fresh smell of a house kept meticulously clean, part was the lingering traces of last night’s fire in the big fireplace. There were many elements, and I treasured them all. No house in England would ever smell like this. I remembered the grand, stuffy, echoing manorial homes in the old country, much like my own family’s house, with its thirty-two rooms, all of them cramped with too much heavy furniture, maddeningly busy wallpaper, ancient heirloom floor rugs, hunting trophies, sombre portraits of long-dead ancestors looking like they hated the artist and the fuss of having to get all dressed up when they’d much rather be out with the hounds and the horses and all their inbred chums. By contrast, I had determined, this house I bought would be full of air and light; it would never be stuffy, it would be welcoming not intimidating, and comfortable without that cloying, cramped feeling I still remembered and hated from my old life.
Post had accumulated during my absence; nothing that could not wait — mainly bills. The great mahogany clock over the mantel in the drawing room showed it was not quite noon. As if reading my mind, Murray appeared. She smiled politely. “You look starved, ma’am. Can I get you something, just to tide you over ’til lunch?”
“How is Julia doing?”
Murray sighed. “She’ll manage, ma’am. Now if I — ”
“A sandwich, I think, would suffice. And coffee.”
“As you say, ma’am,” she said warmly, and left the room. I had recruited Murray, like all my staff (other than Rutherford, who had come with me from Britain), locally. They had taken some time to settle into their roles and duties — all except Rutherford, who had displayed a natural talent for his job that had surprised me.
I joined Julia in the Yellow Room, where she was having a word with Vicky. Before entering, I heard Julia ask, “What on Earth would make a sensible young girl stay in such a place, I ask you!”
I interrupted, knocking pointedly on the door.
“Now now, Julia, you mustn’t harass my staff like that. Is everything under control, Vicky?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, not stuttering too much today. I sent her to help Sally.
“Well,” Julia said, sitting on the bed as if worried it might eat her. “You appear to have created a very nice little realm in the midst of all this chaos.”
“Chaos? What do you mean?” I knew very well what she meant.
“Do those birds ever shut up? And what’s all this … ” She lacked a word for it but simply waved a hand at the view through the window, which showed extensive natural bushland: gum trees, wattles, grevilleas; it was marvellous, and I had gone to great trouble to preserve as much of it as I could. It was exotic, alien in every respect. When I first arrived, I could not stop looking at it, marvelling at how such unusual plants could possibly survive in such an arid environment. The people who sold me this house had offered to get people in to clear all this “clutter”, to make it, “you know, suitable” — whatever that meant. The only concession I had agreed to was to allow a clear area around the garden’s perimeter. I found out about this from the land agent when arranging the purchase of the house. He told me the perimeter was in case of bush fire, and I stupidly asked what exactly that might entail. He said, “It’s the end of the world, Mrs Black.” Feeling foolish, I agreed, and allowed a clear perimeter. Trying to get a lawn to grow on the cleared land, however, was another matter.
I explained to Julia about the bush, that it was something fundamental to the landscape in this country. Julia glanced at me as if to suggest that I was the one with problems in my head. “But it’s just so awful! It’s so wild and uncontrolled!”
Later, Julia and I sat in the drawing room. She kept looking around the great room. “How do you manage with all this … all this space everywhere?”
After lunch, I rode my purple Imperial Racer bicycle around to Gordon Duncombe’s house. My staff would take care of Julia, and I felt my time could more usefully be spent consulting with Gordon about what had happened. Gordon lived on a small farm on the outskirts of town; he had converted the great barn, its old wood long turned greyish-silver, into a workshop-laboratory. Even before I arrived, his dogs — twelve of them — erupted into a deafening barking frenzy. As I opened the front gate, and wheeled the bicycle inside, the dogs, mutts all, swarmed around me, jumping, barking, wagging their assorted tails. Expecting this, I had brought a small bag of meaty offcuts which I doled out with great care. None of the dogs lunged or made as if to bite me. They accepted the idea that they would have to wait before receiving their treats. Once it was all handed out, the dogs wagged off, going about their own business on the extensive property, and I walked my bicycle up the long gravel drive to the house.
Gordon, who would have heard the dogs, stood waiting on the front porch, under the verandah. He was in his fifties, a soft sort of man with a slight stoop, as if having trouble bearing the weight of the world. Losing his beloved wife, Alice, several years earlier had left him gutted and broken, much the way I still felt about Antony’s loss. Seeing me, he stepped down onto the path and walked down the drive to meet me halfway. He shuffled along, clad as ever in clothes that looked too large for him, including one of his three oft-patched grey cardigans, which he liked to wear because they reminded him of Alice. He had his own way of doing things, and he would not be shifted. Back in the old country, eight years ago, he had cared for Alice night and day for months as she withered away from stomach cancer. After she passed, he sold everything, including his workshop and its contents, and booked himself onto a ship leaving for Western Australia. We had never spoken about what he did during those endless months at sea, but I had the impression that somehow it had been a profound experience for him. Something had happened to him during that voyage. By the time he arrived at Fremantle Harbour, bearing only a small shabby bag containing not even a week’s worth of clothes and some toiletries, he had somehow learned to live without Alice, to be his own person.
I wished he would teach me how that was done. I put on a good front, and carried on like a fearless, independent and colourful woman, but I knew I was, as people here would say, “having a lend of everyone”. I still wore black, and wore it like a shield, not to keep the world out, but to keep myself in. I still woke up in the mornings thinking that Antony was already up and about, in the kitchen making coffee, or reading the newspaper, or in the bathroom shaving. In bed, almost entirely asleep, I still found myself rolling toward my memory of him, wanting to hold him, to warm me and my cold hands and feet — only to find nothing but empty bed.
I still dared not look at old photographs or the bundles of letters he used to send me from overseas postings, especially during the War.
I had also never cried for him. Never. Secretly, I wondered if there was something wrong with me.
Gordon smiled, “Ruth! What a grand surprise — and here, I’ve just put the kettle on, too. Coffee?”
I thanked him, and he took my bicycle, as usual, and walked it up under his verandah, where it would be safe if it rained. I followed him inside, careful the dogs didn’t bowl me over as they boiled around my legs. I knew they each had names, but I had not yet learned them, even though I heard him talking to these dogs all the time. They kept him busy. He, for his part, kept his home surprisingly tidy and clean. The odour of dog was rarely detected in his modest house, despite the menagerie.
In his kitchen, I watched an elaborate contraption of metal containers, levers, springs, pivoting things made of wood, and gas burners boil the water, percolate the coffee and pour it into separate carefully placed cups, without spilling too much. This was Mark VI of his continuing coffee-machine project — I suspected he would say it was a quest — which had occupied him during much of his life in Pelican River. He had other unlikely contraptions around the house, many of them failed devices that he had stripped for parts to use in newer machines. His plan for a machine that would do the laundry and hang it out to dry on a clothesline that folded out of the back of the thing had never quite worked out, despite great enthusiasm. And then he had large-scale ideas, like his plan to irrigate the vast interior deserts of this country, and thus open up all that land for development. Unfortunately, it also depended on a reliable means of influencing the weather. The idea of simply carving immense canals into the land, taking existing rivers far inland, had occurred to him, and he thought it “had some merit” but there weren’t enough moving parts for his taste. He was a man who liked to see lots of things turning, going up and down, making intriguing noises, and to have lots of knobs and dials, even when such ornamentation was not required.
Then there was his Grand Project. As I sipped my black coffee, scalding hot as ever, and as Gordon adjusted a knob on the coffee machine’s thermostat, he told me about his latest findings. At length, when he noticed that I was not making the right appreciative noises — and no doubt wishing I was an engineer instead of a novelist — he took me out to his barn, where the beginnings of his great work lay under tarpaulins. He pulled the tarps clear of the basic framework, which was a structure of long steel pipes, almost as large as the barn itself, and there would be a small cabin where two passengers might sit. He showed me huge and intricate drawings illustrating his latest thoughts, and went on about “chronodynamics” in a way that did not seem healthy.
“I’m still having trouble coming up with a good name for it,” he said, finishing his coffee, and setting the empty cup in a rack which itself was mounted on a toy train line, and which would, once he activated it, take the cup into the house for refilling. “I feel I can’t simply call it ‘Time Machine Mark Four’, for example. It needs something … something more, you know, catchy, that captures some aspect of how it actually works … ” He was looking at me for some germ of inspiration.
I smiled helplessly and finished my coffee. “Chrono-Traveller? The Time Hopper?”
“Hmm,” he said, stroking his beard. “Time Hopper isn’t too bad, considering. Except the
whole craft doesn’t hop, as such; it largely stays fixed in one’s local frame of reference. In our latest correspondence, Mr Wells said something about inertial transitions and it gave me a bit of an idea … ” He peered at his drawings again, and made lots of “hmm” noises. I was looking around at everything. In amongst countless odd bits of hardware and machinery, not much of which was recognisable, were the frankly terrifying Tesla towers Gordon was assembling, and which would, he had explained previously, provide the prodigious power for his time machine. Meanwhile, up in the rafters, I saw three bird nests, a great many elaborate spiderwebs in the upper corners of the barn, and there was a smell of oil, machinery, electricity, and dirt. Gordon had large metal drums containing kerosene, different kinds of oil, a wide variety of paints and glues — and a comprehensive collection of tools, all of them pegged up on the walls of the barn where he could reach them if he needed them, and every tool had a black painted silhouette to which it belonged. No tools were missing; they all looked clean; many gleamed in the dim electric light. It had also long ago occurred to me that everything in this barn was a dreadful fire risk. Just being in there made me anxious. How it would feel once everything was running?
“Listen, Gordon, could we pop back inside? Some things have come up that I’d like to ask you about … ”
He glanced up, surprised, “Oh, you should have said. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to drag you out here to show you all this nonsense when you had something on your — ”
“It’s quite all right, really. I’m glad you’re making progress with the time machine. Just promise me this: when you finish it and take it for a test flight, do wear protective clothing of some sort!”
He smiled, a little chagrined. We both remembered the last two times, when he’d managed to get earlier time machine prototypes almost working. No actual time travel took place, but the explosions could be heard for miles around.
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