Up, Back, and Away

by K. Velk

  They were on.

  That night he powered up the iPod just long enough to check the power. It showed a little sliver of green at the end of the battery icon. Thank God. It then occurred to him that if his meeting with Ada went well, he might not ever return to Quarter Sessions after the next day.

  Of course, he still didn’t have the secret – or at least if he did, he didn’t know just what it was. But maybe it was like one of those “it-was-there-all-the-time-things,” like Dorothy with her ruby slippers, or some self-discovery thing, like “you always had the power within you.” Maybe it would just come to him in a flash – or maybe the mysterious Gypsy would appear and tell him what it was, straight out. In any case, he made up his mind as he tucked the iPod back into the hole in his jacket pocket, that if he could persuade Ada to go with him on Sunday, they would make for the Oak Gate right away.

  The next day he would be paid before lunch and then go with Jack for one last (he hoped) Saturday overnight with the Peppermores.

  He felt fairly confident that the iPod would be the clincher. Even if Ada still didn’t believe his story, she might agree to have a try at the Gate just to shut him up. He packed the haversack with all his essentials, and hung it on a peg behind his door. Could it be that he was just two nights away from home?

  If he was, that meant that tonight would be his last under the roof of Quarter Sessions. He decided to skip the post-dinner gathering around the wireless. He wanted the quiet, and some time to think.

  Darkness came more quickly now that summer was nearly over. It was just after 8:00 and only the scalp of the sun shone over the western hills. Miles leaned against the castle-thick wall of his little bedroom and took in the view. The river Hawls in the foreground still showed a few coppery glints; beyond it were the dark trees of the woods where the Oak Gate waited. In the layer beyond the woods stood the square stone tower of St. George’s Church and the white steeple of the Tipton Methodist Chapel, rosy in the dying light. The only sound was some rising bird song and the occasional tinkling sheep’s bell carried on the sweet-smelling evening breeze.

  Miles tested his feelings. Yes, he was sure that he wanted to get home. He wanted to see his parents and Consuela and Professor Davies. He wanted an end to all this mystery and questioning. He wanted to sleep in his bed, watch Youtube videos, run Google searches until his every curiosity was slaked, drink enormous glasses of orange juice (there seemed to be almost no orange juice at all in England) and, of course, to put on his music – loud. And he was excited for Ada, for the possibilities that would unfold for her in his time. He was sure that once she had her chance, all kinds of thrilling things would happen for her and he would be there in the front row to see it all.

  But… it wasn’t as if, at least now, he was desperate to get away.

  In fact, the idea that this adventure, and his time in this place, was coming to an end made him sorrier than he could say.

  45. Unexpected Visitors…

  Miles now found himself with a fresh problem: how to say goodbye to the Peppermores without tipping them off that he was planning to disappear in just a few hours? On Saturday, he rode back to the cottage with his wages in his pocket. He turned his full week’s pay over to Mrs. Peppermore. She refused it and he pressed it on her saying it was an advance on the next week’s payment. He was trying to think where in the cottage he could leave the remainder of Professor Davies’ money for them to find after he left. Perhaps he could hide it in a drawer and drop a letter in the mail telling them where it was just before his meeting with Ada? Maybe he could use the letter to say goodbye too…

  At dinner that afternoon, Jack jokingly told his mother and sister about how Miles had been caught romancing a rogue housemaid. Miles defended himself, explaining that Jack and everybody else had it wrong, but Susannah congratulated him and Mrs. Peppermore warned him. Miles just shook his head over his plate and assured Mrs. Peppermore that he didn’t want any trouble. Still he was glad – as they all were – to see Susannah smile a little.

  After the dishes were washed, Susannah asked Miles to come out and read to her on the step. The late afternoon sun was invitingly warm, but with an autumnal mellowness.

  “I like to sit on the stone on days like this,” Susannah said, breathing deeply as she gathered her skirts around her drawn-up knees. “It collects the heat so beautifully and the air smells so lovely this time of year.”

  She handed him a book. “That should be Alice in Wonderland. Would you mind? Perfect, drowsy sort of day for it.”

  “This isn’t Alice it’s called The World I Live In, by Helen Keller.”

  “Oh. Drat. The two volumes are nearly the same size and shape. I shouldn’t have put them so near one another on the shelf. Well,” she sighed, “I suppose it might be improving all around to have you read a bit of Miss Keller…”

  “I’ll go get Alice if you want.”

  “’They also serve who only fetch books and read.”

  “Huh?”

  Susannah turned her face to the sun and hugged her knees closer to her chest.

  “Oh, never mind me, Miles. I am in one of my moods. Whenever someone says ‘Helen Keller’ to me I don’t know whether I want to gag or to genuflect. Both I suppose. Some of my companions in affliction have managed so spectacularly. It’s quite depressing. You know, of course, that Milton was blind? He went blind at the height of his powers and kept right on writing. It’s tiresome, really, to have all these blind geniuses out there, setting an example.”

  “Milton who?”

  Susannah clapped her forearm to her head in mock dismay. “Miles, please don’t tell me you have never heard of John Milton?”

  “OK I won’t tell you.”

  “Don’t they teach you any English literature in America? John Milton is, most famously, the author of Paradise Lost. I was paraphrasing a bit of his most famous sonnet just then – the one on his blindness that begins, ‘When I consider how my light is spent’ and ends with that famous line, ‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’ You’ve heard that, haven’t you?”

  Miles didn’t know the poem. It came to him after a moment, however, that he thought he had at least heard of “John Milton.”

  “Uhm. I’m not sure I know that one but wasn’t Milton that poet who wrote in Old English.”

  She shook her head. “Not Old English. He wrote in modern English. Old English was the language of the Anglo Saxons in the fifth century. It would be incomprehensible to you and me without learning it first as foreign language. But don’t start me down the history of the English language or I’ll be giving you another lesson and I won’t get to hear from the indomitable Miss Keller or Lewis Carroll.”

  “Maybe you should be a writer, Susannah. If they could do it, I am sure you could too.”

  She laughed. “I am no Milton, nor even Helen Keller. Actually, she writes very well and I shouldn’t be so flip about her. It’s just that every blind girl in Christendom has Helen Keller brought up to her at regular intervals. I know she is extraordinary, really. She lost her sight when she was barely more than a baby and her hearing too. Still, it is not helpful to have examples of heroism pushed at one when one only wants others to agree that one’s luck has been rotten.”

  She turned her face back up to the sky, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. “I can smell the hayricks and the apples in the loft.” Miles closed his eyes and tried to experience Susannah’s world. It was quiet, and he could smell the hay too – and the pigpen. He supposed she had edited that bit out.

  “Well, why not be a writer?” he asked after a minute – still sitting with his eyes shut and searching the air for sound: he found bird song, some leaves rattling in the breeze, Mrs. Peppemore clattering the dishes. “Or a musician. There are lots of great blind musicians.”

  Susannah laughed. “I’ll never make a musician. I sing like a hinge and I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

  “There you go. You talk so well, I’m sure you would be a good writ
er.”

  “Oh, you have found me out Mr. McTavish. I would like to write. Of course that presents its own challenges. Lady Fisher paid for me to take a course in London on reading Braille. But Braille books are not so easy to come by and my proficiency is minimal. I went blind a bit too old to be really skillful. I suppose if I could learn to type I might write stories, or at least a diary. I loved reading Pepys at school.”

  “Well, you could do it if you had a little help. Your mother would help you.”

  “Yes, she would,” Susannah said, hesitatingly. “I have thought of that too, but she has so many burdens. I hate to add ‘secretary’ to them. And then, one does not want to filter everything one might write through one’s mother. Where would Pepys have got if he had to have his mother write everything down?”

  It was the second time she had said that name so Miles had to ask, “Who’s ‘Peeps’?”

  She dropped her head into her hands. “Samuel P-E-P-Y-S,” she said. “It’s pronounced ‘Peeps.’ He was a diarist who famously recorded the great fire of London in 1666, and so much else of interest in his day. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him either?”

  Miles started whistling. “Not a peeps from me.”

  “All right,” she laughed. “At least next time his name is mentioned you won’t be in a state of complete ignorance. Anyway, you have hit on a bit of a nerve. I haven’t dared say anything to anyone because it sounds so self-important, but I would like to write. Of course, it’s hopeless for me to do it by hand and I’m afraid that for the time being at least, a typewriter dwells on a far shore.”

  Miles thought of the voice recognition software that was so cheap and easy to get at home. If only… But no. Now that he had at last found Ada he had no lingering doubts about Susannah. She was meant to stay in her own time, and the best he could do for her was to get her whatever help was available in 1928 – starting with fetching her copy of Alice in Wonderland. He didn’t think that there was anywhere in Tipton where he could buy a typewriter, but they were surely available someplace in 1928. Perhaps his remaining English money would be enough for one?

  As he stood to get Alice, Molly, who had been loafing nearby, leapt up and started baying. She took off running at a man flanked by two little girls. The man was carrying a child’s chair and each of the girls held a bunch of flowers. It was Tom Pauling and his twin daughters.

  Miles’ recognition was delayed by the fact that Tom was wearing church clothes. His fringe of hair had been carefully wetted down and combed. He did not look comfortable.

  Miles felt oddly grown up, shaking his old boss’s hand and introducing him around to the Peppermores. His little girls, Judith and Charlotte, had also put on their best clothes for the visit, including patent leather shoes that were obviously too small. Neither girl seemed to mind, though. Both smiled shyly at Susannah. Charlotte offered her flowers to Mrs. Peppermore, dropping a little curtsy, and Judy gave hers to Susannah.

  “You are very pretty, Miss,” Judy said. “We have seen you sometimes out walking with Miss Forsythe. You are ever so pretty.”

  “Well thank you, Judith. It is kind of you to say so. I can tell by your voice that you are very pretty as well. Miss Forstyhe has mentioned you both to me as two of her best scholars. I am very pleased to meet you.” The little girls beamed.

  Tom took off his hat. “Excuse me, Miss, but when Miles and I were workin’ together he mentioned somethin’ about your repairin’ chairs here. I knew who you were, of course, as the girls said, but I didn’t know you’d gone into that line of business. Anyway, after Miles mentioned it, I thought of this chair, that was once my grandmother’s, and has been needin’ a new seat. I wondered if you might mend it for me?”

  Tom handed Susannah the chair, carefully waiting until she had a hand-hold before releasing it. She examined the sprung reeds with her fingertips.

  “Nothing easier, Mr. Pauling. Would it be convenient for you to call for it next Saturday? I could do it sooner if you were in a hurry.”

  “He’s not in any hurry,” Judy said. “That old thing’s been up in the attic forever. Funny thing is that the last time I saw it the seat was fine.” Mrs. Peppermore smiled. Tom grumbled, “mice must’ve had at it.”

  “Would you and your girls join us for a bit of tea and cake, Mr. Pauling?” Mrs. Peppermore asked. “Miles has brought us a lovely cake and I’ve just brewed up a pot.”

  Tom accepted and promptly gave Miles another reason to be grateful to him. As they took their seats around the big table, he asked, “will you go back to the States then Miles?”

  Miles took a deep breath before answering. “I have been thinking a lot about that lately myself,” he said slowly. “I am going to have to go back. My relatives aren’t here, and as nice as you all and Lady Fisher have been to me, I need to get home.”

  Tom nodded. “You’re not meant for a life as a footman, nor a mason, come to that. Don’t take me wrong. You did a fine job, but anyone could see that a lad like you wasn’t meant for outdoor work nor indoor service. There’ll be more scope for the likes of you in America.”

  Miles knew that Tom meant this as a compliment and he took it as one. Heads around the table were nodding.

  “Do you know when you might go?” Susannah asked, with a gratifying note of regret.

  “I don’t know for sure. It might be soon…” He could not bring himself to say that he might disappear forever in less than twenty four hours.

  “Oh we will miss you, Miles, whenever you do go,” said Mrs. Peppermore. “I can’t help feeling but that you were a bit of a lucky charm for us.”

  “I could never thank you all enough.” A lump crowded Miles’ throat. He focused furiously on his piece of cake in an effort to keep his composure. When he did look up, he saw tears in Mrs. Peppermore’s eyes and that nearly pushed him over the brink. Just at the moment of crisis, however, Molly gave another sharp warning bark and a car pulled up outside.

  “Who could that be now?” Jack asked, jumping to the door. All the Peppermores and Miles were thinking it must be Dr. Slade, which would have been interesting to say the least, but instead on the front step stood Mr. Scott. The little party could hardly have been more surprised if they had opened the door on a giraffe.

  “Oh please, don’t get up. Forgive me for interrupting your tea, Mrs. Peppermore,” Mr. Scott said, lifting his hat, “but I have received some rather urgent correspondence for Miles. Perhaps, Miles, if you would join me in the garden?”

  46. The Best-Laid Cunning Plans…

  Miles’ mouth went dry. Mr. Scott turning up in this way was like a ringing phone at three in the morning. It couldn’t mean anything good.

  “I received this in the morning post,” Mr. Scott began as he produced an envelope from the breast pocket of his topcoat. “It comes from Dorcas Macumber. She worked at Sessions, it’s been quite a long time since – ten years at least.”

  “Did you say ‘Dorkus’?” This was a new one. Under the circumstances, however, Miles wasn’t even tempted to smile.

  Mr. Scott looked puzzled. “Yes, ‘Dorcas’. Have you not heard that name before? It’s common enough, a Bible name. As I recall, Dorcas was raised from the dead by St. Peter.”

  “Oh, OK. I just thought it might be a nickname, you know, like, Shorty or Lefty or something.” Sometimes when Miles was nervous he babbled.

  Impatience flickered in Mr. Scott’s eyes. “I am not sure why you would ask such a superfluous question. It’s a perfectly respectable name and it belongs to a perfectly respectable woman.”

  “Sorry. Never mind me. Go ahead.”

  “Just as I got to the end of the letter and was debating whether I should try to inform you of it today or wait until you got back tomorrow, a telegram was delivered. It comes from Miss Macumber’s brother, Eustace.

  He handed Miles another folded bit of paper marked at the top “Post Office Telegram” with a little crown insignia. It read:

  Mr. Scott - Dorcas failing fast. Very
agitated about need to speak with boy of whom she has written. Please send him immediately. Will repay expenses. Thank you. Eustace Macumber, Reddlegowt Village.

  Hmm. Miles unfolded the other letter. It was written in a childish hand, made worse by a tremor. He read it out loud, partly as a means of deciphering it.

  Dear Mr. Scott,

  I hope you will forgive me writing for a favor after so long, but I find it is all I can think of to do. I have heard from one of my old Tipton friends that a young American boy who knows Morgan Davies has entered service at Quarter Sessions.

  My heart leapt at that news, as there was some very important business with Morgan that I was not able to carry out owing to his sudden disappearance. I never guessed that he’d gone all the way to America! In any case, I have long been troubled about my failure in this matter. Maryanne and Taffy were such good friends to me and it was the dying wish of Maryanne that Morgan gets these things I have for him. I must give them in person as there are certain confidences that I will be obliged to share now, and even if I had the strength to write the whole story down, I don’t think it would be proper.

  Would you please deliver this letter to the boy and give him leave to make the trip to Reddlegowt? If he requires any funds if, you would lend them to him, I know it is a lot to ask, but we will send him back with full repayment.

  Thank you Mr. Scott for all your kind consideration. Please extend my thanks and good wishes to Sir James and Lady Fisher.

  Very Truly Yours,

  Dorcas Macumber

  Miles’ mouth fell open. “Oh no…”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If I went there, wherever Reddlegowt is, I won’t be back at Quarter Sessions by tomorrow afternoon!”

  “No,” Mr. Scott said slowly. “I expect you would not be able to get back until Monday morning at the earliest. Reddlegowt is a fair distance from here – but you needn’t concern yourself with the extra time off. You have permission to take whatever time is necessary. I discussed the matter with Lady Fisher before calling here. Do you need money?”