by Jodi Taylor
I went to wipe his face and for once he didn’t jerk his head away. I sat down beside him and put my arm around him, half expecting him to shrug it off as he often did, but not this time. This time he curled up beside me.
I bent down and whispered, ‘You’re a good boy, Matthew. And a good friend. One day you will have lots of friends who will love you because you are a good boy.’
He sat up. ‘Why are you crying?’
I wiped the tears away. ‘Because no one ever told me I was a good girl and would have lots of friends and I really wish they had.’
He thought about this. ‘Jamie and Joshua are my friends.’
‘And you took them a nice Christmas present. And they were pleased to see you.’
‘But …’
‘Yes,’ I said gently, knowing what he was thinking, ‘but I did my best to make sure she treats them a little better in future. Who knows, next year they might have a much nicer Christmas.’
And I could have kicked myself but it was too late.
‘We could go now and see.’
It would appear my offspring had embraced the Maxwell Illegal Christmas-Jump Tradition with enthusiasm. I’m such a bad mother.
I smiled. ‘I don’t think so. To do this once was bad enough. To do it twice is just asking for trouble.’
‘Are we in trouble?’
‘Well, I am, certainly.’
‘But we could make sure they’re all right. We don’t have to stay. Just look.’
My own eyes stared up at me. I stared back and cursed my genes.
The kettle clicked off and I got up and pretended to be busy making the tea when I was actually having a bit of a think.
‘Are you having a bit of a think?’ he said, as I presented him with his mug.
‘What?’
‘That’s what you say. I’m having a bit of a think. Are you having a bit of a think?’
I scowled at him. ‘When did you become so talkative?’
‘Are you?’
I sent up a prayer to the god of historians to preserve me from chatty children.
‘Yes. Give me a moment.’
He blew on his tea and slurped. ‘So, are you thinking?’
‘I would be if people would let me get on with it.’
He subsided and I had a bit of a think. It wouldn’t be difficult. A minor adjustment to the temporal coordinate and we could jump forward twelve months. If I’d been alone I’d have done it just to see if old Ma Scrope had improved any. But – a big but – I was guessing she hadn’t. Whatever was the matter with her was far beyond my puny threats. And there was a very real possibility that little Jamie wouldn’t have made it through the winter. How would Matthew feel about that? Would it be kinder to take him home now? He didn’t need to know his friends might not have survived. I looked down at his dark head. Or did he?
I said, ‘Listen up a moment, Matthew. I have an important question to ask you.’
He put down his empty mug.
‘I can take you to next Christmas, yes. But things might not have got any better for them. How will you feel about that?’
He thought for a long time, turning his empty mug around and around. My mind flew back to a time when Leon and I had sat in a pod having a difficult conversation and he’d done exactly the same thing.
Eventually, he looked up and said, ‘Yes. I want to do it.’
‘All right then.’ I got up. ‘Same rules apply.’
He nodded.
I updated the coordinates and said, ‘Computer, initiate jump.’
‘Jump initiated.’
The world went white.
We landed in exactly the same place. Except that now it was snowing. Big white blobby snow that covered a multitude of sins and made everything look prettier than it was.
I sent him into the tiny bathroom to wash his face while I tidied myself. There was a lot of splashing and, yes, when he came out, he’d miraculously managed to shift quite a lot of the dirt around his face without removing any of it at all.
I tightened his muffler, checked he was wearing his gloves and pulled his hat down. ‘Ready?’
He pulled it back up again. ‘Yes.’
We squeezed out of the pod again. Less easily this time around. I appeared to have put on weight!
We set off down the alleyway. No one else had been this way. Ours were the first footprints. Emerging into the street, we set out for Grit Lane. There were a few people around, trudging head down through the snow. I’m not sure if it was the Christmas card aspect, but the whole area seemed considerably less sinister and threatening than before. We strode out bravely.
Even Grit Lane looked good. Until we arrived.
We stood at the entrance to the court and looked around. My heart sank. It wasn’t good news. The tiny wooden shed that had been their home was empty. We didn’t even have to go in. The door stood wide open and, judging by the earth and snow heaped up around it, had stood open for some time. Of the boys, there was no sign whatsoever.
I felt sick. What had I done?
I said, ‘Matthew, I’m sorry. I tried to make things better and I failed. I’m so sorry.’
He nodded, wordlessly.
I eased my cold hands inside my muff, finding my pepper spray still there. We’re really not supposed to harm contemporaries … on the other hand, it was Christmas … a time of small treats … I strode across the yard and hammered on the door. Just a very quick spray … nothing too serious …
The door opened letting out a gust of light and heat and cooking smells and a very large lady with wild hair escaping from an elaborate cap and with a flushed face stood before me.
I was so surprised I couldn’t think.
‘Yes?’ she said, dusting flour off her arms.
‘Um. I’m sorry, I was looking for Mrs Scrope.’
‘I’m Mrs Scrope.’ Her voice was a deep, rich contralto. There couldn’t have been a greater contrast between that Mrs Scrope and this Mrs Scrope. Oh God, was I back in an alternate universe?
‘Um …’
‘You mean the other Mrs Scrope.’
‘Yes, I think I do.’
‘Dead.’
Oh God. I’d killed her. I remembered the piles of junk falling around her. Her screams … What had I done?
She caught sight of Matthew, half hidden behind me.
‘I know you. It’s young Joseph, isn’t it?’
He nodded.
‘Um. We’ve come to visit Jamie and Joshua, but they’re not here?’ I made it a question.
‘I’ve sent them out for the goose and a few other things as well. Come in.’
‘Um … Thank you.’
We edged our way into a room I would never have recognised. The floor was clear and had been scrubbed to within an inch of its life. The stones gleamed. A huge fire burned in the grate, belching out enough heat for a blast furnace. Bubbling pots and pans were set all around it. In an alcove to the side of the chimney, a curtain was looped back and I could see two small mattresses with blankets I recognised folded neatly on top. Shirts and a jacket hung from small pegs.
In front of the fire were two battered armchairs and two small wooden stools.
A well-scrubbed table in the middle of the room was covered in bowls and basins. A coating of flour covered everything, including Mrs Scrope herself.
‘Ah,’ she said, catching me staring around. ‘You’ll not have seen it since her time.’
I shook my head. ‘How did she die?’
She shrugged. ‘No one knows. She were always a bit strange and then, around last Christmas, she got worse. Always looking over her shoulder she were. And muttering to herself. They reckoned she was regretting the way she treated them boys although I don’t know about that. And the way she treated that daft ha’pporth Scrope, as well. How he put up with her we never knew. Anyway, they found her stiff and cold one morning in January, half buried under piles of furniture. They reckoned it had all come down on top of her in the night. Can’t say Scrope was heartbroken. N
o one was. He set to and cleared the stuff out. I tell you, ma’am, you wouldn’t believe what she had in here. And everywhere – money. In twists of paper, old socks, old tins, hidden up the chimney, in the walls, even. Only pennies but it were quite a tidy sum in the end.’
She shot me a sudden glance. I grinned at her. I could follow her thinking exactly.
‘Me and my sister had the bake shop round the corner. My husband had been took with the newmonnya and Scrope was never that bad before she got her claws in him, so we – me and my sister – we took him round some food, and for them poor little boys as well. Just in time for the little one, I reckoned. He’d never have seen out another winter. Seemed a shame for a good man to go to waste – me without a husband and him without a wife – so we married. No sense in waiting …’
She grinned at me again. There was no sense in letting an unattached man with a good business and a fair amount of loose cash going to waste, was there? I completely agreed with her. I wouldn’t mind betting she and her sister had been round here before the first Mrs Scrope’s body had even cooled. Good for them.
‘Here you are, young man,’ she said, slapping two tartlets on a plate and handing them to Matthew. ‘Careful, they’re still hot.’
He sat down on one of the stools and added jam to the collection of miscellaneous stains on his clothes and face.
‘We married in the February and the first thing I did was make him get rid of the business. All that soot weren’t doing him no good at all and I told him he’s not a young man any longer. He’s in firewood delivery now. Easier job and he’ll live longer.’ She began to pound her bread dough into submission.
‘And the boys?’ I said, fascinated, but remembering why we were here.
‘Ah well, that Joshua, he’s helping out. He’s a good lad.’
I hardly dared ask. ‘And young Jamie?’
‘Now there’s a lad with a head on his shoulders. Helps out my sister in the shop. She’s taken a bit of a shine to him. She doesn’t have any of her own and her husband’s about as much use as tits on a bull.’ She picked up the dough, slapped it into a bowl and marked a cross on the top. ‘They’ll be back any moment now. Will you wait?’
‘No, we must be going, but thank you. Matthew?’
He stood up and handed her back the empty plate. ‘Thank you.’
She ruffled his hair, looked at her hand and then wiped it on her apron. ‘Well, don’t you have lovely manners. Shall I tell them you were here?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, please. We’re sorry to miss them but we must go.’
She opened the door. The snow was still swirling down outside. ‘Far to go?’
‘No, my husband is waiting for us at the end of the lane.’ I liked her, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t take basic precautions. I put out my hand. ‘A merry Christmas to you, Mrs Scrope. And to your family, too.’
She stared at my hand for a moment and then wiped hers on her apron. ‘And to you, Mrs …’ I remained silent. ‘… To you, ma’am.’
I took Matthew’s hand and we set off back into the snow. We heard them before we saw them. Shouting and boisterous laughter rang down the street. We’d been lucky so far in that we’d hardly encountered anyone, but I didn’t like the sound of this. We needed to make ourselves scarce.
I looked around for a convenient doorway and drew Matthew inside. There was to be absolutely no interaction with any more contemporaries. I was in enough trouble as it was.
I needn’t have worried. Three figures approached. One, a man, was pulling a homemade sledge. A small boy sat on the sledge, surrounded by bags of what looked like vegetables. I could see carrots and those white things that look like carrots and I never know whether they’re turnips or parsnips. The boy was clutching a plucked goose nearly as big as he was – the head hung over his shoulder, swaying slightly. Joshua trotted alongside, carrying a box which clinked. I stiffened, but it wasn’t a big box. Bottles of beer, probably, and perhaps some port for Mrs Scrope, who certainly looked as if she enjoyed the good things in life.
The sledge was swinging from side to side. Little Jamie was shrieking with laughter. Joshua set down his box, bent down, made a snowball and threw it at the man I assumed was Jeremiah Scrope, hitting him square between the shoulder blades. He roared with rage and I felt Matthew stir beside me.
I held him tightly. ‘Hush. It’s all in fun.’
Dropping the rope, the man scooped up a handful of snow. Battle was joined as snowballs flew through the air. Both boys threw themselves on Scrope, who fell dramatically backwards into the snow. They lay for a while, laughing, and then climbed to their feet. Scrope picked up Jamie by the back of his jacket and plonked him back on the sledge, dropping the goose on his lap again. Joshua picked up his box and they set off, still laughing and shouting at each other. All of them learning to be a family.
We stood and watched them disappear into the snow, on their way to what I guessed would be the best Christmas of their lives.
I looked down at Matthew, still staring after them and waited until he was ready.
Eventually, he looked up at me. His lip was trembling. ‘They didn’t see me.’
I said gently, ‘No, they didn’t.’
‘They were too busy.’
‘They were happy. Aren’t you happy they were happy?’
He nodded, swallowing.
I crouched in the snow beside him. ‘Sweetheart, just because they don’t need you any longer doesn’t mean they’ll ever forget you. You’ll always be their friend Joseph, who brought them the first Christmas present they ever had. You were the beginning of good things happening in their lives.’
He thought about it for a minute as the snow fell silently around us, then nodded again, slipped his hand into mine, and we made our way back to the pod and St Mary’s.
Back to all sorts of trouble.
For a start, Peterson and Markham were waiting for us.
‘What ho!’ I said cheerily, as we exited after decontaminating and changing our clothes.
‘How did it go?’ said Peterson.
‘Perfectly.’
‘Oh, come on,’ he said in disbelief.
‘No, it did. Everything was absolutely fine. I’m beginning to think the problem is you two.’
‘What?’
‘Well, no one fell in the Nile. No one was attacked by any indigenous livestock. No one peed on anyone. War did not break out. And, most importantly, no one set fire to anything. I don’t think those are claims either of you two could make after a jump. Not with any conviction anyway.’
‘Changing the subject,’ said Markham, bending down. ‘What is this child covered in?’
Matthew, who would only submit to being called ‘this child’ by his idol Markham, grinned up at him. ‘Jam.’
‘Why are you …?’
Peterson shoved him aside. ‘Never mind him. What happened?’
I felt Matthew take a breath to speak.
‘Nothing much,’ I said, quickly. ‘We looked at the snow and watched a snowball fight. Didn’t we?’
Matthew nodded.
‘So you see, nothing at all to worry about. No dangers, no adventures, no problems of any kind. Everything is absolutely fine.’
‘Good afternoon,’ said Leon and I jumped a mile.
‘Daddy!’ Matthew hurled himself at Leon. I tried very hard to stifle a pang of jealousy. I had thought, after this afternoon, that I’d made a little progress with him, but obviously not. He never hurled himself at me.
Leon might not be able to fold his arms but that didn’t mean I wasn’t on the receiving end of the full Farrell frown. ‘Max …’
I gestured at Peterson and Markham. ‘Pas devant les enfants.’
Markham turned to Peterson. ‘Si ce n’est pas mignon? Ils pensent que nous ne le comprenons pas.’
‘Oui. Quels idiots.’
I appreciated their efforts but Leon ignored them. ‘Seriously, Max? You’re speaking French to me?’
Leon was
born in France. He’s lived a lot of his life in England and as far as I know, considers himself English, except when England crash disastrously out of yet another international tournament and he swears he’s going back to live in France. I point out that the French are even worse at football than the English – even supposing such a thing is possible – and he’d do better to remain on this side of the Channel because the food’s nicer and, never mind, perhaps they’ll do better next time. He responds by remarking that proper wives would get their husband a beer to see them through these difficult moments. Since no one can remember any important tournament when England haven’t crashed out in the opening rounds, I tread the well-beaten path to the chiller and hand him two beers – one for now and the other to nurse him through the inevitable action replays of England’s worst moments, because I’m a good wife and he’s lucky to have me. He sits, a beer in each fist as half a dozen ex-footballers struggle to describe the national team’s latest performance without using the word ‘abysmal’. I generally leave him alone with his grief.
I wished I could do that now, but my feeble effort to side track him had failed and now there was music to be faced. I racked my brains for words to explain how important this had been to both Matthew and me. Nothing happened. The god of historians had obviously pushed off for the holidays and I was on my own.
No, I wasn’t. Markham stepped up again. ‘Is there a Master Farrell here? He’s needed to help bring in the Yule log.’
‘He’s right here,’ I said, pushing him forwards and preparing to follow them out of the door. ‘Anyone fancy a drink?’
‘Just a moment,’ said Leon, gently drawing me back.
Markham cast me a sympathetic glance and then the door banged behind them and silence fell.
I stood, staring at my feet, thinking what a complete mess I’d made of things.
‘How could you, Max? How could you run such a risk?’
‘There was no risk,’ I said, conveniently forgetting the shadowy people in the doorways, the nasty things in the alleyway, and the even nastier Ma Scrope. ‘It was just a Christmas visit to old friends. He took them some food. Just something to make their lives easier. A little light in their darkness. Don’t you wish someone had done the same for Matthew when he lived there?’
