‘Yeah, they’re the best; trust me.’
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ she said.
‘I do,’ he assured her. ‘But just to be sure, we’ll get hold of the lavender, and the garlic as well . . . if we can find it.’
Missie Grierson frowned. She was looking at the cardboard pack in her hands as though trying to puzzle something out. Then she glanced at Morag. ‘Get dressed, girl,’ she said. ‘Then go and knock on the door of Mr Stuart, the apothecary.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘Aye, tell him it’s an emergency. Tell him we need some lavender and some . . . garlic, if he has any. Tell him I’ll settle his bill next time I see him. And mind you, don’t say why you want it.’
‘He’s bound to ask,’ said Morag.
‘Let him ask away, but keep yer wee trap shut. News of this will get around fast enough without spilling the information to that old blabbermouth. Now, go on with you.’
‘Yes, Missie Grierson.’ Morag handed her lantern to Cameron and made as if to re-enter the room but Tom stopped her.
‘You can’t go in there,’ he said.
‘But that’s where my dress is.’
‘You can’t wear it, not till it’s been washed.’
She looked at him, crestfallen. ‘But . . . it’s the only dress I have. I can’t go out in my nightgown, can I?’
Missie Grierson sighed. ‘Go down to the laundry and find something else to wear,’ she told her. ‘I don’t care who it belongs to, put it on for now.’ Morag nodded and hurried away. ‘Throw that nightgown into a tub with some lye soap, while you’re at it.’ Missie Grierson shouted after her. She fixed Tom with a look. ‘I hope to God you know what you’re talking about,’ she said, ‘for this is going to cost me a pretty penny.’
Cameron looked unsure of himself. ‘Am I still to go for Doctor Rae?’ he asked.
She considered for a moment and then nodded her head. ‘Aye laddie, I’m afraid you’ll have to. If it gets out that we’ve kept quiet about an outbreak, there’ll be hell to pay.’
‘I don’t even know where he lives.’
‘Ach, you can’t miss it, a big fancy house, away at the furthest end of the High Street. And you’ve a tongue in your head, haven’t ye? You can always ask somebody if you’re not sure. Go on with you, time’s a wastin’.’
‘Yes, Missie Grierson.’ Cameron turned away and headed back towards the staircase, leaving Tom and Missie Grierson standing in the hallway.
She shook her head. ‘Are you sure all this scrubbing and cleaning is necessary?’ she asked him.
Tom nodded.
‘Well then, you’d best go down to the kitchen and get some water on the boil,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to rekindle the fire, think you can manage that?’
‘Yes,’ said Tom.
He was surprised to find that he knew all about reviving the fire with dry wood, filling the big black cauldron from the outside pump and swinging it over the fire to heat up, though he couldn’t remember ever doing such things before. He supposed it must have been a skill he’d picked up in the five or so days that had supposedly elapsed since he’d been feeding the pigs with Morag.
‘Anything else?’ he asked Missie Grierson.
She nodded grimly. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Pray.’ Then she opened the door and went back into the bedroom, taking the light of her lantern with her.
Tom was instantly plunged into near darkness and had to grope his way along the hall to the staircase. Then he went down the creaky wooden steps with care, gripping the banister rails as he went. When he finally pushed open the kitchen door, he was momentarily relieved to note that there was some light in there – but then it struck him how out of place this kind of light was in the seventeenth century – the cold, flickering glare of electrical light. He moved forward into the kitchen and felt a shock go through him as he realised where it was coming from: a rectangular box standing on a wooden cupboard over in the far corner of the room. It was a television.
He stumbled closer, shaking his head in disbelief, his incredulity growing as he saw who was currently on screen, filmed in black and white. It was Mum. She had a weird beehive hairdo and was wearing an odd kind of 60’s style dress, with puff sleeves, over which she’d tied a white, frilly apron. She was standing in what looked like an American kitchen, stirring ingredients in a glass bowl, humming happily to herself. The camera cut to the door behind her. It opened and Hamish stepped into the house. He was wearing a two-piece suit and carrying a leather briefcase. He was clean-shaven and his formerly receding hair had been trimmed into an immaculate crew cut.
‘Honey, I’m home!’ he announced and there was a ripple of expectant laughter from an unseen audience. Tom noted that Hamish had somehow acquired a convincing American accent. He put his briefcase down and strode into the kitchen. ‘How’s my favourite girl?’ he asked. She turned and gave him a welcoming hug.
‘Why, just fine, honey,’ she said and she gave him a chaste peck on the cheek. ‘I’m making your favourite apple pie as a welcome home treat.’ Hamish turned his head and directed a long-suffering look at the camera.
‘Oh, goody,’ he said, rolling his eyes, and more laughter swelled from the audience who were clearly in on the joke that Mum was a lousy cook. ‘Now, where’s Tommy? Is that boy still not back from school?’
‘He always walks home with Laura-Sue,’ said Mum, fluttering her eyelids. ‘I declare, he’s getting later and later.’
Just then, the camera cut back to the front door, which opened and a young boy stepped into the hall, to a fresh burst of laughter from the audience. Tom’s eyes widened in disbelief. He was looking at a freshly-scrubbed version of himself, wearing a college-style jacket, blue jeans and a baseball cap, which was turned the wrong way on his head.
‘Have no fear, Tommy’s here,’ he announced to nobody in particular. It must have been a catchphrase, because the audience erupted into wild applause as he performed a comical, strutting walk along the hallway into the kitchen. ‘Greetings, Ma and Pa,’ he said, hooking his thumbs into his leather belt. ‘So what’s happening?’
‘Mom’s making her famous apple pie,’ said Hamish. He and Tom exchanged glances, then both looked at the camera and rolled their eyes in unison. The audience guffawed.
‘You’re kind of late, Tommy,’ observed Mum, completely unaware that she’d just been mocked. ‘Have you been with Laura-Sue all this time?’
‘Sure,’ said Tom. He threw a knowing look at the camera and waggled his eyebrows. ‘She was showing me her autograph collection.’
Mum looked worried. ‘Maybe it’s time you and your father had a little talk about the birds and the bees,’ she said.
‘Sure thing,’ said Tom. ‘OK, Dad.’ Pause. ‘What did you want to know?’
Now the audience was roaring with laughter. Tom couldn’t see that any of it was funny but, more importantly, what did it mean?
The door behind him swung open and Cameron shuffled into the room, holding his lantern. He stopped and stared at Tom.
‘What are you doing, standing around in the dark?’ he muttered. He set the lantern down on the kitchen table, grabbed his overcoat from a hook on the back of the door and shrugged himself into it.
‘I’m not in the dark, am I?’ said Tom, nodding towards the television, where his American self was now setting his ‘parents’ straight about a few things, much to the delight of the studio audience. ‘Bet you’ve never seen anything like that before, have you?’
Cameron moved closer, buttoning his coat. ‘Of course I have,’ he said.
Tom stared at him. ‘You’ve seen a television?’ he cried.
‘I don’t know what you call it across the border,’ said Cameron. ‘Here, we call it a meat safe.’ He reached out a hand, gripped the edge of the screen and pulled it forward, to reveal the interior of the box which contained a plate and on it, a dodgy-looking hunk of pork. ‘It just keeps the flies off,’ he said and he swung the door shut a
gain. The corny sitcom was still playing out on the screen under Cameron’s fingertips.
‘But . . .’ Tom pointed. ‘What about that?’ he said. ‘Can’t you see it? That’s me . . . or at least, a version of me. And that’s my mum and . . .’ He broke off, aware that Cameron was staring at him again. ‘You . . . you can’t see anything different, can you?’
‘Tom, as usual, I don’t know what you’re on about,’ said Cameron, but even as he said it, his face was bathed in the cold blue light of the TV screen. He was looking at Tom intently. ‘Do you really think you can help Alison?’
Tom swallowed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think I can.’
‘Well, we’ll find out soon enough. Now, I need to get a move on; Doctor Rae’s house is miles from the Close. What were you doing down here, anyway?’
‘Er . . . Missie Grierson asked me to get some water heated up.’
‘Well, hadn’t you better be getting on with it?’ asked Cameron. He strode to the door, threw it open and went down the corridor beyond, his boots clumping on the stone-flagged floor.
Tom stood there, looking at the screen. Now Mom and Hamish were hugging each other, while Tom’s other self looked uncomfortable.
‘Get a room!’ he said and winked at the camera. The audience laughed like they were insane.
Tom had to force himself to make a move. He went to the range and opened the stove door, then took handfuls of kindling from the pile beside it and pushed them onto the glowing cinders. He blew gently and the flames caught hold, began to spread.
When he looked again, the TV was just a meat safe.
Ten
Tom woke alone in the kitchen to the sound of a fist thumping impatiently on the front door. He was slumped in a chair, his back aching and his hands raw. He, Missie Grierson and Morag had worked through the small hours, scrubbing floors, laundering clothes and hanging wreaths of lavender around Alison’s bed.
Cameron had arrived back just before dawn, as grumpy as ever. He told them that, when he’d finally got to Doctor Rae’s fancy house, he’d found a man waiting by the gateway. He’d told Cameron that the contagion was spreading like wildfire and that the doctor was away dealing with an outbreak in another part of the city. The man had a pen and paper. He took a note of Missie Grierson’s address, then told Cameron that he was to go back to his home and hang white cloths in the windows, to warn others that the plague was there. The doctor would call the following day and, until he had visited, on no account was anybody to leave the building.
Of course, this was easier said than done. There were another seven storeys above the orphanage; did the rules apply to them also? In the end, they had climbed up to the various levels, informing people of the outbreak below and had left it up to them to interpret the rules as they saw fit. Missie Grierson had hung a white sheet in one of the grimy casement windows at the front of the building and they all settled down to wait for the doctor’s visit. But, as the hours passed and nobody appeared, exhaustion overcame them and they slunk away to their beds, leaving Tom down in the kitchen to keep an eye out for his arrival.
The incessant pounding on the door continued. Tom shrugged off his sleep, got to his feet and staggered across the kitchen into the hall. He hurried to the front door and unlatched it, bracing himself for the sight of Doctor Rae standing there like a demon from hell; instead it was a small, skinny fellow with a pale, rat-like face, who was wearing a close-fitting cloth hat and a white cape draped around his shoulders. He was carrying a leather pouch, from which jutted an array of metal implements. He studied Tom closely, an expression on his unshaven face that suggested there was a bad smell coming from somewhere. He didn’t look very well, Tom thought. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and dark bags under his eyes.
‘This the house with the plague?’ he demanded, as though he hadn’t seen the sheet hanging in the window.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Tom.
‘I’m Joshua, assistant to Doctor Rae,’ announced the man with evident pride. ‘Where’s the victim?’
‘Upstairs,’ said Tom. ‘First floor.’
The man nodded, stood to one side and clapped his hands. A second man appeared: a big brawny fellow, dressed like his companion and carrying, in thickly-gloved hands, a metal brazier that was already charged with slumbering hot coals. The two men entered the house, shoving their way roughly past Tom, as if they owned the place. They started up the staircase, their feet clumping hollowly on wood. Only now did The Doctor finally make his appearance, stepping out from the shadows of a doorway, looking absolutely terrifying in his leather cape and mask. He strode up to the door and stood for a moment, gazing down at Tom through grimy red goggles – and the boy could hear the tortured sound of his breathing under the birdlike mask.
‘Do I know you?’ he growled, his voice a deep, hoarse rasp, muffled by the thick layer of leather.
Tom thought about mentioning that they’d passed each other on a crowded street a week ago, but he thought better of it and simply shook his head. The Doctor lifted his long cane in a leather-gloved hand and tapped Tom’s shoulder with it. ‘Now, boy, what’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Tom. Tom Afflick. Sir.’
‘Well, Tom Afflick, why don’t you start by telling me everything that’s happened here?’ suggested The Doctor.
‘Er . . . well, it’s this girl called Alison. She’s maybe twelve years old? She fell ill last night and now she has a buboe, here.’ Tom touched the side of his throat.
The Doctor took a deep breath. ‘What know you of buboes?’ he asked incredulously.
‘I know they’re a sign of the plague,’ said Tom. ‘You usually get them in the neck, the groin or under the armpit. But don’t worry; we’ve already taken precautions to make sure it doesn’t spread.’
The Doctor leaned closer. He seemed intrigued. Close up, he smelled of old sweat mixed with the tangy musk of whatever flowers and herbs were packed into the beak of his mask. ‘Have you now?’ he murmured. ‘And what precautions would they be?’
‘We’ve cleaned her up and changed the bedding and her nightdress. We’ve scrubbed the floor of her room and we’ve put lavender round the bed . . .’
‘Lavender?’ The Doctor chuckled throatily, a spine-chilling sound. ‘What do you hope to achieve by that?’
‘It should help get rid of the fleas,’ said Tom. ‘You . . . you probably don’t know this, but it’s flea bites that cause the plague.’
The Doctor laughed again. ‘These notions get more fanciful all the time!’ he exclaimed. ‘I don’t know how such wild theories originate. Just last night, an old biddy was trying to convince me it was caused by mischievous elves. Said it was a curse for all the iniquity going on in the Close! Blamed it on one of her neighbours, but it turned out the two women have been feuding for years over the ownership of a piece of land. Elves!’ He shook his head ‘Now you tell me it’s fleas. Who am I to believe, the old woman or you?’
‘Me,’ Tom advised him. ‘I’ve researched this.’
‘Have you indeed? And where did you do that, may I ask?’
‘At school.’
‘You went to school?’
‘Yes, where I’m from everyone goes to school.’
‘And judging from your accent, you’re not from round here.’
‘No, sir . . . I’m from Manchester, England.’
‘Hmm. How goes the war?’
‘The . . . war?’
‘I am correct, am I not, in the belief that England is currently embroiled in a civil war?’
‘Oh, that war! Er . . . yeah, no worries, it’s . . . going well.’
The Doctor prodded the roughly-sewn badge on the front of Tom’s blazer.
‘And what does this signify?’ he asked.
‘Nothing, sir. This is just my school uniform. And that’s the school badge.’
‘Hmm. This school . . . they teach you to read and write?’
‘Yes, of course.’
There was a long silence. The Docto
r seemed to be considering all this information. ‘Useful skills,’ he said at last. ‘And rare enough in one so young.’ Then he added, ‘Take me to the girl.’
Tom turned and led the way into the house and up the first staircase. The Doctor followed, his heavy boots clumping on wood. When they got to the top of the stairs, they found Missie Grierson waiting on the landing with one arm around Morag’s shoulders. The poor girl was so terrified she couldn’t even bring herself to look at The Doctor.
‘Who have we here?’ he croaked.
‘I’m Mistress Grierson. I run the orphanage.’
‘Then it’s you I should see about payment,’ said The Doctor.
‘Payment?’ Missie Grierson stared at him. ‘But I thought you were paid by the city council?’
‘What, you’d have me risk my life for nothing?’ muttered The Doctor. ‘It’s customary to tip the doctor ten shillings. Of course, if that’s a problem, I can take my skills elsewhere . . .’
Missie Grierson shook her head. ‘Oh no, sir,’ she said. ‘I’ll . . . find it for you.’
‘Good. Have it ready before I leave. And who is this?’
‘This is one of my young wards, Morag. As you can see, she’s . . . worried about her friend, Alison.’
‘She looks frightened to me,’ said The Doctor. ‘As well she might. The plague is no laughing matter.’ He lifted his stick and putting the tip of it under Morag’s chin, he lifted her face to look up at him. ‘Wheesht, child, don’t you worry your pretty little head,’ he told her, ‘I’m going to take very special care of your friend.’
‘She’s not going to die, is she?’ whimpered Morag.
The Doctor waved a gloved hand. ‘I’m not in the habit of making rash promises, but we shall see. There was a time when the onset of the plague meant certain doom but, using the latest techniques, I’ve achieved some quite remarkable successes. These days, as many as one in ten manages to survive.’ He turned and looked at Tom. ‘Lead on, boy,’ he said.
‘Oh, perhaps I should take you,’ offered Missie Grierson. ‘I’ve spent the most time with Alison.’
Crow Boy Page 7
