A Different Day, A Different Destiny (The Snipesville Chronicles)

by Laing, Annette

  “Oh, gross!” gasped Brandon. He had found something much more interesting than Charles Babbage’s machines. He had found Charles Babbage’s brain. Pickled in a jar.

  “Why’d they put his brain in a bottle?” Brandon asked breathlessly.

  Grandpa peered at the exhibit label. “Says here that the Victorians thought you could learn a lot by dissecting the brains of geniuses.”

  “Weird. And what’s a Victorian, anyway?” asked Alex. “I’ve always kind of wondered about that.”

  Now Brandon perked up. He liked history. “Those were the people who lived in the reign of Queen Victoria,” he said promptly. “She became Queen in 1837.”

  Grandpa was impressed with his grandson’s friend. “You know your history, Brandon! Good for you. Now, tell you what, guys, let’s go look at something more modern. The first Apple computer is right over there.” He began to move in the direction of his pointing finger.

  “Cheat,” Alex whispered to Brandon as they followed. “It’s easy for you to remember Victoria, because she was still Queen when you were living in Balesworth.”

  “She was not, you moron,” Brandon protested. “She’d been dead for fourteen years by then!”

  “Well, close enough,” laughed Alex.

  At lunchtime, Grandpa took the boys to a hamburger place. Alex was disappointed. “Hey, next time, can we go get some shepherd’s pie, or some sausage rolls?” he asked Grandpa, “You know, real English food?” “You really wanna eat that stuff?” Grandpa asked with eyebrows raised. “The Brits aren’t exactly known for good food.”

  “That’s not fair, sir,” Brandon said. “Their food is very good, once you get used to it.”

  Grandpa looked at Brandon, wondering how on earth he would know. “Okay, if you say so… Maybe some other day we could try their traditional fish and chips. Now, we gotta hurry. Our next stop is Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum.”

  The boys glanced at each other and then scrunched up their faces in dismay. “Grandpa, what’s that?” Alex asked.

  “More fun than it sounds,” Grandpa said, picking up his umbrella. “You’ll see.”

  Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum, housed in an impressively large stone building, turned out to be pretty cool. Grandpa took pictures of the boys as they posed with the uncannily life-like models of their favorite celebrities. Alex and Brandon grossed themselves out in the Chamber of Horrors, with its gory scenes of torture and execution, and marveled at the wax rendition of the death of a man from the French Revolution called Marat, who had been murdered in his bath. A pale-faced wax Marat lay in the tub with a big knife in his chest. “This is awesome!” said Alex as they took a ride in a fake black taxi cab through scenes from London’s history, and Brandon agreed happily. Their car paused briefly in front of the Great Fire of London, which Alex said was almost as good as Disneyland. But both Alex and Brandon fell silent as they reached the display on World War Two. They were immersed in a confused jumble of sound that was dominated by the wail of an air raid siren and the gravelly voice of Winston Churchill, Britain’s wartime prime minister. Brandon pointed to a wax model of Churchill, and said quietly, “Man, that looks just like him.”

  Grandpa, sitting behind them, agreed that it was a great likeness. Of course, Grandpa could never have suspected that Brandon recognized Churchill because he had met him in person.

  As Alex listened to Churchill’s words, he felt as though he had been thrust back to 1940, and that he was sitting happily in Mrs. Devenish’s drawing room with a mug of cocoa, listening to one of the Prime Minister’s broadcasts. He felt his eyes get moist, and he turned away so his grandfather and his friend wouldn’t see him choke up.

  ****

  Hannah, meanwhile, was shopping. She hadn’t been shopping –really shopping--since she had moved from California to Georgia. Snipesville’s tiny “Small” hardly counted: It was the lamest so-called mall ever, and its only clothing store for teens, The Boiled Peanut, was pathetic. So when Grandma proposed a shopping expedition in London, Hannah jumped at the chance.

  “This is so totally exciting,” Hannah gushed as she walked along Regent Street with Grandma, each of them carrying department store bags. “It’s cool to be somewhere where people are into serious shopping… I bet the English had a blast when the War ended.”

  Grandma looked oddly at her for a second: Hannah had never shown any interest in history before. “Actually, honey, I believe they had a pretty hard time for years after the War, so I don’t imagine they went on a spending spree right away.” She pulled out her map of central London and examined it closely, then pointed toward a side street. “Hannah, let’s go this way. It takes us over to Piccadilly.”

  Hannah perked up even more. “Is that another cool department store?”

  Grandma smiled. “No, honey, it’s a street, but it’s where we’ll find Fortnum and Mason. That’s the Royal Family’s grocery store.”

  Hannah shrugged and pulled a face. It sounded boring. Then again, she thought, she might run into one of the handsome princes pushing a cart in the aisles. How cool would that be?

  When they reached Fortnum and Mason’s, a doorman in a smart blue military-style uniform held open the door for them, much to Grandma’s delight. Hannah followed Grandma into the store but, once inside, she came immediately to a screeching halt.

  Fortnum and Mason’s Food Hall was luxurious. It was actually carpeted, in plush red. The walls were painted a delicate cream color. Huge glittering chandeliers hung from the ceiling.

  Hannah gazed on the scene in disbelief. “This is a supermarket?”

  But Grandma didn’t answer. She had already grabbed a basket, and was loading up with expensive jars of strawberry and champagne preserves. While Hannah waited for her, she glanced around and found that she was standing by an enormous and ancient wooden clock. There was a tiny slot in its side, next to which was a label: Plays Tunes, 50p.

  Hannah tapped her grandmother’s shoulder, and pointed to the sign. “Fifty pounds to play a tune? Wow, prices went up.”

  “No, dear, that’s not pounds. It’s pence.”

  Hannah screwed up her face. “I thought pence was written as ‘d.?’”

  Grandma was impressed. “How did you know that? Well, it used to be, but that was a long time ago, before England adopted decimal currency, and got rid of shillings. Now, would you like the clock to play some music for you?”

  Hannah nodded, and so Grandma gave her a fifty pence coin, which she popped in the slot. When the music began, Grandma recognized the tune, and burst out laughing. She tugged at Hannah’s sleeve. “Hannah, it’s Dixie! They’re playing Dixie for you!”

  Hannah drew a blank. “Huh?”

  “Dixie! Haven’t you ever heard this in Georgia? Oh, for heaven’s sake… It’s a sort of Southern theme tune.” To Hannah’s intense embarrassment, Grandma began to sing: “Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten…”

  “Actually,” said a voice from behind them, “the clock plays many tunes, so it’s quite a coincidence that it would play this particular selection. May I help you find something, madam?”

  The woman wore a smartly-pressed black and white staff uniform with green tie. But Hannah knew straightaway that she wasn’t employed by Fortnum and Mason. She was the Professor.

  Hannah hissed, “Go away!”

  “Hannah, that’s rude!” exclaimed Grandma, turning to her in surprise.

  The Professor was unfazed. She waved aside Grandma’s concern, and urged her to sample the violet creams at the chocolate counter, which Grandma was happy to do. Then the Professor took Hannah aside. “I have a confession,” she said urgently in a low voice. “I made a huge mistake, and that’s why you must find the calculator. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the clock played Dixie. I think that’s Time trying to right itself somehow. It’s telling us something.”

  “You are totally creeping me out,” Hannah snarled. “Just go away and leave me alone.”

/>   The Professor shook her head in despair as Hannah stalked off to join her grandmother at the candy display. Hannah, meanwhile, was shaking, and when another assistant offered her a chocolate sample, she stared at her without seeing or hearing. All Hannah could think was, why me?

  The three kids did their best to enjoy London, despite the unnerving feeling they shared that something was very wrong, especially after Hannah told the boys of her bizarre encounter with the Professor. They took a ride on the huge Ferris wheel called the London Eye, witnessed the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, and uncomplainingly made more museum visits than they could possibly absorb.

  Three days after they arrived, it was time for their trip to Balesworth to visit Verity and Eric, whom they had last seen in 1940. The kids were already anxious as they climbed out of the large black taxi at Kings Cross Station. After Grandpa bought tickets, they checked the departures board for the next train to Balesworth, and, as Harry Potter fans, were delighted to realize that their train was due to leave from Platform 9. Alex won in the frantic race to be first to pose at the Platform 9 3/4 photo point, and he pretended to push a luggage trolley through the wall as his grandfather snapped his picture. Hannah and Brandon waited impatiently for their turns.

  Afterward, they all settled into the first-class compartment at the rear of the small commuter train. Brandon talked nonstop at Grandpa about Harry Potter and the sad demise of steam engines. Meanwhile, Hannah repeatedly flicked her hair, wrinkled her nose at the smell of the engine, and brushed at real and imagined dirt on the seat. Alex tapped his foot rapidly on the floor.

  “I don’t think much of first-class travel,” sniffed Grandma, glancing disdainfully around the tiny compartment. Indeed, their seating area hardly seemed different from the regular seats that they could glimpse through the glass doors. The major difference was the warning signs plastered to the windows advising that anyone sitting in first class who did not hold a first-class ticket might be fined. Brandon wistfully remembered railway travel in 1915 and 1940: The plush seating, small private compartments lining the narrow corridor, and the reassuring chuffing of the steam engine. Now, the experience was modern, and much bleaker: Narrow upright seats were crammed together in tight rows on either side of an open middle aisle, like an airplane.

  Just as the engine started up, the automatic doors to the first-class compartment swooshed open. A youngish man in a sharp black suit barged in, and threw himself into the only remaining first-class seat, facing Alex and Hannah. He immediately took occupancy of the table that lay between him and the kids, thumping down his briefcase, and opening up his laptop, even as he fumbled with the cell phone that he held under his chin.

  He spoke quickly. “Baz? Yeah, hi, it’s me. I’m on the train now, and I should be there about…oh, half an hour, I reckon. Did you get the plans copied? Great, great… Now, look, I won’t hang about, got a bit of a personal errand this afternoon…Yeah…but I’ll touch base round half past four, yeah? Okay then….Yeah… Cheers.”

  He hung up, and started tapping away on his laptop.

  Alex was fascinated, and stared at the man, who caught him watching. “God,” said the man through clenched teeth. “Look, don’t you kiddies belong in the cheap seats? These seats are reserved for first-class passengers.”

  Suddenly, Alex became aware of his grandfather standing next to him. “Is there a problem?” asked Grandpa, staring down at the man, in a tone that suggested there had better not be a problem.

  The man stared right back at him, and said firmly, “This is first class.”

  “Yes,” said Grandpa gravely. “That’s right. And your point would be?”

  The man sighed heavily, and went back to his laptop, punching furiously at the keypad. Grandpa patted Alex on the shoulder. Just as he returned to his seat, the door slid open, and in walked a short man in his forties with graying blond hair. He was wearing a nametag that said E. Veeriswamy. Calling out,“Tickets, please! All tickets,” he waved a small metal ticket punch.

  Grandma immediately pulled the tickets out of her purse and offered them for inspection. “Veeriswamy. That’s an interesting name. Indian, isn’t it? But you’re not Indian, are you?”

  “No, madam, but one of my ancestors was,” said Mr. Veeriswamy as he punched the tickets. “He was from the Punjab, and he was a butler at Balesworth Hall about a hundred and fifty years ago. I’m rather proud of that.”

  “Oh, how thrilling!” Grandma said. “Did he ever meet Queen Victoria?”

  As Mr. Veeriswamy was chatting with Grandma, Alex and Hannah’s rude seatmate hastily packed up his briefcase, and made to leave. In a flash, Mr. Veeriswamy blocked the aisle and politely asked for his ticket.

  The man was not pleased. “Look, I haven’t got time for this rubbish. I have to get off at this station.”

  But Mr. Veeriswamy wasn’t moving. “We won’t be arriving in Welwyn for another five minutes. Your ticket, please.”

  Reluctantly, the man pulled out a ticket, and handed it over. The ticket inspector was not impressed. “This is a standard railpass, sir. It’s not applicable for travel in a first-class compartment.”

  Alex looked at Hannah, and they both smirked. The man grew flustered. “Yes, well, I paid good money for it, and there weren’t any seats in standard. I’ll have you know that I have asthma.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but as I’m sure you know, this ticket isn’t valid.”

  The man exploded. “Listen to me, you irritating little jobsworth, do you know who I am?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mr. Veeriswamy. “You’re a passenger without a first-class ticket. The penalty fare is twenty pounds. Please could I have your name and address?”

  ****

  The angry young man finally left the train at Balesworth, and so did Alex, Brandon, Hannah, Grandma, and Grandpa. Mr. Veeriswamy waved cheerfully to them as the train pulled away.

  While Grandma stepped into a cafe on the platform to buy bottled water, the kids gazed around them in dismay. They recognized nothing. Hannah was ready to cry. Alex looked bewildered. Brandon searched in vain for something familiar. “What happened to the railway station?” he said finally, in a dull voice, thinking of the old station that looked like a gingerbread house.

  Alex was shaking his head in dismay. “I guess this is the new one,” he said. “But is this ugly, or what?”

  It certainly was. The new station was a grey block, and it wasn’t even new: stains and chips all over the concrete suggested that it had been around for some time. Behind the station sprawled a big box mall that would have looked right at home in California, complete with a McDonalds and a bowling alley. In front of the station ran a busy four-lane road, and a huge white building, like an enormous Lego brick, with Balesworth Leisure Centre painted on the side.

  “Okay, guys, let’s go get a cab,” said Grandpa.

  “No,” said Alex. “Let’s walk. I wanna see what they’ve done to Balesworth.”

  The kids’ last visit to Balesworth had happened around seventy years earlier, when it was still a small town surrounded by fields. It wasn’t anymore. It was a city, and much of it seemed made from concrete, just like the station. It was very, very grim. Rising up the gentle hill that had once been farmland were thousands of identical houses, row after row of brick, with the occasional bleak concrete block of apartments among them.

  As Grandma asked directions, Grandpa turned to Alex, and was astonished to see tears running down his face. “What’s wrong, kiddo? Don’t you feel well?”

  Alex tensed. What on earth would he say? That he was a time traveler, that all three of them were, that here was once a place that they had lived in and loved, and that it had been destroyed? Not likely. Alex shook his head. “No. I’m just sad. Dr. Braithwaite said this was a beautiful old town when he was a kid. I guess it changed.”

  “Everything changes, Alex,” Grandpa said gently.

  “This shouldn’t have,” Alex shot back.

  Grandma
rejoined them. “Good job I asked the way. We were headed in the wrong direction. Now we’d better hurry, because they’re expecting us. C’mon, guys.”

  Their journey took them out of the town center, and across a long pedestrian bridge that straddled a busy four-lane highway. As they reached the end, they found themselves at the bottom of a narrow tree-lined road. It took the three kids only a second or two to realize that their Balesworth, the old Balesworth, hadn’t vanished after all. Alex and Hannah excitedly pointed to the street ahead. Brandon looked eagerly to a row of large old houses. One was an animal hospital, while another housed a lawyer’s office. His eyes lit up, and he looked to the left….But the house where he had lived and worked with Mr. Gordon in 1915 was gone. Where it should have been was now a grassy hill leading down to the highway.

  Brandon gasped, and to everyone’s astonishment, burst into sobs.

  Grandma was alarmed. “What on earth… Brandon, what’s wrong? What is with you kids?”

  But Brandon was just as quick-thinking as Alex. “I’m okay… Just tired, I guess,” he sniffled, taking a tissue from Hannah’s outstretched hand.

  By now, Alex was already well ahead of everyone, trotting up Balesworth High Street toward the church tower. What he found disorienting was that all the shops had changed: The greengrocer’s where he had once queued for potatoes, carrots and apples, was now a cell phone store. The grocer’s, where, just weeks earlier, he had stood at the counter with Mrs. Devenish while she sorted through the kids’ ration books looking for sugar coupons, was gone: Swallowed up, along with the butcher’s shop, by a supermarket. But the bakery was still there, and, if the name was anything to go by, it was still owned by the same family. The church they had all attended in 1940 was still standing.