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

by Laing, Annette

  And then Alex realized to his joy that if he looked up, to the second story of the High Street, it really hadn’t changed at all. Most of the buildings were still exactly the same. Only the shops had changed.

  As the others caught up with Alex, it became Hannah’s turn to hurry. She dashed down an alleyway that ran parallel to the High Street, and finally stopped before a ramshackle and ancient wood-beamed white building. In 1940 it had been the Tudor Tea Rooms. Now, it was a coffee house named Balesworth Brews.

  Hannah laughed when she saw the name. “Sweet! Hey, you guys, maybe now I can get a Frappuccino in Balesworth!”

  Alex and Brandon got the joke, but Grandma ushered them away. “Come on, you guys. We don’t have time for coffee. Mr. and Mrs. Powell are expecting us, and I’m still not sure we’re going the right way.”

  As they neared the top of the High Street, Grandma halted uncertainly, and turned to her husband. “Fred? Do you see a tree-lined path here?”

  Grandpa shook his head. Alex and Hannah couldn’t help Grandma either: The road ahead looked very different than they remembered: Another fourlane highway lay where once there had been fields, hedges and trees. With a sigh, Grandma pulled out her cell phone. She was about to call when Brandon suddenly announced, “It’s this way.” He led them to a long footpath lined with horse chestnut trees.

  As they walked, gravel crunched under their feet. Brandon smiled at that sound, and his memories of gathering shiny horse chestnuts in 1915 with little Oliver Healdstone, Mr. Gordon’s nephew. But his smile vanished as he realized that even little Oliver was surely dead by now.

  A hundred yards ahead on the path, a tall woman walked toward them under a dense shade of trees. Hannah’s eyes widened when she spotted the bobbing grey head, and her breath caught in her throat. She did a double-take, put her hands to her mouth, and suddenly took off at a run.

  Even as Hannah got closer to the woman, she couldn’t think. If she had, she would have known that what she wanted to believe made no sense. But she could not, would not think that. The clothes were different, but they would be, wouldn’t they? And it could be her, couldn’t it, because who knows what the time shift has done…

  She hurtled right at the woman who was striding toward her. And before she knew what she was doing, Hannah was throwing herself at Mrs. Devenish.

  Chapter 3: Poles Apart

  The woman Hannah was hugging had gone stiff. Maybe she had died from shock? Dead or alive, she wasn’t Mrs. Devenish, who had been gone for decades. Hannah let go, and looked up. Now her thoughts were racing even faster. This woman was Mrs. Devenish. She was a Mrs. D. with lipstick, and modern clothes, and… But she couldn’t be. The nose wasn’t quite right. Neither was the chin. So who was…?

  The not-quite-Mrs. Devenish spoke, looking down in astonishment at Hannah. “Hallo, that’s quite a greeting, isn’t it? How did recognize me?”

  “Um, I, like, just recognized you,” Hannah said.

  The sort-of Mrs. Devenish looked down in puzzlement at Hannah. “But you’ve never met me before. How extraordinary… Never mind. I’m Verity Powell.”

  Hannah felt cold adrenaline shooting down her back. She had known all along that Verity would be an old woman when they met, but she hadn’t really understood it, not until now. And in her old age, Verity had become the spitting image of her grandmother, Mrs. Devenish.

  Now it was Hannah’s turn to start crying.

  Grandma was embarrassed. “What in the world… Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Powell. I’m Ellen Walker, and this is my husband Fred. I have no idea what’s gotten into these children today. It’s been one long weepfest since we left the train.”

  Verity looked uncomfortable. “Really? Well… Welcome to Balesworth, regardless. I was worried you had got lost, so I thought I ought to come down and meet you. And please, do call me Verity.” She smiled, and gestured to them to follow her.

  As they walked down the chestnut path, Verity quietly asked Hannah, “Are you all right, dear?” But she didn’t wait for an answer before turning back to Grandma. “It must be difficult for them, mustn’t it? Jet lag, and a different culture. Now, kids, please tell me your names. George never mentioned them in his letter, which was very remiss of him.”

  Alex and Brandon were now also trotting alongside Verity, struggling to keep up with this tall old Englishwoman. Alex said, with emphasis, “I’m Alex, this is my sister, Hannah…”

  Brandon chimed in. “…And I’m Brandon. But some people call me George.”

  He looked at Verity meaningfully, hoping to trigger her memory. But she kept right on walking, leading her visitors up a dizzying spiral stairway to a pedestrian bridge over the busy highway. After a few seconds pause, she said casually, “I must tell you of a funny coincidence. My grandmother looked after several evacuated children during the War. One of them was my husband Eric, and then there was Dr. George Braithwaite. But for a short time, Granny also cared for a brother and sister called Alex and Hannah, who had a friend called Brandon Braithwaite. He was black, and like you, Brandon, he was known as George for some reason. I forget why, now, but there was a lot of confusion between him and Dr. Braithwaite, as you might imagine. Please tell me your name isn’t Braithwaite?”

  “No,” Brandon admitted. “It’s Clark.”

  “Ah-ha,” said Verity. “And those children Granny fostered were English, while you, of course, are Americans, so I don’t suppose there’s any relationship. An odd coincidence, though, isn’t it? No wonder Dr. Braithwaite didn’t tell me your names. He probably meant to surprise me.”

  Alex said brightly, “Speaking of surprises, you won’t believe this, but we’re the same…”

  Hannah clamped a hand over his mouth. “Shut up,” she hissed in his ear.

  As the children entered Mrs. Devenish’s old house, which now belonged to Verity and Eric, they looked eagerly around the hall. The hat stand was still there, laden with coats, scarves, boots and shoes. A phone still sat on the same hallway table, although it wasn’t the old heavy black rotary dial, but a modern grey cordless set. All in all, though, the hall hadn’t changed much.

  “My husband’s pottering about in the garden,” Verity said, kicking off her shoes. “I’ll give him a shout and put the kettle on for tea. Now, why don’t you make yourselves at home, and have a seat in the living room?”

  “The living room?” blurted out Alex. “Don’t you mean the drawing room?”

  Verity threw back her head and laughed. “Darling, I have no idea what old films you’ve been watching, but that’s terribly old-fashioned, isn’t it? No one talks of drawing rooms these days. Tell you what… Why don’t you all join me in the kitchen instead? We can all have a lovely chat about your travels while I make the tea.”

  The kitchen was practically unrecognizable. Gone was the clunky old black 1940s range for cooking. Gone was the deep white ceramic sink where the kids had once helped Mrs. Devenish to wash the dishes. In their places were a gas stove, a modern double sink, a microwave, and, in the old larder, a refrigerator. Luxury of luxuries, there was even a dishwasher, standing where the fireplace had once been. The only familiar furniture was the huge old wooden kitchen table, which looked even more well-worn than they remembered.

  Just as Verity was filling the electric tea kettle, the back door opened, and in stepped a stooped bespectacled old man who was rather shorter than his wife. He smiled politely at everyone as he wiped his shoes on the doormat. Brandon’s first thought was that he looked like a friendly turtle, but Hannah and Alex simply gawped as they realized that this was their old pal Eric.

  Eric barely glanced at the kids, and introduced himself with handshakes to Grandma and Grandpa. As he spoke, Hannah noticed that he sounded much more posh than in 1940, when he had spoken with a thick London accent. Verity, strangely, sounded much less posh in her old age, both in the words she used and the ways in which she pronounced them.

  Verity laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Eric, these children are…”


  Hannah interrupted. “Hannah and Alex Day… Er, Dias,” she said, correcting herself too late. She had stumbled, giving the last name that she and her brother had somehow acquired in 1940 England. She trailed off: “And this is… Brandon…”

  Eric stared, but Verity looked annoyed, and said irritably, “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”

  Grandma and Grandpa exchanged quizzical looks. “Excuse me,” said Grandpa, “But am I missing something? What’s the joke?” Nervously, he laughed. Nobody else did.

  Verity was examining Hannah’s face –really looking—for the first time. Eric, who appeared stunned, was staring at Alex. Brandon, meanwhile, stood to one side and hoped somebody would recognize him, too. He didn’t have long to wait: Quickly, both Eric and Verity’s eyes switched to him, and grew very wide.

  Without shifting her gaze from Brandon, Verity finally replied to Grandpa’s question. “I’m terribly sorry, Fred. No joke. It’s just that your grandchildren and their friend bear a striking resemblance to the children Eric and I knew during the War… who had the same names as you three. But who would now be around our age, of course...” She faltered.

  Grandpa was none the wiser, but he couldn’t think of what to say, and neither could anyone else. There was another awkward silence. Suddenly, Verity turned to Eric, and said, in a tone of forced cheerfulness, “Eric? Why don’t you give Fred and Ellen a tour of our garden?”

  “Eh?” Eric was still gawping at the kids. “Oh. Right. All right. Should I take the children too?”

  Verity gave him a very significant look that clearly meant “No. Get a clue.”

  As soon as the adults were safely outside, Verity dashed upstairs, and, moments later, returned holding a photograph. As the children gathered around her, she looked at them all again, her eyes flitting between each kid and the picture. Finally, in a calm, quiet voice, she asked, “Are you the grandchildren of the kids we knew?”

  Alex decided that his moment to speak up had arrived. “Verity, it’s really me,” he said flatly. “I’m Alex.”

  Verity shook her head in disbelief, and sank into a kitchen chair. “That’s impossible,” she said.

  “Yes, I know,” said Alex, sitting next to her, as Hannah and Brandon took their places across the table. “But it’s still true.”

  Verity briefly rested her chin on the heel of her hand, not sure what to say next. “You’re American,” she continued stubbornly. “Those children were English.”

  Brandon said, “We all sounded English to everyone in Britain, except to each other. We don’t know why, but we did. It just kind of came with the time travel.”

  Verity’s eyebrows shot up at the words “time travel.”

  Alex realized that, to convince Verity that they were who they claimed to be, they needed to tell her something that only they would know. He took a deep breath. “Verity, the day Mrs. D. whipped you and Hannah and Eric because you broke Mrs. Smith’s window, I wasn’t there because I had a cold.”

  Verity muttered, “That’s absurd.” But she didn’t sound quite so sure.

  “We know that,” said Brandon. “We know it’s crazy. But it still happened.”

  “Verity?” Hannah said. “Here’s something else. We shared a room. That’s how I know you have a birthmark on your…”

  “Yes, well, that’s quite enough,” Verity interrupted. “Go on, then. Tell me who you really are.”

  In a rush, Alex told her the whole story from the very beginning, starting with their move from San Francisco to Snipesville and their meeting with Brandon, and finishing with the story of Hannah’s ankle, the shift in time, the reinstated vacation, and the addition of Balesworth to the itinerary.

  Alex added, “I mean, it’s great to see you and all, but it’s totally freaking us out that we’re here.”

  Verity exhaled sharply. “What do you have to say, Hannah?”

  Hannah couldn’t take her eyes off Verity. In awe, she said, “You so look like Mrs. D.”

  Verity gave a small smile. “Yes, I do look like Granny. So does my daughter. So did my mother, come to that. This face runs in the family, I’m afraid.”

  Hannah considered further. “But you have a different accent from her. Your accent even sounds different from the one you used to have.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it does,” Verity said. “That’s no miracle. We all sound a bit less posh in England these days. Well, except Eric, of course, who sounds more posh than he did as a child. I blame Granny for that. She was always correcting his accent, as you’ll remember…” Suddenly, she gave a cry that sounded halfway between laughter and weeping. “Oh, it’s hard to take this in…”

  “Tell me about it,” said Hannah, smiling at her old friend who was now her old friend. She felt incredibly torn: It was wonderful to see Verity and feel as though Mrs. D. had returned from the dead, only as a relaxed and modern person. But Hannah also knew that she had lost forever the Verity of 1940. Then she saw Verity looking at her with…Was that love? It was. Hannah felt a lump form in her throat.

  Verity asked gently, “Do your grandparents know about this?”

  “No, they don’t,” Alex said, “They would think we were all insane.”

  Verity slapped a hand onto the table. “Right then, everyone. We had better keep quiet. But let’s see if we can’t extend this reunion, shall we? Come on, Hannah, help me take the tea through to the living room.”

  Alex ran a hand across the microwave door, and asked Verity, “What do you think Mrs. D. would have thought of all this new technology?”

  Verity lifted the tea tray. “Alex, I know exactly what she thought, because she told me. In fact, I can just hear her saying it now…” She gave a perfect imitation of Mrs. D’s voice: “You must have spent a fortune on all these gadgets.”

  Alex grinned.

  While Verity plotted with the kids to persuade Grandma and Grandpa to leave them in Balesworth for a few days, she set out tea in chipped mugs, and cookies in a plastic package.

  “Mrs. D. would be shocked,” Alex muttered with a smirk as he waved a finger at her offering.

  Verity smiled ruefully. “Too right, Alex. She must be rolling in her grave. Teabag tea without proper cups or saucers, and supermarket biscuits! Not Granny’s style at all. In fact, most things today wouldn’t be Granny’s style. What a mess this country is in.” She gave a heavy sigh.

  “Mrs. D…” began Hannah, and then she blushed. “Sorry, I mean, Verity… Like, what happened to Balesworth?”

  “I suppose you mean the New Town,” Verity said. “Well, not quite so new anymore. Our Balesworth is called the Old Town. The Government built socalled New Towns after the War, to house people who had been bombed out of their homes in London. Granny was very torn about it. Don’t get me wrong: She was all for modern housing for working-class people, and she thought New Towns were a splendid idea. She just didn’t want one in her own back yard. I thought she was a terrible old hypocrite, and I told her so.”

  “Uh-oh,” chorused the kids, before dissolving into giggles. They could well imagine how the formidable Mrs. D. reacted to Verity’s remark.

  “Quite,” said Verity with a chuckle. “She tried to clobber me. But by then I’d learnt how to duck.”

  The kids laughed, and then Verity continued thoughtfully, “Now, I’m not so sure she was wrong. The New Town is a rough place these days. We had a burglar alarm put in after we were broken into a few years ago. But the town keeps growing, with no regard for what it gobbles up. The council agrees to any development at all, regardless of what it destroys. It looks as though we’re the next to be gobbled. We’ve been told that all the fields around this house will be new houses before long, and the best we can expect is that the council will require us to sell this house to the developers, so it can be demolished. We tried arguing that it should be a listed building, that it should be preserved because it’s so old, but it didn’t work. The house has been altered too much over the centuries.”

  Before
Alex had a chance to ask her to explain further, his grandparents and Eric returned.

  Grandma looked very concerned. “That’s a beautiful view of the fields and woodland from your backyard, Verity. But Eric tells us that there are plans to develop that gorgeous landscape, and that you may even lose your home. Is that right?”

  “I’m afraid it is,” said Verity. “I was just telling the children about it. It’s too sad.”

  “You can say that again,” said Eric. “That Mr. Pole,” he drew out the name with distaste, “That Mr. Pole the builder and his greedy friends have made a fortune putting up nasty overpriced poorly-built little houses, and they’ll stop at nothing. Bunch of shysters, that’s what they are.”

  “Eric!” Verity sounded shocked.

  “I’m not ashamed to say it,” said Eric firmly. “That young man ought to have more respect. And, anyway, this is an historic house, I’ll have you know. Henry Watson once lived in this house.”

  The Americans gave him blank looks. Eric explained. “He was a famous Victorian writer. He wrote A Hertfordshire Lad, and Notes From Balesworth.”

  More blank looks.

  Verity said bluntly, “He was amazingly boring. Reading his books is an old English cure for sleeplessness.”

  “Anyway,” Eric persisted, “whatever his merits as an author, or lack thereof, he’s very well known in Balesworth. A group of us tried to persuade the council to make a country park out of the land that lies between here and Balesworth Hall, because this area is so closely associated with Henry Watson … But they wouldn’t buy it.” He shook his head in disgust.

  Verity explained. “The trouble is, we can’t prove that Henry Watson was born here. It’s just an old story Granny said she heard once. Mummy always said it was nonsense. She told me that Watson was born and grew up in Balesworth Hall, where his mother was the cook. So that’s that.”