“What’s your name lad?” she asked on her return. “Let’s go to the livin’ room, it’s more comfortable there an’ then you can tell me all about yourself over a cup of tea.”
She bustled away, long skirts swishing, heels clacking. She was a quick mover and Mallory thought she would be in her late forties. They passed into the sitting room-cum-kitchen which was much more homely, the walls papered and decorated with coloured almanacs and prints. A cross-stitch sampler had pride of place, its motto: HOME IS BEST, surrounded by satin stitch roses. On the floor, which she could tell was boards covered with a chequered linoleum, was a hooked rug, made from old garments, but adding a touch of warmth and colour nonetheless. Being the kitchen too, there was a tall, wooden dresser, heavily loaded and against the other wall a hob grate had been fitted into the lower half of the fire-place opening, with the oven to one side. Today was Thursday, so Mrs. Pogue had been baking. The kitchen was hot, but the row of loaves sitting on the rack was filling the air with a most delicious aroma. However, the room had a gloomy aspect, only one small window allowing the pale afternoon light to penetrate to any distance.
One narrow beam managed to highlight the kitchen table, which had a single draw for cutlery. Four upright wooden chairs were pushed in, one on each side. This room also had an easy couch. It made for cramped quarters, making her feel peculiarly confined. Another door, which stood open letting in some fresh air, led to a small, dark scullery. Here there was one water tap over the sink and a set pot next to it, located above a coal fire. Would this be to provide hot water? Opposite stood a mangle and a table for ironing. Wash house as well, eh?
“Sit down. I’ll just light the lamps first,” and she picked up matches to apply the flame to the mantle of two very attractive wall-bracket gas lights. They emitted a companionable hiss and Mrs. Pogue observed their glow gave a coppery sheen to her guest’s short, rippling hair. She had noticed before how often it was the boys who were blessed by a natural beauty. No need of lotions or dyes for them.
Now that she had it all figured out, Mallory felt more at ease. She was less surprised by everything and did not feel so out of place. She took a seat at the table, pulling out a chair and propping one foot on the rung of the other as she tilted back. It had been a long day and now she realised the light was indeed beginning to fade.
“Mrs. Pogue, I could kill for a Coke. Is it possible?” Oh, she had not seen any fridges around. Perhaps they don’t do soft drinks … too twenty-first century? By the look on the woman’s face she reckoned that must be it. She was staring at her as though she were speaking a foreign language, her expression suddenly disconcerted, then guarded.
“What?” she laughed. “Have I said something?”
Hesitantly, as Mrs. Pogue set out the tea things she said in a strangled voice: “You seem very … strange.”
“Oh, I just got here today so I’m not quite up to speed on all this role playing. It’s OK though, I’m a quick study. Tell me, that woman up at the hotel … does she have some sort of problem?”
Mrs. Pogue returned with the pot and took the seat opposite watching her new tenant closely, completely at a loss. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. There’s no ’otel ’ere; we ’ave the ale’ouse where people can stay. Do you mean someone there? Mrs. Leach is a bit odd sometimes, since she lost her son, but she’s a good soul; goes to Chapel every week, reg’lar as clockwork.” Her gaze did not waver from the face before her, but she in her turn felt very uncomfortable.
Mallory put her foot down and sat upright, her skin cold – she was getting that queer feeling again – the script was still missing and she was fumbling her way through a fog of disjointed credibilities. Leaning forward slightly, her face creased with urgency, but keeping her voice neutral she asked: “Where am I exactly?”
Slowly, as if to a child, Mrs. Pogue explained: “This is Guilfoyle Village. We live on the Guilfoyle Estate, the seat of Viscount Patchford. That is Sir Eustace. ’e will be in residence at the big ’ouse from now ’til December when ’e’ll return with the Lady Glencora Patchford, to London. Their town ’ouse is just off Belgrave Square.” She felt she had said enough and took a sip of hot tea, then ventured a question of her own. She needed some answers too.
“So where’re you from, lad?” adding a smile to help ease the tension that had suddenly sprung up around them.
“I’m from Australia, Queensland, named after Queen Victoria,” she added. Now why did I say that? Was it all this historical stuff? “I’ve been here for two years, more or less and I was on my way back to Birmingham …” She stopped abruptly, caught off balance, afraid there was a dimension to this which she would discover to be unfathomable.
Fear was beginning to flick its tongue at the edge of her reason. Should she say more? Did she know what to say even? With this uneasiness invading her senses she was reluctant to commit herself. There was doubt in her eyes as she studied Mrs. Pogue and she could see her own misgivings mirrored in hers. However, the woman looked kindly, the lines radiating from the corners of her pale blue eyes, surely from sympathetic smiling, but would she understand? Understand what? Mallory did not feel ready to reveal secrets – this evolving masquerade; to disclose an increasing disorientation marked with confusion.
She was holding on, but with each encounter it was more difficult. Was she losing it? Her body tightened as she felt her world crumbling and she struggled against panic. Her eyes took on a crystalline glitter, their cobalt depths almost black with the intensity of her focus on these next words. With great care she asked in a gritty voice, squeezing it past the lump in her throat: “This estate, does it belong to a corporate enterprise?” She was beginning to feel a dread that this fantasy might be real and if not, then terrified that she was going mad.
Mrs. Pogue was completely taken off guard and for a moment could find no way to answer. She felt conscious of the uncertainty in this young man and therefore would not be hasty to judge – but what kind of question was that; Corporate enterprise? “What would that be? Like a business you mean?”
“Yes, that’s it; for tourists and weekenders – a theme park.” She drew breath. Now she was getting somewhere. Praise be! Her world was adjusting back into balance.
A frown creased Mrs. Pogue’s brow. She was trying to understand. She sensed a cry for help, but how? Patiently she reiterated: “I just told you. This estate belongs to Viscount Patchford. It ’as been in ’is family for five generations and the ’onourable Sir Ambrose will inherit, God willin’, upon ’is death. What’s a ‘theme park’? I’ve never ’eard of this.”
Mallory leaned forward and put her head in her hands, her shoulders stiff. This was not good. A cold sweat broke out as she took a few gasping breaths, trying to steady her hammering heart. She was aware of a curious, pregnant air in the room, powerful intimations, just beyond the rim of perception. Her previous misgivings were forming into an icy ring of certainty. Dare she ask the question whose answer she feared above all? She risked sinking into the depths of total isolation; becoming a complete outsider, constrained by loneliness. Her life would be changed forever. A twisting knot of blind panic coiled in her stomach. Could she live through this? Anguish, fear-filled overpowered her.
“What is it child?” The older woman had come quietly round to Mallory’s side and rested a soft hand on her shoulder. She had observed how the already ashen face was now completely drained of colour. As Mallory looked up with a fractured gaze into that sympathetic countenance, her misery plain to see, a gruff, male voice reached them from the scullery.
“’ello Missus, it’s me.” Mr. Pogue came striding through, filling the room with his bulk only to pull up short: “’ello, who ’ave we ’ere?”
Mrs. Pogue moved back to the hob to make a fresh pot and explained the situation. Her husband took off his cap and jacket to hang on the peg behind the door and Mallory saw that he too, wore a waistcoat, but no fob watch, probably saved for Sunday Observance. Well, there was no point in tr
ying to defy the evidence of the situation. What was there to resist anyway? She rose from the seat and extended her hand. “Mallory Mason, Sir.”
“Nay lad,” he responded as they shook hands: “Mr. Pogue.” He then proceeded to roll up his shirt sleeves and disappeared into the scullery, returning immediately to sit in the easy chair in front of the hearth. This looked like a nightly routine for the Pogues, as his wife set the beverage on a low bamboo side table at his elbow. She invited Mallory to help herself to another cup, returning the pot to the trivet, with its fancy knitted cosy. She would continue with their tea.
So here she was in this inexplicable house; in the company of strangers. It was no ‘make-believe’ scenario, at least not to them. How was it that this had happened? To fly, not only through the air, but back in time itself? While Mr. Pogue read the newspaper and his wife busied herself at the stove, she nursed her China tea and pondered this turn of events, but there was nothing she could do. She looked at her options. That was easy – she did not have any. Step by step she was moving closer to some new actuality, as if wading into a deep pool, drawn by the very fear of drowning. OK, there’s suicide! No, I’m too young! Perhaps what has been done can be undone? No, I have no such power, but still no need to be so hasty, is there?
The negatives had struck forceful blows; she was reeling and dizzy, but there were positives of sorts. This was where she must concentrate her energy. The alternatives would reduce her to a shadow; the unnerving fears would war for supremacy within her, creating a living purgatory. Yes, she was alone. Undeniably she had lost everything. She would suffer a solitude no person living could possibly comprehend. But with her health and strength, could she not reconfigure a new life of tangible substance? She would have to reconcile herself to living in a different persona. Could she do this? Perhaps not so impossible, after all they had always called her a ‘tomboy’. She brought to mind the life of Isobel Everhart. True, she had been driven by a psychological need for self-expression, riding across the wind-swept sands of Algeria, dressed as a man. But if she could do it at the end of the nineteenth century, surely she could do a daily job in similar guise, at the beginning of the twentieth.
I do do butch better than femme. She gave a secret smile. Take it one day at a time, Mal. You have work. You have a place to live. You can pull it off.
It was clear she had not become lost in some time-shifted hologram. She had not found herself in some form of virtual reality from which she could escape at the click of her mouse. She could not return to find everything as it had been, in her student days. No, nothing was so easy. This was the real world; a world of strange authenticities but wait, could she be living in a parallel universe? She had to dismiss this as too far-fetched, to be expelled to the realms of the Gothic. No, she would have to find some way to make this world her own. She must seek some way to construct meaning and ambition once more. This was like a second chance at living. Like a reincarnation? Through no fault of her own, these amazing experiences had occurred. Some supernatural agency had imposed its power on that fateful day, which could not be explained by the normal laws of cosmic creation. Had she been the innocent victim of some atomic explosion, its expanding waves of influence transporting her through time? Whatever, some galactic domination had been discharged into this planet’s biosphere, impacting on her in a most manifest way.
She drew a deep breath, steadying her nerve. It’s up to me. “This is the beginning of the rest of your life,” she whispered, then thought grimly what a horror story it might turn out to be.
CHAPTER TWO
Mrs. Pogue had made a fat bacon broth for tea. Rental of the house from the estate brought with it the right to use one of the small allotments and Mr. Pogue was conscientious in its cultivation. Consequently, there were always vegetables available, if not much meat. This would not bother Mallory, she had been vegetarian since she was able to decide for herself; although the only one in her family, their meals had worked out all right. The bowls served, Mallory had looked askance then been pleasantly surprised. With the fresh bread it had gone down very well. However, the full fat butter was a problem, having successfully habituated her taste buds to a soy replacement. She wondered how her arteries were faring. Well, from now on she would have to accept what she was given and be thankful for it.
Mrs. Pogue told her she would set out a bowl of post toasties for her breakfast and seeing a bewildered look, showed her the packet. Cornflakes! No problem.
“There’s shredded wheat if you prefer. I shop at Maypole Dairies in the village, an’ they always ’ave a good variety o’ cereals an’ tinned goods. I think a lot’s imported from the United States of America, but it’s good value for money.” She laughed outright as she looked at her husband: “Makes my job easier. Mr. Pogue ’as ’ad to give up on ’is porridge.” They did not discuss lunch, but she thought Mrs. Cummings would be accommodating in that department. If not they would come to some arrangement.
Now upstairs in the small back room, Mrs. Pogue had lit the gas lamp and although the light was not bright, it was enough. Mallory looked about at what was to be her new home, trying to take it all in: plain, whitewashed walls, bare wooden boards, a serviceable wardrobe and a dressing chest, set out with a matching hairbrush and comb. Off to one side was a gently scented pot-pourri. She glanced into the mirror above and saw for the first time what a sight she presented and felt like a stranger to herself.
How things worked in the Pogue household was being carefully explained. It seemed they were all early risers and early to bed. Mr. Pogue would be her alarum and her responsibility would be to keep the copper going. It was expected she would stoke the fire and add water if it looked low. A woodpile was stacked outside against the privy in the cemented yard, but inside there was a coalscuttle beside the pot, if that were easier.
“You can use the ’ot water for washin’. The ’ouse can be a mite chilly that time o’ the mornin’”.
“Mrs. Pogue, can I wash tonight?” She turned towards her to elaborate: “I was in an accident and got very dirty.” Perhaps this would help excuse her appearance.
“Yes, o’ course, the bathroom’s on the ’alf landin’,” she responded, obligingly.
“I have another request too,” Mallory added hastily. “I’m sorry, but the only clothes I have are these. I … err …” frowning, she considered what to say, “… lost everything in the accident. Would it be possible to borrow some? Just until I have the chance to buy new ones?” she added quickly.
Mrs. Pogue’s smile widened as her face softened: “You’re lucky. My son’s away up north in Sheffield. ’e does puddlin’ for the Vickers’ Company at their ’uge iron works in the east end. They specialise in ’igh value steels an’ armaments. It’s very important work for the nation,” she added proudly. “’e won’t be back ’til Christmas an’ you and ’e are about the same size.” She looked up and down. “Maybe ’e’s not quite as tall, but to tide you over I’m sure we can find somethin’.”
“Puddling, that’s new to me?” Mallory questioned.
“Oh, it’s what the men do in the primary production of iron an’ steel, ’afore it’s rolled an’ smelted. They need strength an’ dexterity for that kind o’ work, especially for the castin’ furnace. But ’e tells me it’s mighty ’ot in there. Arnold was fortunate. ’is dad being a skilled forger, grinder an’ assembler, ’e learned at ’is knee, so to speak. ’e was took on immediately. ’appy to ’ave ’im they was … an’ it’s good pay.”
They moved back down the few steps to the bathroom, the landlady collecting fluffy towels and face cloth from a linen closet on the same landing. The room was spacious, with enough area for an elaborate washbasin supported by an ornate castiron stand. Opposite stood what looked to Mallory to be an old fashioned roll-top, ball-and-claw-footed bath. It was made of cast iron, coated with a white, vitreous enamel, but could have been the latest thing for the Pogues. The woman explained, knowing what an advance this was, that if she wanted, there
was a hose she could attach to the taps. It had a showerhead at its other end.
An upright wooden chair with holes in the seat stood beside the bath where she could put her clothes and another pegged rug lay in front of it. The toilet was no less elaborate. It was an original Thomas Crapper, a wash down pedestal closet with carved mahogany seat and high-level cistern. This was located about six and a half feet above the pan and therefore fitted with a long chain, a fancy ceramic handle dangled at the bottom. Bloody Nora, will I ever get used to all this? Pulling a chain, a hose for a shower? Mal, don’t be such a wimp, her better self chided her.
“I’ll fetch you some clothes an’ set them out on the bed. Monday is washday so if you put your dirties in the laundry basket, I’ll do them with ours. Not too much mind, my day’s long enough.” She patted her shoulder tolerantly: “You’ll get used to our ways, Mallory. We’re not rough like them small cottages over the ’ill, there. Mind you, Mr. Pogue senior still lives in a tied cottage; from a farm lad ’e rose to position o’ foreman o’ fences an’ drains. An’ I grew up in two rooms.”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Pogue. It’s still new to me yet, but I aim to master all this,” she replied with assurance.
“Is it very different where you come from, then?” she responded, intrigued.
Mallory threw out a quick glance in surprise. What did the woman suspect? Don’t get paranoid, Mal. What could she know?
“It was just I saw you upset like … in the sittin’ room. I was about to ask, but Mr. Pogue come in …” she trailed off uncertainly.
Til Morning Comes Page 4
