The Space Between Time (The Time Travel Diaries of James Urquhart and Elizabeth Bicester Book 4)

by Bruce Macfarlane

  “Then you should have thought twice before courting and marrying a girl who was as old as your grandmother.” I replied, enjoying the chaff.

  Then Jill devilishly changed sides. “I’m sure you told me, Jim, when you first became besotted with Elizabeth,” (his face was a picture) “that you liked the smell of mothballs and girls who only washed once a month.”

  There then followed a rather violent but humorous cushion fight between pairs of siblings after which it was all agreed a change of clothing was necessary.

  ---------------------

  J.

  Outnumbered and outgunned again!

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  Chapter Fourteen

  E.

  I arose quite late in the morning and doused myself blissfully in the canopy shower for what felt like half an hour.

  I then sprinkled my nineteenth century clothes with an eau-de-toilette and after convincing myself that they did not smell of mothballs, packed them into a portmanteau.

  Jill was kind enough to allow us to borrow some of her modern clothes as I thought, after the exertions of our adventures, mine required a long visit to a laundry.

  After choosing items which were a reasonable compromise between modesty and the hot Spring weather we all sat down to enjoy a late breakfast, or as James called it, ‘a full-metal heart-stopping brunch’ peppered by a grilling of Flory and her social life. Her main complaint was Father whom she thought kept her on too tight a rein and quizzed her intently on any beau that might come up in conversation.

  “It is an annoyance,” she said, “and when he is away on business he packs me off to Aunt Harriet in Chichester!”

  “Aunt Harriet!” I exclaimed. Uncle Charlie, her late husband, when he was alive, was a child’s best friend. At the drop of a hat he would whisk you off to a fair or circus and treat you to as much ice cream and sweets as you could manage. Aunt Harriet, on the other hand, thought the best place for a young child was a darkened drawing room with a selection of books on manners, etiquette and the best way to get to heaven. I had long concluded I was going to the other place when I died but I consoled myself with the belief that at least I would see Uncle Charlie again.

  “The problem is,” said Jill, “What are we going to do with you, Flory? You are very welcome to stay in this time if Elizabeth is happy with that. Though you may find that you won’t be able to depend on me completely for chaperone duties.”

  “I’ve got some friends who I’m sure can help out in that area,” said James.

  “Actually, Jim, from my experience, I think it’s YOUR friends who could do with a bit of chaperoning,” said Jill.

  “What - including Sean?”

  Sean was Jill’s long-standing beau with whom she lived in Chichester. He is a gentle soul who looks after her very well. His only problem is that when he and James get together they adopt the manners of uncontrollable children.

  Flory thankfully interrupted before Jill could reply. “I thank you all very much. It is a very attractive proposition but... but I have someone waiting for me.”

  I just managed to squeeze Jill’s leg hard enough under the table to arrest the enquiry I knew was coming.

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  J.

  As I sat back, loosening my belt a little after the extra two sausages, I said, “So, where could our happy couple, the Wells, have gone and even more importantly when are they?”

  “If Jill’s suggestion is correct,” said Elizabeth, “they could be anywhere. He is, I believe quite famous and could have many friends.”

  “But Flory thought they carried on down the tunnel which suggests they are stuck in this world with all their friends dead.” said Jill, “He’ll have no modern money and he’ll be wandering around in that blue cap and blazer.”

  “Then I hope he doesn’t meet the Ghost Tour people,” Elizabeth said, “Imagine how the conversation would go.”

  “Yeah, or those wonderful children we met.” I said. “Anyway, do we care what’s happened to him? We might have got rid of him at last.”

  “He knows where we live, James.”

  “God! You’re right. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life wondering who’s knocking on our door. So, where is he?” I said.

  “Why don’t you see what happened to him in this world?” suggested Elizabeth.

  “Good point. Let’s have a look,” and I got out my phone and looked him up.

  “God, there’s loads on him. Ah! Here he is. Just check around 1895.”

  “Did he exist in this world?” said Jill.

  “Yep. And he ran off with ...... and divorced Isabel!”

  “But he claimed he’d never married her!” said Elizabeth.

  “Our Wells didn’t. So, the one who disappeared in the church must have been the one that did.”

  “And I bet he was the one who was off to have a bit of clandestine fun with his floozy.” Said Jill.

  “And then just by amazing coincidence, we arrive with our Wells.” I said.

  “James!” said Elizabeth. “I’ve just remembered. He made us wait outside the church until the clock struck two before we went in. Did he know his doppelganger was still in there and was waiting for him to disappear?”

  “Devious little beggar, isn’t he?” said Jill.

  “I’m not sure he knew. He was quite surprised to see Isabel.”

  “True.” Said Elizabeth, “And he was not exactly forthcoming in affection when he realised who she was.”

  I was just about to put the phone back in my pocket when I thought I’d look up Isabel Wells.

  “Just checked out Isabel in this world. She married again in 1902 to some Yorkshire man called Edward Fowler Saville Smith.”

  “Sounds a bit posh. What did he do?”

  “Printer. Let’s see what he left in probate. Oh. Only £150. And ... just a minute. He says he left it to his Widow Margaret Ann Smith!”

  “Isabel must have died or they divorced and he married again. When did she die?”

  “Mm, 1931. Left him £1300. Not bad.”

  “So! Where does that get us?”

  “It suggests our Mr Wells is the one with Isabel. But if so, where could he have gone? As Jill said, he would not last long in this world.”

  The obvious answer came to me immediately. “Damn! Of course! Your home!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember who your grandfather bought it from?”

  “Yes! Mr Wells himself.”

  “And perhaps that’s where we will find him.”

  ‘There’s only one way to find out.”

  “And we might find a way to get Flory home.”

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  E.

  The discovery of the true story of my father, grandfather, Mr Wells and our home is still a shock.

  I still do not understand the importance of our home in the cause of the temporal shifts. We have discovered that it exists in many alternate time lines and is an ancient and special place that may have contained a portal to Mars.

  In at least one world it remains in a time stasis in 1895. It is beyond reason. And all that time that I had been travelling in time with James my incorrigible father knew what was happening!

  But I must return to our visit.

  We all left together in James’ carriage dressed in modern clothes though we took the precaution of packing and bringing garments of my period. My occupation in James’ world as a lecturer on the fashions of the late nineteenth century has given me an advantage, for I have accumulated a considerable amount of clothing from the period. James regarded our box room as my equivalent of his garage and at times, when I have spent half a morning rummaging for something I needed, only to remember I had given or lent it to an acquaintance, I can only agree.

  As we approached Hamgreen I was glad to see that the dark fir forest had been replaced with the natural beech woodland of Sussex again. At last we came to the old stone pillars of the Lodge and slowly e
ntered the gravel drive. We were now all rather pensive in anticipation of what we would find. I did not notice a time shift but when we arrived in the courtyard I could see by the wooden sash windows of the vine-covered, ashlar facade that we had returned to the nineteenth century.

  James alighted from the carriage first and walked across to the front door and pulled the bell. We waited but there was no answer. He tried again then gave the door quite a shove, with no avail. Still no answer. He came back and peering through the window of the carriage where we all sat said. “Looks like no one is in. That’s the only thing I wasn’t expecting.”

  I suggested we try the tradesmen’s entrance.

  We opened the side gate and walked into the kitchen garden. It was well tended with rows of onions, potatoes, and cabbages.

  “Someone’s looking after it,” said Jill. Before I could reply the door opened and there was our father dressed in black coat and tails.

  “Hello,” he said, “I did not recognise you at first in your modern dress.”

  Both Flory and I instantly, from habit and without success, tried to pull down the hem of our skirts to below our knees. He noticed and with a smile said, “We have company in the parlour, therefore I suggest you change into something more, how shall I say, suitable. You may take the back stairs of the kitchen.”

  As we made our way through the kitchen, Jill whispered to me, “What’s wrong with your men? I bet they spend all their lives trying to look up girls’ skirts. Then when you show off your legs they tell you to cover them up.”

  I surprised myself by replying, “You know the answer. Less seen, more want.”

  She stifled a laugh with her hand, “Elizabeth! I’m shocked. What a suggestion.”

  From the hallway, we could hear several voices in the parlour.

  “Sounds like a party,” said Jill. “Do you think I’ll get to chat up some real live Victorian men?”

  “What about Sean?” I said.

  “It’s only for research. Come on. Can’t miss out on an opportunity like this. What year is it?”

  “1895, I think.”

  “Damn! Aren’t those ridiculous mutton chops back in?”

  “Yes’ And twice the size. It is like wearing balloons on one’s arms.”

  “Helps fend off the gropers though. What about evening wear? Plenty of cleavage?”

  “Yes. You can rely on our men folk not to let that go out of fashion.”

  “Oh well.” said Jill, taking my arm, “Let’s get changed, then best breast forward.”

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  J.

  Once again, I was treated to wearing one of her father’s suits. I managed to get it all on except the white starched bib, or whatever you call it, which kept on curling up at the bottom. The bow tie, as usual, was beyond me. I eventually managed to wrap it around the winged collar in what my dearest refers to, with much hilarity, as the Urquhart Knot.

  I must make a mental note to carry one of those clip-on ties.

  From what I could remember, ladies were not allowed to enter a room with mixed company without a male escort. This required the chosen gentleman to wait, patiently, outside the lady’s dressing room until she emerged and then escort her to the soiree. Apparently, banging on the door and shouting, “How long are you going to be? You’ve been in there over an hour!” is regarded as bad manners.

  There is a further complication if there are several ladies and only one dressing room. This means you can find yourself with half a dozen other gentlemen who, every time the door opens, all attempt to claim the lady emerging as theirs. As sometimes the ladies will look completely different from when they went in, a romantic evening can often end very quickly.

  I have suggested to Elizabeth that perhaps the ladies could all come out together but she said that would be less fun especially as it is customary to spy through the keyhole to see who’s waiting then draw lots to decide who goes first.

  Ah! Girls and romance, eh?

  On this occasion, Flory had gone to her own room and Jill was sharing Elizabeth’s. Once dressed I went across the landing to Elizabeth’s bedroom and waited. Eventually after Hell had frozen over, melted again and refroze, they both came out together.

  Somehow, they had managed to pile their hair up into complicated buns but also let it fall in waves to their necks. Really impressive. Elizabeth had a green embroidered silk dress nicely cut away at the front to reveal just enough. Jill’s was a yellow-orange and managed to make sure her cleavage was a distraction. They both had ridiculous mutton chop sleeves and long white gloves.

  I really don’t understand how girls transform themselves into beautiful objects of attraction. All I have to do is put on a pair of trousers, shirt and jacket and brush my hair and I’m ready. I can only presume that when we blokes aren’t around they spend their whole time practising dressing and undressing, doing their hair and trying on makeup. I’ve no idea how they find time to become intelligent and full of knowledge as well.

  “What are you doing here, Jim?” said Jill, “Were you spying through the keyhole?”

  “No! Apparently, ladies can’t be seen without an escort. Isn’t that right, Elizabeth?”

  “That is right. And today you have the honour of escorting and protecting two beautiful and demure young ladies to the drawing room,” she said. They then put on their sweetest beguiling and innocent smiles and performed an exaggerated curtesy for me.

  “I think it’s me who needs protecting.” I said.

  “Don’t worry, James. We will look after you,” said Elizabeth coming up close to my cheek and allowing a wondrous perfume fragrance to envelop me. “But not before I have rearranged the Urquhart knot into some semblance of a tie and given you a monocle.”

  “A what?” I said as she produced an eye glass attached to a leather string.

  “It is all the rage for the young set. Put it in your eye.”

  After about a minute of squinting I managed to hold it there.

  “It’s just plain glass!” I said.

  “It is fashion, James. It is not an aid for observation.”

  Then each put an arm through mine and escorted me downstairs.

  After a small discussion in the hallway to decide who should go in first we entered the drawing room together and were confronted by a mixed bunch of about a dozen people, in the centre of which stood Mr and Mrs Wells. Though which Mr Wells it was I had yet to discover.

  When they saw us, they all turned and stopped talking which caused me to mentally go up and down my clothes in the hope I hadn’t left any behind or undone. Then Elizabeth’s father came over to us and after giving me a quick inspection like a regimental sergeant major and complimenting me on my tie, introduced us to the audience.

  It seems Mr and Mrs Wells had got married and Elizabeth’s father had thrown a small party for them and their friends. I recognised Mr Hyatt, the school teacher. His wife, who was dressed in what looked like a church-grey crinoline gave a polite smile and small curtsey. What I wasn’t expecting was Henry, Elizabeth’s cousin, who looked the same age as when we had left him in the 1870s. He greeted us very pleasantly. “Good to see you, Urquhart. I must say this place looks a little off colour since my last visit and as for the ladies’ costumes well - the sleeves are a little outlandish.”

  “Yes. This place always surprises me. Do you mind telling me what year this is?”

  “Why it is 1875, Mr Urquhart. Are you unwell?”

  “Not more than normal. So, what brings you here?”

  “Had a sudden invite from Flory yesterday. Couple of friends had arrived for a weekend shoot. Flory was kind enough to invite them as well.”

  At that moment, Flory joined us and slipped her arm through Henry’s. This action was noted by my entourage immediately who both pinched my arms to signal that I was not to comment on pain of death, or worse.

  Beside him were two men, whom I presumed were his two toff friends from the Bollinger Club, each wearing a monocle. I
was having difficulty keeping mine in place and talking at the same time. Eventually, Elizabeth took pity on me and removed it as she said I had acquired the expression of someone who had been poked in the eye.

  At that point a butler who looked extraordinarily like Smethers and confirmed this by winking at me offered us large glasses of a green aperitif.

  It was delicious and had the immediate effect of relaxing me. I later learnt it was absinthe and even later, I wished I hadn’t drunk four glasses of it.

  Smethers and I got on quite well, as I think I did with all the servants. Mainly because they thought I was one of them. I’d like to think that was probably true and also because I really felt the oppression of the working class was a genuine problem in Elizabeth’s time. Elizabeth gets quite defensive when I mention this and reminds me there was no social net for the poor in her time.

  The first of Henry’s friends to whom we were introduced, whose name I have forgotten, was a member of Henry’s hunt and his cricket team. I didn’t discover whether he had a job or even whether he knew what one was. He had greasy ginger hair parted down the middle, a matching moustache and smelt of stale tobacco.

  Unable to get a rapport with me on my sporting prowess, he asked, “Have you just come down?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And where were you, Sir?”

  “In my wife’s bedroom.” I replied, knowing he meant had I just finished University. He pretended not to notice my excellent riposte and turned his attention to Jill. Oh dear!

  “And may I ask if this charming lady is your wife?”

  “No, she’s not. She’s my sister, Jillian Urquhart. This is my wife....”

  But he ignored me and Elizabeth and concentrated on Jill who was still portraying her sweet innocent look and said, “I am pleased to meet your acquaintance.”