Time at the Top

by Edward Ormondroyd

  She hurried soundlessly down the hallway, and returned in a minute carrying some slices of bread and a pot of jam.

  “All I could find in a hurry, I’m afraid. Maggie’s hidden everything because Bobbie’s coming home tomorrow, and he always — Come on, you must tell me all about it, and I’ll tell you about — oh, it’s just unbelievable! — please be very careful on the stair, we mustn’t wake Mama up.”

  Susan, utterly bewildered, allowed herself to be led on tiptoe up the stairs and cautiously along a second floor hallway.

  “Oh, what a lovely bed!” she exclaimed on entering Vicky’s room. It was a high four-poster with a frilly arched canopy, and curtains at the head.

  “Ssshh! You mustn’t talk loud. Mama’s a fairly sound sleeper, but Maggie has ears like an owl. Yes, isn’t it a beauty? Grandmama left it to me in her will. Here, you can wear one of my nightgowns. Take off those wet things — I won’t look. I’ll put some jam on the bread. Oh pooh, I forgot the spoon. I guess we can just dip the slices in. Wish we had some tea. Does the nightgown fit all right? I’m a little taller than you.”

  “Yes, it’s fine. Where shall I put my things?”

  “Oh, over the back of the chair is all right, they’ll dry soon. That’s awfully nice material. What funny shoes! Does everybody wear such short skirts in the twentieth century?”

  “Yes, why not?”

  “It seems so immodest. But I suppose if everybody does it’s all right. I don’t wear corsets myself, neither does Mama. She says they’re such a torture, and there’s no sense in it if your waist is naturally slender. Thank goodness ours are! Here, sit on the bed, you can put your feet under the sheets if they’re cold. Oh! My manners — you must forgive me, I’m so excited about the magic. I don’t care if it does sound silly, it is magic. I’m Victoria Albertine Walker.”

  “Susan Shaw.”

  “ ‘Charmed to meet you, Miss Shaw. Isn’t the weather delightful?’ That’s what we say in Deportment Class,” she giggled. “Now! Please tell me what happened, and don’t leave out anything, because it may be of great importance.”

  So Susan recounted the events of the day. When she got to the part about the old woman with the runaway hat, Victoria’s eyes grew rounder and rounder, and she hugged her knees; and as soon as the tale was finished she burst out:

  “Yes, of course! The old woman was a witch, a good witch!”

  “A witch?” Susan said. “That’s craz —” She checked herself. Everything else was crazy — why not a witch? “She didn’t look like one, anyway. I thought she might have been a gypsy or something.”

  “Of course she didn’t look like one. They never do, that’s just the point. If she looked like a witch you’d do whatever she asked, to get her blessings, and it wouldn’t be any test of your character. You see? It’s like that in lots of stories. But if they look like someone else, and they’re troublesome, and you help them out of the kindness of your heart anyway, then they know that you’re worthy.”

  “Hmm. Well, that could be it, I suppose. But I still can’t figure out what she meant by giving me three. Three what?”

  “Why, that’s perfectly plain. They always give you three of something. She must have meant that you could have three trips in the elevator to here!”

  “Ohhhh! That could be it, couldn’t it? But why here?”

  Victoria gave her a long speculative look. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I think I know why.”

  “Why? How can you know?”

  “Because — oh, it’s all so spooky! You were sent here on purpose because I wished you here.”

  Susan felt a shiver race down her back. “Me? How did you know about me?”

  “Oh, I didn’t wish for you in particular; just — somebody.” She hesitated a moment. “Cross your heart and hope to die you won’t tell? It’s a very serious secret.”

  “Cross my heart three times and hope to die.”

  “All right. Well, first I wished on a star. You know, ‘Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight.’ Do you do that in the twentieth century too? Anyway, it didn’t work. Then I remembered there was an old abandoned well about half a mile down the lane, and I thought, ‘Maybe it’s a wishing well.’ So I asked Maggie, she’s Irish, but she said no it wasn’t, that was all blasphemy, only God can grant your wishes and He doesn’t do it very often because it’s not for the good of your soul. And she believes in ghosts, too, can you imagine? But I don’t care, it can’t be blasphemy if you’re wishing for someone else’s sake — can it? So I went there this very afternoon, and I threw in the thing I love best, a little gold locket that Papa gave me when I was ten, and I marched around it three times, and I said, ‘I wish someone would come and chase Mr. Sweeney away.’ ”

  “And?”

  “Well, I never dreamed it would happen this way — but here you are!” Victoria concluded triumphantly.

  “Oh, now, wait a minute!” Susan protested. “I can’t — who’s Mr. Sweeney?”

  “Oh, he’s this perfectly dreadful man who’s been absolutely hounding poor Mama to marry him.”

  “Oh! Is your father —?”

  “Yes, poor Papa died two years ago.”

  “Why, so did my mother.”

  “Oh, I am sorry …”

  “Anyway,” Victoria went on after an interval of silence, “I was hoping some handsome man with a noble brow would come along, and show Mr. Sweeney up for a scoundrel and give him a thrashing. But I’m sure you’ll do just as well. You’re from the future, after all, you must know an awful lot. Oh no,” she added hastily, seeing that Susan was going to interrupt, “I don’t mean you should thrash him. Maybe you could just — I don’t know. Scare him away, maybe.”

  “Well, I don’t know … Why doesn’t your Mama turn him down?”

  “Oh, she has. But he’s so persistent. He’s after her money, I’m certain of it, the scoundrel. Poor Papa left quite a lot … Sweeeeeney,” she drawled in a savage falsetto. “Isn’t that a dreadful name? I couldn’t stand having a name like that.”

  “Why, your Mama could marry anyone she wanted to,” Susan said warmly. “She’s the most beautiful lady I ever saw. She’s as beautiful as a movie star!”

  “Oh, how poetic! ‘Beautiful as a moving star.’ I’ll have to write that in my diary. Yes, she is. But, you know, she’s been so — oh, resigned since Papa died. She sold our city house and buried herself out here because Papa loved it here so much, and she won’t go out in society where she could meet suitable men. And Mr. Sweeney keeps lurking around and forcing his attentions on her and wearing her down, until I’m afraid she’ll say yes just to have some peace … Well! We won’t have to worry about it until tomorrow. My brother Bobbie’s coming home from school tomorrow. We’ll have to consult him first anyway, he’s the man of the house now, even if he’s only twelve. Robert Lincoln Walker. Don’t ever call him Bobolink, it makes him furious.”

  “Oh, I can’t stay till tomorrow. I have to go back.”

  “But Susan, you only have three trips, it’s a shame to waste one.”

  “Yes, but my father is probably frantic by now.”

  “That’s right, I forgot … But look, it’s so late; surely a few more minutes won’t matter?”

  “Well … just a few.”

  “Good! Tell me about your Mama. You don’t mind talking about it?”

  So Susan told her all she could remember. Then Victoria told Susan all about her late Papa. Devouring bread and jam by candlelight, they agreed that two parents seemed to be able to take care of themselves, but that one alone required careful management; which was a great responsibility, but no doubt worth it in the long run. Then Victoria swore Susan to secrecy, and brought out her diary, and read selected parts of it out loud; which proved so fascinating that Susan resolved to keep one of her own as soon as she could begin. (Although she determined that her style would be more brisk, and would not run so much to sad pure thoughts, and moonlight on marble gravestones, and noble break
ing hearts and so on.) And of course certain passages in the diary brought them around to the subject of Boys; and Susan quite forgot about going home while they pursued that fascinating topic … Gradually their voices began to trail off — they yawned — the silences grew longer; and at last the two friends slept, curled up on the bed, while the candle burned down to a puddle of wax and put itself out.

  7. Hatching the Plot

  When Susan awoke next morning she found a note on the night stand, propped against the candlestick:

  Dear Susan, Don’t make a sound. No one suspects. I’m going to smuggle some breakfast up for you. I’ll knock 3-2-1. If anyone tries to enter without the secret signal hide under the bed. Isn’t it all romantic?

  Victoria

  It certainly was, she thought, smiling and hugging herself. It was like living in a stage setting for one of those period plays she loved so much. ‘Marvelous props!’ she thought, looking around her with a professional eye. But no, she had to force herself to realize that these things weren’t here to convince an audience. People lived with them and used them every day. They were real; the tall spindle-backed rocking chair, the footstool with its carved legs and quilted upholstering, the secretary with its little drawers and cubbyholes and scroll-surrounded top shelf, the tall chest of drawers surmounted by a kind of miniature balustrade, the marble-topped dressing table on knobbed legs. Best of all was the bed. Although the room was warm, she wriggled under the sheets to savor the luxury of being in a four-poster. Tall walnut columns, dark green velvet canopy, curtains drawn back at the head — why didn’t they make beds like this any more? They were so much beddier than modern ones. You felt like someone in a piece of furniture like this …

  Then her conscience had to spoil it all.

  ‘Better be going back,’ it said.

  ‘No, I won’t go back for a while,’ she answered defiantly. ‘I’d just have to explain and explain, and nobody’ll believe me. Why should they, I don’t really believe it myself.’

  ‘That’s no excuse. The longer you stay, the more you’ll have to explain.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to school,’ Susan pleaded. ‘Elsie Mautner will just be impossible, going around with her head all swelled up and sort of smiling at me whenever we meet. Thinks she’s so wonderful! She can’t even act in a crowd scene without looking like a wooden post. Bet if she were thrown into 1881 she’d have hysterics.’

  ‘That’s no excuse either. Your father’s worrying, and you know it.’

  Her heart squirmed within her. ‘Poor Daddy … Oh, go away!’ she raged. ‘He doesn’t have to worry, I’m perfectly safe. It isn’t as if I’d had an accident or something!’

  But she could no longer enjoy the four-poster. She got out, splashed her face in the washstand basin, and went to the window. The front lawn was below, an immense overgrown space containing circular flower beds and a pair of iron stags. Then came a privet hedge, very shaggy, and a wrought iron gate; then a dirt road on the other side; and beyond that, open fields starred with daisies and Queen Anne’s lace; and then woods.

  ‘I can’t get over how sweet it smells,’ she thought, pushing her conscience aside and breathing deeply. ‘That must be Ward — what did she call it? — Ward Lane. Ward Lane, Ward Street, same thing …? Oh! I know what happened — no, wait, it hasn’t happened yet, it will happen. The city’s going to grow out here, there’s plenty of time for it; sixty years plus eighty-one from a hundred is … um. Lots of time, anyway, cities grow so fast. And then Ward Lane turns into Ward Street! I bet the apartment building will be built right on this spot! And that’s where the florist will be, and the five-and-dime; and Benjamin’s Men’s and Boys’ Wear will be right by that tree … And none of the people that run them or shop in them are even born yet. Why, come to think of it, I’m not even born yet!’ That was such a weird thought, and it gave her such a spooky feeling, that she murmured:

  “Weird Street — that’s what it really should be called.”

  There was a quiet knock at the door, three, two, one, and Victoria slipped in.

  “Oh, you’re up! Good morning, isn’t it beautiful out? That Maggie! She has eyes like a hawk. Bobbie steals food all the time, it’s second nature for her to keep her eyes on the larder. So this is all I could get,” producing from her pockets two hard-boiled eggs and a muffin sliced in half and filled with jam. “Don’t worry, when Bobbie’s here we’ll feed you better, he’s an expert. ‘Foraging raids,’ he calls it: he wants to be a soldier. We’re perfectly safe for a while, Mama’s writing letters in the sun parlor. Oh, we’ll have to hide your clothes. You can wear some of mine, just in case somebody sees us. You are staying just a little longer, aren’t you?”

  ‘No!’ said Susan’s conscience.

  “Well …” Susan said.

  “You really must, you know,” Victoria said. “It’s a responsibility. I’ve thought it all out. You can’t accept a piece of magic one minute and turn it down the next without serious consequences.”

  ‘So there!’ Susan told her conscience. “All right,” she said, “I’ll stay for a little while, anyway.”

  “Good! You are a dear! Now, Bobbie’s coming this afternoon right after lunch, the trap’ll drive him in from the station. Then we can all think about chasing Mr. Sweeney away. Now please don’t frown so, Susan, there’s a dear. That’s what you’re here for, you know. I’m sure we’ll think of something. Well! We don’t have to worry about it until this afternoon, anyway. The main thing right now is clothes. Here, tell me which dress you’d like.”

  So the problem of Mr. Sweeney was dismissed for the time being; and Susan spent a fascinating morning trying on all of Victoria’s dresses, one after the other, in front of a gilt-framed oval mirror, while Victoria fussed around her with the pleasurable little frown of a fashion expert.

  Robert arrived — not in a trap, as Victoria had predicted, but on foot—at one o’clock in the afternoon. Very shortly thereafter, while the reunited Walkers were still talking and laughing downstairs, Susan saw a horse and buggy coming up Ward Lane. It stopped at the gate. A tall, thin man got out, threw the reins over the gatepost, picked up a dispatch case from the seat, and started up the walk. Susan dodged behind the curtains just in time to avoid being seen by him as he glanced up at the house. She wondered if it could be Mr. Sweeney. If so, why should Victoria have such an aversion to him? As far as she could see, he was quite distinguished looking.

  His arrival set off another burst of talk below. But soon there was quiet again; then footsteps in the upper hallway, and whispering just outside the door, of which Susan caught three words, “Now behave yourself!” And then Victoria entered with an owlish-faced, rather plump boy. He was dressed in a short-trousered suit, black stockings, and high shoes.

  “May I present my brother Robert?” Victoria said in her Deportment Class voice. “This is Miss Susan Shaw, Robert.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Robert said dubiously.

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  They shook hands.

  “Isn’t the weather delightful?” Susan said desperately after a while.

  “I guess so.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake, Bobbie, stop staring!” Victoria burst out. “Where are your manners, anyway?”

  “Well, gosh, Vic, I never saw anybody from the twentieth century before. She doesn’t look any different to me. I think you’re just telling me a big story.”

  “Of course she doesn’t look any different, why should she? She has my clothes on, not hers. Show him the coins, Susan.”

  Susan brought them out and handed them over.

  “Great Caesar!” Robert said. “1960, 1945, 1953! They certainly look real …” He stared at Susan again. “But say, there can’t be an elevator by the clock, you know. The wall’s too thin.”

  “Well, that’s where I got out,” Susan said. “Really.”

  “But it’s only a foot thick!”

  “Well, I can’t help that. You can watch when I go down aga
in, if you don’t believe it.”

  “Well,” he conceded, “Maybe it sort of bulges the wall on the outside of the house … Hey, do they —?”

  “Don’t say ‘hey,’ ” Victoria broke in. “It isn’t at all nice.”

  “Oh, sisters!” he groaned, making a comic face at Susan. “Always ragging at a fellow! Do they still have soldiers in the twentieth century?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “That’s good. I’m going to be a colonel by 1910, I’ve got it all worked out. Hey, Vic, guess what! You know who drove me from the station?”

  “Jim Perkins?”

  “No — Mr. Sweeney! And you know what he said?”

  Victoria pressed her hands to her breast and sank into a chair. “Oh no!” she said. “Don’t tell me he — you mean you accepted a ride from him?”

  “Well, what could I do? Jim wasn’t there.”

  “I can just imagine he wasn’t. No doubt Mr. Sweeney saw to that. Getting you into his clutches! I thought we agreed that we would not have anything to do with him beyond ordinary politeness. Didn’t we?”

  “I know we did, Vic, but listen! I don’t think we’ve been fair. He’s really all right once you get to know him. Really! You know what he said? He said that if him and Mama —”

  “He and Mama,” she interrupted automatically.

  “He said that if he and Mama get — uh —”

  “Oh, it’s all right,” she sighed. “Susan knows the situation. All right, what’s the wonderful thing that happens if he and Mama, perish the thought, do get married?”

  “He said if they do, he’s going to send me to military school!”

  “Oh,” said Victoria icily. “Now he’s an angel. Now he’s all right, really, once you get to know him. Of course he’s just doing it out of the kindness of his heart! You don’t have to do anything for him, I suppose! Do you, Robert dear!”