by Julia Hughes
Wren smiled too. ‘Matt’s offered to share his lunch with us.’
‘Yep. Packed up lunch. Monday’s a good lunch. Left over Sunday.’ Matt nodded his head again then darted over to the stream, to refill a bucket with water.
‘I got some milk but I drank it.’ He said, coming back with a sodden front.
‘This is fine Matt. Water’s fine.’ Wren tore off a chunk of bread before handing the loaf to Carrie, tearing his piece in half for Rhyllann.
‘Chicken. There’s chicken there.’ Matt reminded him. And so there was, nearly half a chicken in a grease stained linen napkin.
Rhyllann spoke with his mouth full. ‘Where do you live Matt?’
‘Over there.’ Matt pointed. ‘With Granddad and Mark. Mark’s my brother. I baked the bread. Don’t talk with your mouth full.’
‘Sorry.’ Rhyllann mumbled.
‘Do you like your brother Matt?’ Wren wanted to know tearing off a strip of chicken for the collie. The dog swallowed it in two bites then leapt to round up a stray before trotting back to sit beside Wren again.
‘Sometimes. Sometimes he gets cross when I forgets. Sometimes when I leave the gate open and the ram gets out.’
‘What does he do when he gets cross?’ Wren seemed interested.
‘Shouts. I shouts back.’
‘But he doesn’t hit you?’
Carrie looked at him in surprise, wondering where this conversation was going.
Matt frowned. He scratched his whiskery chin. ‘Once he hit me.’
‘How old were you then Matt?’
Matt brightened. He knew years. How to count.
‘I was ten and he were twelve.’ He said promptly.
‘Ah. I see. And how old are you now Matt?’
‘Nearly sixteen. I’m sixteen on 22nd June. It’s a Saturday.’ He nodded proudly.
‘Sixteen this year! That means you were born in …’
Wren counted on his fingers, mumbled then held up his fingers to start again, muttering louder.
‘Eighteen hundred and ninety six.’ Matt butted in.
The air went from Carrie’s lungs and the chicken dried on her tongue. Rhyllann’s mouth hung open.
‘Close your mouth when you’ve got food in it.’ Matt said primly.
‘Matt, you are a gentleman. A true gentleman.’ Wren pulled a coin from his pocket, and pushed it into Matt’s hand.
‘This is my lucky piece Matt. I want you to have it. You’ve been lucky for us. It’s worth a lot of money. You can buy a lot of ice-cream. You look after it Matt. Don’t you lose it. When you get home give it to your brother. Tell him you helped three lost people who would still be lost and hungry without your help. Understand?’
Matt looked troubled. ‘Where should I put it?’
Carrie kicked off her pumps and peeled her socks off.
‘Give it here.’ She pushed the large gold coin into the toe of one sock, knotted it tightly then knotted both socks together.
‘Tie this round your belt.’
Matt lifted his smock and did as she said.
‘That’s it. Now tuck it in. Tuck it into your underpants.
He turned bright red and giggled, pushing Carrie’s socks into his pants.
‘It’s digging in.’
‘Good! You won’t lose it.’ She smiled at him.
Still bright red, he smiled back.
Rhyllann went into a fit of anger, spitting out unintelligible words.
Wren grinned happily as if at some private joke.
‘Welsh. He’s talking Welsh.’ He said noticing Carrie’s puzzled face.
Throwing his hands in the air Rhyllann stomped off. Shouting back in English.
‘I give up. I don’t know what you were thinking.’
Almost to himself Wren said. ‘Neither do I. I can do better than that!’
Reaching up to Matt’s bemused face, he placed a hand either side.
Matt’s slouching form unfolded, his face cleared as the sun came out slanting through clouds, turning Matt’s unruly thatch of hair into a mass of gold, transforming frizz into sleeker curls.
He shook himself as though waking from a dream.
The child in his eyes was gone, replaced by something more careful. Nodding towards Rhyllann leaping over some rocks, he said.
‘You’d better hurry. Good speed on your journey. I think I’ll go home now.’
Standing up, he dismissed himself with a nod, whistled to his dog and walked purposely away, sheep tumbling over each over to trot behind him. Carrie doubted that next time he drew water from a stream he would slop it down himself.
Wren turned to her, a smug expression on his face.
‘What did you do? What did you do to him?’ Carrie whispered.
‘He had too much going on in his mind, too many random thoughts. I just helped tidy them up a bit.’ He smiled.
Carrie reached across and slapped him open handed, so hard her palm stung.
‘What? What was that for? I decluttered his mind – that’s all.’
The smugness disappeared but otherwise he didn’t react, other than to stare at her, a red blotch blooming on his cheek.
‘You decluttered his mind?!’ Gritting her teeth she spat. ‘It wasn’t yours to declutter.’
Sobbing, Carrie fled after Rhyllann. ‘Wait! Wait for me!’ She didn’t want to spend another moment alone with Wren.
Once they eventually reached a road they managed to cadge a lift into town on the back of a cart, squeezing in between hessian sacks lumpy with turnips.
Carrie snuggled up to Rhyllann refusing to look at Wren. Both nursing their own grievances towards him.
The cart slowed to a snail’s pace to haul up a steepish hill, steep compared to the rest of the country they’d travelled through. Wren banged on the side.
‘Here. This’ll do. Let us out here.’
Rhyllann scowled. ‘We’re nowhere near the town yet. Are you mad?’
But he was already tugging a startled Carrie from the cart.
‘Get down Rhyllann.’
Rhyllann’s scowl deepened. Jumping down he pushed at Wren.
‘I’m not your dog.’
The cart clip clopped away leaving the three of them arguing beside a deserted windmill and a few tumbled down outhouses.
Wren made an exasperated noise. ‘What’s with you two? Are you both on your period or something?’
Carrie longed to slap him again. ‘It isn’t us. It’s you. Rhyllann’s right. You order us around like dogs, or servants. You see things so clearly and it’s all so simple for you, without a thought about anyone else, you just go right ahead and …’
He stared at her uncomprehending.
‘Save it Carrie. You’ll never get him to understand.’
Rhyllann squinted at the skeleton sails on the windmill, just rotting spars of wood, did a double take and without another word marched inside the derelict building.
‘Carrie …’ Wren reached out to her. She batted him away.
‘Get your hands off me! Or will you make me cleverer? Prettier? Chew me up and spit me out when you’ve used me like you use everybody?’
‘Carrie, you’re not well – you’ve been ill – then that journey – you’ve got this so wrong.’ Wren pleaded.
‘He’s right.’ She flung a hand in Rhyllann’s direction. ‘You’re never going to understand.’
Wren caught at her hand, his touch sent a shiver down her spine and she jerked back.
‘Try! Make me, make me understand.’
For a moment she thought he was going to strike her. Or kiss her again. A triumphant yell rang out and they jerked apart.
Rhyllann strode back covered in dust, clutching a bag in one hand. It chinked as he waggled it at them.
‘I found it! I found it! I thought I recognised this place!’
A smile played round Wren’s lips. Catching Carrie’s eye he winked; this time it didn’t move her.
‘Guess it made the news in your world as we
ll.’ He said, but didn’t explain further. He stared at Caliburn as though seeing it for the first time.
‘Caliburn. What happened to Caliburn?’
The semi-sentient sword obeyed Wren but adored Rhyllann. Usually it reflected Rhyllann’s every mood. It should be sparkling. Now it hung at his side, a pitted piece of rusted sword shaped metal.
‘You! You happened to Caliburn. You destroyed it, like you destroy everything.’
And Carrie didn’t care they were on a mission to save worlds. She sank to her knees and sobbed. For Gran, for Jeff Holden, for the Hairy Legged One and his priestess, even for the Blonde. But most of all for herself. She thought she had seen compassion in those blue eyes. They were cold. Cold and empty.
‘D’you think it is her time of the month?’ Rhyllann asked.
Looking helpless Wren shrugged. ‘Dunno.’ Taking the bag from Rhyllann he shook the contents out.
‘Is that all? Shit. I thought the papers said they’d found a fortune.’
She couldn’t believe this. She was in emotional melt down and they were gloating over some miser’s forgotten hoard.
With a last sob, she staggered upright and started walking in the cart’s direction, towards town.
‘Rhyllann, we don’t know how much time we’ve got left, we need to get to Southampton, and I wanna find somewhere safe for Carrie.’
Rhyllann studied the ragamuffin figure stomping away from them, hair flying behind her, legs pumping like clockwork under navy blue PE shorts.
‘She needs some clothes. And maybe a hair cut too. Definitely a bath of some kind.’
Rhyllann never troubled to keep his voice down, Carrie snorted to herself. He might be right but it hurt, especially coming from someone who looked more like Frankenstein’s monster than Heathcliff.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The landlady of the Red Lion greeted their stories of being lost on the moors with practical efficiency. A scullery maid dragged in a tin bath into an already overcrowded kitchen, and while cauldrons of water boiled on the range, Carrie’s hair was scrapped and untangled by both the cook and kitchen maid, in between rustling up mutton stew and rolling out stodgy dumplings.
A simple shift dress and shawl together with a vest and pair of long bloomers edged with lace arrived while Carrie soaked in the bath, trying not to mind as the maids flew back and forth preparing dinner. After she dried herself on a square of rough linen, one of the maids unfurled the rags in her hair, revealing coils of thick ringlets which she caught up either side of Carrie’s temples, before proudly handing her a mirror. Carrie barely recognised herself. The face staring back at her was almost beautiful. Scraped free of hair her brow seemed higher, her eyes were enormous and her cheeks had lost their plumpness. Even her neck seemed more elegant, swan like. She caught a glimpse of shiny curls the colour of new conkers cascading down her back then aware she’d been staring open mouthed thrust the mirror back at the smiling maid.
‘C’mon Miss. Let’s get you dressed.’ She said satisfaction in her voice at having spun silk from pig’s ears.
The long sleeved dress covered her from neck to toe but she felt naked underneath. The bloomers, or pantaloons floated around her legs ending mid calf and were open at the back. Feeling as though she was in a costume play she entered the saloon bar as dinner was being served, certain everyone’s eyes were on her.
Rhyllann spotted her, half rising from his seat he waved her over. Calling loudly.
‘You scrubbed up well.’
Fuming, Carrie forgot to take small dainty steps and almost tripped over the hem of her dress. Wren caught her.
‘You always look lovely to me.’ He said. Carrie shivered and warned herself against him. He was already planning to abandon her.
Three bowls of stew were placed in front of them along with glasses and a jug of foaming beer. After a quick glance at her face Wren asked for some tea to be served. To spite him, she poured herself out a glass and gulped at the bitter brew almost choking when her windpipe closed against it, sending it prickling up her nose. Swallowing back painfully, she watched Rhyllann pushing meat round his dish. Wren smiled at her again but his eyes were anxious.
They’d managed a wash and shave and change of clothes, both wearing heavy cotton overlarge shirts and dark trousers.
‘What? What’s happened?’ She asked.
The nervous tic was back in Rhyllann’s jaw. Wren’s face seemed more pinched than ever.
‘The Titanic sails tomorrow.’ His voice flat and emotionless.
She shrugged. So what? And started on her meal.
‘What’s gonna happen to us brawd? Are we stuck here? Do we find jobs on the land and just wait to die of old age? Or boredom?’ Rhyllann asked.
Wren didn’t reply.
‘Come on. You’ve always got all the answers.’ Rhyllann slapped a hand down against the table, rattling the crockery.
‘Tell me!’
Carrie kept her head down, spooning greasy gravy into her mouth, sneaking looks from one to the other.
His face dark with anger, Rhyllann’s eyes blazed with a maroon light. Wren huddled into himself, silent and pale, eyes hooded.
Carrie tipped her bowl up and with an unladylike slurp drained the last of it, and pulled Wren’s bowl to her side of the table.
‘If you don’t want this?’
He smiled, that smile that always seemed especially for her. She hardened her heart.
‘So. Tomorrow the Titanic’s on her way to France?’
Wren nodded. ‘She calls into Cherbourg to pick up passengers before steaming across to America.’ He explained. Carrie opened her eyes wide as though this was news to her, then eyed Rhyllann’s bowl. He flashed her a dirty look and started ladling the gruel into his mouth, still scowling.
Wren chewed at his finger nails.
‘We could go back to Stonehenge…’ he started.
‘Yeah. Right. Join Julius in his orgy.’ Rhyllann jeered. ‘Because Caliburn’s well and truly fu .. finished.’ He substituted hurriedly. ‘And what –’ he slammed his hand against the table again. ‘do you find so funny?’ He demanded, glaring at Carrie.
Wren regarded her thoughtfully. ‘You know something. Something we don’t. Something your Gran told you.’ His eyes were calculating, trying to read her.
Carrie hugged the information to herself, concentrating on spearing a dumpling.
‘If I did know something, what would it be worth to you?’
Rhyllann grabbed her wrist, twisting it painfully. ‘Is this a joke to you, you silly little girl? D’you wanna stay in this god forsaken place, rotting away, stinking of mutton all your life?’
‘Keep your voice down!’ Wren warned as heads turned in their direction.
Carrie snarled at Rhyllann ‘That’s what you planned for me!’ She hissed, freeing her arm.
‘What is it you want Carrie? Tell us.’ Wren asked quietly.
‘Exactly the same as you. I want to sail on the Titanic. I want to be there with you. With you two.’ She said carefully, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
Wren grimaced. ‘Did you think you’d be abandoned? I wanted you to be safe here. Safe while we made certain the Titanic sank. If we’d managed, if we’d got here even a day earlier, all this.’ Wren waved a hand around the saloon bar. ‘All this would have vanished to us, we would have repaired the damage and we’d return to our real lives.’ His face softened. ‘But you would have been safe here. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted, you to be safe.’
Carrie jutted out her lower jaw, thinking he had a strange way of showing it.
‘Carrie, if you know a way to get us on board tell us now. Because this muck is revolting.’ Rhyllann pleaded.
‘Do I have your word?’ She asked, looking from one to the other.
‘I swear.’
‘Swear down.’ Rhyllann agreed, nodding emphatically.
That wasn’t good enough. Carrie made them both spread their hands on the table and take oaths on the
ir lives and for good measure, their eternal souls. Before telling them that on Thursday 11 April, Titanic would weigh anchor in the Irish Sea just outside of Queenstown, stoking up on last minute provisions before finally heading out to the open Atlantic.
Chapter Thirty-Five
While Carrie slept, malicious gnomes wearing hobnailed boots had played football inside her head. At least that’s how she felt when she woke, rubbing sticky gum from her eyes.
Noises drifted in from outside, the sounds of a sleepy little town going about its daily business, snatches of childish laughter, women’s voices lowered in fragmented gossip, the occasional clopping as a horse passed.
Sunshine played against the drawn curtains, dust motes floated in the diffused light making the room even stuffier.
As her vision focussed, she became aware of a head resting on the edge of her bed supported on a pair of tanned forearms. Deep brown eyes stared into her own.
She recoiled. ‘Rhyllann!’
His features rose into a smile. ‘Morning!’ He leaned back on the chair he’d pulled to the side of her bed. ‘Or should I say afternoon?’
Carrie tried to swallow but her mouth had no saliva. She lay back on her pillows wishing the room would stop spinning.
‘What. What …?’
‘Water?’ He had a glass waiting. ‘There you go.’
She sipped enough to loosen her larynx.
‘What … What are you doing here? What time is it? Why didn’t you wake me? Where’s Wren?’
Panic rose inside her. She should be dressed, they had to get going – they should have been on their way hours ago.
She hurried to pull on the bloomers, tugged off her nightgown and threw the dress over her head, uncaring that Rhyllann watched with uncharacteristic stillness.
‘Don’t just sit there! Rhyllann! Where’s Wren – is he sorting out the trains?’
‘Oh yeh. My cousin’s sorted out the trains. He’s sorted out everything.’ Rhyllann said. With a bitter smile he handed over a folded note.
Unease stirring in her stomach, Carrie sunk to the bed still clutching the paper, eyes mutely questioning.
‘Read it!’ Rhyllann urged getting up to drag the curtains open and stare out the window.
