A Stitch in Time (12 page)

Sarah patted the shallow pocket in her dress. She had no idea why she did, as she knew it was empty. ‘I have no money. Please, I’m sorry for being rude, I must get through!’ She tried to barge past again.

‘And I … must … stop … you!’ Each word was punctuated by a push or a pull on her arm.

‘Let go of me, you ridiculous man, before I slap you.’ Sarah stepped forward and stuck out her chin. The porter raised his hand to signal a policeman who had just happened to wander through the entrance.

‘OK, shove your platform ticket up your arse, it’s probably too late now anyway, you moron!’ she hissed, and turned for the entrance.

The policeman blocked her way. ‘What seems to be the matter, madam?’

‘Is it ten o’clock yet?’ Sarah whispered, aware that tears were brimming in her eyes.

The policeman checked his pocket watch. ‘Yes, it is that time exactly; now tell me what the matter is.’

Sarah shook her head and stumbled over to a bench, sitting down heavily, her head in her hands. Seconds later, a shiver travelled the length of her spine as she heard a whistle blow, saw smoke billow and heard the
chug, chug, chug
of a train pulling out of the station.

That’s it then, Sarah, you’ve failed.
Tears ran unchecked down her face as she stared after the departing train.

The policeman walked over, blocking her view. ‘You look most upset; would you
please
like to tell me what’s going on?’

Sarah would like to tell him, but how could she? He wouldn’t believe a word she said about Miss Davison, and because she would have to mention the future, she would probably belch in his face or something. That would probably get her locked up, knowing her luck lately. Perhaps she could try a half-truth?

She wiped her eyes and looked up at him. ‘I can’t tell you everything, Constable, but could you contact Epsom races? As you may know, it’s Derby Day and I feel something bad is going to happen … Tell them to watch out for a woman.’

‘Watch out for a woman?’ He frowned, folded his arms, and rocked on the balls of his feet. ‘I think I’ll need a bit more than that to go to the trouble of sending a telegram.’

Sarah realised it was futile. He was already looking at her as if he thought she belonged in an asylum.
Jeez, I’d better get away before he arrests me.
‘Yes, of course you do. What must I be thinking? Don’t worry, Constable; I think I’ll just return home now.’ She stood and tried to tidy her hair.

‘And where would home be, madam? I think it’s best if I escort you back, seeing as you’re in a bit of a state.’

‘No, that’s alright, I’m sure you are busy enough.’ Sarah started to panic. The constable’s eyes had narrowed and his concerned smile had evaporated like the train smoke. What would he do when she couldn’t tell him the address? ‘I’m actually feeling much better now,’ she said smiling and starting for the entrance.

The constable grabbed her arm. ‘I insist; I wouldn’t rest if I let you go off all confused like.’

Shit! What am I going to do?
Sarah thought quickly. She put her hand to her head. ‘Do you think I could have a drink of water first? I do feel a bit confused, as you say.’ She let her legs buckle slightly and leant her head on his arm.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ the constable said, leading her back to the bench. ‘Now sit here while I go and get that water, alright?’

Sarah nodded and put her hands over her face but peeped though her fingers at him as he ran to a nearby tearoom. As soon as he’d gone inside, she sprang up and hared out of the station.

Half an hour later, Sarah stopped at the same lamppost she’d leaned on earlier. She had run nearly all the way back in case old plod had tried to follow her. Her breath came in short huffs as she checked behind, yet again. Closing her eyes against images of Emily Davison under the hooves of the king’s horse, she tried to calm herself.
Please, just let me go home now.
One thing was for sure, when she got back, she would tell John that there would be no more missions. She was through with stitching, done,
finito, over and out.

At Lady Attwood’s door she grabbed her apron and cap, and then let them fall from her hand again. She couldn’t face going back in. Besides, she doubted that she’d be let back in after what she’d done to Rose and Cook. Thoughts of leaving Rose under such awful circumstances tugged at her heart, and her conscience. And all the people she’d met, seen in the streets. What would happen to them when war was declared next year? Their lives would be turned upside down. And many young men, like the one who’d said she was a deranged scarecrow, might not even survive. These thoughts and ones of a similar vein, whirled around her head like leaves on a windy day, until she felt totally hopeless.

Walking slowly down the steps to the street she felt tears prick her eyes again. Her legs buckled for real this time and she sat on the pavement and sobbed. Aware of footsteps approaching, Sarah placed her hand over her mouth and dashed away tears. She felt a hand on her shoulder.

‘My dear lady, may I be of assistance?’

The blurred figure of a well-dressed, sandy-haired man in his late fifties stood before her. He removed his hat, leant on his cane and lowered himself down beside her.

Wiping her eyes again, she looked into his kind blue eyes. ‘I don’t think you can help me, I don’t think anyone can, but thank you for asking.’

‘You may be surprised; Edward Darnley has a reputation for being able to help people in sticky situations.’ He smiled.

‘Mr Darnley! Oh, I am pleased to meet you; I have heard marvellous things about your work,’ Sarah said, clasping his hand.

‘Really? Well that pleases me greatly. Where did you learn of my marvellous deeds?’ His mouth twitched mischievously.

Sarah told him all about Rose and her involvement in the WSPU and how she had to keep it a secret from Lady Attwood and Cook. Sarah also mentioned that Lady Attwood frowned upon educated servants and had even considered dismissing Sarah yesterday.

‘Ah, now that does distress me,’ Darnley said, shaking his head. ‘And tell me, Sarah, where did you receive your education?’

‘I’d rather not say, sir. But Rose is so eager to learn. I would be eternally grateful if she could somehow receive the education she desires.’

‘And would that put a smile on your pretty little face and dry those tears?’

Sarah smiled and nodded. She thought a lecture on patronising sexism could wait, under the circumstances.

‘Then consider it done, my dear. Now then …’ Mr Darnley said, getting to his feet, ‘… let us enter this house together and I shall see to it that no harm befalls you.’

‘If you don’t mind, sir, I think I’ll wait in the park across the road. I need to gather some composure before I meet the lady of the house again.’ Sarah was beginning to feel peculiar. Her fingers tingled and her nerves felt as tightly strung as a violin bow. Instinct told her she’d be home very soon.

‘I quite understand. I’ll come and find you when the coast is clear.’ Darnley placed his hat back on, touched the brim at her and set off up the steps.

Breathing slowly in and out, in an attempt to still her racing pulse, she crossed the road and entered the park. The scent of flowers and mown grass was intoxicating; Sarah stopped, closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun. Her fingers still tingled, but the sun shone gently down, melting away the ice in her blood and loosening jangled nerves.

Sarah wrinkled her nose. An altogether more unpleasant aroma jostled aside those of grass and flowers. It smelled like manure … She opened her eyes and looked down. It
was
manure and she was standing up to her knees in it.
What the
 …
?

Blinking, she looked up. The park had been replaced by a market garden, and squelching through the mud towards her strode a man, wearing wellies, jeans, a red waterproof and a huge grin.

He waved enthusiastically. ‘Hey there, Sarah, welcome back!’

A gamut of emotions starting at relief, and ending at anger, poured through Sarah’s heart like water from a burst main. She folded her arms across her chest, pursed her lips and glared at John as he came to a stop a few feet away from the manure heap.

He gestured at the stinking pile. ‘At least you had a soft landing …’ He looked at her face. ‘Err, sorry, I guess you don’t find this funny.’

Sarah couldn’t speak. A gentle breeze wafted his dark curls around his forehead, his face was tanned from his work in the open air and his eyes looked as green as a field in spring. The smile he had been trying to hold back because of her predicament suddenly broke free of its fetters and reached from ear to ear.

Relief to be back in the present, and seeing him again, had another bit of a tussle with anger at the fact she was standing up to her knees in manure, and in her good school clothes, too. Anger twisted relief’s arm up its back, securing quick submission.

‘No, John, I don’t find this funny … Why would anyone find
this
fucking funny?’

John’s smile made a swift exit. ‘Hey, I’m sorry, I know you must be uncomfortable. No need to get so angry though.’ He stepped closer and held out his arms. ‘Come on, let me lift you out.’

Sarah bit back a reply as John slid his hand along her back, under her bottom and told her to put her arms around his neck. Because her legs were subsumed in manure it took one or two pulls before he could free her, but eventually he lifted her out, accompanied by a
shluck shluck
as her feet popped free of the gloop. Carrying her a little way from the muckheap, he stopped and looked into her eyes. He showed no sign of putting her down. Sarah struggled to remain angry, feeling the strength of his arms around her and the warm comfort of his body.

He nodded at her feet. ‘Think you may need a new pair of shoes.’

‘Oh, don’t tell me, you just happen to have a pair in your pocket, do you?’ she snapped, trying to keep a little bit angry, though his mouth so close to hers was giving her another feeling entirely.

‘No, but I do have a hot bath, a pair of overalls, nice ones with sleeves and a zip and everything, no expense spared.’ He twinkled. ‘Oh, and a lovely pair of wellies that might fit you, too. You will find all these exciting garments at my house over there.’ He nodded along the rows of vegetables and flowers to a cottage – a brown smudge against the green fields and blue sky.

‘I see. Well hadn’t you better put me down? You can’t carry me that far,’ Sarah said, but hoping he would.

‘I’ll carry you a little way, I think. You could slip over, the state your shoes are in and going barefoot would hurt on this open land. Besides, I think you could do with a bit of TLC after your latest ordeal.’

His look of concern, his kind words and the aftermath of her latest experience brought a lump to her throat. She laid her head on his shoulder. ‘Thanks, John. Just a little way then.’

The cottage was the kind of place Sarah would have imagined if someone said ‘picture a traditional English stone-built cottage in the middle of the countryside.’ Barefoot, and leaning heavily on John’s arm, she tiptoed along the cobbled path that led to the door. He had carried her for a good five minutes before putting her down. The rest of the way was slow going due to her ruined shoes and eventually she had taken them off.

The conversation had been confined to the market garden and how long he’d lived at the cottage. Neither had felt ready to launch into a huge question-and-answer session about 1913. Sarah had been relieved by that. She was happy to pretend that they were just friends out on a spring day. Her heart yearned for normality, and for the last while it had been delivered.

‘OK, stay there and I’ll get a bowl of water for your feet and a bin bag for the shoes. Once your feet are clean you can come in and I’ll run you a bath.’ John unlocked the door and disappeared inside.

Sarah stood with her back to the door and looked over the rolling hills to the moors beyond. Rarely venturing beyond her suburban street and the area around school, she had forgotten how beautiful the countryside just outside Sheffield could be. It felt like afternoon. The sun was high in the sky and, judging from the wet grass and the fresh earthy smell, it had just rained. Charcoal-grey clouds rumbled away over the hills and new white fluffy ones blew in to take their place.

Calm descended across the landscape and seeped into Sarah. She didn’t want to move, breathe, or avert her eyes in case the whole lovely scene was suddenly whisked away and replaced by another time, place, and hideously surreal situation.

‘OK, just step into this and I’ll get to that bath,’ John said, setting a bowl of soapy water and a towel by her feet.

Standing in the bowl and looking over the landscape immediately brought surreal back, leaping and yelling over the hills, chortling like some deranged garish cartoon character. Sarah giggled and shook her head.
Picture this, a beautiful English cottage with ivy growing along ancient walls, rolling green countryside fading to the purple of the moor, a blue sky recently washed of grey cloud, and a woman covered in horse shit standing in a bowl outside the front door.

Having dried her feet and tipped the water away, Sarah ventured inside. There was a tiny entrance hall leading to a large kitchen. Even though the cottage was ancient, the kitchen was kitted out with every modern appliance, but tastefully done, and in keeping with the surroundings. Sarah loved the light, airy feel of the place. The lemon and white of the walls complemented the original stone flags and the light wood cupboards. A tall sash window looked over the fields and the afternoon sunlight angled in, painting everything in muted gold.

‘Bath’s ready, up the stairs and to the left. Hope everything is OK; I left overalls on the landing. I have a few here for the casual workers that help pick the veg at certain times; if that one doesn’t fit give me a shout. I couldn’t do anything about clean underwear …’ John shrugged and then added, ‘Not that I’m suggesting you
need
clean underwear, it’s just that I thought that once you have had a bath …’

Sarah laughed and held up her hand. ‘I know what you meant. Thanks, I can’t wait for this bath.’

The bathroom was small but again fitted with appliances in keeping. An original, white, claw-foot tub filled with bubbles stood next to a small shower cubicle. Alongside that, a deep-set window-shelf displayed an array of old-fashioned soap, shampoos and lotions. Peeling off her filthy school dress and underwear, a grimy, tousled-haired, exhausted woman caught her eye in the mirror above the wide, square washbasin.

Sarah stepped closer. Beyond the exhaustion in her eyes lurked something else … something that brought a lump the size of an apple to her throat. Failure. Emily Davison was dead and it was all her fault.
Too late now, Sarah. Get in the bath. And look on the bright side
 …
you could always fall asleep and drown.

The unmistakable smell of curry wafted into her nostrils as she walked down the narrow, twisty staircase half an hour later. The green overalls were a little baggy, but serviceable, and she had dried her hair in John’s room, which was equally as lovely as the rest of the house. It had a four-poster bed, simple pine furniture and was painted in pastel blues and white. The stripped floorboards were made warmer underfoot by a large, handwoven, yellow rug, and a beautiful painting of children running through a cornfield hung on the wall. Sarah hadn’t noticed photos of anyone around so far.

The absence of a significant other gave her hope on the one hand, and a swift kick in the pants on the other. The kick was accompanied by a stiff talking to regarding the futility of having a romantic relationship. And certainly not with a Time-Needle; life would never feel normal again. Also, hadn’t she decided against any more sewing trips? After today, she wouldn’t be seeing him again. Besides, she’d only known him for five minutes, and love at first sight was just a crock.

Perhaps one day she may venture back out into the world of coupledom, but not yet. Neil and Karen’s treachery had done great damage. That damage would take more than a handsome face and kind word to put right. Nevertheless, because she had no make-up to hand, she took extra care styling her hair, and pinched her cheeks a few times to try and look at least half in the land of the living.

‘You’re cooking curry? This is getting to be a habit, John,’ Sarah said, pulling up a chair at the scrubbed wooden table.

‘Curry? I cooked bacon and eggs last time, how soon you forget …’ He put the back of his hand to his forehead and sighed.

‘Ha ha! You know what I meant – you, cooking for me.’

‘Yes, well, you missed out on your evening meal last night; it was the least I could do. So the overalls fit then?’ He pointed a wooden spoon at her.

‘Yes, they’re fine.’ She smiled and then gave a heavy sigh.

‘What’s up?’

‘Much as I’d like to, I can’t put it off any longer. I need to do the twenty questions bit.’

‘OK, ready when you are. Excuse me if I carry on cooking at the same time; these onions and spices will burn if I don’t.’

‘Right, so first and foremost, Emily Davison threw herself under the king’s horse and died, so I failed, yes?’

‘Yes, she did, and no, you didn’t. Would you like a glass of wine?’ John said, pulling a bottle from the rack. ‘We have red, and I think there may be some white in the fridge. Perhaps lager would go better with curry …’

‘Will you stop wittering about drinks and explain what you mean. How can I not have failed if Emily Davison died?’

‘Because the person you were meant to save wasn’t Emily,’ John said, his head in the fridge. ‘Yep, we have lager.’

‘Not Emily? Then who the hell was it?’ He was beginning to irritate her again now.

John cracked open a lager and set it on the table along with a tall glass. ‘Rose,’ he said grinning widely, ‘and save her, you did!’

Rose? Bloody hell!
Sarah downed half the lager in one and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. God, that felt good. Her pulse was racing ten to the dozen and relief jumped up from its arm lock and ran around her consciousness in perfumed slippers. Thank heaven she hadn’t screwed up.

‘So, are you going to explain what happened or do I have to kill you?’ she asked, pouring the other half of the can.

John brought poppadoms and a chopping board over to the table and began slicing spinach. ‘This spinach was growing in the ground this morning, can you smell how fresh it is …?’ He laughed out loud at the murderous expression on her face. ‘OK, OK, I’ll tell you.’

Sarah sipped her drink and broke off a piece of poppadom. ‘So, get on with it!’

‘If you hadn’t have tripped Rose up in the milk, she would have rushed out of the house, down the road and under an omnibus – death would have been instant. She wouldn’t have gone on to be educated by Mr Darnley, wouldn’t have married his nephew and wouldn’t have given birth to a daughter who grew up to be one of the early female surgeons of the 1930s. That surgeon wouldn’t have gone on to win prizes for pioneering all sorts of new and marvellous medical stuff and save loads of lives.’

‘Oh, how wonderful! I’m so pleased Rose had a happy life … She did, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, as far as I know. She also set up a night school for working women to improve their literacy.’

‘Really? I’m so pleased. I never had the chance to say goodbye and we parted on such bad terms, though I only saved her by accident, didn’t I? ‘

‘Not really; when you tripped her with the mop it was on a whim, instinct, but deliberate nevertheless, wasn’t it?’

She thought about it. ‘Um, yes, I guess it was.’

‘There you go, then.’

Sarah drained her glass and then something she’d thought to ask John when she’d been in 1913 came back to her. ‘How does it work when I was the Sarah in 1940 and 1913? I didn’t occupy their bodies, I was definitely me … and how will Sarah in 1913 cope, did she get the sack, and how did Rose react to her, and how did Sarah explain her loss of extended vocabulary and—’

John held up his hand. ‘Hey, no more “and hows”, please. Slow down and I’ll try to answer.’

John got them both a refill, tipped the spinach into the curry pot, and returned to the table with mango chutney. ‘OK, as far as I understand it, a Stitch kind of works in tandem with the person from the past. They don’t possess the body, but have a kind of spiritual and cerebral link.’

‘You say “kind of” a lot. Don’t you know
how
it works?’ Sarah asked, trying to burp quietly behind her hand. The lager was very gassy. It reminded her of burping at Cook and she smiled wryly.

‘Oh, you may smirk, Sarah, but it’s very complicated. We Needles only get to learn what is absolutely necessary. The powers that be are very secretive.’ John folded his arms and looked disgruntled. She’d obviously hit a raw nerve.

‘I wasn’t smirking; I was smiling at something else. Right, I get that there’s a cerebral and spiritual link, but what happens to the body of the Sarahs from the past? Do they just float around in space or what? And do they remember what I did when I was being them?’

John scratched his head and sighed. ‘As far as I understand it, the spiritual link makes them feel like they are dreaming, and so in that way they remember, like you might remember a vivid dream. That’s why some of Sarah’s extended vocabulary was retained; her brain had somehow stored it from yours. But the actual memory of the dream fades quite quickly, more or less, depending on the person.’

‘But what about their bodies?’ Sarah pressed.

‘OK, I’m getting to that; blimey, you’re so impatient. Because your connection is one of brain and spirit not physical, there is a melding of minds but not a physical meeting of bodies. When you are in the past you feel and see your own body, but Sarah in her dream state still has hers. She isn’t in some space car park or whatever you said.’

Sarah sighed. ‘That sounds surreal and a bit difficult to grasp.’

‘That’s because it is.’ John nodded. ‘I think you hit the nail on the head before when you said “when I was
being
them”. Because you aren’t them, physically, but you’re like a spiritual presence outside
but
alongside them. In tandem, like I said earlier,’ John finished with a shrug.