The Map of Time (29 page)

Anyone who has been to Billingsgate fish market in the early hours knows that smells travel faster than light. For, long before the night receives the first flush of dawn, the pungent aroma of shellfish and the overpowering stench of eel filling the fishermen’s carts have already mingled with the cold night air.

Zigzagging through the oyster stalls and squid sellers hawking their merchandise at three for a penny, Tom Blunt reached the railings at the river entrance, where a crowd of other miserable wretches were flexing their muscles and trying to look enthusiastic, in the hope some kindly skipper would pick them to unload his boat from overseas. Tom hugged his jacket to himself trying to ward off the cold and joined the group of men. He immediately spotted Patrick, a tall youth who was as strapping as he was, with whom by dint of unloading boxes together he had struck up a sort of friendship. They greeted one another with a friendly nod, and like a couple of pigeons puffing up their chests, tried to stand out from the crowd and catch the skippers” eye. Ordinarily, thanks to their glowing physiques, they were both hired straightaway, and that morning was no exception. They congratulated one another with a sly smile and walked towards the designated cargo boat together with the dozen other chosen stevedores.

Tom liked this simple honest work that required no more than strong arms and a degree of agility; not only did it enable him to see the dawn in all its glory above the Thames, but as he began to feel the calming yet vivifying fatigue of physical effort steal over him, he could allow his thoughts to drift down unexpected pathways. Rather like when he was on Harrow-on-the-Hill, a small rise in the suburbs of London he had discovered during one of his walks. On top of the hill grew a centuries-old oak surrounded by a dozen graves, as though the dead buried there wanted nothing to do with the others in the tiny adjoining cemetery. He thought of the grassy knoll as his own private sanctuary, a sort of outdoor chapel where he could close his ears to the din of the world. Sometimes when he was up there, he found to his amazement that he was even able to string a few positive thoughts together, which gave him a measure of insight into the usually so elusive meaning of his life. As he sat wondering what sort of life John Peachey, the man buried nearest to the oak, must have led, Tom began to reflect about his own existence as though it belonged to someone else, and to judge it with the same objectivity as that of the deceased stranger.

Once their day was done, he and Patrick sat on a pile of boxes waiting to be paid. The two men usually passed the time chatting about this or that, but Tom’s thoughts had been elsewhere all week. This was how long it had been since the unfortunate meeting with Claire Haggerty, and yet still nothing had happened. Apparently, Murray knew nothing about it and possibly never would. Even so, Tom’s life would never be the same again.

It had already changed. Tom knew London was too big a place for him to run into the girl again, yet he walked around with his eyes wide open, afraid of bumping into her round every corner.

Thanks to that stupid girl, he would always be uneasy, always on the alert: he had even considered growing a beard. He shook his head as he reflected how the most trivial act can change your life: why the devil had he not taken the precaution of emptying his bladder before the performance? When Patrick finally plucked up the courage to chide him gently for his morose silence, Tom stared at him in surprise. It was true he had not tried to hide his anxiety from Patrick, and now he did not know what to say to him. He merely reassured him with a mysterious, doleful smile, and his companion shrugged his shoulders, as if to say he had not meant to poke his nose into Tom’s affairs. Once they had been paid, the two men strolled away from the market with the leisurely gait of those who have nothing much else to do for the rest of the day. As they walked, Tom gazed warmly at Patrick, afraid his unwillingness to confide in him might have hurt the lad’s feelings. Patrick was only a couple of years younger than him, but his baby face made him look even younger, and Tom could not help instinctively taking him under his wing, like the little brother he never had, even though he knew Patrick could take care of himself. And yet neither of them, whether out of apathy or shyness, had shown any interest in developing their friendship outside the port.

“Today’s earnings bring me a little closer, Tom,” Patrick suddenly declared in a faintly wistful voice.

“Closer to what?” asked Tom, utterly intrigued, for Patrick had never once mentioned any plans to start a business or marry a woman.

The lad looked at him mysteriously.

“To achieving my dream,” he replied solemnly.

Tom was pleased the lad had a dream that would drive him on, a reason to get out of bed in the morning: something lacking in his own life of late.

“And what dream might that be, Patrick?” he asked, knowing the lad was longing to tell him.

Almost reverentially, Patrick pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and presented it to him.

“To travel to the year 2000 and see the brave Captain Shackleton triumph over the evil automatons.” Tom did not even take the leaflet he knew from memory. He just stared at Patrick glumly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know about the year 2000, Tom?” said Patrick, astonished.

Tom sighed.

“There’s nothing for me in the future, Patrick,” he shrugged.

“This is my present, and it’s the only thing I want to know about.” “I see,” murmured Patrick, too polite to criticize his friend’s narrow-mindedness.

“Have you had breakfast yet?” Tom asked.

“Of course not!” he groaned. “I told you, I’m saving up. Breakfast is a luxury I can’t afford.” “In that case allow me to treat you,” Tom offered, putting a fatherly arm round his shoulder. “I know a place near here where they serve the best sausages in town.”

25

After enjoying a hearty breakfast that would take the edge off their appetite for a week, Tom’s pockets were once again empty. He tried not to reproach himself for his extravagant gesture towards Patrick; he had not been able to resist it, but next time he must be more careful, for he knew full well that although these altruistic deeds made him feel good, they would only be detrimental to him in the long run. He said good-bye to Patrick, and having nothing better to do for the rest of the day, made his way towards Covent Garden, intending to carry on with his charitable deeds by stealing a few apples for Mrs. Ritter.

It was late morning by the time he arrived, and the freshest, crispest produce had been snapped up by the early birds, who came from all over London at the crack of dawn to stock up their larders. But by the same token, daylight had removed the eerie atmosphere cast by light from candles perched on mounds of melted wax, which the traders stuck on their carts. By now, the market had taken on the air of a country fair; the visitors no longer looked like furtive ghosts, but like people strolling about with all the time in the world to make their purchases while, like Tom, they let themselves be captivated by the heady scent of roses, eglantines, and heliotrope wafting from the flower baskets on the western side of the square. Floating along with the crowds filing dreamily between carts laden with potatoes, carrots, and cabbages, a patchwork of color that went all the way down Bow Street to Maiden Lane, Tom tried to locate some of the Cockney girls milling around the stalls with their baskets of apples.

Craning his neck, he thought he spotted one on the other side of a mass of people. He tried to get to her before she disappeared again into the crowd, swerving to get past the human wall blocking his way. But this type of abrupt movement, which might have saved Captain Shackleton’s life during a skirmish, was unwise in a packed market like Covent Garden. He realized this on slamming into a young woman crossing his path. Reeling from the collision, the woman had to steady herself in order not to end up on the ground. Tom stopped and swung round with the intention of apologizing as politely as possible for having bumped into her.

It was then he found himself face to face with the only person in the whole of London he had never wanted to see again, and the world suddenly felt like a tiny, mysterious place, like a magician’s hat which could hold everything.

“Captain Shackleton, what are you doing in my time?” asked Claire Haggerty, completely bewildered.

Only inches away from her, Tom received the full impact of the look of devotion that his mere presence triggered in her. He was even able to glimpse the blue of her eyes, a deep, intense blue he knew he would never find anywhere else in the world, however many oceans or skies he saw—a fierce, pure blue, which was probably on the Creator’s palette when he colored heaven, and of which her eyes were now the sole custodians.

Only when he had managed to break free from her enchanted gaze did Tom realize that this chance encounter could cost him his life. He glanced around to make sure no one was eyeing them suspiciously, but was too dazed to take in what he saw.

He fixed his eyes once more on the girl, who was still staring at him overwhelmed with disbelief and emotion, waiting for him to explain his presence there. But what could he tell her without giving away the truth, which would be tantamount to signing his own death warrant? “I traveled back in time to bring you your parasol,” he blurted out.

He immediately bit his lip. It sounded absurd, but it was the first thing that had occurred to him. He watched Claire’s eyes grow even wider, and prepared for the worst.

“Oh, thank you, you’re so kind,” she replied, scarcely able to disguise her joy. “But you shouldn’t have taken the trouble.

As you can see, I have another,” and she showed him a parasol almost identical to the one he had hidden in his chest of drawers. “However, as you’ve journeyed through time in order to bring it to me, I’ll gladly take it back, and I promise I’ll get rid of this one.” Now it was Tom’s turn to conceal his astonishment at what the girl was saying: she had swallowed his lie completely! Yet wasn’t it logical? Murray’s pantomime was too convincing for a girl as young as her to question it; Claire believed she had traveled to the year 2000, she truly believed it, and her certainty gave him legitimacy as a time traveler. It was that simple. When he managed to recover from his surprise, he realized she was staring at his empty hands, wondering perhaps why they were not clasping the parasol that had compelled him to journey across an entire century with the sole aim of returning it to her.

“I don’t have it with me,” he apologized, shrugging foolishly.

She waited, expectantly, for him to come up with a solution to this, and in that sudden silence enclosing them amid the hustle and bustle, Tom glimpsed the girl’s slim, graceful body beneath her robe, and felt painfully aware of how long it had been since he was with a woman. After burying Megan, he had only received the phony tenderness of whores, and had recently forgone even that, considering himself tough enough to do without those bartered caresses. Or so he thought. Now he had in front of him a beautiful, elegant woman, a woman a fellow such as he could never hope to possess, and yet she was gazing at him like no other woman ever had. Would that gaze be the tunnel that could lead to him storming the impregnable fortress? Men had risked their lives for much less since the beginning of time. And so, responding to the atavistic desire of his species echoing inside him, Tom did what his reason least advised: “But I can give it to you this afternoon,” he ventured, “if you’d be kind enough to take tea with me at the Aerated Bread Company near Charing Cross Underground station.” Claire’s face lit up.

“Of course, Captain,” she replied, excited. “I’ll be there.” Tom nodded, gave her a smile purged of all lust, and tried hard to mask his shock, both at her for accepting as much as at himself for having proposed a meeting with the very woman he should flee if he valued his life. Clearly it did not mean that much to him if he was prepared to risk it for a roll in the hay with this vision of loveliness. Just then, someone cried out Claire’s name and they turned as one. A fair-haired girl was making her way towards them through the crowd.

“It’s my friend Lucy,” said Claire, with amused irritation, “she won’t let me out of her sight for a second.” “Please, don’t tell her I’ve come here from the future,” Tom warned quickly, regaining some of his composure, “I’m traveling incognito. If anyone found out, I’d get into a lot of trouble.” Claire looked at him a little uneasily.

“I’ll be waiting for you at the tearooms at four o’clock,” Tom said brusquely, taking his leave. “But, please promise me you’ll come alone.” As he thought, Claire promised without demur. Although, owing to his circumstances, Tom had never been to the ABC tearooms himself, he was aware they had been all the rage since the day they opened. For they were the only place two young people could meet without the bothersome presence of a chaperone.

He had heard they were airy, pleasant, and warm, and offered tea and buns at an affordable price. Thus, they soon became the perfect alternative to walks in the cold or meetings in family reception rooms spied upon by the young lady’s mother to which young suitors had hitherto been condemned. True, they would be seen, but Tom could think of no better place to meet her— not one where she would have agreed to go unaccompanied.

By the time Lucy reached Claire, Tom had vanished into the crowd. But she still asked her dazed friend who the stranger was she had seen her talking to from a distance. Claire simply shook her head mysteriously. As she expected, Lucy immediately soon forgot the matter and dragged her over to a flower stall, where they could stock up with heliotropes, bringing the aroma of distant jungles into their bedrooms. And while Claire Haggerty was letting herself be led by the arm and thinking that traveling through time was the most gentlemanly thing anyone had ever done for her, Tom Blunt quickly left Covent Garden Market by the opposite exit, elbowing his way through the crowd and trying not to think of poor Perkins.

He slumped back wards onto his bed in the hovel as if he had been shot point-blank. Lying there, he carried on cursing his foolhardy behavior out loud, as he had been doing in the garbled manner of a drunkard all the way home. Had he taken leave of his senses? What the hell did he think he was doing asking the girl to meet him again? Well, the answer was easy enough.

What he wanted was obvious, and it did not involve marveling at Claire’s beauty for a couple of hours, like someone admiring an unattainable object in a shop window, tortured by the idea he would never have her. Not on his life: he was going to take advantage of the girl being in love with his other self, the brave Captain Shackleton, to achieve an even greater goal. And he was amazed that for this fleeting pleasure he was prepared to suffer the consequences such an irresponsible course of action would bring, including his probable demise. “Did he really value his life so little?” he asked himself yet again. Yes, it was sad but true: possessing that beautiful woman was more meaningful to him than anything that might be waiting for him round the corner in his miserable future.

Thinking about it objectively he had to admit that the logical thing to do was not to turn up at the meeting and to avoid trouble. But this was no guarantee against him bumping into the girl again somewhere else and having to explain what he was still doing in the nineteenth century, and even invent some excuse for not showing up at the tearoom. Not going was not the answer, apparently. On the contrary, the only solution he could think of was to go there and cook up a way of avoiding having to explain himself if they bumped into each other again in the future. Some reason why she must not go near him, or even speak to him, he thought to himself, excitedly, as though that were his main reason for seeing her again and not another more vulgar one. All things considered, this meeting might even prove beneficial to him in the long run. Yes, this might be a way of solving the problem once and for all. For it was clear this must be their first and only encounter. He had no choice: he must indulge his desire for the girl on condition that he succeeded in ruling out any possibility of them ever meeting again, nipping any relationship that might grow up between them in the bud. For he could not see how they would keep it secret, conceal it from the multitude of spies Murray had posted all over the city, which would put not only him in danger but her, too. This meeting, then, felt like the last meal of the condemned man, and he resolved to enjoy every minute of it.

When it was time to go, he took the parasol, straightened his cap, and left the boardinghouse. Down in the street, he gave way to an impulse and stopped in front of Mrs. Ritter’s stall.

“Good afternoon, Tom,” said the old lady.

“Mrs. Ritter,” he replied, stretching out his hand, “I think the time has come for us both to see my future.” The old woman glanced up at him in surprise, but at once she gripped Tom’s hand and with a wizened finger slowly traced the lines on his palm, like someone reading a book.

“My God, Tom!” she gasped, gazing up at him with mournful dismay. “I see … death!” With a grimace of resigned fortitude, Tom accepted the terrible prediction and withdrew his hand gently from the old woman’s clasp. His worst fears had been confirmed. Getting under this woman’s skirts would mean death: that was the reward for lust. He shrugged and said good-bye to the alarmed Mrs. Ritter, who doubtless had assumed fate would be kinder to him, then walked down the street towards the tearoom where Claire Haggerty was waiting for him. Yes, there was no doubt about it, he was going to die, but could he call what he had now a life? He smiled and quickened his pace.

He had never felt so alive.