The Accidental Time Traveller Page 2
“Wanna see what your house is like now?” I suggested, trying to sound breezy. She nodded, slipped her hand under my elbow and in we went.
3
Mrs Singh looked up from the cash register, waved at me and winked. It was an “I like your new girlfriend” wink. I shook my head hard, meaning, “no – it isn’t what you think.”
“Hi, Mrs Singh, this is Agatha,” I blurted out, guiding her up towards the counter. Then out popped lie number two, “and she’s making a history film.”
“Well now, isn’t that a marvellous thing,” Mrs Singh said, looking her up and down. “Your costume is very realistic, dear.”
Agatha’s jaw fell seeing Mrs Singh and her lovely red sparkly sari. If Agatha really was from 1812, then maybe she’d never seen someone from India before? Mrs Singh just smiled at Agatha then busied herself fishing for the Saturday newspaper, without me having to ask for it. “I am very fond of history myself,” she went on. “Scotland is steeped in history. That’s what we like about this town. You know this shop was built in 1770? History is very present for us in Peebles, don’t you agree, Saul?”
I nodded, though truth was I’d never thought about it before – apart from the fact the den was obviously a pretty old garden shed.
Agatha slipped away from my arm and wandered around the shop. I watched her gaping at the rows of brightly coloured magazines and the shelves of biscuits and the tins and light bulbs. She reached out to touch them, trembling as if a tin of soup might leap off the shelf and bite her.
“Is my shop going to be in the film?” Mrs Singh asked, leaning over the counter and lowering her voice, “because if so, I’d like some warning.” She flashed her big beaming smile. “You know – to put on a touch of lipstick!”
I shrugged my shoulders and laughed, the way I did when I was feeling nervous, then quickly took a packet of Jaffa Cakes and a Milky Way from the shelf. The Milky Way was 29p. I still could, I thought, throw 1p in the Tweed and make my Christmas wish. The river wouldn’t know the difference. Mrs Singh took the money, whispering as she put the things into a bag, “Has the actress never seen a shop before?” Just at that moment, Agatha appeared by my side, her face all flushed and her bottom lip trembling like she might cry. She ran her fingers over the plastic counter, winced, then pulled back, looking seriously confused. Next thing she started gaping at a box of oranges like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. With a shaking hand she reached out and stroked the dimpled orange peel. Then she bent forward and sniffed it.
“She’s getting into the part,” I replied hurriedly, thinking it was high time me and Agatha Black made a rapid exit.
“So I can see. But, film or not, the lassie needs a coat. It’s snowing outside.” Mrs Singh was a kind woman and though she loved Scotland’s history she wasn’t a great fan of its weather. She hurried into the back shop and was out again in half a minute with an old coat. “Someone left this here,” she explained. “They never did come back to find it, so here you are, Agatha, put that on. It’s a bit big, but it’ll keep you warm.”
“Thanking yea kindly,” Agatha said.
Mrs Singh looked perplexed, then her face broke into a smile. She bowed her head and replied, “Yea are most welcome.”
I took Agatha and her coat and propelled her out of the shop, calling, “Bye Mrs Singh,” over my shoulder. Agatha, I thought, could be a major embarrassment.
Out on the snowy pavement she struggled into the big brown coat. The bottom of it trailed along the ground making her look like a child tramp. We hurried along the street, with Agatha nearly tripping as she gazed around – at the houses, the road, the parked cars, the television aerials, the street lamps. Sometimes she lifted her hand to catch a snowflake.
My mind was in a whirr. No way could I bring this nutty girl home. Mum would go all health-and-safety and poor Agatha would be carted off to some children’s home. Then she’d never get back to 1812. No. I found her. She asked me to help her. I took a deep breath and smiled at poor bewildered Agatha, who flashed me such a sunny smile back that I decided there and then I would help her.
Den, I thought. “Come on Agatha,” I said, steering her up past the launderette. Huge washing machines chugged away inside, steaming up the windows. Agatha pressed her nose up against the glass and stared, until I pulled at the sleeve of her baggy coat. “We’ve got to hurry,” I said urgently. “Come on. Trust me; the launderette’s no big deal.”
Agatha, looking totally gob-smacked, didn’t agree. But she followed me up the lane. I felt excited. Something big was happening. I didn’t know what, but my heart was racing. We ran over the snowy slippery cobbles. Despite her little black lace up boots, long dress, shower cap hat and now long baggy coat, this Agatha Black was a fast runner. We slithered on the cobbles, climbed the wall and ran over the wasteland which was now white with snow. And all the time I could see Agatha, wide-eyed, gazing around her. She’s taking notes, I thought, so she can tell her dad what she sees.
We reached the hedge, found the secret gap and wriggled through. Me being the gang leader, of course I went first. I told Agatha to hang on to my scarf and follow me. My heart leapt seeing the den again. Apart from the snow on the squint roof, it was just like we’d left it. Crow hadn’t been there – phew!
“Welcome to Pisa,” I said, sweeping my arm theatrically towards it. “Ta-da!” The den looked cool dusted with snow. The snow had covered all the rubbish in the garden too, which made it look magical instead of abandoned. It was the garden Agatha was staring at: the big trees, the expanse with extra fencing where a big old house must once have stood. I felt a bit miffed that she hardly noticed the den. I pushed open the shed door, which creaked like it always did. “Wanna come in?” I called, but Agatha was too busy gaping. She’d fallen all silent. Slowly she turned towards me and I saw a tear glisten on her cheek.
“Pray, where has Grandfather’s house gone? The yew tree still stands, but where, alas… is his house?”
“Hey, Agatha,” I said, tugging the sleeve of her coat gently, “two hundred years is, like, a long time. Houses fall down.”
If it was possible for her pale face to turn any paler, it did. “What did yea say?”
“I said: houses fall down.”
“No, no, – about the time.”
“I said two hundred years is a long time.”
I watched her working out the maths on her fingers. She looked ready to burst into tears so I jumped to the rescue, trying to sound all confident. “Hey, Agatha, no worries. If you got here, you’ll get back. Come on in, I want to show you our den.”
She gasped. “Two hundred years.” She shook her head, she wrung her hands, she said it again, and again, “two hundred years… so much time.”
Which reminded me of my own problems. It was almost half-past ten. I’d been gone ages. Mum would ground me again. Looking stunned, Agatha drifted into the den and sank down on a stone. “Two hundred years,” she repeated, shaking her head. “So Father succeeded? I thought he was boasting. When he said I would travel far I dared to imagine twenty, perhaps thirty years.” She shuddered. Her breath came in little rasps till I thought she might faint. I fumbled in my pocket and handed her the Milky Way. In the distance I heard the church clock chime the half hour.
“Look, Agatha,” I said, “I’m really sorry but I have to go. I’ll come back. But, you’ll be fine here. This is my secret den. Only me and Will and Robbie know about this place. We’re a gang. Do you know what that is?”
Agatha shook her head. Her long hair loosened flakes of snow down onto the wooden floor of the den. “Well, I’m the leader of it,” I went on, “and we do stuff. You know? Games and stuff. Adventures. Anyway, don’t wander off anywhere, ok? I’ll be back as soon as I can. And – I’ll bring you some food.”
Agatha gazed at the Milky Way as though she didn’t know what it was. “Hey, you can eat this,” I said, pulling the wrapper off for her. “See.” I demonstrated. “You bite into it.”
She
nibbled a morsel, screwing up her face like it was poison. But it seemed to help her forget about two hundred years. “How exceedingly strange,” she said, nibbling like a rabbit, “and remarkably sweet.” Her eyebrows arched. She shuddered, but went on nibbling, politely. I wondered when chocolate bars had been invented? Agatha had been through enough. I didn’t want to kill her with a Milky Way. So I snatched back what was left of the bar and shoved it in my mouth. I picked up Fred. “Here,” I mumbled, my mouth full, “have the ewok instead. He’ll look after you.” She squealed with delight and clasped Fred to her. I felt sorry for her, sitting there on a stone with a baggy brown coat on and hugging Will’s ragged old ewok, looking like her heart might break.
“So, Agatha,” I said, stepping backwards to the door. “What kind of food do you like?”
“Apples,” she replied, “and roasted chestnuts. Pigeon pie and frumenty. Not gooseberries, for they do make my teeth water, but, oh – and if there is a confectionary to be had, I’d be awfa grateful.”
“Right then,” I said, wishing I’d never asked. “I’ll see what I can do. Um, see you soon.”
“At what time exactly?” she asked.
Agatha Black, I guessed, cared a lot about time. Me, I hadn’t usually bothered much about it. I usually slept in and was often late for school. My mind raced. I reckoned with a bit of luck I could manage to sneak out again after lunch. “When you hear the church bells chime two o’clock, I’ll be back,” I said confidently, hoping somehow I’d manage.
“Ah! The kirk still stands then.” She sounded relieved. “Unlike poor Grandfather’s great house.” She smiled, like she was making an effort to be cheery. “I look forward to our meeting,” she said, pulling a little white hankie from her frilly sleeve. “Until then, dear Saul, I am much indebted to you.” And she waved her wee hankie up and down, like I was royalty.
“That’s ok,” I said then grinned and added, mimicking her accent, “until then, dear Agatha.”
I was shooting out the door of the den when she called after me. “Begging your pardon Saul, but afore yea hasten away can yea tell me – is this the year two thousand and twelve?”
I grinned and stuck my thumb up. “You got it Agatha, it is, for a few more days.”
She shook her head and hugged Fred even tighter. As I headed off to the hedge I heard her mutter, “he did it. Upon my honour, Father actually did it! I am in the future!”
4
I ran all the way home, slipping on the snowy pavements.
“Just as well for you, son,” Mum said, as soon as I fell into the hallway, shaking snow off my hoodie and holding up a wet newspaper and a soggy packet of Jaffa Cakes like trophies. She smiled, happy to see the Jaffa Cakes in one piece. “I was just wondering where you’d got to. I suppose you couldn’t resist flinging a snowball or two, hmm?” I nodded and handed over the goods. “Well,” she went on, “I was going to give you two more minutes.” She laid the newspaper and the Jaffa Cakes on the top of the radiator, put on her angry face and said, “Aye, then I would have been sending Santa a message, telling him to drop something down the chimney for the twins, but give their big brother a miss this year. Well, I’m glad it turns out I could trust you after all.”
I laughed; of course I don’t really believe in Santa but it doesn’t hurt for Mum to think I do! I flashed Mum my charming smile. If I could just keep up this good behaviour for ten more days I would surely get something. I wanted a bike so bad. Robbie had one. Will had one. Everyone except me. And I didn’t just want any old bike – I wanted a BMX, the best BMX. “I’ll be good, Mum,” I cooed, but at the same time thinking how the dramatic arrival of Miss Agatha Black could seriously mess up my Christmas-present behaviour plan. Sneaking off to feed her in the den was going to make things tricky.
“Thought I’d give my room a clean,” I chirped, still smiling. My cheeks were beginning to ache.
“Ah ha,” mumbled Mum, tucking into a limp Jaffa Cake, “glad Santa’s having an impact.” Still smiling I reached out to help myself to a Jaffa Cake. She grabbed my hand. “Ask nicely,” she said. “And don’t forget, Santa’s got the twins to see to this year. You’re not the only one anymore, so don’t expect big things.”
As if I could forget the twins. On cue one of them started bawling. Mum dashed off to their room, leaving me free to wolf down several Jaffa Cakes, wondering how on earth I was going to get hold of the kind of food Agatha fancied. There were some apples in the fruit bowl. And there was a stall on the High Street where a man sold roasted chestnuts. I didn’t have a clue what confectionary meant. And I only had 1p left.
I went off to my room and made a start at stacking all my magazines. I could earn some credit here with Mum. I watered my neglected cactus, which looked desert dry, if not dead. I arranged my school books and shoved a pile of clothes under the bed. Much neater. I emptied the contents of my rucksack onto the bed. A couple of mouldy half-eaten egg sandwiches tumbled out. They smelt gross. I could hardly palm them off on Agatha.
Underneath them was my history jotter and – wham! – I had a brilliant idea. Somewhere I had an entry form for the Scottish Borders Young Historian of the Year award. The first prize, for, “the most imaginative and realistic writing about life in times past,” was £200. Ok, I had read enough bike magazines to know top of the range BMXs cost way more than that, but maybe £200 would buy a pretty good one? If I had £200, I wouldn’t be depending on Mum and Dad getting the bike for me; if Christmas goes wrong, I could sort it out for myself. And maybe, just maybe, I could win it! Usually I never bothered with these competitions. There were too many swots who usually won. But those swots didn’t have a real life example of Scottish history in their den. Excited, I rummaged around in my bag and eventually found the entry form scrunched up down the bottom. I threw myself down on the beanbag, smoothed out the paper and read the rules:
– Entrants must be 12 or under and living in the Borders.
– Your essay can be about any period of Scottish history before 1980.
– Your essay must be at least 500 words long – AND MUST BE YOUR OWN WORK. Handwritten or typed essays are acceptable.
– Entries are due in by 19th December. Prize-winners will be announced on 21st December.
Good luck!
I stared at the entry form. I could feel my pulse quicken. I could win this competition. For the first time in my life I really thought I could win something. Carefully I slid the form back in my schoolbag. I could hear Mum hoovering in the living room. The twins were sleeping. I glanced out the bedroom window. It was still snowing. I sank into my comfy beanbag chair and thought about what I could do with £200.
Bikes cycled around in my head. They did fabulous jumps. They twirled in the air. If I had £200 I could surely get a bike. I wouldn’t have to depend on my completely unreliable parents. Or Santa.
When Mum called me for lunch I dashed into the kitchen, not wanting to be late like normal. She looked round at me, amazed. “Baked potatoes and cheese,” she announced, carrying them over to the kitchen table. “Being grounded for three days obviously did the trick. Just wait till Dad gets home. I’ll tell him he has a brand new responsible son.”
My dad is called Rory. He’s a taxi driver and weekends are when he makes his money. That’s good for him but kind of bad for me because it means we don’t get to hang out together much. But I guess at least he’s never gone and lost me in the future. I bit into the hot potato and imagined what it would be like if I suddenly got catapulted into 2212. Seriously scary. I don’t think I’d cope with it. I’d be the only human in a zombie world. Or I’d be the only one who couldn’t fly or mind-read or something.
“What’s ‘apprentice’ mean,” I asked, mouth full as per usual.
“Swallow what’s in your mouth, then you can ask me.”
So I did. Mum said, “People who learn things. Mostly a trade, like someone who’s learning to be a joiner or a painter and decorator.”
“Or a taxi driver?”
“Yeah, but you have to know how to drive well.” I stuck up for my dad. I was quite often sticking up for Dad. See, I reckoned Mum was a bit disappointed with Dad being a taxi driver and not earning much money. Her best friend’s husband was an engineer, whatever that meant. The way Mum said “engineer” you’d think it meant First Minister.
“Yes, that’s right,” Mum said, “your dad is a good driver. We’ll give him that. Anyway, you’re a bit young to be thinking about apprenticeships.” She ruffled my hair, sighed and said, “Enjoy being young, Son.” Then she got on with feeding the twins. Soon as her back was turned I slid what was left of my baked potato off my plate and into my pocket. I knew potato wasn’t exactly pigeon pie but reckoned it was similar, probably better. It was nearly half past one. As I was no longer officially grounded, I took a risk.
“Will and Robbie’ll be down at the sledging hill. It’ll be the best fun ever. I love the snow. I love it more than sun.”
Mum narrowed her eyes and gave me the look.
“I’ll be back by three,” I added quickly, bouncing up from the table. I felt the potato squishy in my pocket. “Oh, and I better have some fruit; five a day and all that.” Everything was going really well, so I thought I’d risk my luck. “Oh yeah, and, um, do we have any of that confectionary stuff left?”
Mum, eyeing me strangely, chewed on a bit of potato skin while feeding Esme and making coo-coo noises to Ellie. Ellie was banging her fist on the table of her high chair. “The what stuff? I can’t hear you.”
I waved my hand through the air like I was swatting a fly. “Never mind.” I headed for the door.