Out of Time (10 page)

James nodded, and the swaggie went to the creek and filled the billy with water. He returned and settled the billy on the revitalised fire.

‘Now,' he said with satisfaction. ‘Time for a spot of lunch. Want a bite?'

James nodded again and the man cast around on the ground.

‘Damn,' he said. ‘Where's me bloody tucker box?
Where'd I put it? Oh no!' he yelled suddenly, violently throwing his hat on the ground. Oh, Jesus Christ no!' He picked up a biggish stick and held it, club-like. James panicked and pressed the ‘Return' button. As he felt the disintegration begin he heard the swaggie's final shout, ‘The bloody dog's shat on me bloody tucker box.'

‘HAS ANYONE FED
the dog?' their mother called, as she passed the door of the television room.

‘I did it yesterday. It's James' turn,' Ellie said, without taking her eyes from the screen.

‘Yeah, after I'd done it every night for a week,' James said.

‘Oh! You liar!'

‘I did. You never do it.'

James rolled slowly off the bean bag and eased out of the room. He was sick of arguing and sick of Ellie. He went to the end of the yard and sat against the fence. It had been a hot slow day. Holidays were all right, he thought, but sometimes they got boring. He looked to his right and saw the crisscross of tracks in the dirt where he and Ellie had made a town and carved out roads. One of the cars they had been playing with was still there: a blue Volkswagen, peeping out from a minor cave-in at the end of a road.

A ladybird crawled past James. He picked it up and recited the traditional song:

Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home.
Your house is on fire and your children are gone,
Except for the little one under the stone,
Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home.

He blew on the ladybird but there was no response.

‘Cruel mother,' he muttered, repeating the verse and blowing harder. At last the insect spread its incongruous wings and flew from his hand: at first tentatively, then wheeling and soaring until it was gone. James was annoyed then that he had let it go.

Ellie came out of the house with the dog's bowl.

The dog bounced and bounced around her. She put it on the ground and the dog buried his nose in it, with eager woofling noises. Ellie came over to where James was sitting. She stood in front of him.

‘You have to do it tomorrow night,' she said.

James changed the subject.

‘You know what the biggest difference is between animals and us?' he said.

‘What?'

‘We know we're going to die and they don't.'

‘But we don't really know we are. I mean, we pretend we're not.'

‘OK, what do you think the difference is, then?'

‘I think the biggest difference is that we like beautiful things, just because they're beautiful. Animals don't understand beauty. Well, they don't seem to.'

‘They might, and we just don't realise it.'

Ellie giggled.

‘Can you imagine a cow looking at a painting and thinking how beautiful it is?'

He rolled over and picked up the toy Volkswagen.

‘I'd hate to die in a car accident,' he said. ‘I'd like to know beforehand, so you could go to Disneyland and everything. And so people could get you presents.'

Ellie shivered.

‘Gee, I don't want to know. I'd like it sudden. But not in a car crash. I hate the way Dad drives sometimes. He goes so fast. And through orange lights.'

‘He's a good driver. I like going fast.'

‘I feel safer with Mum.'

The dog, having emptied his bowl, came snuffling around James' feet, as though he might have food hidden in his socks.

‘Go away,' James said, grabbing him fiercely around his muzzle. The dog see-sawed his head to get free, planting his feet firmly on the ground and using the strength of his neck to buck the boy's hand off. James let his muzzle go, then got to his knees to wrestle in earnest as the dog obligingly returned to the fray. Ellie ran around them laughing. The dog bounded away then came circling back for more. Ellie grabbed his neck as James tried to roll him over, but he wriggled free and came leaping in on top of both of them. Ellie upended him and, as he lay on his back, they started roughing up his stomach. Then Ellie's wheezing excitement burst into asthma and she lost her noise and laughter and breath.

Later she said, ‘I hope I don't die of asthma.'

Her comment made James nervous and embarrassed.

‘Don't be stupid,' he said.

‘People do,' she replied.

James didn't answer. He remembered the ladybird song.

THE HOSPITAL WAS
a temporary one: a field hospital housed in an old convent. Its supplies were short and the girl did not appear to be badly hurt anyway. Her leg was broken in several places but it would heal. She had scratches, abrasions, bruises. She was shocked, malnourished, dehydrated. All of these things would heal, though they might leave scars. There were other patients more badly hurt; in some of them the candle-flame of life was flickering, so that those watching over them hardly dared draw breath themselves, lest they take oxygen from the perilously light air flitting in and out of the tired lungs.

The scarring on the girl's face was old: it told nothing except that she had known pain before and had survived it.

Yet the expected healing did not seem to be taking place. The girl lay dry-eyed in her bed, complaining of nothing, accepting what was offered, but speaking to no-one. She seemed to fade a little more every day, so that the early expectations of a quick discharge gave way to fears for her survival.

‘If only she had her family. . . or a friend,' a doctor said.

‘Who knows we're here?' answered the nurse. ‘And we'll never have the time to go looking for her relatives. Maybe someone will turn up.'

‘Do you know where your parents are?' the doctor asked, leaning across the bed. There was no response. ‘I don't know if she understands a word I am saying,' the doctor sighed, standing up again.

‘I think she does,' the nurse answered. ‘She seems to be listening to our conversation now.'

The two women left the room, the nurse muttering to the doctor. ‘If she was with her family when the bomb went off I wouldn't hold much hope of her seeing them again.'

Though she had spoken so quietly, the girl heard her.

WITH THE BATTERY
indicator now clearly on the wrong side of halfway, James knew that it was now or never for the next great experiment. He keyed in the latitude and longitude with little hesitation: 41° 0' 0” 75° 0' 0”. But he trembled and sweated as he chose the date: 27. 09. 2099, 1000 hours. With a gulp, closing his eyes, he pressed ‘Enter'.

His body seemed unaffected but something grew hot in his hands. With an effort he opened his heavy eyes and looked. Steam was coming out of the machine. It was heating up so quickly that already it was almost too
hot to hold. James, desperate, stabbed at the Return button. He missed the first time, and now the machine felt like it was about to melt. James opened his hands to let it go. As it began to fall he stabbed at it a second time. Luckily he connected. The machine lay on the carpet and the steam began to clear.

Presently he was able to pick it up again without damage to his hands. Thoughtfully, he put it on his desk.

WAKING EARLY, IN
the luxury of the huge four-poster bed, Luke yawned and stretched and grinned. The old-fashioned starched white linen sheets felt purer and cleaner than anything he had experienced before. He wondered if it would be ridiculous to have fresh ironed sheets on the bed every night at home but realised reluctantly that neither he nor Sara would ever have time to do it. Most days they didn't even make the bed.

He turned on one side and looked out the windows to the long, sloping ornamental garden and the lawns and fountains beyond. Ever since he had been told about these stately homes his trips to Europe had been transformed. The same cool business transactions during the day but romance and majesty at nights. The food and service often weren't too good but the surroundings made up for everything. And in this particular one, Castle Dundas, the surroundings were of a mediaeval perfection. The slight early morning haze combined
with the ageless beauty of the gardens, so that Luke wondered lazily if he had slipped back into the fifteenth century.

He picked up his watch from the bedside table to look at the time, but the watch had stopped. He replaced it and yawned again. Then he turned on his side to face the door, as a gentle knock signalled a human arrival.

‘Yes?' he called, before seeing that the door had already opened, and a young pageboy, quaintly dressed in an old-fashioned uniform, had come into the room.

‘You have not put your boots out, sir,' he said politely. Luke raised his eyebrows. This was another pleasant surprise, another reminder of the way things had once been.

‘They're on the floor,' he said, ‘in front of the television.' The boy looked around him, but in a rather puzzled way, Luke watched him, equally puzzled.

‘There,' he said at last, pointing, ‘next to the red armchair.' The boy, with a start, saw them and moved decorously to pick them up. Luke, in his lazily relaxed mood, decided to be friendly.

‘What's your name?' he asked.

‘Alexander,' the boy replied. He still looked puzzled, but now his confusion seemed centred on the uncleaned shoes.

‘How long have you been working here, Alexander?'

‘Oh. . .' The boy's forehead puckered in thought. Luke decided that perhaps he was mentally disabled.

Finally Alexander answered, ‘Oh, a long time sir.'

‘And do you like it?'

‘Oh. . . yes, sir.' He looked suddenly nervous and covered his eyes with a hand. ‘I don't feel very well, sir.' he mumbled.

‘Well, leave the shoes,' Luke urged. ‘Do you want me to call the manager?' But Alexander, ignoring him, was walking towards the door. Was it Luke's imagination, or did the boy seem to be growing smaller, to be shrinking within his clothes? Startled, Luke shook his head to clear the illusion, but by the time he had his clear sight back Alexander had gone out the door.

Luke lay and lazed for another hour or so. He had no early appointments and, though he did not know the time, he was sure it was still early. Finally, however, he got up, showered, dressed, and went downstairs for his breakfast. On the way to the dining room he passed the manager who gave him a smiling ‘good morning'.

‘Ah, good morning,' Luke responded, stopping. ‘Look, I hope your bootboy's all right, is he? He seemed a bit off-colour.'

The manager suddenly looked remarkably alert.

‘Sir?' he asked.

‘The bootboy,' Luke said again. ‘. . . er. . . Alexander.'

The manager's face went white, then a slow grey.

‘Sir,' he said, ‘we have no bootboy.'

Luke gaped and struggled for words. ‘No bootboy?' he said at last. ‘No bootboy?'

‘No-one sir,' said the manager and paused. ‘Sir,' he said, ‘perhaps if you would eat now, I will try to explain to you after breakfast.'

After the meal Luke eagerly sought out the manager, who, with a grave nod but no words, led Luke down a long corridor, and through a number of heavy doors. ‘We are in the private part of the castle,' he explained to Luke. It was the first time he had spoken. Luke nodded a response.

They came to a small room fitted out as an office: it had a desk and two chairs, but these were dwarfed by the books, thousands of them, that filled every shelf and were piled in stacks on the floor. The manager sat Luke at the desk and indicated a row of books that were on the desk itself.

‘These,' he said, nodding, ‘are all about the castle.' He picked out one, a thin, worn, green volume, and quickly found the page he wanted. ‘Sir,' he said, placing it in front of the bemused man, ‘all of these books contain the story, if you wish to verify it. But this one tells it best, and it is in English.‘ He bowed and began to leave. ‘You can find your way back?' he asked, from the doorway. ‘Yes,' said Luke. The manager bowed again and left, shutting the door quietly behind him. Luke turned his attention to the book and began to read:

‘Perhaps the saddest story associated with Castle Dundas is that of the little servant boy who has been said to haunt the west wing since 1832. Alexander Karatzann began work as a bootboy at the age of eleven. He was by all accounts a bright child who quickly became a favourite of the domestic staff. This makes his fate all the more tragic. On September 27, 1832 he was due to walk to his home, twelve miles away, for his weekly visit to his family. He did not return from this visit, and was presumed to be ill. Perhaps negligently, enquiries were not put
into motion until September 29, when it was found that he had never reached his home. A search of the woods was instituted; several more days were wasted on this futile endeavour. It apparently did not occur to anyone that the boy might never have left the castle.

‘No trace of the child was found.

‘In 1864 an earth tremor caused the collapse of a large part of the derelict west wing. This event spurred the sixteenth Duke to take a step he had long contemplated: the rebuilding of the entire wing. The work commenced in 1865 with the hauling away of many tonnes of material from the sections affected by the earth tremor. As this rubble was being sorted – some for dumping in a nearby quarry, some for burning and some for reuse – workmen came across an oak beam that had once straddled a door. On it was carved, in a childish hand, ‘Alexander Karatzann, September 28, 1832.'

‘There is still no explanation for the mystery. It was ascertained that workmen had been remodelling the west wing – which was still then in use – around the time that Alexander disappeared. Yet records and the memories of witnesses, though not entirely reliable, suggest that this work did not start until mid-October, 1832. It is certain that the work included the sealing off of several apertures and sections of corridors, and two cellars that were considered unsafe. Though it was not possible to identify the room from which the oak beam had come, it was apparently not from a cellar.