The Kimota Anthology (23 page)

August 22nd, 1887

Got depressed last night, so spent some of my remaining cash on a theatre ticket. Oh to watch TV! Chose the Haymarket, because Beerbohm Tree is manager there and I seem to remember hearing of him. Disappointing though. The play was very mannered and loud. Still, it passed the time.

August 23rd, 1887

Went to see H. G. Wells today. Thought if anyone would believe me, he would. My heart sank when I saw him. He’s still in his early twenties - a mere biology student at The College of Science. He appeared interested in my story, but thought it all a huge joke. Damn.

September l0th, 1887

I’ve found work as a solderer. Been doing it for a week now. The pay is terrible and the conditions appalling, but I’ve no apprenticeship papers and I’m not in a union, so they’ve got me over a barrel. Still, at least I’m earning enough for food and lodgings.

My kind landlady slips me extra rations from time to time ‘to build you up, dearie, as you’ve been looking very poorly lately”. I’m not surprised. In the evenings I’m too tired to do anything except sleep, and yet I can’t sleep because my thoughts keep going round and round in the same old rut. Maybe it would be best not to think about the box at all for a while...

October 20th, 1887

Not thinking about the box seems to have done the trick, but I’ve had an appalling idea. If it’s true, it means I’m trapped here. It came to me in a nightmare last night; I woke up shaking and dripping with sweat. I must think it through thoroughly, try to find a flaw in the argument ...

Dee sighed and put down the notebook - she had the beginnings of a headache. She made herself a cup of tea, and switched on the television.

“So there you have it. Proof that time-travel is not only possible, but has actually happened. We leave you once again with Dr Stephen Crowley’s amazing video of the funeral of King George V. Good Evening.”

On the screen, the solemn cortege, followed by its mourners, moved slowly on its way. The footage was lifelike and in colour, unlike the jerky black and white footage with which Dee was familiar. She gaped at it until it was replaced by tomorrow’s weather forecast.

Crowley watched the civic dignitaries, seven men and three women, file slowly into the room. The long blue velvet robes, the heavy chains of office, made them look ridiculous, he thought, and very, very hot.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Dr Crowley,” said the red-faced man with the largest chain. “I’m afraid we haven’t been able to reach a final decision.”

“ You mean we didn’t agree with you,” muttered someone under his breath.

Crowley sighed. “Maybe if you tell me what you’ve got so far?” ”Certainly.” The red-faced Mayor produced a piece of paper - his robe must have a secret pocket, decided Crowley - and began to read its contents aloud. “The short list is as follows: Councillor Fowler suggests the General Strike of 1926; Councillor Reed wants to see Jack Hobbs score his 316 runs at Lords - 1926 again, I believe. Councillor Shaw,” - he glanced at a middle-aged woman with dangly blue earrings - “suggests any suffragette rally from the years 1903 to 1904, and Councillor Norville thinks the Blitz of 1940 would be interesting -”

“Stop, stop!” Crowley held up his hand. “I should have made myself clearer.” It had seemed so patently obvious...” Your choice must not put me in physical danger, and it should be of interest to the majority of Londoners. The videotape is for them, after all.” He sighed. All this for the sake of PR!

The Mayor frowned.

“Perhaps I might make a suggestion?” said Crowley at last. The frown cleared. “Of course, Dr Crowley. What did you have in mind?”

It was a week before Dee settled down to read the notebook again.

November 4th, 1887

I’ve found the reason for the box’s failure. Universal physical laws aren’t constant as we have always thought but change to reflect the prevailing view. So in Newton’ s day, Newtonian laws existed, and in my day... Einstein’s.

This means the box can’t possibly work until prevailing opinion changes to incorporate Einstein’s theories ... until 1919 at least! I’ll be in my sixties by then. There are only two courses open to me - wait or try to change prevailing opinion now. There’s really no choice - I’ll start tomorrow.

The next few pages were blank. Dee riffled through the diary until, on the very last page, an entry appeared in an unfamiliar hand.

February 5th 1888

Dr Stephen Crowley has this morning been admitted to the Bethlehem Royal Hospital. In recent weeks, he has been increasingly unstable, accosting leading scientists and mathematicians, babbling about something he calls ‘relativity’. His health is poor. He needs sedation and constant supervision. We can offer him these at ‘Bedlam’.

Before he was taken to join the other inmates, he gave me this notebook and requested that his belongings be left to posterity. He spoke strangely, and asked me ’to warn his future self not to use the time machine to travel back before 1919’. The babblings of a lunatic, no doubt, but I will honour his wishes. His effects, including this notebook, will be put in storage.

Helen Draper, Nurse,

Bethlehem Royal Hospital

Dee stopped reading, shocked. Dr Stephen Crowley? The man who had brought back the videotape of King George V’s funeral? For a long time she stared at the notebook, absently fingering it and thinking. Could it be an elaborate hoax? Even if it was. Better, surely, to take action than to do nothing and find out every word in the diary had been true.

“An SOS from over a century ago,” she murmured at last. “And I’m the one who must deliver the message!” She reached for the phone book ...

“London Headquarters of the Royal Society,” came a woman’s bored voice on the other end of the line. “Can I help you?”

“Dr Stephen Crowley, please.”

“Putting you through.”

The ease with which Dee had got past the switchboard made her feel slightly off balance. Perhaps it was going to be all right after all, she thought. The sick feeling in her stomach subsided and she waited for Crowley’s voice to come on the line. And waited.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said another female voice. “Dr Crowley’s not here at present. Can I take a message?”

“Oh,” said Dee, flustered. “I was hoping to speak to him about his time travel experiments.”

“You’re a colleague of his?” Dee let her silence imply that she was. “He’s gone time travelling again,” continued the voice. Actually,” - the woman’s tone became confiding - “he’s a bit behind schedule returning, but we’re not worried as yet.”

Too late, thought Dee despairingly. “I think maybe you should be,” she said aloud. “Especially if he’s gone back to Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee.” Her nausea returned, stronger than before.

For a moment that seemed to stretch forever there was silence, then, “How on earth did you know about the Jubilee?” asked the voice, its tone now sharp. “That information hasn’t been released yet!”

Dee sighed. “It’s a long story,” she began, “but one I think you should know...”  

[Originally published in Kimota 10, Winter 1999]

A ROOM OF MY OWN

by Kevin K. Rattan

I’m going to do my room in shocking pink, and deep dark black.

When I told mum, she wasn’t going to let me, but dad said that a promise is a promise, and since I’d been waiting for the room for so long it was the least they could do. Besides, I was going to have to live with it, and it was my problem. That’s right dad, you tell it like it is. I
have
waited for ever so long for a room of my own. Why David couldn’t leave home at a decent age is beyond me.
I
won’t be staying here a moment longer than I have to, I can tell you.
He
wasn’t expected to help with the housework.

Dad got it wrong on one count, though. I won’t have to live with
it
. ‘It’ is my older sister, Marie, and she will absolutely hate my new room. Japanese prints and sophisticated hangings, that’s her style: she’s into taste, and ripping down my posters. When I’ve finished decorating my room she won’t even want to visit.

I can tell what you’re thinking. You think I’m overdoing it, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong. Let me give you an idea about my dear older sister.

When I was a baby, mum would leave me alone with Marie. What a pretty picture: the baby, happily burbling away to itself in its cot; the little girl, four years old and dressed as a nurse or something equally sweet. Blue eyes, blond hair. Beautiful teeth. The teeth - keep your eyes on them, they’re the point of this tale.

Every time mum left us alone for more than a few seconds, I’d start to scream. Mum would come back at a run, to find nothing wrong. Always. I’d be wailing, (that being the limit of my conversation at the time, except for ‘googoo’, ‘gaagaa’ and the like) and Marie, sweet little nurse, would be bandaging a doll, solicitous of its hurts. And not a sign of damage to yours truly.

Mum couldn’t understand it. Not until the day when she pretended she was going away, but hid herself when she could see what was going on. Sneaky.

“What The Mother Saw”: an exclusive from our roving reporter.

Hardly has the dust of mother’s departure settled, and dear sweet Marie walks over to my cot. Hello Sarita. Googoo Marie. But what hurt can she be ministering to? Shock! Horror! Our diminutive Florence Nightingale has taken my plump (but cute) arm, and sunk her milk teeth into it. Cue the wailing.

Mum returns. Marie is bandaging a doll. My sleeve, methodically rolled down, hides the Mark of the Vampire. Beware, fiend, Van Helsing is here. Alas, poor Marie, innocent of the approach of the Furies.

And that was the end of that.

Hah!

Okay, so she never bit me again. Gee Wizz. Golly Gosh. She managed. Endlessly inventive, my sister - and when, hardly out of nappies (less podgy, just as cute) I began to share a room with her, she had endless opportunity.

No, that’s not right. We never
shared
a room. I was only ever a lodger, and an unwelcome one at that. And at night when all good little children are in bed, then she’d come into her own...

But now, at last, I’m going to get away from her. David’s unconscionably long stay is finally over, and I get a room of my own. It’s small. Not very big at all. Almost a cupboard. But it’s
mine
. I’ll be the one who decides what’s trendy, what’s tasteful, what’s classy. And she won’t get a look in.

I can’t wait.

I don’t believe it!

They can’t do this to me: not after all that thinking, and planning, and looking forward. Not when it’s so close, when all that’s left to do is my colour scheme.

Not when all that was left to do was my colour scheme.

I should have known what was coming from the way dad sidled up to it. “Girls,” he said, “there’s something I want to discuss with you.” After dinner: after a gorgeous dinner, and a sweet that will require me to do a penance (say three minutes of aerobics, don’t want to overdo it).

Mum comes over from where she’s been pottering about with the washing up (normally my job - hold on, what gives?). She sits down, and I notice how drawn she looks. What’s been going on? What have I missed, thinking of nothing but my room?

Please God, please don’t let it be a divorce. Please don’t let it be that.

It’s not. What made me think that? Obviously not. Dad has mum’s hand in his.

“Girls, you know that your Aunt Edith has been unwell.”

She popped her clogs, then? But no...

“Well, she’s had to go into hospital, and she’s likely to be there for a while.”

Come on get to the point.

“Now, you know that she’s been looking after your grandmother since she hasn’t been able to look after herself.”

Translation: since mum’s mum went Gaga.

“Now, Alfred offered to look after your grandmother, but we do not think that with his job, he can do it properly. And none of us can afford to have her put into a nursing home. And we have a room almost ready which...”

OH MY GOD.

It was Marie who stormed off, though. “It’s not on! I will not have her staying in my room any more. I won’t have it. A working woman, and with a little girl there all the time. I’m not having it!”

She didn’t stay to see mum start crying. I did. Dad looked at me. “What about you?” he said. “How do you feel?”

“She’ll come round, knowing you don’t mind,” said mum, pleading.

I just looked at them.

“I knew you’d come up trumps, love,” said dad, and suddenly it was all decided. I didn’t said a word, not a bloody word. I knew there was nothing I could say. Hello room, goodbye.

She lives here now.

No, It lives here now. We have a new It in the family.

I remember my grandma. She was a big woman - very bossy; but nice with it. That thing upstairs in the lilac (
lilac
!) bedroom isn’t my grandmother. It can’t feed itself. It can’t wash itself. It can’t go to the toilet for itself. It can’t walk, can’t think, can’t talk - not even googoo, gaagaa. And it’s not cute. Wrinkled skin. Wispy white hair. Warts.
Hairy
warts.

The only sign that there’s anything behind that face is that sometimes, you look up, and she’s watching you, but vacantly, vacantly.

The arguments started soon after Granny was installed. Marie refused to help with anything to do with looking after her. “You wanted her,” she said to me (to me!) “You look after her.” Mum gave in. She doesn’t want Marie leaving home yet. Not while she’s still mourning David’s belated departure.

I didn’t get out of it so easily. I don’t have the freedom Marie has. And history’s been rewritten.

Apparently I was enthusiastic about Granny coming to us, so I ought to play my part. Still at least they don’t make me do the dirty jobs. Yet.

Last night I went into my bedroom, where I was going to have walls that were pink and black, and where I could have listened to my music without big Sis telling me to turn it down. I went in and looked at the overgrown, ugly baby in my bed. One of her arms lay on the coverlet, waiting for me.

Hello grandma.

[Oringinally published in Kimota 1, Winter 1994]