Chapter 54
Lime Lane, Swainshurst, Wealdshire. Sunday 31 May 1998
'All the protesters have now been evicted from Puck's Dell on the site of the proposed Kingsbourne Bypass in Wealdshire. All that is, apart from those who are still underground. Police diggers have so far failed to get beyond the steel doors which are close to the tunnel entrances. It has been confirmed that a bulldozer and two cherry pickers disappeared from the area on Friday night but there is still some confusion about who was responsible. The contractors insist that the machines were taken away by them as they cannot be employed until the tunnels are evacuated. The protesters, however, are asking why a forensic team was examining the area where the machines were parked overnight if, as the contractors maintain, the machines were driven away by them. Rumours of a ghost being seen by two security guards have been dismissed by the bailiffs as a story invented by the protesters to try to frighten away those who are trying to complete the eviction. Hundreds of members of the public have ringed Stumblefrith Forest to register their support for the actions of the anti-road protesters. Not everyone however, is against the new bypass. I am joined on the phone by Brian Bilson, the Transport Minister, and Misty, one of the protesters. Good morning, Mr Bilson. The protesters seem to be getting a great deal of public support. Why do you think that is?'
'I think these protesters are simply self-publicizing human moles who are wasting tax-payers' money. The money which has been spent on security people could have been spent on improving roads and railways.'
'Misty — Mr Bilson says you're self-publicizing moles who want to waste tax-payers' money.'
'If Mr Bilson thinks we're all here because we want to be on television he must be stupid. We are here because we don't want to see any more of our countryside being ripped up to provide even more roads. We're getting so much public support from people who are wondering if we really need more roads.'
'Mr Bilson — Misty says people are wondering if we really need more roads.'
'I think what people are actually wondering is how we can allow people to claim they can't find work and then expect social security money to be delivered to them at the tops of trees. I'd rather they got decent jobs and started paying taxes.'
'Misty — Mr Bilson says you ought to get a job.'
'I'd love to have a job. I'd love to be able to live in a comfortable home and go to work each day knowing that the countryside is safe. Instead of that, I have to spend summer and winter living in appalling conditions to try to prevent government vandalism.'
'You're a vandal, Mr Bilson. Can you give us a final comment.'
'We're not vandals. People need roads, and we give the people what they want.'
And a final word from you, Misty.'
'Mr Bilson isn't giving the people what they want. They want the countryside to still be here when their grandchildren are born.'
'Thank you Mr Bilson. Thank you Misty. I'm sure this debate will go on and on.'
'Misty spoke well, didn't she? Josie said as she turned the radio off. 'Right then, Chris. Are we going to see this magistrate friend of yours? And his daughter, of course.'
Chris still felt a bit guilty about having kept his sister in the dark with regard to the time-travelling trips he had made on his own. He had wanted to find out how Swainshurst had changed over the years and to see their own house being built.
In the early years of the nineteenth century there was a pond in the village. As years passed, it gradually silted up and was eventually built over. On one of his visits, in January 1835, Chris saw that the pond was frozen over. He was watching the antics of some ducks on the ice when he saw a young girl approaching the far end of the pond. She had a wooden hoop which she was rolling along the ground by hitting it with a short stick. Chris knew what was going to happen.
He saw the hoop hit a stone or a rut and bounce sideways onto the frozen surface of the pond.
He watched the girl chase after it.
Chris jumped onto his bike and pedalled towards the girl shouting at the top of his voice. She heard him, but too late. The ice broke and she disappeared. She splashed about for a while but, by the time Chris had reached the scene, the water was still. He threw his bike to the ground, called for help as loudly as he could, and tried to think what he could do to rescue the girl. He took off his coat and jumper, lay down on the ice, and gradually inched his way forward towards the jagged hole. He tried to ignore the creaks and groans of the ice all around him, knowing that there was every chance he would end up in the freezing water himself. Just as Chris reached the edge of the hole, there was a loud crack and he suddenly found himself immersed in water so cold that he thought he would freeze to death within seconds. As he pushed down with his feet to try to heave himself back onto the ice, he realised, with some relief, that he could touch the bottom. Chris stood up and was amazed to find that the water came no higher than the middle of his chest. Torn between climbing out and trying to find the girl, Chris surprised himself by turning his back on safety and wading towards where the girl should be. He saw something red in front of him and, lunging forward, was able to grab a handful of thick cloth. He was beginning to lose all feeling in his hands but, somehow, managed to retain his grasp whilst walking backwards. A few moments later he had dragged the girl onto the ice and then onto dry land. He stood shivering and wondered what to do next. His hands were purple and he knew that if he didn't get into a warm place soon he wouldn't last very long.
He must have fallen unconscious, for the next thing he knew he was lying in front of a roaring log fire. A man with a huge moustache was staring down at him. Chris sat up and realised that he was naked beneath a blanket. At the other end of the huge hearth was another blanket-covered heap. He guessed it was the girl he had rescued.
'Is she all right?' Chris managed to ask.
'Indeed, she is,' replied the moustache. 'I am indebted to you, young man, for saving my daughter's life.'
Chris had stayed by the fire for the rest of the morning. His bike and clothes had been recovered from the side of the pond, and the clothes which he had been wearing when he had fallen through the ice were dried by the fire. The girl, eight-year old Mary, was put to bed as soon as she had thawed out. The moustache alternated between sitting at his daughter's bedside and hovering by the fireside to quiz Chris.
He said that his name was Linley Smythe, he was a magistrate, and Mary was his only daughter. His wife had died several years ago. But he was far more interested in interrogating Chris than in revealing details of his own life. Being a man of intelligence, and possessing an open mind, he realised that Chris was an enigma. His clothes, his bicycle, the gold bracelet on one wrist and strange watch on the other wrist were too unusual to be ignored. They represented developments in technology which seemed impossible in 1835. Linley Smythe, priding himself as an amateur scientist, demanded answers. It didn't take long for Chris to realise that not only would he have to reveal his origins, but that this man would be prepared to believe what he was told. For him, time travel seemed perfectly logical.
Linley Smythe was spellbound as he listened to Chris describing radio, television, telephones, mobile phones, video cameras small enough to fit inside coat buttons, space flight, hovercraft, nuclear power, home computers, the Internet, heart transplants and credit cards. Afterwards, Chris wondered whether it was ethical to tell someone about the future. Although he had not asked himself the question at the time, he realised that he had actually been very selective in what he had told the magistrate. He told him much about technological developments, things which were possibly predictable, but nothing about social changes or politics. He had made no mention of wars and revolutions.
When Chris decided he ought to go home, Linley Smythe had thanked him profusely for saving his daughter's life and for telling him about the twentieth century. His only regret, he had said, was that he would not live to see the things that he had heard about. Chris consoled him, however, by saying that the century in which Mr Smythe was living would be just as exciting as the twentieth century, if not more so. He said that he would be proud to be British when he realised that Britain was able to lead the world in so many different areas.
Chris's reluctance at telling Josie about his adventure was due more to his desire to keep his bravery (or foolhardiness) a secret than a desire to be secretive. He had returned to Swainshurst a few days later to find out if Mary Smythe had recovered from her accident. He was devastated when he learned that she had developed pneumonia and her chances of pulling through were slim.
Dr Sengupta, although also a man of science, did not share the magistrate's open-mindedness. He scoffed at Chris's tale of an eight-year old girl dying of pneumonia in 1835. At the same time, he was fascinated by the boy's vivid fantasy. It was only when he was presented with a video recording, the date in the corner showing 31.5.1998, that he was prepared to suspend his disbelief. The recording showed a girl who was obviously extremely ill, a gentleman in nineteenth-century clothes holding up a copy of a newspaper bearing the date 1835 — and Chris. He couldn't see how Chris could have contrived the scene but, even if he had, the girl was obviously in need of treatment. Dr Sengupta was presented with a moral dilemma: could he prescribe drugs for a patient whom he had not seen and who, if the boy was telling the truth, had probably been dead for a century? When he thought how he would feel if Chris presented him with a second recording showing a small coffin being lowered into the ground, he knew that he had no option. He gave Chris a prescription for antibiotics on condition that the National Health Service wouldn't be expected to treat any more patients who, by all rights, ought to be lying peacefully in their graves.
The Magistrate's house, Swainshurst, Wealdshire. 1835
The magistrate welcomed Chris and Josie to his home and led them into the drawing room. Josie was struck by how dark and cluttered the room was. The chocolate-coloured walls were covered with pictures of all shapes and sizes, and most of the floor space was taken up by furniture — sideboards, upholstered chairs, a piano and various tables. Every available surface was occupied by objects ranging from pots containing ferns to glass vases and brass statuettes. Josie was glad that she didn't have to do the dusting in this house.
When Mr Smythe had rung for the maid and ordered tea for everyone, Chris asked after Mary.
'Unfortunately, she is at school, otherwise you could have seen for yourself how well she has recovered from her accident. She is a picture of health. I think she has inherited her father's constitution.' Turning his attention to Josie he said, 'I trust your brother has informed you of his act of bravery in rescuing my daughter from the frozen pond.'
Chris blushed and looked at his feet.
Josie smiled and answered, 'Yes, he told me eventually.'
'His modesty does him justice,' Mr Smythe declared. 'I am forever indebted to him and, as he has declined my offer of material remuneration, hope that I can be of service to him one day.'
'Actually . . .' Chris started.
'Ah-ha. Have you thought of a way in which I can honour my debt? Out with it, lad. I am yours to command.'
'I . . . uh . . . wondered if you could . . . sort of . . . um . . . send someone to Australia for me.'
The magistrate, a bemused expression on his face, sat down. This was hardly the sort of request he had expected. 'You have quite taken the wind out of my sails,' he declared. 'I think I need to hear the whole story before I am able to provide you with an answer.'
An hour later, Linley Smythe had agreed that he would assist their Mr Starling to become a convict. 'This is a most unusual request,' he had said, 'but if the man wishes to be convicted, and this is the manner in which my obligation is to be discharged, then the endeavour shall be undertaken. It will require some planning but I think we can be certain of a successful completion.'