Lost in Time

Chapter 3: Tintin, the Boy Reporter, 1919-2

When the doctor came in to see him again later in the morning, he pronounced the concussion almost gone. He was the owner of the side-whiskers. An older man, with a tired face and kind eyes.

“Take it easy for a few days, young man. You’re a bit beaten up, even though the concussion is better. You were very lucky. Even your ‘cycle escaped more or less undamaged. Where were you headed?”

Lew spoke slowly and reluctantly. “Nowhere in particular. I was just travelling about. I’m looking for work.”

The older man looked at him kindly. “My friends are staying here for a few days. Mrs. Fortune has already been through your saddlebags—” he held out his hand, palm up, “—yes, I know. Gross invasion of privacy and all that. We thought you might not make it though, you were unconscious for so long.” He coughed and stifled a small smile. “And, well. Women. Anyway. She saw your camera. You’re a photographer?”

There was a pregnant pause whilst Lew thought frantically before he opened his mouth and spoke cautiously. “A hobby. I’m not very good I don’t think. I’ve only just taken it up—I thought it might be a good line of work, you know. Now.” He stopped himself before he could say too much. He didn’t want to disown the bike and the saddlebags—but if the rider was dead—and he pretty much thought he had to be, from what he remembered—then he wasn’t doing any harm. But he was going into this blind, with no knowledge at all of what was in there, and who he was supposed to be. Could he feign amnesia?

“Anyway, I’ve asked for them to be brought up. Do you think you can manage to come down for luncheon if you feel well enough?”

Lew nodded.

“Well then, I’ll leave you to it. Maisie will bring you in some clothes if you don’t have enough of your own—we had to cut your trousers off you because of your leg. My son…Raymond. He was killed at Second Ypres. I haven’t had the heart to go through his things yet. You may as well make use of them. The bathroom is across the hall.”

He was dignified in his withdrawal and once again the sense of displacement hit Lew hard. Sneaking about, not talking to anyone, on the edges of groups of the poor and dispossessed, he hadn’t really seen any of these people as people. But now, in a few sentences, the courtly old man had brought home to him that this was real and these humans he was interacting with weren’t paper cut-outs or actors in a film. They were in his past, but it was also his present, and they had their griefs and their worries in the same way he did. This was no flickering black and white clip of film, it was the here and now.

At that point in his musings, there was a tap on the door and the saddlebags and clothes appeared, courtesy of Maisie, who was a neatly dressed woman in her mid-twenties; he assumed she was a servant. He thanked her and also took the tea and toast she proffered, and she disappeared silently.

He opened the saddlebags. He now appeared to own a suit of clothes that didn’t fit him and a ridiculous-looking homburg hat. There was also a tattered brown envelope with some paper money and identification papers along with a Z3 form that said his name was Ellison Tyler and he’d been discharged from the Motorcycle Despatch Corps earlier in the month. Well, that explained the bike. There was also a camera. He examined it cautiously. It wasn’t new. It looked like something from a film. He reminded himself this wasn’t a film, it was real life, and opened it. He felt like Tintin, the Boy Reporter.

He vaguely remembered from some late-night Tumblr tripping that there was a standard type of camera press photographers used for decades at the beginning of the twentieth century. This looked a similar affair. He fiddled with a few knobs, twisted a handle, and there was a popping sound. He hoped that was the shutter rather than a piece falling off. He’d look at it properly later.

The clothes were stiff and new. He supposed they were a demob suit. Or was that a different war? He wished he’d paid more attention at school. Although he was pretty sure the method of putting on this underwear wouldn’t have been covered anyway. There was a one-piece thing that seemed to be an undershirt and briefs combined. With buttons up the front and a flap at the back. f*****g hell. He rummaged a bit more and found a vest and some boxers that looked a bit less terrifying. There was nothing else apart from a bag of washing things containing some soap and a shaving kit.

Across the hall from the bedroom was the bathroom to which he had been directed. He made his way across the hall stealthily, not wanting to meet anyone. He still felt filthy—the long walk and the hiding had given him a ripe smell that hadn’t completely disappeared with the blanket bath they had given him, and he had impressive stubble. He looked longingly at the bath, but confined himself to washing in the sink. There was some sort of contraption that came on with a thump when he turned on the hot water tap. The water that came out was nearly boiling. He managed to shave with the clumpy razor. He worked out how to put a blade in it without cutting a finger off. After all that, he felt considerably better.

Then he retreated to the bedroom again, where he put all the clothes on, bar the hat, and looked at himself in the mirror on the wardrobe door. It was like looking at a picture of his great-grandfather. He pulled his hiking boots on and hoped the trousers were long enough to cover the fact they were too modern. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he leaned forward and rested his face in his hands. What the f**k was he doing? What the f**k was going on? What had happened? Where was Mira?

The sleep hadn’t done much to help him get his head on straight. He was starving. The last thing he could remember eating with any clarity was a hunk of burned bread he’d found behind a bakery closing up yesterday morning and a couple of under-ripe apples from a tree overhanging the road. His head was pounding a little less now he’d drunk the tea and eaten the toast Maisie had brought him when he woke. But he needed a proper meal before he could think straight. He was worried about going downstairs—would he say anything to make them think there was something wrong with him?—but he needed to get a grip and go and get something to eat. He couldn’t Pull to see if he could find a trace of Mira until he was rested and fed.