London Calling Box Set

Chapter 3: Tintin, the Boy Reporter, 1919

Chapter 3: Tintin, the Boy Reporter, 1919When he came around again, it was surreal. He felt as if he was stuck in a silent film. Except it wasn’t black and white. Or silent. These people were as real as he was and he had no idea how he was going to deal with them. He supposed being taken in by a country doctor—that’s what he assumed had happened—was better than dying in a ditch. But he was all over the place, patches of bleary consciousness interspersed with long reaches of even more hazy semi-blackouts. He had been wondering for a while whether he had hit his head back in the alley, or whether the Pull had damaged him in some way. His vague recollection of the doctor’s examination was that he had a concussion—but they thought it was because he’d come off a bike, not been dumped backwards through time.

Whichever the cause, when he finally woke up properly he had a crushing headache and a lump the size of an egg on the back of his head.

He was in bed in an old-fashioned iron bedstead, heaped with sheets of soft, worn, well-washed cotton, scratchy grey blankets, and a lumpy feather quilt in pink silk. He thought he’d been here for a while—he had shimmery memories of people helping him to drink and to wash.

The room was medium-sized, with a large bay window glazed in old-fashioned, wavy glass panes. There were long, dark red curtains pulled back to let in the light and a red, brown, and blue patterned rug on the floor that was worn in patches. There was also a wardrobe with a mirror on the front and a tall chest of drawers with a green china ewer and pitcher resting on top. The furniture was oak or mahogany or some other dark wood. That was all, apart from a few generic watercolors on the walls.

He lay there and sorted through the flashes of memory as if they were filing cards. He remembered when he was—he was in 1919. He’d been Pulling to try to find Mira and he’d ended up travelling through time. He was still having a hard time getting his head round it.

He glanced out the window. Still raining. It seemed to have been raining constantly. Initially, of course, he hadn’t realized what had happened. His phone hadn’t worked…fuck, where was his phone? He wobbled out of bed and searched through the pockets of the coat chucked over a chair in the corner. He sighed with relief. It was still there.

He got back into the bed and tried to gather his thoughts.

He paused and breathed for a bit, clutching the iPhone, letting everything settle.

He concluded he needed to be extremely careful they didn’t think he was bonkers and lock him up. Perhaps the concussion would cover that up—it would be easier for them to interpret his confusion as the result of a head injury than as a symptom of inadvertent time travel. Then he could get away and try to track Mira.

Being warm and dry again was an enormous relief.

* * * *

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.

* * * *

The stairs descended into a parquet-floored hallway with a worn red and brown patterned runner, leading to what he assumed was the front door. There were several rooms leading off the hallway, most with doors ajar. From one of them voices were clearly audible and he followed the sound, cautiously, partly from fear of the unknown and partly because now he was actually on his feet he was a bit wobbly and less likely to diss the doctor’s concussion diagnosis. As he pushed the door fully open, the voices paused. Grouped by the window were three people: the doctor and two others, a woman and a man.

The woman was a cliché. Pretty much everything he had ever pictured when he had given the Twenties a passing thought. She had a dark bob in wisps around her face and was wearing a dress made of some sort of green, heavy, drapey stuff, all layered down to her calves. She wasn’t a flapper—too old, he thought, judgmentally—but she was stunning. She smiled at him. The second man was short and stocky and older. Balding, with glasses. Smart suit, crumpled round the edges. He turned and stepped forward, holding out his hand to shake. “Mr. Tyler! So good to see you vertical!” He was Scottish. “We thought you were a goner the other night! I’m McGovern, Callum McGovern. And let me present Mrs. Ella Fortune.”

Mrs. Fortune stepped forward and shook his hand, too, holding it for a moment. “Very pleased to meet you properly, Mr. Tyler. You worried us for a while, there. Please, won’t you sit down?” She gestured toward the table and there was a little shuffling around as they all took their seats.

“I’m very pleased to meet you both, as well. Thank you very much for your help.” He decided to get his cover in. “I’m so sorry—I’m still a rather fuzzy about what happened and everything is a bit of a blur.”

“Of course, of course,” the doctor chimed in. “You took quite a bang to the head, completely understandable. I’m surprised you’re up and about today, to be honest—we won’t be offended if you disappear again after lunch!”

Mrs. Fortune interrupted. “It was I who insisted Dr. Grimes ask you down to lunch. I overheard him asking Maisie to take you up another tray, didn’t I, Maisie?” She glanced across the room to the young woman who was serving the doctor.

“Yes, ma’am. Dr. Grimes was just reminding me the patient was awake.” She smiled at Lew. “I wasn’t going to leave you with only toast, though, sir. Really!”

“Well, my insatiable curiosity demanded he invite you to join us, and here you are.” She paused for breath and McGovern cut across her.

“Eat your ham, Ella, and leave him be for a bit. The chap is still white as a sheet.”

She laughed and apologized. “I’m so sorry. Please do ignore me, I’m being dreadfully rude!”

“Not at all, Mrs. Fortune, I’m just so grateful you found me. And thank you, Dr. Grimes, for your hospitality.”

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Tyler. I’m delighted to be able to help. In fact, I believe that may also be on Mrs. Fortune’s agenda.” He turned to the lady again. “You might as well lay it out for him, Ella. You’re going to explode if you keep quiet any longer.” His voice was dryly amused.

“Mr. Tyler, in the course of looking through your possessions to find out who you were, we couldn’t help but notice you have a camera…” Her voice rose in a question.

“Yes, ma’am. A new hobby.” Oh f**k. They were going to expect him to know things and he could hear his accent wasn’t right. He tried to mimic theirs and say as little as possible. He realized he would have to train the twenty-first century out of his voice.

“Well, co-incidentally, Mr. McGovern here is a newspaper man. And he and I are going into business setting up a new paper.” There was a small silence whilst everyone stared at him. “We wondered if you might be interested in coming on board.” More silence. More staring at him. He coughed.

“That’s extremely kind of you both. But surely if you are already in the business you must know people who are already experienced? My interest is extremely new.” He abruptly stopped himself from speaking. This was awful. They were going to suss him out. He gulped. “I spent a lot time travelling overseas in recent years—I’m sure you can hear it in my accent!—and took it up as a hobby on my discharge.” He drew a breath, blinking. Would that be enough? Or would it open up more questions? He forced himself to keep his breathing even.

“I’ll soon decide whether you’ll do or not,” McGovern cut in, seeming to take his words at face value. “I’d like to give you a chance, that’s all, if you want it. You told Grimes you’re looking for work. You have a camera and a ‘cycle: that makes you mobile. You can have a trial and we’ll see if it works out.”