Tomorrow's Guardian Page 11

CHAPTER TEN – A VICTORIAN OFFICER

  A few moments later, Tom, Septimus and Edward Dyson materialised in a heap on the rug in front of the Professor’s desk. Neoptolemas was sipping a cup of tea and in surprise he coughed violently as most of it went down the wrong way. After spluttering for a few moments, he finally recovered and pulling out a handkerchief patted himself dry. Then, he smiled at them from over the top of his glasses and gave a nod of satisfaction.

  “Well done, Thomas ...,” he began, but then noticed the bloodstained bandage around Tom’s waist. His eyes widened in alarm, “But you are hurt – I must have the doctor examine you at once. I see our young officer is hurt as well,” he observed as he reached over and rang a bell on his desk. Mr Phelps came in wearing his usual haughty expression, which fell away completely when he saw the injuries. Instantly, he took charge and a few moments later Tom found himself whisked away from the office and upstairs. Here, there were offices filled with files and books and further up still, on a second floor, bedrooms. In one of them, a somewhat overweight man in his fifties, with a florid complexion and red hair, introduced himself as Doctor Makepeace and then promptly ordered Tom to strip and get into bed.

  “But, my family, my school – I have a French test. I must get home. Septimus!” he objected to his companion who was standing in the doorway, having helped the Professor’s secretary carry the still unconscious Lieutenant Dyson upstairs.

  “That wound will need three days before you go anywhere my lad!” the doctor pointed out.

  “Besides which, you know how it works, boyo. Once you are well we will whisk you back home earlier today. No one will know you have gone anywhere,” Septimus said and helped Tom swing his legs round and then pulled up the sheets.

  “The doc here will sort you out and then you must sleep. If you need anything, that phone there will reach Phelps,” Septimus instructed, nodding at a rather old fashioned telephone on the bedside table.

  Tom gave in and allowed the doctor to clean his wounds then inject him with some local anaesthetic. He then needed half a dozen stitches and a sterile dressing. Soon, the pain was settling and he did feel a little better. The doctor left him and moved on to the other bed where Lieutenant Dyson was lying.

  At first, Tom was still wound up and on edge with images of the battlefield rolling around in his head. As the horrors at Isandlwana replayed themselves across his mind he feared he would get no sleep for days. However, he was truly exhausted after the day’s activities and only ten minutes later he was fast asleep.

  When he awoke, bright sunshine was blazing in through the windows, so he reckoned he must have slept through the night and it was now the following morning. He sat up slowly, wary that he might pull on his wound and pop open the stitches, but he was surprised to find that he had little pain at all. He glanced over at the other bed and jumped in shock as he saw that Edward Dyson was also sitting up in bed staring at him.

  “Where am I? And who the blazes are you?” the officer demanded.

  “Er … I think I’d better get the Professor,” Tom stammered.

  “Professor? Where’s my regiment? Is this an army hospital?” Edward glanced around then got out of bed, wincing slightly as his feet found the floor. “I was injured, wasn’t I? I remember now. I was fighting in the camp. The Zulus charged. I thought to myself, ‘The game’s up old chap,’ then ...” His face screwed up as if he was trying to focus his mind on the memory. Suddenly his gaze snapped back onto Tom. “You were there; you appeared out of nowhere. Then we were in a tent. After that … I don’t remember anything else.”

  Dyson slumped back on the bed. Tom picked up the phone and found that it started dialling automatically. A moment later the Professor’s secretary answered. “Yes?”

  “Erm, is the Professor there?” Tom started to say, but he did not get any further, because there was a loud crash from the other end of the room. Edward had leapt out of bed and come charging towards him, knocking the bedside table flying. He grabbed the phone from Tom and stared at it suspiciously.

  “What is this? Is this some kind of weapon? Where am I? Am I a prisoner? You certainly are not the Zulus. Are you French or Prussian, maybe? Are you helping the Zulus? Are you trying to build your own empire inside ours? Bloody cheek!” he shook Tom by the shoulder, “Answer me, boy!” The officer shouted, getting angrier by the moment.

  “It’s difficult to explain, Mr Dyson … I think ... the Professor …” Tom stammered, both terrified by the wild look in the other’s eyes and amazed by Dyson’s apparent recovery as though his wound had miraculously healed overnight.

  “Who is this Professor? Tell me now: I want answers!” He shook Tom again, rattling his teeth.

  “I am the Professor,” said a voice from the doorway, “and if you will release Master Oakley, I will give you answers. I am afraid to say, though, that you will find them hard to accept.” Something in the Professor’s voice gave him authority.

  Edward glared at the old man for a moment and then relaxed. “Very well, sir. That is all I ask.” His tone was respectful and releasing Tom, he almost stood to attention. Tom recalled learning at school how the Victorians had been raised to respect their elders. ‘How times have changed,’ Mr Morgan had remarked wryly at the time. Clearly, Edward Dyson was what Mr Morgan would have described as a ‘good’ Victorian.

  “Good man. This way to my office then ...” Neoptolemas said, pointing the way and, after one more glance at Tom, the Lieutenant followed the Professor out of the room and on down the corridor.

  After they had gone, Tom slept most of the rest of the day. The doctor visited him a number of times and changed the dressings. As the day wore on, he became aware that the pain in his side was becoming much easier and that although he felt stiff he could get out of bed and walk as far as the bathroom, along the corridor.

  The next morning he woke early and found that all the pain had gone and he was famished. After he had demolished a big breakfast of kippers followed by bacon and eggs, brought to him on a tray, the doctor visited and Tom expressed his surprise at how quickly he was getting better.

  Doctor Makepeace nodded, removed the dressing and smiled with satisfaction. Looking down, Tom saw that there was only a tiny scar where a little more than twenty–four hours before there had been a huge gash. “How… when ... wow... I mean, cool!” was all he could manage to say.

  “I have certain powers to manipulate time the same as you do – but in my case, I have found a way to accelerate the healing process considerably. Umm … yes. I think you can go home today: you have done well,” the doctor declared.

  “Thanks, Doc!” Tom said, then he leapt out of bed gave a whoop of delight and, after getting dressed, went downstairs. He made his way to the Professor’s office and found Neoptolemas reading a book. Without looking up, the old man pointed at the seat in front of him.

  Tom sat. He turned his head sideways to read the title on the book’s spine. It was entitled Artefacts from History and Legend. The old man certainly reads a lot, he thought to himself.

  After a minute, the Professor scribbled a word in a notepad on the desk, carefully marked his place in the book with a folded envelope and finally smiled up at Tom.

  “How are you, Thomas?” he asked.

  “Fine, I’m fine. The doc says I can go home today. That is good: thought I would have to stay longer.”

  “Yes, that is good indeed. But in fact, you will be going home two days ago. Today is Monday and you are already at school. Or you will be once you return to Saturday.”

  Tom nodded. As crazy as it sounded he was actually starting to understand all of this. “Professor, how is Lieutenant Dyson?”

  The old man took his glasses from where they were perched on his nose and gave them a polish on a handkerchief before answering. “The Lieutenant is recovering well from his ordeal at Isandlwana and is resting in the lounge. His body is fine, but I am concerned about his mind. For him the battle was only the day before yesterday, not more than
a century ago.

  “For me the battle was only the day before yesterday too, Professor,” Tom observed.

  “Perhaps, but we have wrenched this man out of his world. All that he knew is gone. One moment he was fighting in his regiment alongside his men and fellow officers and the next he is in another century, in an England very different from that which he left when he got on the boat to go to Africa. He might take a while to adjust. It is quite possible he will never adjust.”

  Something in the old man’s voice and the distant look in his eyes made Tom ask a question which popped unbidden into his mind. “This has happened before, hasn’t it?”

  The Professor gave him a sharp look, as if reappraising him, and then nodded. “What you must realise, Tom, is that what we do is dangerous. More than that: it is, in a way, unnatural. Time flows at a set rate. Always has and always will. Men are born for the time they are in. Not everyone adapts to moving outside their years as well as you and your companion Septimus have done. Sometimes the experience is not a good one. Sometimes they have gone mad …”

  Tom thought about that for a moment. He imagined suddenly waking up to an alien world; all the people he had known and loved gone to dust. His surroundings full of weird and wonderful contraptions – frightening until you knew what they were. Yes, he could begin to imagine the horror. He became aware that Septimus was standing next to him, looking down at him with that half smile as if he knew what Tom was thinking.

  “Time for you to go home for a few days, boyo.”

  With a nod Tom got to his feet and with a brief wave at the Professor, he followed Septimus out into the corridor.

  They Walked back the forty–eight hours or so and the short hop home to Tom’s house and bedroom, timing the arrival to be a few minutes after he had first gone to see the Professor. His mother was still out shopping; his father still ensconced in front of the TV. To Tom this state of affairs was beginning to feel quite normal.

  Septimus patted Tom on the shoulder. “Nice work, Tom. I’m sure you were scared; indeed you would be dumb not to be with fifteen thousand Zulus after your blood. But you did not let it stop you. You got the job done and done well. See you soon.” Then, with a wave of his hand, he was gone.

  Tom stood for a few moments, taking it all in. He was in his bedroom only moments after he had first left it to travel to talk to the Professor. It seemed difficult to believe that he had been to London, gone back over a century and been involved in a famous battle. He could well understand that men might go mad tampering with time. What he did know was that, despite a day and a half’s sleep, he was still knackered. He collapsed on his bed and slept most of that day and the following day – a Sunday – surfacing only to eat food. At one point he overheard his dad saying to his mum with a chuckle, “Well, he’s a practically a teenager now, dear; I’ve heard they sleep all day. He’s just getting in some practice!”

  On Monday morning, Tom staggered out of bed and into his uniform and so to school. He looked at his timetable. First period – double French. Now, that rang a bell. What was it? Was he supposed to remember something?

  Later that same day, Tom was aware that his French teacher was hovering in front of his desk, waving a piece of paper at him. The entire class was looking on as well, prepared for whatever entertainment might follow. Kyle seemed to be taking particular notice and was leaning back in his chair, his hand behind his head and a broad smile on his face. He loved it whenever Tom fell foul of the teachers – which did seem to be happening a lot lately.

  “Two out of twenty! Thomas Oakley, did you actually study any of this?”

  “Erm ... I did, I mean I forgot … sorry …” Tom stammered. Now he knew what had been niggling him: he had a French test and was supposed to have studied for it that weekend – the weekend he had spent in Zululand or recovering at the Hourglass Institute and then later at home. His teacher was glaring at him and the glare seemed to go on forever. It was interrupted by a knock at the door; then the door was opened by the school secretary.

  “Well?” snapped Mrs Spencer, “What is it now, Mrs Brown?”

  “Message for Thomas Oakley: a family friend is here. Can he come to reception?”

  Mrs Spencer looked about to say no, but after a moment she nodded curtly towards the door. “Go on then, Oakley. But next Monday I will test you again and you had better know the vocabulary by then, or I’ll have your hide: that is not an idle threat!”

  “Yes, Mrs Spencer …” Tom replied and hurried towards the door before the French teacher changed her mind.

  “Going for your counselling, are you, Oakley?” Rogers whispered after him, but loud enough for most of the class to hear and snigger at.

  His ears burning, he followed the secretary along the main corridor and then across a courtyard to the school offices. As they entered, Tom stopped suddenly. There, sitting on a chair looking at an old school book with the title, History of Empire 1850 to 1950 and shaking his head slightly, was Lieutenant Edward Dyson. He was wearing his bright scarlet jacket and army trousers and looked here and now, not so much a Victorian officer, as a historical re–enactor preparing to refight a battle.

  Tom stepped forward, aware that Mrs Brown was glaring at them both, her face wearing an expression that seemed to ask if he was related to the weirdo in the uniform. Tom stared at her, forcing her to look away. With that, she walked out of the office and left them alone.

  As soon as he was sure she was not listening at the door Tom went over to Edward and whispered under his breath. “What are you doing here?”

  “Right now, I am reading about what happened after we left the battle,” Edward said, not looking up but pointing at the history book. “It says here that no one from my battalion survived. Poor old Colville and Melville tried to save the flag, but were caught and killed in the Buffalo River. In fact, we all died there.”

  Now he did look up at Tom, his face white and strained. “I should have died there, instead of being whisked away by some hocus pocus. Why did you do it?”

  Tom was not sure how to answer that. He had not thought much about what Edward would say, but he supposed he had expected some degree of gratitude. “Did you want to die? Septimus and I saved you. How can that be wrong?”

  The history book snapped shut. “It was my place and my time to die. I should be safely hidden away in this kind of book – my body a thousand miles away, covered in stones and soil,” he said with tension in his voice. “Instead, I find myself in a place I don’t know and in a strange land!”

  “It’s England!” Tom said.

  “Is it? It’s not much like my England!” Edward replied.

  Tom put his hand on Edward’s shoulder to try and calm him down. “Come along, Mr Dyson. Let me show you something. I think it will make you feel better.”

  They walked out of the school and along the path towards the playing fields. They passed first a football and then a rugby pitch. Then they came across a class of boys playing cricket. For a local comprehensive school, Tom’s was very traditional in some ways and the boys wore whites. Edward stopped and looked, for once, more relaxed. Beside the cricket pitch was an old oak tree and under it a bench. The two of them sat down and watched the game for a while.

  Edward turned his head to take in the surroundings. The cricket pitch stuck out between a wood and a park, so there was not much of the modern city in view. Tom realised there was nothing here to show you were in the twenty–first century, save the distant noises of traffic.

  “It could almost be England ...” Edward muttered, under his breath.

  “It is England, Mr Dyson ...” Tom replied, but was interrupted by the man holding up a hand.

  “Please, Tom, call me Edward. After all that we have been through, I think we can dispense with formalities.” Tom was surprised, but smiled at that. Perhaps he was starting to get through, at last.

  “Right then … Edward. As I was saying, it is England. We still play cricket, football and rugby. Do you know
we won the Ashes last summer ...?”

  “What are the Ashes?” Edward asked looking puzzled. Tom thought for a moment and squinted to recall a date mentioned in a TV report. His eyes widened slightly.

  “My God – it must have been after your time. But, have I got a treat for you! It’s almost the end of the day. My parents won’t be in for a couple of hours and my sister is at Brownies. Come on: let’s go home. My dad has got the entire series on DVD ...”

  “What is DVD?” asked Edward.

  “Come on, I’ll show you. By the way, how on earth did you find me?” Tom asked as he led the man behind the oak tree and then, with a pop, they were gone.

  Several hours later, at the Professor’s office, Tom was sitting drinking coke and explaining what had gone on that day at his school.

  “Well, I don’t know what you did or what you showed him, but our Mr Dyson does seem calmer,” the Professor said.

  “It was not me really, sir. Edward seems in his head, so to speak, to have already got used to the reason we rescued him. He knows now that he is a Walker, it’s just that he has difficulty accepting it … in his – well, I suppose you would say, in his heart.”

  “And you say he used his powers without training to locate you and then to travel to you?”

  “Yes, that’s right. He said he could sense where I was. Says he knew just where to find me. He’s a bit vague on what happened next, but he said he thought about coming to see me and the next minute he was outside my school. Don’t you think that this is amazing, sir? He says he just thought about it and he Walked to where I was!”

  “Most extraordinary! This means we were right to rescue him. He is clearly one of us. Somehow he can sense other Walkers. That is a very useful talent he has, Tom: very useful indeed.”

  “Like a dog following a scent?” Tom suggested.

  The Professor nodded. “I suppose so, yes,” he looked thoughtful as if considering how he might use this new found skill. A few moments later he picked up a fob watch from the desk, looked at the time and gave the winder a few twists before placing it back down again. Then he looked up at Tom.

  “Well, if you feel sufficiently recovered,” he said, “I think we should rescue Mary Brown from the Great Fire. What do you say to that?” the Professor asked.

  Tom thought about the trip to Isandlwana. He had been injured there and he might have been killed. The horror of the battle still haunted him. Adventures sounded fine in theory, but when a dozen Zulu warriors were charging you with razor sharp assegais, the reality was much less pleasant. He had been terrified and if he was honest with himself he had hoped that the single trip would be all that was needed. But, he simply could not leave Mary to burn in the heat of that fire. He had felt that heat. He had been Mary; had known her terror. No, he must go and fetch her.

  “I’m ready, Professor,” he said quietly.