Arnie Jenks and the House of Strangers Page 3

  ‘He’s a beggar!’ shouted the cook, ‘Mr Dawson!’

  ‘What?’ said Arnie thrown. ‘I’m not!’

  The cook folded her arms and snorted, as Mr Fellows stood up abruptly and cleared back his chair. Mr Dawson leant forward and inspected Arnie.

  ‘Under your coat – is that school dress?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Arnie.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Dawson, relaxing and laying down the carving knife. ‘That explains it. We had been told to expect a friend of the young master but as it was getting late presumed you would not be here until tomorrow.’ Mr Dawson adjusted his cuffs and took a pace back from the table, standing straight as though he was now on duty. ‘Mrs Bowers, everyone – this is the young gentlemen…Master?’

  ‘Arnie,’ he said.

  ‘Arnie…what?’

  ‘Arnie Jenks.’ His face wrinkled. ‘Look – do all of you really work here? There seem an awful lot considering…’

  ‘What on earth is he saying Mr Dawson?’ said the cook, placing her hands on her hips as if ready to do battle. ‘Of course we are employed here! What else does it look like?’

  ‘I should go and announce you upstairs,’ Mr Dawson said, seeming to ignore Arnie. ‘The young master may still be awake.’

  ‘Announce me?’ said Arnie, baffled.

  ‘I can’t think how we could have missed hearing the bell – did your carriage not deliver you to the front door?’

  ‘Carriage?’ Arnie shifted uneasily.

  ‘I must apologise,’ Mr Dawson continued, ‘we shall send a letter to your father.’

  ‘My father?’

  ‘Well, yes. It is not done for young masters from respectable homes to be left abandoned like an orphan on his first day at the workhouse. You might have come to some harm.’

  ‘No – I’m fine. You see, I’m waiting for my aunt but I don’t think she is going to get here because of the snow…’

  Arnie stopped. He looked round. The table, the glasses, the serving dishes, the clothes they were wearing, the wall clock. They were all of an old traditional design. No plastic sauce bottles, bar stools, toasters or microwaves anywhere. He turned and looked into the kitchen: the cooker sat on its haunches like a huge tank around which heavy metal pans awaited clearing and washing. A creaky boiler bubbled steam. ‘They look like they’re made of cast iron,’ Arnie said out loud, his eyes widening.

  ‘Hasn’t the young man seen an oven before?’ said the cook exasperated.

  Arnie gawped at them. Slowly, his face brightened and then he smirked. ‘Oh! I get it! You’re actors!’

  No one replied. They just stared.

  ‘Playing out how life was in olden days,’ he said confidently. ‘You’re not servants at all are you?’ he offered. ‘You’ve all got other jobs – this is a sort of hobby? Though why you’d come to a place like this dump…’ He shot a sidelong glance at the wheezing boiler. ‘I don’t remember that thing from when I was down here earlier today…and thinking about it – why weren’t you here too?’

  The young girl who had delivered the sprouts stepped forward.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure what you’re about, but I’m not acting anything. Miss Emily Buck, the under-house parlour maid to Lord Richard and Lady Beatrice Martlesham and their son Edward is what I am. And you’re standing fair and square in the servants’ parlour along with members of the domestic staff, who work here at Shabbington Hall.’

  Arnie’s neck reddened as he struggled to take this in.

  ‘And what year is it supposed to be then?’ he said haltingly. ‘1900?’

  Emily didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes, ‘tis as a matter-of-fact,’ she said mildly. ‘But there ain’t no snow. Not in May.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A Call For Help

  Arnie held Emily’s gaze, as he felt blood rush to his head and a dryness fur his mouth. Finally she blinked, breaking the spell that bound them.

  ‘You’re pretending!’ he croaked, ‘I’m not really here at the beginning of the twentieth century. How could I have done that? It’s impossible! It’s crazy!’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Emily.

  ‘Do you think he might be overcome?’ said the cook. ‘Looks a little flushed – understandable – he’s only a lad. Shy are you?’ she smiled.

  ‘Yes – good idea, Mrs Bowers. Emily let some air in will you please? And young man you might take off that coat – it’s been a very warm day,’ said Mr Dawson, unclipping his own collar.

  Emily slipped over to a far door and threw it open. The outside was dusky – the sky streaked with dull brown and orange and patches of sulphur grey. The ground sprouted grass and the surrounding cobbles were shiny and new. No sign of a carpet of snow anywhere. Arnie tensed up, backing away into a corner and felt the shape of something familiar poke into his side. Instinctively he pulled out his iPod and jamming in his earphones he pressed play.

  Everyone remained as before but stared blinking unbelievingly at the black object he was clutching.

  ‘No – no – no!’ Arnie moaned, as a blast of rock music jangled his senses. ‘This is not happening!’ and contorting his face painfully tight, he wished hard.

  He counted to ten before he dared look towards the table. Seven pairs of eyes were still staring across at him.

  Shoving his iPod back into his pocket, he started to jabber.

  ‘You…don’t…don’t…really…mean…this. Do you?’

  Mr Dawson didn’t speak but moved across to join Emily who had risen from her chair and now stood the closest to Arnie.

  ‘These props and things…they can’t be real,’ Arnie said quietly, his mind spinning. Then he saw something and smirked. ‘This’ll prove it!’

  He dashed over reaching a rectangular wooden board attached to the wall ahead of him. On the front were pinned three small boxes; two shiny brass bells gleamed on the top one, a circular funnel stood out from the middle box and at the bottom, an earpiece on a loose cord hung from a hook.

  ‘I bet it’ll just lift off,’ Arnie pronounced. ‘Like this.’ He teased the machine by pulling and wiggling his fingers in and behind searching for some leverage. But it was firmly screwed on and wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Would you kindly take care, that equipment has only recently been installed and cost a great deal of money,’ Mr Dawson said, removing his glasses and waving an advisory finger. ‘It’s come all the way from America you know – very sensitive – I don’t think you should touch it. If you wish to communicate with your father, please allow me to call the operator for you.’

  ‘I tried the phone upstairs but it didn’t work so I doubt I’ll have much luck contacting anybody on this antique,’ Arnie said, picking up the earpiece and rattling the cradle. Mr Dawson looked anxiously at him.

  ‘See? Dead as a dodo. It’s just pretend – as I thought!’ he called back to them.

  A tiny high-pitched voice seeped into the air. Arnie looked down and realised he was still holding the receiver. Nervously he raised it up to listen as simultaneously he moved his head towards the hole in the middle, directly in front of him.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, struggling to comprehend.

  After a brief pause his answer came. ‘Caller, are you there?’ The woman at the other end of the conversation sounded impatient.

  Arnie shook his head with indecision.

  ‘What number do you require?’ the clipped voice crackled again.

  Arnie stared into the telephone dumbstruck.

  ‘If you do not wish to place a call then please replace the receiver,’ the voice chimed.

  ‘I would like to call my Aunt Lavinia Bailey,’ he said, without thinking twice about the thought that had just entered his head.

  ‘Do you have a number?’

  Arnie grimaced. ‘Um…ah…’ he said, racking his brains.

  ‘I do need the number caller.’ The voice was very insistent.

  ‘She never has her mobile on,’ he struggled, ‘so it’ll have to be…’

  ‘A mobile nu
mber? What is that?’

  ‘Um…doesn’t matter,’ he mumbled, as a globule of perspiration dribbled down his nose.

  The operator continued regardless. ‘I need the name of the exchange and the local number.’

  ‘Well,’ he said slightly flummoxed, ‘I think it starts 03…’

  Emily interrupted softly. ‘Excuse me; I think she might be asking for the name of the town where your auntie lives.’

  ‘Name of the town?’ he repeated.

  ‘We are Martlesham 12 and so it is wherever she is,’ said Emily.

  ‘Oh. I see – yes – well…’

  ‘Caller, if you do not need this line then kindly hang up, I have other customers waiting.’

  ‘Hang on, I’m trying to think…’

  ‘I will have to cut you off if you continue to hold.’

  ‘Greylock…’ he stammered.

  ‘And the person’s number?’ the operator enquired a little less harshly.

  Arnie looked across to Emily who watched him curiously.

  ‘267525,’ he mumbled.

  The operator’s voice returned. ‘You have given me too many numbers. I require up to three.’

  Arnie was thinking hard. What did she mean? Then he recalled the excitable Mr Warbles lecturing them on the history of telephone boxes that once sat on every street corner and every village green. “There weren’t many around in the early days…very few in domestic homes and business premises…”

  Emily willed him on with an encouraging smile.

  ‘Maybe you could try 525,’ said Arnie finally.

  There was a further pause before the voice returned.

  ‘I have nothing higher than 88 – I’m sorry.’

  ‘I dunno. How about 25 then,’ he snapped, imitating the haughty operator.

  The voice returned. ‘What you are asking for is not a private number, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Arnie disappointed. ‘What is it then?’

  ‘It is where the constable lives.’

  ‘Well that can’t be right,’ he said to himself, ‘that proves you can’t connect me after all…this is just a game…’ Arnie froze suddenly seeing a flash of his aunt’s house in his mind. He had grown to love her rambling, secluded front garden, where he played with her cats that nestled where the rickety picket fence was torn, hidden from the outside world by its twisted climbing plants. On the navy blue front door, a sign above the letter box read – “The Old Police House” – and further up a date laid into the key stone, 1889. The year the house was built. His aunt had lived there all her life inheriting from her father, it having been passed down through two generations before that.

  ‘Are you wishing to speak with the police?’ the operator continued, breaking into his thoughts.

  ‘Yes…yes…perhaps I do,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Hold a moment caller. Putting you through now.’ Her voice was replaced by a series of short clicks before someone picked up at the other end. The words were pummelled by static, though he knew it was a woman trying to make herself understood. The line finally cleared and the voice tried again.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Auntie?’ he searched carefully.

  ‘Are you in need of help?’ the voice replied with some concern.

  Arnie knew then that it was not his Aunt Lavinia. It didn’t sound anything like her.

  His face fell and the tendons in his toes unclenched.

  ‘Sorry, no. I must have a wrong number.’

  ‘You realise you have rung the police and so I have to be sure. Are you in trouble?’

  ‘No idea really…I’m a bit confused…’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve made a mistake. I thought I was calling someone I knew – my Aunt Lavinia Bailey. Sorry,’ he repeated, and his hand drifted towards the cradle to cut off the call.

  ‘There is no Lavinia Bailey here but there is a Louisa Bailey.’

  Arnie recoiled as if he had just been stung by a wasp.

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you say again?’ his voice quivered.

  ‘I’m Louisa Bailey, if that is of any help to you. Who is it that is speaking?’

  ‘Arnie Jenks.’ He shuffled nervously.

  ‘Do we know each other?’

  ‘No, I don’t think we do. I must have the wrong Bailey,’ he said slowly.

  ‘I think you may have. But how funny to have picked us out of the hat like that and we have only had this telephone for such a short time. Real coincidence eh?’

  ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you,’ Arnie mumbled, a little stunned, ‘I really have made a mistake.’

  ‘Well, if you are ever up this way then do call in. It would be nice to put a face to you.’

  ‘Yes, I may do that Mrs Bailey,’ said Arnie, hardly absorbing what she was saying.

  ‘Just call me Lou. Everybody else does,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time,’ he said quietly.

  ‘That’s all right love, no harm done. Goodbye.’ The line went dead.

  ‘Bye,’ said Arnie, slowly replacing the receiver. He could see her now in his mind. The face of a cheery woman dressed in her Sunday best smiling out from an aged photograph hanging beside his Aunt Lavinia’s chair. His great-great-grandmother – Louisa Bailey.

  He looked down catching the sight of his watch. It read 9pm and then the month: May – just as Emily had said. He stared up at the audience around the table.

  ‘You’re really not actors are you?’ he asked solemnly.

  Emily shook her head gently.

  Mrs Bowers butted in. ‘I’m not sure what to make of all this. But one thing that’s clear is my food is about to spoil! Are we going to eat it or not?’

  ‘Never mind food!’ shouted Arnie. ‘I want to know what’s going on here!’

  The clock on the wall started to chime and a stiff breeze blew up from nowhere circling the room like on a very blustery day. The lightly coloured plates and saucers high up on the kitchen dresser started rattling dangerously, before being whipped up and spun into the air.

  Arnie and Emily reacted at once dashing to catch the falling china. But they tripped and collided tumbling over onto the floor as the pieces smashed and scattered all around them.

  As the last strike of the hour sounded out and the wind died away, they found each other clutching the same fragment of a bowl. The gas lamps glowed brighter for a second before suddenly blowing out, collapsing into darkness.

  Slowly, daring to open his eyes, Arnie saw the reflection of the moon splashed across the wall like paint being thrown. His watch face glinted and he looked down. The month read February.

  ‘How did that happen?’ he said, dropping the broken china.

  A small cry from across the room made him jump.

  Emily was now standing alone by the table – her hands held up to her face.

  Arnie followed her stare. Everything was bare and all the people had gone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Three Old Men

  Emily ran fast. She was out through the kitchen and raced to the top of the stairs before Arnie managed to catch up with her.

  ‘What’s happening! Where am I?’ she whispered hoarsely, her face anxious, eyes manic.

  ‘You know where you are. Shabbington Hall.’

  ‘But the others. Where did they go?’

  ‘I…’ said Arnie, searching himself for an answer, ‘I don’t know. Maybe…they’re still down there – but not now…you see I think…’

  Emily wasn’t listening. She had reached out to a table littered with dead flowers and was crushing the dry petals between her fingers. ‘I’ve never seen this here before and look! This passage – it’s tiled red but…’ she said, striking her shoe hard ‘…it’s black slate now, and where’s my linen cupboard? It should be right there.’ She pointed to a shelf that was empty save for an old pot of paint and a pickle jar crammed with stiff brushes.

  ‘I think time’s moved on and your cupboard with it,’ Arnie sa
id, scratching his head.

  ‘What do you mean “time”?’

  Arnie took a deep breath. ‘Well, you might find this difficult to believe but I’m actually from 2014.’

  ‘Two thousand and fourteen?’ Emily’s eyes widened.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you’re not a guest visiting the young master of the house?’

  ‘No, and I don’t think there is a young master anymore.’

  Emily shook her head and blew her nose rapidly on a handkerchief she’d yanked out from under her sleeve.

  ‘If it wasn’t for what I can see in front of my own eyes…’ She inhaled sharply.

  ‘What is it?’ said Arnie.

  ‘Are you a devil?’ she looked at him accusingly.

  ‘Are you a ghost?’ Arnie countered.

  Emily tensed.

  ‘Look; I was just as much a stranger down there, as you are up here.’

  She stifled a cry and clenched her fists. ‘No – what you say is not true at all. Everything is fine. I’m going back into the servants’ hall to finish my supper and that’s all there is to it,’ she said defiantly, strutting off back down the steps.

  Arnie folded his arms and waited. A minute or so later Emily re-emerged, her face paler than before.

  ‘It’s either a simple trick or…it’s a very very clever trick,’ she struggled to say. ‘Is it down to you?’

  Arnie half shook his head. ‘Not that I know of…’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Neither do I – how I’ve travelled back over a hundred years? And now you’ve done the same.

  ‘What?’

  ‘But forward. To my time in the twenty-first century. I think that’s where we are.’

  Emily frowned. ‘I can’t believe it. It’s impossible!’

  ‘I don’t think it is.’

  ‘But my friends…’ she looked achingly at Arnie for a hint of reassurance.

  ‘They probably think you have just nipped out for something. You’ll be back before they notice!’ he said, attempting to be cheerful.

  Emily suddenly cupped her ear. ‘Shhhhhh!’

  ‘What?’ said Arnie.

  ‘I heard something!’