A Slip in Time Read online

  For Eleanor Isabel

  (when she is old enough to read it)

  Contents

  1 Fog!

  2 The Great Detective

  3 Meeting in the Mist

  4 The Pie Shop

  5 Snakesman at Work

  6 A Human Tug of War

  7 Chicken Surprise

  8 The Butcher’s Tale

  9 Tasting the Reward

  10 Under Arrest

  11 Meeting the Queen

  12 Fadge Finds His Role

  13 Don’t Dob in Your Mates

  14 The Music Returns

  15 A Happy Trap

  16 The Slips Revealed

  Glossary

  Historical Note

  1

  Fog

  There’s nothing quite like a London peasouper. Not any more. You don’t get the right sort of smoke any more. If you wanted to mix up a real pea-souper, you’d have to travel back a good hundred years to begin with, to a cold winter’s night with the river mist rolling up from the garbage dumps downstream. Mix equal parts of river mist and coal-fire smoke. Season to taste with the smell of horse dung, cabbage cooked to death and rubbish left festering in a hundred backalleys. Leave to settle till it’s thick enough to scoop up by the shovelful and carry right through the house and out the back and never spill a drop.

  That’s your pea-souper.

  Fog.

  Fog wasn’t so bad, if the place you called home was as near as you could get to the grating where the warm air curled upwards from the basement kitchen of Mrs Tidy’s Hot Pie Emporium.

  Fadge quite liked fog. Twining itself round him like a damp, oversized cat, licking at his grubby face.

  Yes, fog was all right. Better than winter rain or sleet. Better than the wind that had been blowing the fine snow back, day after day, over the path he’d cleared so people could cross the road without getting their feet wet. You had to earn a penny or two where you could.

  Later on, there’d be gentlemen rolling home from a night out on the town, losing their way in the old pea-souper and looking for an honest face to set them back on the straight and narrow. Good for a penny or two. Once one of them tossed him a golden guinea by mistake. But the Masher had taken it off him before Fadge got a chance to see if he could spend it without getting himself arrested.

  The smell from Mrs Tidy’s Hot Pie Emporium was singing a siren song to Fadge’s nose. With expert fingers, he counted the coins in his pocket. Enough for a mutton pie to take away, but no sitting down in the warm.

  Fadge sighed. He told himself it was early yet.

  Not far away, a barrel organ started to play.

  Fadge swept the slush off his crossing once more for luck, flicked a stray lick of fog off the end of his broom and settled down to wait.

  2

  The Great Detective

  The sound of the television reverberated through the house, echoing in and out of every nook and cranny.

  Grandad was hard of hearing. That was his excuse. Who did he think he was kidding? Jack wondered. Watching Sherlock Holmes videos back-to-back was just Grandad’s way of pretending that Real Life wasn’t happening.

  ‘You’ll like it when you get there, Dad,’ Mum said for the zillionth time, as she whisked away the cup of undrunk tea from the table beside him and put another, fresher, one in its place. Jack could fill in the rest from memory, he’d heard it so many times. ‘Much nicer than living in this big, draughty house all on your own. Sheltered housing! All your own bits and pieces. Someone within call if you need help. And in the country, too!’

  Silently, Grandad reached for the remote and turned up the sound.

  Sherlock Holmes’s voice boomed out: ‘The vilest alleys of London, Watson, do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.’

  Mum flinched, rolled up her sleeves, and went to excavate another kitchen cupboard. She was finding stuff at the back of some of them – like half a tin of powdered egg with the lid rusted shut – that must be from the War.

  Jack took refuge in the attic, the furthest away from both of them that he could get. ‘Help yourself!’ Grandad had told him. ‘Take anything you want! Anything. Everything. Everything must go!’ Like this was some kind of closing-down sale. Except no one was buying.

  Gloomily, Jack gazed around the attic. There was stuff here older than Grandad. Older than Grandad’s grandad, probably. Stuff so old it seemed to have taken root, weaving itself into the fabric of the building. Move the wrong thing and the whole house would come crashing down around your ears.

  Utility furniture and rubbish pictures. China washbasins with matching jugs, odd rolls of wallpaper, Great-grandad’s Home Guard outfit, the coat so stiff it stood up on its own with the helmet balancing on top, and half a bicycle. Stacks of dusty magazines tied up with string, and boxes and trunks in all shapes and sizes. He’d got to pick something, so as not to hurt Grandad’s feelings. But what to choose? What to choose?

  ‘Jack? Ja-a-ack!’ Mum yelled from the kitchen, letting him off the hook.

  He clattered gratefully back down the stairs. Mum pushed her purse into his hand. ‘He’s out of everything, almost. Milk, bread, All-Bran. I’ve made a list. Pop down the supermarket, will you, before they close.’

  From the living room a woman’s voice screamed, ‘Danger, Mr Holmes? What kind of danger?’

  ‘If we knew that,’ Sherlock Holmes yelled back, ‘then it would no longer be a danger.’

  Grandad sourly mouthed every word in perfect lip-sync with them both.

  Jack flung his Millwall scarf round his neck, stuffed Mum’s purse in his pocket along with the shopping list and, still zipping up his jacket, fled down the front steps, into the gathering twilight.

  ‘Don’t forget the Case of the Blue Carbuncle!’ Dr Watson roared after him.

  The snow that had fallen half-heartedly over the last few days was melting to a slush, which gave off a faint mist as the temperature rose. It was like looking at the world through a fine net curtain. Unreal. Sounds were muffled by it. Footsteps. Voices. Traffic noise slowly fading into the distance.

  Then came the cheerful sound of a barrel organ, ringing out clear and true. Some charity, collecting for the homeless, whatever. If he had some small change after the supermarket, he’d put it in the box on his way back. Mum wouldn’t mind.

  Jack turned and turned as he walked along, trying to get a fix on the music, which seemed to be near, then far, then all around.

  So he didn’t see it coming. Thick fog. Suddenly it was there, soft and yellow as a marmalade cat, rubbing itself up against him, twisting between his legs, then coiling upwards, reaching for his throat. The smell of it! Bad eggs and rotting fish, and something harsher, reaching deep down inside him. The streetlamps flickered and dimmed. Traffic sounds drifted far, far away. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the fog suddenly slid down and lay curled about his ankles.

  Jack looked around. Slowly, it dawned on him that he hadn’t got a clue where he was. He didn’t remember this street at all. Which was stupid; how far could he have wandered out of his way in the last couple of minutes? He strained his ears for the sound of traffic. All that came back was the clip-clop of horses’ hooves.

  And the barrel organ, grinding out the same tune.

  What should he do? He knew what Grandad would say. ‘You’ve got a tongue in your head, haven’t you? If you don’t know, ask!’

  That’s what he’d do. He’d ask the way, the first likely person he met. Simple. No problem.

  3

  Meeting in the Mist

  Fadge weighed up the lone figure looming out of the fog and slush, moving silently towards him. Blue canvas trousers, like a sailor. Laceup boots, white, like no bo
ots Fadge had ever seen. Navy-blue padded coat, ditto. No buttons. A good, thick scarf, blue and white. He wouldn’t mind a scarf like that. No hat.

  That was a puzzler. A hat could tell you a lot about the person underneath. Which ones were good for a penny – or more – and which would only give you a thick ear. But no hat at all! Must be a foreigner. He was looking a bit lost.

  ‘Cross the road, sir?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Jack stared at the scrawny, scruffy, smelly little kid, with the black concertina, that might have been a top hat in a previous life, balancing on top of his ears. He looked a bit small for a mugger. But he was brandishing an old garden broom in a very purposeful way.

  Jack thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, keeping a tight hold of Mum’s purse. He wasn’t going to hand it over without a fight. Not to a snotty little kid half his size.

  ‘Cross the road?’ Fadge asked again, less hopefully. The customer was looking at him in a funny way. Like one of them might be soft in the head.

  Jack looked up and down. There wasn’t a car in sight. Not even the sound of a car. But maybe the kid had been told very firmly by his mum not to cross on his own.

  ‘You want help to cross the road?’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘No,’ said Fadge, puzzled. ‘I thought p’raps you might.’

  ‘No.’

  They stood and stared at one another.

  Foreign, decided Fadge. And soft in the head. Why would anyone think he – Fadge – needed helping across the road? He’d crossed that road more times than he’d had hot pies. A lot more. He looked the strange boy up and down. Good clothes. Maybe there’d be a reward for handing him back safe and sound, when his minders came looking.

  Sometimes the only thing that kept Fadge going was the dream of one day getting a reward for handing in some piece of valuable lost property. A ring, a watch, a dog. He wasn’t fussy. The idea that the lost property might come walking up to him on its own two legs had never occurred, but Fadge prided himself on being adaptable.

  ‘Er,’ said Jack. ‘This is Garland Street, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ said Fadge. ‘End to end, both sides and straight down the middle. Yes! Garland Street.’

  Jack said, ‘Everything looks different in the fog. But if this is Garland Street, the supermarket must be just along there, on this side. Right?’

  Fadge shook his head. ‘Wrong. No market down there.’

  ‘I don’t want a market. I want a shop.’

  ‘You said the market.’

  ‘I said the supermarket.’

  ‘You’ve got me there.’ Fadge had a bit of a scratch while he paused for thought. Stick with him, he decided. If he was so keen to see a shop…

  ‘There’s only one shop down here,’ said Fadge. ‘Come on. I’ll show you.’

  And though the smell of Mrs Tidy’s Hot Pie Emporium was calling him in quite the opposite direction, Fadge set off, broom in hand, with Jack trailing behind.

  The blinds had been pulled down over the shop windows by the time they got there, shutting out the dull, dank evening. But there was still enough light showing round the edges for Jack to read the lettering painted on the glass.

  ‘Jas Rowbotham and Sons. Ironmongery. Hardware. Household Sundries. I’ve never seen this place before.’

  ‘How do you know what it is,’ demanded Fadge, ‘if you’ve never seen it before?’

  ‘It’s written up, stupid. Can’t you read?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even a bit? You must go to school.’

  ‘I’ve got no time for school,’ Fadge said stoutly. ‘I’ve got to work. If I don’t work, I don’t eat.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’ve got my own broom!’ added Fadge, brandishing it.

  ‘Er, yes,’ Jack agreed. He squinted up at the flickering streetlamps. ‘Are those gaslights? I don’t remember gaslights.’

  ‘They’re new,’ said Fadge.

  ‘And where are all the cars? There are always cars parked, all along here. Are those cobblestones? They are, aren’t they? I don’t believe this.’ He was beginning to get the uncomfortable feeling that he’d wandered into one of Grandad’s Sherlock Holmes videos. No! Daft idea. Try something else. ‘Are you a ghost?’

  ‘No. Are you?’

  ‘Course not. Look; I’ve got to go.’

  ‘No!’ Fadge saw his hopes of The Reward getting ready to fade back into his dreams. Then came inspiration, flashing like a November rocket through the murky sky: ‘Let’s go somewhere we can talk. You got money?’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘I know just the place. Come on!’

  4

  The Pie Shop

  Mr Tidy, his face round and glistening as one of his wife’s home-made pies, looked up and saw a familiar, battered top hat hovering level with the pie-shop counter.

  ‘What’s it to be, young Fadge?’

  ‘Two mutton pies, with all the trimmings, and two pints of best,’ ordered Fadge.

  ‘Business doing well, then?’ enquired Mr Tidy, setting the two plates down on the counter top and reaching for two pint tankards.

  ‘He’s paying.’ Fadge jerked a thumb towards the boy beside him, who was staring round the room as if he’d never seen the like in all his born days.

  A rum sort of boy, thought Mr Tidy. No older’n Fadge, but tall as me. Rum sort of coat. Bit like an eiderdown.

  ‘How much?’ asked Jack, fumbling for Mum’s purse. Mum wouldn’t mind. She was always on about the poor and hungry. ‘There’s a pound. Is that enough?’

  A very clean boy, thought Mr Tidy, taking the coin without looking at it. Unnaturally clean. He tossed it into the till.

  The coin chinked once and Mrs Tidy, from a standing start at the far corner of the room, was on to it before it had a chance to settle.

  Bets had been placed, won and lost, on Mrs Tidy’s fine tuning where money was concerned. ‘Foreign!’ she announced, holding up Jack’s pound, slapping it back down on the counter, triumphant. ‘We don’t take foreign.’

  It was on the tip of Jack’s tongue to argue that this was English money, with the Queen’s head on and everything, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t get him anywhere.

  Fadge sighed and felt in his pocket for his day’s takings, spreading the coins out on the counter.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jack, taking his pound back again. ‘Don’t worry about me. I wasn’t hungry anyway.’ Not once he’d seen the inside of the pies people were eating, more fat than meat. The drink looked suspiciously like the beer Grandad had given him to taste once. ‘Nobody likes it the first time,’ said Grandad. ‘You have to work at it.’

  ‘You go ahead,’ said Jack.

  As soon as Mrs Tidy’s back was turned, ‘Drink’s on the house,’ whispered Mr Tidy, tipping Fadge the wink. ‘I can’t pour it back in the barrel, can I? You can owe me for the trimmings.’ He pushed one small, brown coin back across the counter.

  Fadge slipped it in his pocket and fixed his mind firmly on The Reward.

  They found themselves a free table, between two tall wooden settles, and sat down, facing one another.

  ‘What did he call you?’ asked Jack. ‘Fadge?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Fadge tucked in, making the best of things. Since he’d had to buy the meal after all, he might as well enjoy it. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘My name? Jack. Jack Farthing.’

  Fadge put down his knife and fork and stared open-mouthed. ‘Well, there’s a turn-up and no mistake! That’s my name!’

  ‘I thought you just said it was Fadge?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fadge rummaged in his pocket and pulled out the small, brown coin again. ‘That’s a fadge. A farthing. Jack Farthing – Fadge!’

  It was, as he said, a turn-up, thought Jack. What were the chances of bumping into someone with the same name as you? But then, what were the chances of any of this being real anyway? He was dreaming, that was it. But the film of grease that did duty for a tablecloth felt like real grease under his
fingers. The fug of kitchen steam mixed with tobacco smoke, thicker than the fog had been, was real enough to set up a tickling in his throat.

  A voice said, ‘Here! Take a swig of that!’

  Jack picked up the tankard that was pushed in front of him and sipped at it. Beer! Ugh! But it stopped the cough.

  The two of them seemed to have turned into four. There was a big lad sitting beside Fadge, boxing him in beside the wall. He wore a red velvet jacket worn down to white cotton at the wrists and elbows, a silk scarf dashingly arranged to cover the worst of the soup stains on his shirt front, and a brown bowler hat that was far too good for him.

  ‘Well, well!’ said the big lad, looking round the smoky room. ‘This is nice! And how’s life treating you, young Fadge?’

  ‘Mustn’t grumble, Masher,’ muttered Fadge, grimly shovelling in forkfuls of mutton pie till his cheeks were bulging like a hamster.

  ‘Mustn’t get too fat, neither,’ muttered the Masher, sliding Fadge’s plate across to himself. ‘Or you’ll be no use to me at all.’ He snapped his fingers. Dumbly, Fadge handed over his knife and fork and watched as the rest of his dinner began to disappear down the Masher’s throat.

  The Masher swallowed, burped and nodded to the scarecrow figure perched on the settle beside Jack. ‘Rusty!’

  A claw-like hand reached out and pushed the pint pot that had once – in Fadge’s dreams – been his, away from Jack and back across the table for the Masher to take a good, long swig.

  Jack sneaked a glance at the well-named Rusty. Rust-red hair straggling out from under a filthy cap, rusty-black coat, rusty-brown dirt under his fingernails and a voice, when he spoke, which wasn’t often, that sounded like coffin nails rubbing together for company.

  Jack, easing himself away, in case any of the rustiness should rub off, felt the Masher’s good eye fixed on him. ‘Who’s this, then?’ demanded the Masher.

  ‘That’s Jack,’ said Fadge.

  ‘Jack who? Jack Frost? Jack Sprat? Jack Tar? Ha ha! Jack-in-the-box?’

  ‘Jack Farthing,’ said Jack, doing his best not to flinch away from the Masher’s dragonbreath. Stand up to bullies, Grandad always said. Don’t try to pick a fight, just look ’em in the eye and show ’em you’re not afraid.