And so, if Claire was in agreement, on that day the two of them would travel to the year 2000 and be back in time for tea without anybody being the wiser.
After Lucy had finished her gabbled speech, she looked at her friend expectantly. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Will you go with me?’
And Claire could not, would not – did not know how to – refuse.
The next four days had sped by in a whirl of excitement about the impending trip and the enjoyment of having to prepare for it in secret. Now Claire and Lucy found themselves outside the picturesque premises of Murray’s Time Travel, wrinkling their noses at the stench exuding from the entrance. On noticing them, one of the employees, who was cleaning off what looked like excrement on the front of the building, hastened to apologise for the unpleasant smell and assured them that if they ventured across the threshold with a handkerchief or scarf for protection, or holding their breath, they would be attended to in a manner befitting two such lovely ladies. Lucy dismissed the man with a desultory wave, annoyed that anyone should draw attention to an inconvenience she preferred to ignore so that nothing would detract from the thrill of the moment. She seized her friend’s arm – Claire was unsure whether this was to bolster her courage or infect her with enthusiasm – and propelled her through the doors to the future.
As they entered the building, Claire glimpsed Lucy’s rapt expression and smiled to herself. She knew the reason for her friend’s nervous impatience: Lucy was already anxious to come back and describe the future to her friends and family who, whether out of fear, indifference or because they had been unable to secure a seat, had stayed behind in the insipid present. Yes, for Lucy this was simply another adventure with which to regale people – Uke a picnic ruined by a cloudburst, or an unexpectedly eventful crossing in a boat.
Claire had agreed to accompany her, but for very different reasons. Lucy planned to visit the year 2000 in the same way she would go to a new shop and be home in time for tea. Claire, on the other hand, had no intention of coming back.
A snooty assistant guided them to a hall in which the thirty other privileged travellers to the year 2000 were chattering excitedly. There, she told them that a glass of punch would be served before Mr Murray welcomed them, explained the itinerary of their trip to the future, and the historic moment they were about to witness. When she had finished, she curtsied abruptly and left them to their own devices in the spacious room, which, from the boxes at the sides and the stage at one end, had been the stalls of a theatre. Without the rows of seats and with only a few uncomfortable couches, the space looked over-large. This impression was strengthened by the high ceilings, suspended from which were dozens of oil lamps. Seen from below, they resembled a colony of sinister spiders living oblivious to the world beneath them.
Apart from a few octogenarians, who had difficulty standing because of their brittle bones, no one appeared to want to sit on the couches, perhaps because they found it easier to contain their excitement in an upright position. The only other pieces of furniture were a few tables, from which a couple of diligent maids had begun doling out punch, a wooden pulpit on the stage and, of course, an imposing statue of Captain Shackleton beside the doorway, welcoming them as they walked in.
While Lucy scanned their fellow passengers, listing the names of those present in a way that revealed her likes and dislikes, Claire gazed in awe at the marble figure of a man not yet born. The twice life-size statue of Derek Shackleton on its pedestal recalled some strange descendant of the Greek gods, fixed in a similarly heroic and gallant pose, except that the casual nudity usually flaunted by the Greeks was concealed by something more substantial than a fig leaf. The captain wore a suit of elaborately riveted armour, apparently designed to protect as much of his body as possible from the enemy. It included a sophisticated helmet that left only his jutting chin visible. Claire was disappointed by the headdress: she would have liked to see what the saviour of the human race looked like.
She was convinced the iron-clad visage could not possibly resemble anyone she knew. It had to be a face that only the future could produce. She imagined a noble expression, the eyes radiating confidence – not for nothing was he commanding an army -revealing, almost like a natural secretion, his proud, indomitable spirit. Now and then the dark desolation surrounding him would cloud those handsome eyes with tears, for a vestige of sensitivity survived in his warrior’s soul. Claire also imagined a glimmer of yearning in his gaze, especially during the moments of intense loneliness that would assail him between battles.
And what was the cause of his sorrow? Naturally, it could be none other than the absence of a beloved face to contemplate, a smile that would give him courage in moments of weakness, a name he could whisper in his sleep like a comforting prayer, an embrace to return to when the war was over. Briefly, Claire pictured that brave, indestructible man, so tough on the battlefield, murmuring her name at night, like a boy: ‘Claire, darling Claire . . .’
She smiled to herself. It was only a silly fantasy, yet she was surprised at the thrill she felt when she imagined being loved by that warrior of the future. How was it possible that a man who had not yet been born could stir her more than any of the young dandies courting her? The answer was simple: she was projecting on to that faceless statue everything she yearned for and could not have. Shackleton was probably completely different from Claire’s imagined portrait. Furthermore, his way of thinking, acting, even of loving would be utterly incomprehensible and alien to her. In the century that lay between them, man’s values and concerns might have become unrecognisable to anyone viewing them from the past. This was one of life’s laws.
If only she could glimpse his face, she thought, she might find out whether she was right: if Shackleton’s soul was made of opaque glass through which she would never be able to see, or whether the years between them were merely anecdotal. Perhaps there was something inside man, an essence rooted in his very being, which remained unchanged over the centuries – perhaps the very air God had breathed into his creatures to give them life. But there was no way of knowing this because of that blasted helmet. She must be content with the parts of him she was able to see, which were impressive enough: his warrior-like posture, his raised sword, his right leg flexed to reveal sculpted muscles, the left foot firmly planted on the ground, with the heel slightly raised, as though he had been immortalised in the act of charging the enemy.
Only when she followed the direction of his charge did Claire realise that his statue faced another to the left of the door. Shackleton’s defiant gesture was aimed at a startling figure almost twice his size. According to the inscription on the base, this was an effigy of Solomon, king of the automatons and the captain’s arch enemy, whom he defeated on 20 May 2000, following an endless war that had razed London to the ground. Claire gazed at it, shocked at the terrifying evolution of the automaton. When she was a little girl, her father had taken her to see the Writer, an animated doll invented by Pierre Jacquet Droz, the famous Swiss watchmaker. She still recalled the smartly dressed boy with the sad, chubby face sitting at a desk, dipping his quill into the inkwell and drawing it across a piece of paper. The doll had traced each letter with the alarming slowness of someone living outside time, even pausing occasionally to stare into space, as though waiting for another wave of inspiration. The memory of the doll’s staring eyes had always caused a shiver to go down the young Claire’s spine when she imagined the monstrous thoughts it might be harbouring. She had been unable to rid herself of this uncomfortable sensation, even after her father had shown her the interlocking rods and cogs in the phantasmagorical child’s back, with the lever that turned, bringing the parody to life. Now she could see how that grotesque if harmless child had transformed into the figure towering above her.
Struggling to overcome her fear, she examined it closely. Solomon’s creator, unlike Pierre Jacquet Droz, had
