‘Of course not!’ He groaned. ‘I told you, I’m saving up. Breakfast is a luxury I can’t afford.’
‘In that case allow me to treat you,’ Tom offered, putting a fatherly arm round his shoulders. ‘I know a place near here where they serve the best sausages in town.’
Chapter XXV
After Tom and Patrick had enjoyed a hearty breakfast that would take the edge off their appetites for a week, Tom’s pockets were once again empty. He tried not to reproach himself for his extravagant gesture, but next time he must be more careful: although these altruistic deeds made him feel good, they would only be detrimental to him in the long run. He said goodbye to Patrick and, having nothing better to do for the rest of the day, made his way towards Covent Garden, intending to carry on with his charitable works by stealing a few apples for Mrs Ritter.
It was late morning by the time he arrived, and the freshest, crispest produce had been snapped up by the early birds, who came from all over London at the crack of dawn to stock up their larders. But by the same token, daylight had removed the eerie atmosphere cast by the candles perched on mounds of melted wax that the traders stuck on their carts. By now, the market had taken on the air of a country fair; the visitors no longer looked like furtive ghosts, but like people strolling about with all the time in the world to make their purchases while, like Tom, they let themselves be captivated by the heady scent of roses, eglantines and fuchsias wafting from the flower baskets on the western side of the square.
Floating along with the crowds filing dreamily between carts laden with potatoes, carrots and cabbages, a patchwork of colour that went all the way down Bow Street to Maiden Lane, Tom tried to locate some of the Cockney girls milling around the stalls with their baskets of apples. Craning his neck, he thought he spotted one on the other side of a mass of people. He tried to get to her before she disappeared into the crowd, swerving to pass the human wall blocking his way. But this type of abrupt movement, which might have saved Captain Shackleton’s life during a skirmish, was unwise in a packed market like Covent Garden.
He realised this when he walked headlong into a young woman crossing his path. Reeling from the collision, she had to steady herself in order not to end up on the ground. Tom stopped and swung round, with the intention of apologising – and found himself face to face with the only person in London he had never wanted to see again. The world suddenly felt like a magician’s hat, which could hold everything.
‘Captain Shackleton, what are you doing in my time?’ asked Claire Haggerty, bewildered.
Only inches away from her, Tom received the full impact of the devotion his mere presence triggered in her. He could even admire the blue of her eyes, a deep, intense blue he knew he would never find anywhere else in the world, however many oceans or skies he saw – a fierce, pure blue, which had probably been on the Creator’s palette when He coloured heaven, and of which her eyes were now the sole custodians. Only when he had broken free of her enchanted gaze did Tom realise that this chance encounter might cost him his life. He glanced around to make sure no one was eyeing them suspiciously, but was too dazed to take in what he saw. He fixed his eyes once more on the girl, who was still staring at him, overwhelmed with disbelief and emotion, waiting for him to explain his presence. But what could he tell her without giving away the truth, which was tantamount to signing his own death warrant?
‘I travelled back in time to bring you your parasol,’ he blurted out – and bit his lip. It sounded absurd, but it was the first thing that had occurred to him. He watched Claire’s eyes widen, and prepared for the worst.
‘Oh, thank you, you’re so kind,’ she replied, scarcely able to disguise her joy. ‘But you shouldn’t have taken the trouble. As you can see, I have another.’ She showed him a parasol almost identical to the one he had hidden in his chest of drawers. ‘However, as you’ve journeyed through time to bring it to me, I’ll gladly take it back, and I promise I’ll get rid of this one.’
Now it was Tom’s turn to conceal his astonishment: she had swallowed his lie completely! Yet wasn’t it logical? Murray’s pantomime was too convincing for a girl as young as her to question it. Claire believed she had travelled to the year 2000, and her certainty gave him legitimacy as a time traveller. It was that simple. When he had recovered from his surprise, he realised she was staring at his empty hands, wondering perhaps why they were not clasping the parasol that had compelled him to journey across an entire century with the sole aim of returning it to her.
‘I don’t have it with me,’ he apologised foolishly.
She waited expectantly for him to come up with a solution to this, and in the sudden silence that enclosed them amid the hustle and bustle, Tom glimpsed the girl’s slim, graceful body beneath her robe, and felt painfully aware of how long it had been since he was with a woman. After burying Megan, he had received only the fake tenderness of whores, and had recently forgone even that, considering himself tough enough to do without bartered caresses. Or so he had thought. Now he had in front of him a beautiful, elegant woman, a woman a fellow such as he could never hope to possess, and yet she was staring at him like no other woman ever had. Would her gaze be the tunnel that led him to storm the impregnable fortress? Men had risked their lives for much less since the beginning of time. And so, responding to the atavistic desire of his species, Tom did what reason least advised: ‘But I can give it to you this afternoon,’ he ventured, ‘if you’d be kind enough to take tea with me at the Aerated Bread Company near Charing Cross Underground station.’
Claire’s face lit up. ‘Of course, Captain,’ she replied, excited. ‘I’ll be there.’
Tom gave her a smile purged of all lust, and tried hard to mask his shock – at her for accepting his invitation and at himself for having proposed a meeting with the very woman he should flee if he valued his life. Clearly it did not mean that much to him if he was prepared to risk it for a roll in the hay with this vision of loveliness. Just then, someone called Claire’s name and they turned as one. A fair-haired girl was making her way towards them through the crowd.
‘It’s my friend Lucy,’ said Claire, with amused irritation. ‘She won’t let me out of her sight for a second.’
‘Please, don’t tell her I’ve come here from the future,’ Tom warned quickly, regaining some of his composure, ‘I’m travelling incognito. If anyone found out, I’d get into a lot of trouble.’
Claire looked at him a little uneasily.
‘I’ll be waiting for you in the tea rooms at four o’clock,’ Tom said brusquely, taking his leave. ‘But, please, promise me you’ll come alone.’
As he had thought she would, Claire promised without demur. Owing to his circumstances, Tom had never been to the ABC tea rooms, but he was aware that they had been all the rage since the day they opened. They were the only place two young people could meet without the bothersome presence of a chaperone. He had heard they were airy, pleasant and warm, and offered tea and buns at an affordable price. Thus, they were the perfect alternative to walks in the cold or meetings in family reception rooms, spied upon by the young lady’s mother, to which young suitors had hitherto been condemned. True, they would be seen, but Tom could think of no better place to meet her – or not one to which she would have agreed to go unaccompanied.
