“Those are CAT towers, Miss; for public airships,” Mr Whybrow explained. “They’re free to use; anyone can catch one.” I caught the hint in his voice, and he caught the uncertainty clouding my face. “They’re a good way to see Caledon until you have your own airship,” he gently encouraged, with a wink.
“Thank you, sir – I’ll bear that in mind,” I replied, neutrally.
That seemed to suffice, for now, at least. But if the bike was deadly enough, submitting my protection against the additional danger of a hundred-metre fall to a bag of gas surpassed all commonsense. If God had meant us to fly, he’d have given us gasbags and a propeller on our fundaments.
As we bumped over the railway sleepers back into the forest, I closed my eyes, my head reeling from the kaleidoscopic experiences spinning in it. It was so short a time since I’d left that world of grey and grime and tedium – I had seen more in that time than those thousand fellow workhouse inmates would in their lifetimes. The sea creatures were particularly enchanting. I couldn’t help wonder if there was a way I could get closer, to see them at first hand. In Caledon, anything seemed possible. Perhaps one day……
Taking advantage of the forest soaking up the clacking engine beat as we shuddered merrily along the railway line, Mr Whybrow tried again. “Seriously, you’ll have to try out the airships when you have time. There’s a lot of Caledon you’ve yet to see, and you won’t see much of it without one.”
“Indeed, sir,” I returned.
“I have my own airship, of course, but I thought you might want to explore on your own.”
“I look forward to it, sir.” On the ground!
A familiar turning loomed up; I remembered the turkey, and tensed in visceral expectation, but nothing happened. I guessed that the turkey, like Uncle Arthur’s spectre, had its own set of criteria as to when it appeared and to whom. Nevertheless, I shivered as we passed the spot. It felt like an empty tomb.
The unsettling feeling lingered in the background until Penzance appeared, with its hive of merchants. Mr Whybrow slowed up as we bore south, and tossed his head at a merrily – almost gaudily blaring theatre. “The Gaiety, Miss – they hold musical performances there, sometimes. Perhaps you might be interested in attending?”
He raised a curious eye. “Indeed?”
“Yes, we sometimes had visiting artists performing in the workhouse. I did used to look forward to it.”
“Well, a person needs something to live for, outside their own trade. I hope that we can indulge your love of music.”
His voice tailed off as pulled away, to stop again after only a few yards. A large shop, with tributes arrayed outside it. “Mr Sands, Miss,” he said, darkly. “A friend of mine, we lost him only recently.”
A potent reminder that even this idyllic little community knew sorrow. He leaned on the handlebars as he nodded in apparent approval at the flowers and monuments all placed in a neat row. He could not have helped the loss of his friend, but derived some comfort from the care that the community held for him. I looked to Mr Whybrow, patiently inviting him to continue.
“A real master with micro’s; if you thought my work was small, you should have seen his. He himself was microscopic before petites took off.” Then, more ruminatively, “And he was a friend to Uncle Arthur.” His tone suggested that that had been at a time when Uncle Arthur had been in particular need. I nodded sympathetically but asked no more. If Mr Whybrow wanted me to know, he’d tell me in his own good time.
He gave the threshold a nod by way of salute, and we resumed our way without another word. We were about to pass by that great railway terminus when he swung off, into a small – I suppose more modern folk would call it a plaza, set amidst all those local merchants. A central lawned arena, with a little arc of merchants’ barrows around the edge, much like those costermonger barrows one saw in London, but far prettier. I wondered if Mr Whybrow was planning to check them over for potential additions to my wardrobe, but he stopped in front of a charming little pub, in the half-timbered revival style that’s becoming so popular. The name caught my eye - the Book and Tankard. A peculiar name, I wondered if there was some hidden meaning, like the oft-found “Goat and Compasses.”
“It’s run by Beth Ghostraven,” Mr Whybrow explained; “She started it up as a centre for social gathering.”
Even as he killed the ignition, the spritely Miss Ghostraven bounced out to greet us. Her happy beam suggested that he had particularly wanted her to be the first Caledonian I met, by way of a gentle introduction to the population.
Taking her cue, I remembered my manners and we exchanged curtsies; Miss Ghostraven’s, polished and mine – well, I looked like a puppet whose strings had been cut, but I think Miss Ghostraven got the message. Waving a showman’s hand to me, Mr Whybrow explained that he’d just acquired my services and had been showing me around the community. It was a little embarrassing being paraded like the prize turnip, but – did I detect a soupcon of pride in his face?
Miss Ghostraven, I noticed, was wearing wings; catching my glance, she explained these as part of her costume for a dance later. Right. OK. They wore wings to dances.
“I nearly got mine just now,” said I, feeling that I should comment further.
At Miss Ghostraven’s look of curiosity I told her about my encounters on the journey. Although she gave a very convincing “Oh, my!” I felt that she’d been expecting something like that to happen.
Indeed, Mr Whybrow coolly dismissed my lingering aftershock. “If that lot didn’t kill you, nothing will.”
“With the possible exception of you yourself, sir,” I returned, smiling sweetly.
He offered no reply; merely a chuckle. Again, I felt that enduring practical jokes was a normal part of life here. But I bit my lip; I should not have said it. Especially in front of others.
Miss Ghostraven invited us in and I have to say it was not my idea of a pub at all. For a start, it was so clean! No sawdust on the floors, but a lovely patterned rug, no spittoons, no posters warning of dismememberment if one fumbled with the barmaids…… and lovely shiny lamps, not horrible dollops of sallow-looking crud that passed as candles. Miss Ghostraven appeared amused at my wonderment.
I waved a confused arm about a bit. Mr Whybrow came to my rescue.
“I think that Miss Bluebird was expecting cracked plaster, greasy prints and sawdust, with the drunks thrown out at midnight.”
Miss Ghostraven casually retorted, “No, I keep the drunks and throw the sawdust out at midnight.” I could not miss the playful twinkle in her eye.
I felt bound to tell her of my own little house, although it seemed to come as no surprise to Miss Ghostraven. Were people usually so generous with their shopgirls here? However, I had to decline her offer of refreshment. After what I’d been through, I wasn’t sure anything would stay down. Carrots on the carpet would not have made a good first impression.
Miss Ghostraven confirmed Mr Whybrow’s explanation of the establishment’s purpose, pointing out its literary slant and that she herself was a librarian. Of course; the pub’s name had not escaped me. My eye caught a poster on the wall depicting a character I already knew, regally enthroned in a library with a book at his feet. So Mr Whybrow was himself in print. With a sly smile, Miss Ghostraven added that he had also helped build the pub and supplied some of the furniture, which made him squirm a little. He did not seem to mind when Miss Ghostraven not only teased him a little, but encouraged me to do likewise. I found the unspoken invitation unsettling; after my little lapse I’d vowed to be much more careful.
I could not dwell on it, however, as we were joined by a Miss Brianna and a Mr Arthur (no relation to Mr Whybrow’s uncle) who both apologised for their attire – Mr Arthur, because he was still looking for half-decent tailors (Mr Whybrow explained to him that gentlemen’s outfitters are indeed hard to find) and Miss Brianna, because of a recent dancing engagement. Mr Whybrow told me that this part of the 19th century world was more laissez-faire than most when it came to costume, although I found it difficult to ignore Miss Brianna’s legs; I began to wonder what sort of events this apparently respectable community hosted. In the workhouse, skirts had to cover ankles at all times under pain of Bread and Water Diet. My own wardrobe, by way of an oblique jibe at Mr Whybrow’s financial “caution,” I explained as coming from someone called “Freebie,” but it didn’t work. My hint appeared to sail right over his head although Miss Ghostraven appeared to choke on her drink.
Mr Whybrow had to do some apologising himself over his lack of coat, explaining that tails and motorcycles did not marry well. He also mentioned that the bike itself would not be going on sale and I gave him an affirmatory nod. There would be little market for heavy contraptions named, “Novelty Suicide Machine.” But it seemed borne out that he built such things purely for amusement, when Miss Brianna proudly talked up his profile as a jeweller. He did indeed seem to be quite well-known.
It transpired that both our visitors were writers themselves; Mr Arthur was an established author (although I didn’t get a chance to ask what he wrote) and Miss Brianna, along with her cousin Olivia, were representatives of rising stature in that circle. Indeed, her cousin and Mr Arthur both hosted events at a place called Book Island.
I had a chance to relate my recent misadventures with the death roller and the turkey, of which I was glad – I badly needed a second opinion about the community and Mr Whybrow’s sense of humour, but it appeared that such events were perfectly normal here. Miss Ghostraven demonstrated this by giving me a quick view of her flying armchair. I could barely suppress a gape – so it was normal for the inhabitants here to be barking mad? Was it a requirement, even?
All of this, Mr Arthur took in ruminatively; it seemed that he had yet to undergo his own baptisms of fire. Mr Whybrow wasted no time in recommending the public airships for exploration; I had to admit, privately at least, that they offered safety from death rollers and exploding turkeys.
Miss Brianna and Mr Arthur had to leave, and then, in front of Mr W’s stern eye of judgment, Miss Ghostraven taught me to curtsy.
Then it was our turn to leave. Miss Ghostraven bade me a good night but I wasn’t sure I would be able to sleep. I was not at all uneasy about my prospects after our gentle teasing; Mr Whybrow seemed to have accepted that – expected it, even. I wasn’t sure I could ever get used to that, from an employer who was effectively Lord of Life and Death. But apart that, and the day’s more colourful experiences, I was already beginning to feel not exactly like a lady but better than I had been.
Mr Whybrow drove me straight home, and dismissed me with a friendly, paternal good night which bode no ill prospects over my conduct that day. As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling (MY ceiling, now!) one detail just would not settle. There lingered a “haunted” feeling that I was there to be the butt of everyone’s humour, reinforced by Miss Ghostraven’s condoning of my treatment on the journey. But then I remembered some advice from the old dying-room attendant in the workhouse; he had served in the army for thirty years before retiring as a warrant officer. I was still very young, and had been upset by some teasing from the other kids. He’d clicked his tongue, shaking his head merrily.
“That’s not ‘ow you does it, Missy. I’ve spent a lifetime watchin’ sodjers teasin’ each huvver. When someone gives you a bit of a ribbin’, you larfs it orft; they hexpects you to. That’s ‘ow you gets haccepted as an hequal. Not by frowin’ tantrums ‘n’ ‘igh cockalorum. That sort of fing only gets you marked down as a complete wan…..uh, drama princess. Hit’s when they stop teasin’ that you wants to worry, Miss; hit means they don’t fink you’re worvy of anyone’s hattention. So wot you do is, when someone teases you – you does it back!”
And with that, he had offered me a drag on his gnarled briar pipe that had – well, that’s all behind me now. But I don’t think I ever got around to paying him back before he became just another consignment in an unplaned crate.
I think I fell asleep with a smile, and a tear in my eye.
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