“I’d like to see – a forest, sir. Please.”
“A forest it is.” Waiting until I’d settled myself in the wicker carriage, he pulled out into the street. Now that the monster was under control, it really wasn’t so frightening. It was more like a big playful dog.
“Try to remember as much as you can of what you see,” Mr Whybrow called above the throb of the engine. “You’ll be delivering all around here.”
Most of SouthEnd seemed to be shops; I presumed that their owners lived above them if I was likely to be delivering there. I was given little chance to take in our own sim, however, as Mr Whybrow wrenched at the throttle and dropped a gear with a nerve-jangling scream of cylinders as he launched us at a precipitous hill. But he had designed his machine well; although it lowered its voice to a growl as it laboured up the incline, it maintained a steady plod which would have outpaced a steam locomotive.
At the top, the ground dropped away and I had to grip the sidecar hastily as Mr Whybrow steered us onto the railway line. We were heading straight for a gorgeous, ornate bridge which spanned a sweeping chasm. He spared a moment to beam at me, savouring my discomfort as a practical joke. After our recent misadventure, I found that in very poor taste.
“The railway lines make good aids to navigation, Miss.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied through my teeth. They also made good aids to projectile vomiting, although I managed to hold onto my stomach. Mind, I’d have certainly lost my hat, had I been wearing one.
We passed through the elegant stone canopy; between the pillars I glimpsed the gorge yawning to swallow us up if he ran off the rails. On foot, I’d have called the view spectacular. But then, my feet will stop when I tell them to. Mr Whybrow, on the other hand, was enjoying my terror too much to brook any protests. Then he poised – for what, I knew not, but I did not trust the eagerness writ on his face as he hunched his shoulders. It suggested that I was in for another little amusement which would only prove amusing to him.
The answer came when the ground fell away and he gunned the throttle. This time, I could not suppress a scream as the foot of the slope loomed up faster than our previous descent.
“Whatever you do here, don’t change down,” he told me, feigning ignorance of my terror. “You’ll spew push rods over half the sim. Rely on the brakes, and the run-out at the bottom. Just watch for trains.”
Like the one approaching us, probably making all of ten miles an hour as it laboured up the gradient, but as it weighed over a hundred tons, and with our own thirty-ish miles an hour added to the equation, another dire consequence was staring me in the face. Mr Whybrow appeared not to have noticed it, although I knew that he must have. I wanted to yell at him, but gritted my teeth and tried to convince myself that we were not about to be converted into six hundred pounds of swarf and hamburger. Gawd, hadn't the train driver seen us? Why didn't he sound his whistle thingy?
Mr Whybrow gave the handlebars a brusque little nudge and bounced us over the rail. In the next instant, the train blasted us with noise and steam; I tried not to cough as smoke smuts stung my eyes. As soon as the sound had receded sufficiently, he told me, "It's important to keep your speed up down here, Miss. Wouldn't do to be stuck on the wrong side of the rail."
"Indeed, sir," I replied, only a little tersely.
All this and now, trains, too – why didn’t he just blow my brains out and have done with it? It would be far less messy.
Becoming ashamed of my nerves, I administered a stern but gentle injunction to get a grip on myself; Mr Whybrow would hardly hazard his own life, thus I was automatically safe. He’s not trying to laugh at you. He’s testing your nerve.
Of course. Why else would he take me out on his contraption when I should be in the shop learning the more mundane things, like where the broom was kept?
Defiantly feigning aplomb, I sat stiffly, as I imagined a Countess would appear when trying to ignore the great unwashed outside her carriage windows. But I did not relinquish my grip on the sidecar, and braced my feet on its floor for the visceral grounding-out bump which almost threw me through the sidecar’s bottom.
I had noticed a forest maybe a hundred yards distant from the bottom of the slope, or at least my vision was limited by some magnificently-sprawling trees beyond the dwelling-houses, each standing proud and neat in its own plot. But Mr Whybrow had other ideas. He took a turning to the right, making me redouble my grip to avoid being thrown out, and steered onto some divinely smooth paved road.
With the road running straight and level, Mr Whybrow let the machine bumble along comfortably – less like a chained monster, than a merry canine companion loping along at one’s side. I was sufficiently at ease to take in my surroundings; we had left behind the small connurbation that was Tamrannoch, and were sweeping through some rolling grassy hills. A cemetery passed in a blur of ornate railings; some might have found it forbidding, but if your own friends’ passing consisted of being moved from the infirmary to the dying room, thence to exit the workhouse in an unplaned crate, for dispatch to a 20-foot pit euphemistically labelled as a public grave, the prospect of ending one’s days under six feet of Caledon seemed delightful.
But the tranquil melancholia was displaced by some large buildings looming up. Without slowing, Mr Whybrow took me through a boastful sprawl of towering mercantile emporia; clearly one of the big local centres for shopping. I noted, in passing, a magnificent railway terminus; its glass canopy reminded me of King’s Cross, which I’d seen on a workhouse trip to Scotland (of which the less said, the better) but infinitely cleaner! This was how the architecture was meant to be seen!
I hoped he’d stop and let me take it all in, but I did appreciate that he had a lot to show me and couldn’t dawdle. Mr Whybrow slowed for a sharp left turn; the commercial hub soon gave way to a more tranquil area of smart houses, with the sea just visible.
“That’s the Firth, Miss,” he pointed out.
“What’s a Firth?” I asked.
“A big long bit of water. And this road is the only way around it unless you fly.”
Point noted. I began to wonder how far we had travelled, when we entered another district of enticing shops – gowns, furniture –
Mr Whybrow slowed to a stop and climbed off; leaving the engine ticking patiently.
The railway divided; one side stretched to the distant mountains and the other soared straight uphill into a narrow gorge. It came as no surprise, as to which way Mr Whybrow was going. He cocked his ears, listening above the engine’s tickover.
“Always stop here and listen for trains,” he advised me. “Once you start on this gradient, you’re committed.”
Satisfied that all was safe, he raced the bike at the slope, and bored up it with a lurch that compressed my spine into hatbox-size. Great green crystals protruded to narrow our way; like opaque glass lit from within.
At the top, I found a spectacular view across the Firth; I could see what Mr Whybrow meant about it splitting Caledon nearly in half.
Mr Whybrow was more interested in practicalities, as he straightened out and followed the Firth on a long ledge that had been sliced out of the mountains. He was no longer in a hurry.
“If you see a train here, you’re in with a chance. There are places to pull in and let it pass.”
“Don’t the trains stop, sir?”
“A steam locomotive can weigh up to a hundred and thirty tons. How long do you think it’d need, to stop?”
Yes, it had been a silly question. And it had seemed almost blasphemous to speak, with Caledon arraying its splendour around me. But there was one thing I had to know.
“Sir? What are those green rocks?”
“That’s Cavorite, Miss – it’s particular to Caledon. It defies gravity.” At my look of incredulity, he explained, “It’s popular with airship builders, but they know what they’re doing. Cut a chunk off and stick it in your reticule, and you’ll lose your reticule. Put it in your pocket, and we’ll lose you.” He raised his eyes heavenwards. Straight up. “I don’t use the stuff, myself.”
A stupendous bridge towered over us, spanning a rocky valley with lava pouring out – I bit my lip, it reminded me of what I’d heard about Sir Charles Warren and the Prussian delegation.
With no danger in sight, Mr Whybrow eased the pace to let me absorb the view. “What’s the joke, Miss?” He must have picked up my grin before I could stifle it.
“The lava, sir. It occurred to me that the mountain must have eaten something I’d cooked.”
“So that was you as well, was it?” he returned, darkly but without condemnation.
Guiltily just the same, I nodded. “I’m afraid so, sir.”
“I wondered why they were so keen to be shot of you. Very well. I've managed so far without someone else to feed me; I'll manage now.”
And thus he dismissed a poisoning that nearly started a war.
At the other side of the bridge, the ground fell away precipitously once more. We were level with a vast canopy of treetops that swept as far as I could see, penetrated here and there by rooftops and chimneys. This was what he’d brought me to see. In confirmation, he slowed up at the lip of the slope, and dropped a gear to bumble and bump over the sleepers at a pace that only jarred a little.
We bottomed out with a gentle sway, and the forest swallowed us up. The nasal tang of the sea blended with a lush, wholesome fug of grass and leaf mould, surrounding me with health. Once again, I was lost in dreamland; I’d swear that had it not been for the bike jolting me about, I’d have floated out of my body and drifted clean away. Even the trees seemed to be welcoming me – not the scratty, stunted things that Londoners left in situ out of a sense of guilt, but big fat mature trees, as old as time itself.
A faint rushing entered my hearing, behind us. Similar in quality to a locomotive but much more rapid, more urgent. I wasn’t sure whether Mr Whybrow could hear it above our own engine, or if he could and had dismissed it as unimportant. I was just starting to look over my shoulder when something blasted by, knocking us off the railway – no, it couldn’t have actually hit us, we were still alive, and Mr Whybrow was wrestling to bring the bike under control. In the distance, a vast blocky thing on massively thick wheels was spewing smoke defiantly as it receded beyond sight.
“DEN-VERRRRRRR!”
Mr Whybrow vented an angry roar, not caring whether anyone was listening, as his hands flew dementedly about, glaring at the bike like an adversary as he fought to save us from being mashed into the nearest tree. The engine screamed as he dropped a gear, he pumped furiously at the brakes and coerced us back onto the railway line ten feet before we hit the tree the bike had selected for our demise. A hint of irritation underlined the grin which he turned to me.
“That, Miss Bluebird, was one of the local amenities. A Death Roller. They just appear without warning, bowl past at a rate of knots, and generally put the fear of God into one. It’s nothing serious; just a practical joke by one of our worthies who’s fond of that sort of thing. A Mister Hax. You’ll no doubt hear more of him before either of us are much older.”
I was learning fast, and relaxed. Mr Whybrow did not look like a man who had been in fear of his life; the roller had simply caught him by surprise. Just how much was I going to have to get used to, in this apparently Arcadian community?
As Mr Whybrow slowed to negotiate a kink in the line, something stirred in a bush. A big round spherical mass of feathers waddled out. I wasn’t too au fait with animals, since I’d only seen them twice a week as unidentifiable lumps on a plate, but my brief peregrination from the workhouse had shown some similar hanging upside down in poulterers’ windows. I think it was a ……… turkey?
Whatever it was, it was friendly as it headed straight for us. I was about to ask Mr Whybrow to watch out for it, when the world exploded in a mass of flame that almost propelled me back to Mummy in heaven, in a million tiny pieces.
My whole nervous system seized in a rictus of electrocution apart from one bit deep inside me which gave a wrench and then relaxed, as the only warning I’d get – this, I grasped under control before something dreadfully antisocial could happen. I was clearly still alive, Mr Whybrow and bike were both continuing on their way, the latter giving not so much as a hiccup to tell that anything had happened. As for the former –
“Did you KNOW it was going to do that?”
Yes, Mr Whybrow was completely unruffled. He’d been expecting that to happen. “Sorry, I should have mentioned; some of our wildlife is a little different to what you get in London. Another of Mister Hax’ little surprises. One has to admire his sense of humour.”
I was speechless. “That was funny?”
“Oh, yes. He’s made others that can actually kill. Tell you about it, sometime.”
I was only sorry that I could not tell him about what had nearly happened to my dignity. The knowledge that he had toyed so casually with my nerves made a flare of anger surge up in me. But only for a moment. He’s testng you again. He wants to be sure you won't let him down.
Don’t let yourself down, either. “I look forward to hearing about it, sir. Are there any other surprises awaiting me?” I could not help ask, somewhat acidly.
He stopped, leaving us alone with just the engine’s metronomic thudding to ostinato the rustle of leaves in the otherwise silent forest. Patiently, almost kindly, he explained, “A girl from the workhouse will find much to surprise her, wherever she goes. But nothing here could possibly harm you.”
“Very good, sir.” I had learned at an early age how many uses that reply could have. I imagined it was how so many butlers kept their posts when caught in unfavourable situations not of their making.
So the forest held more than the tranquility I’d assumed. It was a sharp lesson that whatever one wanted, it always came with a price to pay. It was purely a matter of how much the price really meant to one. The leaves, clashing softly above me, were an unfamiliar delight, and the forest’s blessing was beyond any expectations I had fantasised over while lying on my plank workhouse bed. Mr Whybrow’s practical joke made them no less so. He seemed satisfied as I relaxed in the sidecar and took in the clear air, surrendering to the forest spell.
The trees opened out to a street lined with shops, with a few houses nestled discreetly in the distance. But it was not the shops that he had brought me to see. He pulled off onto a boardwalk and killed the ignition. The salt in the air was stronger; a gentle rushing entered my hearing. I swallowed to make sure it wasn’t my ears. It wasn’t.
“Time for a breather, I think,” said Mr Whybrow. “Come and stretch yer legs.”
He led me along to the end of the boardwalk. The mysterious rushing noise was a host of tiny waves breaking on the shore. In the distance, somewhat hazy, was a lighthouse and a mysterious-looking island. It seemed to exist for the purpose of serving a seagoing community, since the number of berths were far in excess of what would be needed to serve the house perched on the rock. Beyond them was a mountain range which I suspected was another island since it did not extend to the sides of the nearer one.
The air suffused my whole body like a lifegiving electrical charge; the healthy scouring salt, the curiously cabbagey fug of old seaweed…….
“That’s Caledon Sound, over there,” he quietly told me, nodding to the sprawling quayside. “Where I started. Where the catmaran is.”
What was a catmaran? It didn’t seem the right time to ask. I couldn’t think of anything suitable to say, so I merely stretched a smile at him and nodded. I think he understood what was tumbling over in my mind.
“I’m just going for a smoke. Let me know when you’re ready.”
He left me to wallow in my meditation. The little waves lapping on the shore spread their own balm over me, telling me that I was already part of this community. It seemed hardly credible that the sea kept spreading its salty cloak at my feet, making its welcoming little splashes forever, not caring if anyone was here to see them. The sea was alive with critters great and small; I recognised sharks scything through the water, and turtles bowling merrily about, and if I looked closely, I could discern seasnakes lancing gracefully along.
I almost forgot Mr Whybrow standing at a respectful distance, lost in his own thoughts as he leaned back on a tree, puffing at his cigar. Although it went against what I had just experienced, I felt that I should trust him. Yes, he could be clumsy as hell, but then so was I. He actually wanted me, for the very same reasons that the workhouse had wanted rid of me. He had chosen our route deliberately, in order to test my mettle by exposing me to as many of the local cataclysms as possible. And I had passed the test. I had Come Home.
I could have stood there forever. But I owed Mr Whybrow a show of willingness, if nothing else. I was returning to the sidecar when on impulse, I hesitated and looked him full in the eyes. “Mr Whybrow – thank you, sir. For everything.”
He shook his head, as though neither my glimpse of heaven, nor my heartfelt gratitude for it, mattered. “Quite all right, Miss. I knew this place would be a bit of a shock after what you’re used to, and I couldn’t have you wandering around in a trance. And there’s nothing like getting used to a place, than immersing yourself in it. Now, come on; I’ve somewhere to show you on the way back.”
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