I waited until SouthEnd was quiet before making my move. A host of buzzy bees tickled my tummy with excitement as I scurried down to the cellar for a few necessaries. Returning to the stable, I loaded pick axe, club hammer, cold chisel and an old sack into the Dreadnought’s sidecar. I tried to be quiet to avoid attracting Jasper if he was still about, although by that time he should have been on the way to that dance he mentioned. How perfect it would be, if he were to discover his “perfect girl” at the dance, although I hardly dared imagine the sort of girl who’d put up with his particular brand of charms.
I stood surveying the sidecar for a moment, trying to think if I’d missed anything, but I reckoned my needs to be very straightforward. In a way, I was looking forward to the labour; it brought to mind breaking rocks in the workhouse but this time, for a purpose that was worthwhile, shining with glory and racing visions of fat fluffy clouds and endless skies.
Finally, I threw my skirts into into the sidecar, arranging them so as to hide the tools, and then concealed the lot under an old sack. It was time to set off; I had to accomplish my mission while it was still light enough to see. The Dreadnought, cold, started at the first run and signified its happy obedience by settling down to an even idle when I opened the choke half way. By now, I was quite used to riding about in my underwear, and no longer felt self-conscious as I launched Shopgirl and Dreadnought onto the streets.
I maintained as high a speed as I dared without attracting attention, just in case I should pass Jasper again. Now, there was one who would benefit from Miss Creeggan’s education, although she would probably give up on that one. If Mr Whybrow had paid me the same attention as Jasper, I’d have been more than happy. I knew I could trust him not to use and discard me. But on a personal basis, he seemed warmer towards Miss Creeggan, although we both knew that she’d never accept him in any romantic capacity. And in the meantime, I was being pursued by a well-meaning oaf who smelt like a rubbish tip. Gawd, life held a full deck of cards but just couldn’t shuffle them into usable hands!
I passed nobody on the way; I guessed I’d caught Caledon at dinner. Victoria City and Penzance paid no heed to the crazy skirtless shopgirl on the motor bike, with its sidecar clanking enigmatically, and Morgaine passed in the blink of an eye.
At Wellsian, I crested the great rise at the Bashful Peacock, and slowed down. Two big green crystals came into view, lurking at the trackside, and my tummy started to tickle all by itself. I was nearing my goal.
I believe I’ve already mentioned that Wellsian was rich in Cavorite, that fabulous mineral which has the property of defying gravity. I don’t believe I’ve mentioned that at the top of the hill from the Bashful Peacock, the railway line divided. So far, I’d only continued straight on, to cross the bridge overlooking the Firth. But the turnoff, which I’d never used before, continued to the Cavorite mines. And that was where I was going. It stood to reason that the veins of cavorite would be richest at the mine, and I didn’t want to be seen hacking off lumps by the public thoroughfare.
The line was convoluted, and in places narrowed to the width of the railway line, but I had foreseen this. The Golden Grisset would have been much more comfortable, but I had reckoned on being unable to manhandle that great carriage around the line here.
The line came to an end, overlooked by a hollowed-out crag like a great bad tooth. Perched atop was a small office, which had to be the winding house. The whole overlooked an L-shaped inlet whose shape was too regular to be natural; it looked like the result of thousands of cavorite extractions over the years. Spanning the far side was that bridge which I usually crossed – or would have to fly over very carefully, once my airship was operational.
I peered down the shaft. No Cavorite was visible, which meant that either the mine was worked out, or which was more likely – to judge by the freshly-greased winding machinery – that it was far underground. Too far for me to slog back and forth to the Dreadnought, at any rate.
Luckily, a crystal remained sticking out of the ground, near to where I was standing. I only needed enough for a small airship, I wasn’t trying to levitate a castle, so that crystal should hold more than enough for my needs. Better still, it was far enough from the public thoroughfare not to be missed.
Retrieving my tools, I stood staring at the glowing excrescence. I did not even know how much I’d need; that would be a matter of trial and error, which I was not looking forward to. Mr Whybrow had said that he refused to use the stuff, which must have been for a good reason. But thinking back to how I’d seen it used in Caledon, I should not need a greater volume than the airship gondola could contain. But it would need to be balanced, or I’d be nose- or tail-heavy.
Nervously hefting my pick-axe, I realised that I’d never worked with this type of substance before, or spoken with anyone who had. Would it break cleanly like slate, shatter like glass, or would it resist obstinately like workhouse granite, shedding powder until a usable bit fell off? Or would I need a steam drill?
Hopefully not. But there would be no harm in starting small. Exchanging the pick for the club hammer, I took an experimental swing at an edge of the crystal. A solid chunk flew off - like resin, but denser – and flew straight up, to be lost to sight.
Well, the stuff’s eager, I’ll give it that. But beyond that, you’ve learned nothing.
Actually, I had. Take your eyes off it for an instant, and it’ll get away. But I had come prepared. Clambering up the crystal, I spread my sack over it and whacked at it through the heavy jute. Instantly, the sack came alive and tried to float upwards, but I put my foot on it and managed to hold it down. Congratulating myself, I took the sack back to the sidecar, put it down and………….
………… up it went. Bother.
I wondered how far up Cavorite would fly. Balancing its anti-mass against the mass it was carrying would be a finely-judged thing; it would call for a lot of experimentation in the cellar until I could get the amount right. Assuming that I could get it back to the cellar in the first place.
This was not going to be as straightforward as I’d hoped. But I was not to be daunted. I still had my skirts in the sidecar. I tied my heavy outer skirt at the waist and taking it back to the Cavorite crystal, put a few heavy rocks in it. I tried to hack off small nuggets, and found that anything much larger than my fist would lift me clean off the ground. Inevitably, I had to let those go.
But little by little, and with care, I managed to cut off enough to achieve equilibrium with my skirt and the mass of rocks inside it. This, I lugged back to the bike. It felt odd; the rocks had lost none of their sideways inertia and bumped against my legs, but the bundle was easy to lift. Back at the Dreadnought, I dumped the bundle in the sidecar and tied it to the frame.
All right. Bike and shopgirl together would weigh about a quarter of a ton. Let’s assume the gondola would weigh about the same as the denser bike on its own. I’d need enough Cavorite to lift the gondola and myself, so – half as much again, at a guess. If it didn’t lift off, I could always come back for more.
My petticoats were made of thinner material, so once weighted with stones, I had to make repeated trips to the crystal to take back a couple of smallish lumps each time, taking care to carry no more than would prevent my walking normally before transferring them to my heavier skirt.
I was wondering when to stop harvesting and head home, when I noticed the back wheel starting to lift. Very well, then. That would have to be it and if necessary, I could return for more. And in that event, at least I would know what not to do.
Gratefully flinging my tools back into the sidecar, I reached into my skirt and wrestled out the rocks I’d been using as ballast. I would not be needing those now. It felt strange, seeing them fall to the ground with a meaty thud, after losing all that Cavorite into the atmosphere.
I must have ungallantly overestimated my own weight. As I removed one particularly large rock, the bike gave a wobble and I dropped the stone. Whereupon, the Dreadnought began to rise into the air, with me straddling it. In a moment of panic, I considered leaping off while there was still time, but I hesitated. I did not want to have to explain to Mr Whybrow that his Dreadnought was floating in outer space, or wherever Cavorite eventually found itself. By then it was already too late and we were above the winding house, and still rising.
Now I wished I had brought the Golden Grisset instead, although the sheer impossibility of manoevring it to the mine meant I’d have to have left it blocking the railway line. I spent a few moments cursing my stupidity in workhouse language as I took stock of my situation. Obviously, I was carrying too little ballast, or too much Cavorite. I’d have to jettison some of the latter. But not much. The amount needed to lift bike and shopgirl must have been only slightly less than what I was carrying, or I’d have shot up like a rocket.
Gingerly, I felt around inside my ballooning skirt, hoping that the thing didn’t rip, or my fate would be sealed anyway. Cavorite shooting up, and shopgirl plummetting down. My fingers located a small lump of the smooth green stuff, although I needed the assistance of my other arm to force it down! I wrestled it out from my hem, and let it go. The cavorite took off, grateful for its release, and I –
I looked down. I might have slowed my ascent a little, but not by much. It was difficult to tell; there was next to no wind in my face, and the ground was still receding. There must have been a slight air current; I was drifting southwards towards Middlesea. I reached inside my skirt again, and threw out a little bit more. There – there could be no doubt about it. When that chunk took off heavenwards, I remarked on a definite nudge between the saddle and my bottom, which lessened abruptly before pressing too insistently on me. There could be no doubt about it; I’d slowed my ascent but was still going up.
How I wished for some reference point to assess my altitude. The Dreadnought was swinging round slightly, which made it difficult to judge whether the ground was approaching or receding. Already, Wellsian was an engineer’s model beneath me, with the Firth a flat sheet of water punctuated by islands.
Something fluttered in the corner of my eye, and it was too thick to be an eyelash. And the wrong colour. And eyelashes didn’t flap about like that.
Forgetting my immediate problem, I squinted hard at it. Whatever it was, there was a second one a little distance from the first one, and the first one was getting nearer. What in the name of – I remembered where I’d seen that before, and it was on a fishmonger’s slab in Holborn, labelled as “Squid.” That’s right, I remember wondering who on earth would eat anything that looked so hideous. But it was not as big as this one! It was hard to judge the size of something with only sky behind it, but it looked to be half as big as a street, and it was a fairly safe bet that anything with tentacles that size ate shopgirls.
I considered solving the whole problem once and for all by jumping and trusting to my impact with the water, but reined in my panic. Whatever that thing was, it did not appear to have noticed me, or at least if it had, it was still wondering what on earth I was. For that, I can’t say I blame it. Shopgirls might be appetising enough, but it wouldn’t get me without swallowing the Dreadnought too.
The flying squid was apparently prepared to chance having to spit the bike out. It turned towards me, the two domed eyes fixing on me like the Golden Grisset’s headlamps, with me as a rabbit, paralysed in the road. In that instant, they both flashed towards me, having decided that I was either worth fighting over, or worth sharing, which was worse.
The revulsion at being torn in two like a squishy Christmas cracker gave my mind that nudge it needed. As they’d kept telling me in the workhouse, if all else fails – pray. So I did, in the way that came most naturally. Hoping that somewhere in that vast sky was a God who watched over shopgirls, I let out the first thing that came into my head. Mozart’s “Alleluia” - the very same thing that had got me banned from singing in the workhouse chapel. The words weren’t hard to remember; it was in fact just the same one, repeated over and over again.
What did make the piece stand out, was the high C at the end, which many singers strive for, but not all achieve.
“A – lle – LUUUUUU – ia!”
In my case, I don’t know what I did to that top C, but the flying squid didn’t like it. They backed off sharply, flapping the two longest tentacles about to protect whatever they had in the way of ears.
I couldn’t believe my good fortune! Of course, silly shopgirl! I had a unique natural defence of my own, had I but remembered it!
The flying squid hovered, apparently making their minds up what to do about the accoustic menace they had been about to seize. I couldn’t hold that high C forever, but as long as my adversaries were indecisive, I still had a hand to play. Darting a hand into my skirt, I fumbled about for a third chunk of Cavorite which I hoped would be about the right size as I threw it out – neither too big nor too small. This time, the saddle unstuck from my bottom and stayed unstuck. I had to grip the handlebars and hook my feet under the pedals. We were going down and whatever those flying squid things were, they were not following me. Perhaps they could only see ahead and above; I’d have to ask someone. In the meantime, I had just learned another reason why Mr Whybrow recommended flying close to the ground. It would have been nice if he’d warned me!
Perversely, part of my mind saw my situation as a purely abstract equation.
Cavorite Lift < (Dreadnought + Shopgirl + Ballast).
If Gondola ~ (Dreadnought + Shopgirl + Ballast) then Cavorite Lift > (Shopgirl + Dreadnought).
Some unbidden reflex started me shivering. It wasn’t the cold; it wasn’t really cold even up high. It was my body telling me that its nerves had had enough, even if the rest of me was intact.
It’s all right now, I reassured myself. You’re going down. That’s what matters.
Yes, that was the main problem solved, along with that of the flying squids, which I had definitely not asked for. But now I had another. I had no control over my direction, and was still drifting southwards. There was every chance I would come down in the sea. I might survive, if I kept my head and remembered Mr Whybrow’s instruction on how to move in water, but eventually I’d have to face him, bedragggled, skirtless and half-drowned, and he’d be just as angry to learn that his Dreadnought was at the bottom of the Firth. Assuming that I wasn’t down there with it.
Oddly, the altitude itself held no fear for me now. I was more worried about running out of it. With no way of telling how high I was, I could plot a line along which I would probably land, but I’d have no idea at which point along it that would be. The pier at Caledon on Sea intersected my course, which added a few per cent to my chances of landing on terra firma. It was just my luck that out of four directions in which I could have been drifting, three of them would have deposited me on dry land, and I had to be heading in the fourth.
Oh, Lord, yes. I’d just vanish from the world, and Mr Whybrow would assume I’d absconded. He’d see the Dreadnought missing, but would be puzzled as I’d taken nothing. He’d suspect an assignation with someone, and that hurt more than any other possibility. Him spending the rest of his life believing I’d run off with someone when all I’d wanted was to settle down as his shopgirl, making the most of the opportunities he’d given me.
A sudden crushing feeling grasped hold of me. The things I would miss, while feeding the fishes. And Miss Creeggan – and Mr Whybrow himself -
I shook my head to throw the melancholia out of my ears. Gradually, by comparing landmarks such as the chapel spire and the roof of the Blue Mermaid, I calculated that I would hit the water over a hundred metres before the ground actually started. I might survive a dousing, but the Dreadnought certainly wouldn’t. I would survive death by falling, death by flying squid, death by drowning, only to succumb to death by Jeweller. If only I had some way to control this thing! I dared not try to eke out my forward motion by throwing out more ballast; I only had so much spare to play with. I considered tossing out the tools, but that would only by a few seconds of time.
I thought again. If the slight breeze found the Dreadnought and myself solid enough to act upon by blowing us southwards, then what I needed was to increase my surface area. And I’d left my petticoats in the sidecar!
The Dreadnought was a solid reassurance between my legs as I darted my hand into the sidecar. I ripped my petticoat open into a single sheet, knotted two corners around the handlebars, and gripping the bike between my knees, held up the other corners as a sail, with myself as mast.
The ploy appeared to be working. Hitherto, the breeze had not been noticeable, as I’d been travelling at its own same speed. But my improvised sail filled and bellied out, and the ground definitely started moving towards me horizontally, and not just in the direction of gravity.
I began to tingle with a new optimism. My forward momentum was reducing my downward speed, and at this rate, it looked like I had plenty of leeway. I could even be reasonably certain of landing on flattish ground, avoiding any buildings which might make life difficult.
Oh, splendid! The pier sailed by like a log in a fast-moving river. If my guess was right, I should come down in Miss Rain’s garden.
Oh, bother.
I squinted into the distance. Yes, I could be in no doubt. I was heading straight for her man-eating plant. I’d got away from it once before, but my nerves were too frayed to be certain of achieving a Dirty Look on this occasion. Then I remembered the sailing barges on the Thames. I wasn’t familiar with the terminology, but they helped steer the barges by swivelling the sails.
As the lower corners were tied down, I managed less of a swivel than an awkward twist. However, it worked immediately, and had me heading straight for the Blue Mermaid, or if I missed that, an inlet of unknown depth just beyond it. There was no time to think about it; I reversed my twist of the sail and the kindly breeze wafted me the other way, right into Miss Rain’s garden and safely out of reach of her shopgirl-eating plant.
Yes, this was going to be as graceful a landing as any I could have pulled off with the airship. There was a patch of fleshy leaves right in my landing path. It couldn’t be better. Bracing myself on handlebars and footpegs, I followed the ground inch by inch as it rose up to meet me.
I had no time at all to savour the kiss of tyre to ground. In the instant that my petticoat, now windless, collapsed, those fleshy leaves snapped up around me like a vegetable gin trap. I could not believe my bad luck. Miss Rain has two of those plants!
And I had landed right in the middle of the other one.
My first instinct was to repeat my previous escape, but I was too mentally exhausted to give it a dirty look. I tried, I strained, but just could not focus. Then, to my amazement, the world returned to my vision as the plant collapsed about me, with a great gurgling noise that sounded most unhealthy, like a blockage clearing from a drain.
I wasted no time in taking advantage of the opportunity. Hampered by my petticoat entangling my hands with the handlebars, I ripped it off and abandoning it to the plant, leapt off to bump-start the Dreadnought. Without my weight, the back wheel immediately started to rise. I’d taken two clumsy steps rolling the bike forwards on its front wheel before I realised I was about to lose it, and hurled myself across the tank. But I was clear of the plant, which was emitting bronchial coughs as though choking on my petticoat.
I slumped over the handlebars, gasping. First one thing, then another – I wanted to implode and vanish from the world. But I knew that I could not stay there forever. I took a few deep breaths to restore my equilibrium, knowing that I only had to ride across a couple of districts to be home and in bed. I’d tie the Dreadnought to a post in the stable to stop it floating away, and deal with its cargo in the morning.
As my head cleared, I remarked how strange it was that the plant had spat me out. The Dreadnought was no more indigestible than the Golden Grisset, which the plant’s companion hadn’t minded at all, and my petticoat was definitely lighter fare. And, whatever the plant’s ghastly pneumonic noises might have suggested, it was clean! The truth dawned instantly, and made me raise a weary chuckle. Those plants must have been in communication with each other, and had passed the warning against me. It had ejected me before I could summon up a Dirty Look – heh. Those things really couldn’t handle shopgirls!
But enough of the plant. Home, bathtub and bed awaited me. But first I had to get there, for which I’d have to dismount to start the bike. I’d never do that with it between my legs, waddling like a penguin. I sat for a moment, trying to calculate how I could put the necessary weight behind a bump start without removing said weight from the saddle and losing the bike. Perhaps Miss Rain would not miss a few rocks to ballast it down? Somewhat awkwardly, I walked the bike over towards a likely-looking outcrop. Luckily, it was only my stance which was ungainly, due to the bike between my legs; thanks to the Cavorite, the Dreadnought weighed next to nothing.
Yes, re-ballasting the sidecar seemed an excellent idea; the ground was too bumpy for me to get a good run to start the engine. The outcrop I’d seen was in a small localised foggy patch, I braced myself for that horrible clingy damp feeling on my already heated skin. When I reached it, the fog turned out to be thicker than I’d expected, although I could still see the road which was my ultimate goal. I stooped down to the small pile of boulders, and they moved.
I recoiled, and almost fell out of the saddle. Thanks to the fog, I could make no sense of any details, but the outcrop’s glints and shadows seemed to be moving in a pattern that was all too familiar. The fog picked that moment to leave a gap and hammer home what I was already starting to suspect. Miss Rain kept a monster spider! One that made Harry look like the veriest ant! My heart stopped as I fought to keep my balance, with the off-centre Cavorite trying to tip me up.
Whatever the spider was doing was known only to itself; the fog masked its subtler expressions, but at least I had the sidecar between myself and it. I rammed my offside foot into the ground to restore my equilibrium, hammering the passenger tyre into the grass. Then my skirt, wearying of all the tribulations it had undergone on my behalf, solved the Cavorite side of the equation forever by parting with a great jubilant industrial-sized riiiiiiiiip! and flumping into the sidecar like a drunk falling into bed. I could only watch as my precious Cavorite soared heavenwards like a cluster of green comets, lost to me forever.
The sudden motion seemed to startle the spider, which bought me time to leap out of the saddle and run the bike to the road, where I chanced a look behind me. I don’t know if the spider was as unnerved as I was, or if it just couldn’t be bothered to come after me; all I could see was eight beady little eyes turning away in search of something more worthwhile.
Nevertheless, I wasted no time. I feverishly set choke and ignition advance, yanked on the clutch, and heaved the Dreadnought southwards. Letting the clutch go, the engine gave a throaty roar, and I threw myself onto the saddle and gunned the throttle. I was going home.
But not just yet. The engine coughed and gave a backfire that would have alerted the whole district, and stopped dead. Inert. At first, I sat there, mortified. Then I realised my mistake.
You didn’t turn the petrol on! Silly tart!
I half-fell out of the saddle and after a tweak of valve, repeated the whole damned procedure. This time, the engine caught and stayed Ert, burbling throatily under its rich diet of half-choked mixture. It was already getting quite dark as I swung out onto the railway line, not bothering with the headlamp. I was no doubt rousing the neighbourhood with that hammering exhaust beat, and most of them would recognise it, but I did not want to let them confirm my identity with their own eyes. Under the cover of twilight, I resisted the temptation to tear home at a rate of knots, and let the cold engine warm gently. It also bought me time to think.
I’d lost the cargo that had almost cost me my life more than once. But I had learned a lot about things Never To Do Again. I’d been so amateurish and naïve in trying to acquire my Cavorite; I hadn’t even asked anyone about the stuff. I knew no more about it than what Mr Whybrow had first told me, and at the same time, understood quite definitively why he would have nothing to do with Cavorite, preferring old-fashioned gas. That was what I’d have to do.
Once the faithful Dreadnought had been put to bed in the stable, the first thing I did was to kick off my shoes. The second was to collapse into my bathtub, fully-clothed. They needed a wash after the evening’s exertions, anyway.
As I slumped, letting my banked fire massage the autumn chill from my feet, I felt the evening’s misadventures slide away. I was still alive, after all, and from somewhere I dredged up a tinge of pride that my gift of song was still with me. Perhaps I should sing to Jasper? I let out a weary chuckle. Not within half a mile of any building, or Mr Whybrow really would get angry with me.
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