The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(85)
If Murray ever found out, Tom would end up like Perkins, however big and strong he might be.
“You know, Tom,” said Gilliam, “when I look at you I see a true hero.” “I just try to play the part of Captain Shackleton as best I can, Mr. Murray,” Tom replied, trying to stop his hands from shaking as he pulled on his trousers.
Gilliam gave what sounded like a growl of pleasure.
“Well, just keep it up, lad, keep it up,” he urged, amused.
Tom nodded.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said pulling on his cap, “I’m in a bit of a hurry.” “You’re leaving?” said Gilliam, disappointed. “Won’t you stay for the jollities?” “I’m sorry, Mr. Murray, I really have to go,” replied Tom.
He snatched his bundled-up jacket, taking care not to let Murray see the parasol, and headed for the door that led from the dressing room into the alley at the back of the building. He had to get out of there before Gilliam noticed the beads of sweat on his brow.
“Tom, wait!” cried Murray.
Tom swiveled round, his heart knocking in his chest. Gilliam looked at him solemnly for a moment.
“Is she pretty?” he finally asked “I beg your pardon?” Tom stammered.
“The reason you’re in such a hurry. Is there a pretty lady waiting to enjoy the company of the savior of the human race?” “I …” Tom stuttered, suddenly aware of the sweat trickling down his cheeks Gilliam laughed heartily.
“I understand, Tom,” he said patting him on the back, “you don’t like people sniffing around in your private life, do you? Don’t worry, you’re not obliged to reply. Run along now. And don’t forget to make sure no one sees you leave.” Tom nodded mechanically, and moved towards the door, halfheartedly waving good-bye to the others. He stepped out into the alley and hurried as fast as he could towards the main street, where he hid at the corner and paused for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. He watched the entrance to the alleyway for a few minutes, in case Gilliam sent someone after him, but when no one appeared, he felt reassured. That meant Murray did not suspect anything, at least not for the moment. Tom heaved a sigh of relief. Now he must put his trust in the stars to guide him as far away as possible from the girl called Claire Haggerty. It was then he noticed that in his panic he had forgotten to change his shoes: he was still wearing the brave Captain Shackleton’s boots.
24
The boardinghouse on Buckeridge Street was a ramshackle building with a peeling fa?ade, wedged between two taverns that were so noisy it made it hard for anyone trying to sleep on the other side of the partition walls . However, compared to some of the other fleapits Tom had lodged in, the filthy hovel was the nearest thing to a palace he had known. At that time of day, after twelve, the street was filled with the pungent aroma of grilled sausages from the taverns, which was a constant source of torment for most of the lodgers, whose pockets contained nothing but fluff. Tom crossed the street to the boardinghouse, trying his best to ignore the smell that was making him drool like a dog, and regretting that out of fear he had passed up the spread Murray had laid out in their honor. It would have filled his belly for days. In the street outside the door to the boardinghouse, he saw the stall belonging to Mrs. Ritter, a mournful-looking widow who made a few pence reading people’s palms.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ritter,” he said with a friendly smile.
“How’s business today?”
“Your smile’s the best thing that’s happened to me all day, Tom,” the woman replied, cheering up noticeably when she saw him. “No one seems bothered about the future. Have you managed to convince the whole neighborhood not to be curious about what Fate has in store for them?” Tom liked Mrs. Ritter, and from the moment she had set up her miserable little stall there, he had taken it upon himself to be her champion. From scraps of gossip picked up in the neighborhood, Tom had pieced together her tragic story, which might have been the template the Creator used to reproduce unhappy lives, for Mrs. Ritter had apparently been spared no misfortune.
He decided the poor woman had undergone more than her fair share of suffering and resolved to help her as best he could. Unfortunately, this stretched little further than stealing apples in Covent Garden or stopping to give her the time of day whenever he went in or out of the boardinghouse, and trying to cheer her up if she was having a bad day. Despite all this, he had never let her read his palm and always gave the same explanation: knowing what fate had in store for him would destroy his curiosity, which was the only thing that got him out of bed every morning.
“I would never try to sabotage your business, Mrs. Ritter,” he replied, amused. “I’m sure things will pick up this afternoon.” “I hope you’re right, Tom, I hope you’re right.” He bade her farewell and began climbing the rickety staircase that led to his room on the top floor of the boardinghouse.
He opened the door and carefully examined the room he had been living in for almost two years, as though seeing it for the first time. But, unlike the day the landlady had first showed him the room, he did not eye up critically the dilapidated bed, or the worm-eaten chest of drawers, or the flyblown mirror, or even the tiny window overlooking the waterlogged back alley filled with refuse. This time, Tom stood in the doorway and stared at the room as though suddenly aware that the wretched space he could scarcely pay for represented everything he had been able to make of life. And he was struck by the overwhelming certainty that nothing would ever change, that his present existence was so irreversible it would continue silently unraveling into the future without anything happening to mark the passage of time, and only in moments of remarkable lucidity like these would he realize that life was slipping away from him, like water trickling through his fingers.