The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(88)

Once their day was done, he and Patrick sat on a pile of boxes waiting to be paid. The two men usually passed the time chatting about this or that, but Tom’s thoughts had been elsewhere all week. This was how long it had been since the unfortunate meeting with Claire Haggerty, and yet still nothing had happened. Apparently, Murray knew nothing about it and possibly never would. Even so, Tom’s life would never be the same again.

It had already changed. Tom knew London was too big a place for him to run into the girl again, yet he walked around with his eyes wide open, afraid of bumping into her round every corner.

Thanks to that stupid girl, he would always be uneasy, always on the alert: he had even considered growing a beard. He shook his head as he reflected how the most trivial act can change your life: why the devil had he not taken the precaution of emptying his bladder before the performance? When Patrick finally plucked up the courage to chide him gently for his morose silence, Tom stared at him in surprise. It was true he had not tried to hide his anxiety from Patrick, and now he did not know what to say to him. He merely reassured him with a mysterious, doleful smile, and his companion shrugged his shoulders, as if to say he had not meant to poke his nose into Tom’s affairs. Once they had been paid, the two men strolled away from the market with the leisurely gait of those who have nothing much else to do for the rest of the day. As they walked, Tom gazed warmly at Patrick, afraid his unwillingness to confide in him might have hurt the lad’s feelings. Patrick was only a couple of years younger than him, but his baby face made him look even younger, and Tom could not help instinctively taking him under his wing, like the little brother he never had, even though he knew Patrick could take care of himself. And yet neither of them, whether out of apathy or shyness, had shown any interest in developing their friendship outside the port.

“Today’s earnings bring me a little closer, Tom,” Patrick suddenly declared in a faintly wistful voice.

“Closer to what?” asked Tom, utterly intrigued, for Patrick had never once mentioned any plans to start a business or marry a woman.

The lad looked at him mysteriously.

“To achieving my dream,” he replied solemnly.

Tom was pleased the lad had a dream that would drive him on, a reason to get out of bed in the morning: something lacking in his own life of late.

“And what dream might that be, Patrick?” he asked, knowing the lad was longing to tell him.

Almost reverentially, Patrick pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and presented it to him.

“To travel to the year 2000 and see the brave Captain Shackleton triumph over the evil automatons.” Tom did not even take the leaflet he knew from memory. He just stared at Patrick glumly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know about the year 2000, Tom?” said Patrick, astonished.

Tom sighed.

“There’s nothing for me in the future, Patrick,” he shrugged.

“This is my present, and it’s the only thing I want to know about.” “I see,” murmured Patrick, too polite to criticize his friend’s narrow-mindedness.

“Have you had breakfast yet?” Tom asked.

“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 shoulder. “I know a place near here where they serve the best sausages in town.”





25


After enjoying a hearty breakfast that would take the edge off their appetite for a week, Tom’s pockets were once again empty. He tried not to reproach himself for his extravagant gesture towards Patrick; he had not been able to resist it, but next time he must be more careful, for he knew full well that although these altruistic deeds made him feel good, they would only be detrimental to him in the long run. He said good-bye 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 deeds 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 light from candles perched on mounds of melted wax, which 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 heliotrope 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 color 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 again into the crowd, swerving to get past 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 realized this on slamming into a young woman crossing his path. Reeling from the collision, the woman had to steady herself in order not to end up on the ground. Tom stopped and swung round with the intention of apologizing as politely as possible for having bumped into her.