The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(103)

They circled Chobham and headed once more toward London as the pale dawn began to unveil the contours of the world. There was no evidence of any destruction along this part of the route, Wells realized in relief, for it meant that for the time being London was safe. Presently, when they glimpsed a farmhouse on the road to Addlestone, Murray suggested they make a stop to give the horses a rest before they ended up collapsing unexpectedly on the road. They all needed some sleep, and the farmhouse seemed like a good place for it. The others agreed, and so the millionaire pulled up outside the house. They realized the owners had fled when they discovered two abandoned, horseless carts next to a small barn and at the entrance to the farmhouse a trail of utensils and personal effects: shoes, teaspoons, a wall clock, and a couple of flattened hats that suggested a hasty departure. Leaving Emma to watch over Clayton’s inopportune slumber, Wells and Murray went inside to explore the farmhouse. It was a modest two-floor dwelling, poorly furnished, and with three upstairs bedrooms. They inspected each room and found no signs of life. This spared them the onerous task of asking to stay and even rubbing elbows with the family living there, who would doubtless be eager to exchange stories about the invasion or share their fears, a prospect that daunted the exhausted Wells. After the inspection, they gave the horses water and carried Clayton into the main bedroom, where they laid him on the double bed. It was decided that Wells would sleep beside the inspector in case he suddenly woke up, while Emma and Murray would occupy the other two rooms. Once they had deposited the inspector, they went down to the kitchen to satisfy the hunger that had begun to assail them. Sadly, the fleeing family had also plundered the pantry, and after an exhaustive search all they could find was a stale crust of bread and some moldy cheese, which none of them deigned to taste, for it would have meant accepting that the situation they were in was totally desperate. Following this disappointment, each retired to his or her improvised bedroom to try to rest for at least a couple of hours before resuming their journey.

Wells went into his allotted chamber, took Clayton’s pulse to make sure he was still alive, and then lay down beside him. He had forgotten to take the precaution of drawing the curtains, and a dim light filtered through the windows. He was too exhausted to get up again and so resigned himself to sleeping in the bothersome glare that was beginning to illuminate every corner of the modest room. As he waited for sleep to come, he studied the meager possessions the house’s owners had been forced to leave behind: the rickety wardrobe, the small chest of drawers, the shabby mirror, the small lamp and candles beside the bed. Those forlorn objects had so little in common with those of his own world that he was surprised they were able to offer comfort to anyone. And yet there were those who lived with such possessions, who journeyed toward death surrounded by objects emanating ugliness. Wells kept to his side of the mattress, arms tightly by his sides, not wishing to touch the sheets any more than he could help it, for he was convinced that if he came into contact with them, or with any of the other hastily abandoned objects, his fingers would break out in an unpleasant rash. As he lay there, besieged by that respectable poverty, the author was forced to acknowledge that it was one thing to imagine the privations of the lower classes in a general, almost abstract way, but quite another to witness at first hand the hideous drabness surrounding their lives, which was something he had never alluded to in the few articles he had written in support of their rights.

Then his eye fell on a photograph atop the chest of drawers. It showed a couple and their two sons wearing the suspicious expression of those who still believe the devil has a hand in the workings of the camera. The couple, with their coarse features and simple clothes, had placed their hands on their sons’ shoulders, as if showing off the prize fruits of their orchard. Those poor lads could have been born anywhere, but the roulette wheel of life had decided it would be to that family, condemned to toil in the same fields as their parents before them. They would accept their fate as a matter of course, and their souls would never burn with a curiosity that would force them to question the order of things. But, looking on the bright side, Wells said to himself, their lack of imagination was an excellent insurance against life’s many disappointments, which happily they would never experience. If they were content with their lot, they would have no urge to migrate to the city, where they would doubtless have a much harder life, for at least in the countryside the air was pure and the sun was warm. In the city they would have been crammed together with others like them in a rented room in some filthy East End backstreet, easy prey to tuberculosis, bronchitis, and typhus. And the healthy, robust glow they brought with them from the countryside would fade in some factory, as would their will to live, all for a miserable wage that would afford them no greater happiness than a drunken spree in a seedy tavern. Luckily for them, those two able-bodied lads had got the best of a bad deal, for surely it was they who had occupied the two other bedrooms. Wells looked away from the photograph, wondering what had made the family abandon their house, which was certainly their only home. Had they been scared by the rumors they had heard, perhaps encouraged by their neighbors? And how would their simple minds have reacted to the news that the enemies attacking their country came from outer space, from that starry sky they had never seen as anything but a decorative backdrop? Now though, regardless of the fate to which each had been allotted or the possessions they had managed to accumulate, all the inhabitants of the Earth were reduced to the same level: that of fleeing rats.