The Reluctant Time Traveller by Janis Mackay Page A

anything hidden in the desk –false bottoms to the drawers? A concealed drawer anywhere? A locked compartment? No, only the pieces of blank paper. Well, they would do for starting the fire anyway. I twisted some up and stuffed them under the coal. “Please work,” I muttered, “please!” With my hand shaking I struck the match and held it under the paper. A small blue flame caught light. I shoved loads more matches into the fire, so they would light and help the coal catch. Thankfully it worked. Gradually one small piece of coal started to glow, but I had used up half the box of matches, and a pile of Gaunt’s writing paper.
    I grabbed the bucket full of ash, and the bucket that was now half full of coal and hurried on. Next to the bedroom was a kind of living room, with armchairs and a few more stuffed stag heads on the wall. Creepsville! Was there anywhere here that someone might file important papers and then forget about them? I ran my fingers over panelling in case any of it felt loose or sprung open. I lifted a few dusty books then put them back. I slid my fingers under the cushions. There were no important papers.
    This fireplace was heaped with ash – more than I could fit in the ash bucket. Noble had said something about spreading it on the compost heap. I grabbed the heavy ash bucket and dashed downstairs.
    Outside, I looked around for the compost heap and found it behind the coal shed, up against the high back wall of the garden. It didn’t look like a compost heap; it looked like a rubbish tip. Broken chairs and tables lay in a pile, like they were waiting for Guy Fawkes Night. Mingled in with the broken furniture I could see potato peelings, broken plates and raggedy old blankets. I took my bucket of ash and threw it over the rubbish.
    I was ready to turn and race back when I heard three whistles from behind the wall. The gang signal. Agnes!

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    I glanced over my shoulder. No one was about. I dropped my ash bucket and ran to the wall beside the rubbishy compost heap. “Agnes?” I hissed, “are you there?”
    “Saul! I heard footsteps. Thought I’d try the signal.” She was just over on the other side of this great wall.
    “Are you ok?”
    “Yes, I’m a bit hungry, but I’m ok. What about you?”
    I felt like crying. I was not ok. I was sore. I was more than a bit hungry. I was trapped. I was doing work I’d never have imagined doing in my life. “Kinda.” I said.
    “Meet me at the iron gates at midnight, if you can get out safely. Then we can talk.”
    Agnes had no idea how difficult that might be. Maybe I would be locked in? But I couldn’t stand here talking at the wall. “I’ll try,” I said.
    At that moment a bell clanged. I heard a voice at the back door call out, “Servants’ tea time!” I was starving. I grabbed my empty ash bucket and ran.
    “So!” In the kitchen, the housekeeper looked me up and down. “We’ve got a thief for a servant now, have we?”
    I didn’t know what to say in my own defence. I was too busy re-adjusting my image of Mrs Buchan, who wasn’t a six-foot giant after all. She was what you might call stocky, with a broad forehead, tired-looking eyes and a long black dress. She didn’t exactly seem pleased to see me.
    “Well, come in and have a cup of tea,” she said, shaking her head, “and for heaven’s sake put down that bucket. I don’t want ash all over the kitchen.”
    Next thing, there I was, in the servant’s poky kitchen, drinking tea and wolfing down a biscuit. The homemade shortbread Elsie gave me was probably a few days old. And the tea was stewed, but I was getting used to that. As Mrs Buchan drank her tea she inspected us over the rim of her cup. Then she set her cup down in a saucer. “Gaunt,” She announced, “is expecting a foreign guest and has ordered that the whole house be put in perfect order.” Elsie sighed. Frank drained his tea. Mrs Buchan shook her head like she didn’t approve. “Aye, it is to be warmed up and