“Of course I’m not. I’m Lottie’s grandson.”
“Lottie’s—” She sat perfectly still. He could almost see her mind working. “Move back.”
He knew why she said that. She couldn’t see him properly this close. He moved halfway across the room.
“You’re nothing like Lottie. You look a little like me.”
“Well, you are my great-great-aunt.”
“Lottie’s – grandson…” She couldn’t seem to take it in. But then she began to cry again, only not as before. She almost seemed to be crying with joy.
“She lives! My Lottie lives to grow up, and marry, and have children, and be happy! At least I haven’t destroyed her!”
“Of course not,” said Omri, creeping close again. His heart felt monstrously heavy with the truth he couldn’t tell her. Lottie lived and grew up and married, sure enough. But when she was barely thirty-one – still in Jessica Charlotte’s lifetime – her life was cruelly cut short by a bomb. The Luftwaffe, Omri thought suddenly. The German Air Force. In Matron’s time, right now, it might be happening. Layers. Layers of time… He shivered all over, just as Jessica Charlotte had.
She stopped crying abruptly. She picked up the ‘pillow’ and pressed it to her tiny face to stem her tears and wipe them. Then she put it down, and stood up clumsily because of the blanket.
“Where are my clothes? I hope you didn’t take them off!” she said, with something of her old spirit.
“No, don’t worry, a nurse did it. They’re here. I’ll put them on the radiator to dry them.”
“Radiator? Is that some heating device?”
“Yes. They’re so small, they’ll dry in no time.”
He lifted the little pile of wet clothes and squeezed some drops of water out between finger and thumb. Then he began to separate them. Some of the underclothes were so small he could hardly handle them and he was afraid of their getting lost. He placed his big comb across the ridged top of the radiator and very carefully laid the clothes on top of it – the dress, a black one; an underskirt; a strange, corset-like thing; some long pantaloons; two black threads that were her stockings. Her shoes were so tiny he had to pick them up by pressing his finger to their wetness. There was also a tiny triangular thing – a shawl perhaps. He unfolded it with infinite care. It was about two centimetres square.
When he’d finished he went back to her. “Miss Driscoll…”
“You had better call me Aunt Jessie.”
He felt a strange glow of happiness when she said that. “Aunt Jessie, then. The nurse said you should have a hot drink with whisky.”
“Pray don’t trouble yourself. I don’t drink spirits these days.”
“I – I want to ask you a big favour.”
“Ask.”
“You know the – the key you made.”
“Oh…!” she said on a groan. “Don’t remind me!”
“I want you to make me another.”
“What for?”
“The key you made… Look. Here it is.” He showed it to her.
She looked at it. “Why is it so big?”
“That’s hard to explain. The fact is, you’re small.”
She was watching him carefully.
“It’s all to do with your gift,” he went on. “The magic you put in the key.”
“Ah. I knew there was something.”
“And I need – I really need – another key with the same magic in it.”
“You want me to pour the lead for a second key?”
“Yes.”
She shrank into the blanket, as if she were deep in thought. Then she straightened and looked Omri in the face. “To do a favour for Lottie’s kin,” she said, “that would give me something to live for. Give me the key you wish me to copy.” And she sat down and began to twist up her straggling hair.
Racing downstairs to fetch the key, Omri stopped dead.
His parents were out. That must mean, in the car – there was no other way to get anywhere, other than on foot. No doubt they’d gone shopping in the village.
His heart was beating at twice its normal speed. He decided he had to calm down. Think. There must be a spare key somewhere, but he had no idea where. No, he’d have to wait – preferably patiently – till his parents returned.
Meanwhile, he would get Jessica Charlotte a hot drink.
He went to the kitchen, built out at the back of the longhouse. It was quite a simple kitchen, with a big Aga which was always warm, day and night. There was invariably a big heavy kettle simmering away at the back of it.
He rummaged in a drawer till he found what he was looking for – a tin of oil; his mum could not abide a squeaking hinge. It had a narrow spout with a little cap on top. He took this off, put it in a sieve and poured the very hot water over it to clean it. He sniffed it – okay, no oily smell. Then he made a mug of tea with a teabag, added milk and sugar, stirred vigorously and was just carrying it towards the stairs when Gillon came strolling through from the TV room.
“I see you got your cupboard out of the bank,” he remarked.
Omri spilt some tea. “When did you see it?”
“Yesterday.”
“Do you have to go snooping in my room?”
“You have to crash right through my room, about fifty times a day. I don’t get much privacy.”
“You wanted the outside room.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m beginning to think I messed up there. You’ve got the best room.”
“Yours is bigger.”
“This is a crazy old house, no corridors,” said Gillon. “You having hot chocolate? You might’ve made me some.”
“Tea,” said Omri reluctantly. Gillon knew he hated tea.
Gillon
