Time After Time - Hardcover

KARL ALEXANDER is the author of five novels, including the sequel to Time After Time, Jaclyn the Ripper. He lives in Los Angeles.

1
Number 7 Mornington Place was a tall and narrow brick house with a well- kept yard bordered by a hedge and an iron- railing fence. With its three- gabled roof and dark- brown trim, it looked like all the other residences east of Regency Park between Euston and Cam-den Town. The streets appeared similar, too, for they were well laid out and at night were always crowded with lively, energetic people who liked to mingle in the gas- lit haze visiting or going on errands, despite the fog and the extremely cold weather. Discomfort could always be outweighed by a wool scarf, a heavy coat and the good fellowship of neighbors strolling to and fro. Besides, the warmth of a snifter full of brandy was never more than a short distance away inside a friendly pub.
The tenant at 7 Mornington Place was in love with the neighborhood, perhaps because for the .rst time in his twenty- seven years he was living in a decent borough and was free to do as he pleased. Recently he had purchased a new Raleigh bicycle equipped with the latest in safety brakes, and every night he leisurely rode through Mornington- Crescent and absorbed the sights, sounds and smells. Then he turned those impressions into controversial, hence pop u lar, articles for which he was paid a decent living wage.
This evening he had decided to look in Regent’s Park, which in the past always had been a good environment for source material. He had pedaled all the way to York Gate on the narrow Outer Circle and the well- kept, familiar beauty of the green lawns and low overhanging trees softened by the constant mist had not even registered on him. He seemed to be within a dense fog of his own creation. When he reached the curved .nger of the park’s placid lake, however, he suddenly recalled delightful summer afternoons of boating with sophisticated female companions, a bottle of chilled French wine, bread and cheese; the memory made him realize that he had not been able to curtail his own inner excitement and allow himself to become the detached, yet passionate, observer that Londoners were so used to reading. It was as if he had bicycled .ve miles from Mornington- Crescent with blinders on. He hadn’t even felt the cobblestones which normally were a constant source of jolts and a cause for new bicycle tires. He cursed his own lack of concentration, then laughed. The reason was obvious. Later that night old friends and former classmates were coming over, and— great Scott— did he have a surprise for them.
He wouldn’t have been out bicycling on this evening at all except that Mr. Hastings— the intrepid editor of the Pall Mall Gazette— had asked for three more articles by the end of next week. Yes, he was de.nitely behind in his work, for he had been devoting more time than usual to an obsessive scienti.c project in his private laboratory. He had also been spending more money than the articles— no matter how well received— had been paying. So it was imperative that he .nd material and .nd it quickly.
The mist was turning into a light rain. He wiped his handsome angular face dry with a large handkerchief. Wetness had caused his thick, dark- brown walrus mustache to droop. He imagined it made him look like an expatriate Rus sian bohemian living in Paris, so he rode no- handed for a short distance and used both hands to twirl the mass of hair back into shape. He reminded himself that he was fresh out of mustache wax and should pick up a jar the next time he was near the chemist’s.
He rounded a turn, passed the Hanover Gate to the park and saw a very tall, thin and stately gentleman walking an equally tall and thin brace of Borzois. Perhaps an article about the striking physical (and psychological) resemblances between the own ers and their pets would do. He chuckled at the thought of receiving irate letters from royalty and commoners alike who happened to own bulldogs or basset hounds. The only problem was that he would not have time to research the various and sundry breeds and species of animals that humans liked to surround themselves with. Oh, well. Perchance that was material for a more leisurely time.
He steered around a cart carry ing milk cans, and as he passed he noticed that the horse pulling the cart suddenly lifted his tail and deposited a pile of feces in the middle of the road. A common enough occurrence, he thought, but what about the poor wretches who clean it up day in and day out? How did they (eastern Eu ro pe an immigrants, no doubt) feel about the eccentric excesses of the Duke of Clarence, for example? Was there humor in that? No, the subject was much too verisimilar and socially realistic for the cyclist’s romantic tastes. And he had no desire to imitate the venerable Charles Dickens. So he would just have to keep looking.
But after another mile of laborious pedaling, the cyclist had seen nothing more of interest and decided to stop. He left the Outer Circle, turned north on Prince Albert Road, then coasted down a hill that curled through great stands of elm and maple. He wheeled to a halt in front of the Regent’s Inn, a gathering place for couples returning from vigorous walks through the park. He went inside for a pint and took a table near the great stone .replace. Bayberry logs were ablaze and radiated heat from the hearth. He removed his scarf and blazer, then loosened his tie.
He sipped his beer and looked around the room, listening for the spark of an idea. A couple in the corner was complaining that too many people used Regent’s Park despite the November cold.
“What we really ought to do, love, is spend your next holiday at the seaside,” suggested the wife. “Even the .shermen won’t be about.”
The husband concurred. “Being out of season, the rates would be cheaper, too.”
The cyclist’s face wrinkled up into a broad grin, and his brown eyes sparkled. He pulled a note pad and pencil out of his knickers and began scribbling. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? The seashore was his favorite of all places within a half day’s train ride from the city. He recalled— more with relief than pain— a weekend he had spent there a year ago January. He had gone with his wife- and- cousin, Isabel, to recover from a mild attack of exhaustion and tuberculosis. He had been teaching biology at the time, and Isabel insisted that he give up his dreams of becoming a great writer and inventor and devote all of his time to his job and marriage. She had become the champion for everything that he detested and demanded that he choose between her and his radical ideas. He had chosen himself, then. Now he allowed himself an ironic chuckle and penned a working title: “How to Go to the Seashore Married on Friday and Return to London a Bachelor on Monday.”
He put his pencil down, drained his beer, leaned back and sighed. He might even get all three articles out of that experience. Add Isabel’s knickknack- collecting aunt and a former student with both suffrage and seduction on her mind, and he just might have a whole damned book.
He was about to purchase another pint when he thought better of it and pulled his watch out of its vest pocket to check the time.
“Good Lord!” He exclaimed. It was half- past eight, and his guests were due to arrive anytime after nine. He grabbed his coat and hurried from the pub.
He leaped onto his bicycle and furiously began pedaling toward home. Almost immediately he came to the hill that a half hour ago he had so casually coasted down. He worked his legs hard and strained to increase speed, but the twisting grade was unusually steep. His breathing became labored, and he began perspiring under his clothes despite the chill. Uncomfortable, he hoped that his exertion would not ultimately result in pneumonia, a disease he had feared ever since an opposing grammar school rugger had kicked in his frail chest and collapsed his lung.
Finally he hopped off and pushed the Raleigh the last few yards to the top of the hill. As he walked, he wondered why bicycles were so primitive. They could be manufactured with gearing mechanisms designed to alter the revolutions of the wheels. Other machines were. Better yet, perhaps they could be out.tted with a lightweight power source such as an adaptation of the Daimler- Benz internal combustion engine developed by the Prus sians.
“Hmm” he uttered. Maybe he’d start working on that soon. The idea seemed in.nitely more simple than his current invention. He grinned, remounted the bicycle and quickly pedaled off. The dev il with articles on the seashore! Once his project came into his mind, he grew excited all over again and could think of nothing else. He had .nished the device in his laboratory that morning, and he could hardly wait for the reactions of his friends. True, the contraption needed testing, but still the occasion made him feel extremely proud and self- ful.lled. Despite a subsistence- level childhood and a beloved mother who always held the Bible over his head as a philosophic truncheon, despite his failure at apprenticeships, his chronic tuberculosis, his poor record at the university and the suffocating effects of his .rst marriage— despite all this he was going to change history. Tonight his friends would be the .rst to know, and eventually the faculty at the Normal School of Science just might want to bestow an honorary degree on a former student who had been sent down seven years ago.
H. G. Wells got off his Raleigh in front of 7 Mornington Place, wheeled it through the gate and left it leaning against the side of the house under the archway.
“Mr. Wells,” exclaimed the punctilious Mrs. Nelson as he hurried into the kitchen. “Where on earth have you been?” She folded up the Daily Mail, poured a cup of tea, rose and handed it to him, then said, “You shouldn’t be gadding about on that machine of yours in weather like this.”
“The weather’s always like this,” h...