The Thief of Time

Have you ever wondered why it seems that some days are shorter than others? Time seems to have a certain elasticity to it that defies all logic. A busy work day can fly by in half the time it should, yet while waiting for a bus in the rain, time seems to almost stand still. Of course we all know that this is merely a matter of perception over reality. We have atomic clocks that measure each passing second to a bewildering level of accuracy. And so it was something of a surprise one day when I discovered that there may be an alternative explanation. So extraordinary, that I feel compelled to share it with you. But please, promise not to share this with anyone else, as I fear the consequences of such a revelation could be truly revolutionary, perhaps even sparking an international war.
One day, not so long ago, I was doing some research for my book and had got a little distracted. It’s not that I don’t want to finish the manuscript, in fact I have a pressing need to finish it, that or I will have to get a real job. Yet somehow, things always get in the way. On this particular occasion, the thing that had gotten in my way was a bundle of dusty old letters, buried in the archives of one of our more provincial museums. I had travelled down to Portsmouth to try and get some local colour for a scene I was struggling with. I knew exactly what was supposed to happen, the plot had been laid out in my mind for quite some time. Yet each time I tried to begin to write, I was unable to conjour up the scene in my mind. The characters were familiar friends by now, the location was as planned, and yet the page remained blank. The few words I penned seemed forced and unnatural. The time of day, the weather, the colours, the scents, the sounds of the moment, all escaped me. I determined that the only thing to do would be to actually go there. So I did.
Driving around an unfamiliar town is always unnerving for me. I worry that I will park and find myself in the wrong place, and end up walking around in circles. However that’s just my natural paranoia. How can there be a wrong place, when there is no right place. It is not as though I had an actual plan. My legs were starting to ache and I needed a coffee, so I decided to stop at the next car park. Only when I saw the sign pointing down a murky little back street, I decided that probably wasn’t the right place to park, and continued a little longer. The I saw a sign, “Café” with a car park right next to it. This would do. I parked the car and went inside, it was clean and pleasant. I checked to see what sort of coffee machine they had. It was a Gaggia. I relaxed. Everything would be fine now. I took a table by the window, and waited.
Presently a young girl stepped out from behind the mutli-coloured streamers covering the open doorway which I assumed led to the kitchen. She gave me a bright smile, and took my order. I think she was hoping for something more interesting than just a cappuccino. But I have learned the hard way, that it is very easy to fill up a research day with a long lazy lunch, and have nothing to show for it by the end of the day than a large bill, and an even larger belly. This time I was determined to work. I just needed a coffee and some time to orientate myself. When the girl returned with a coffee I asked if there was a library or museum nearby which had a local archive.
The word archive seemed to cause us a momentary difficult, so I tried again, this time I asked if there was a local history museum near by.
“Oh yes, it’s about five minutes from here, just follow this road to the end, cross the street at the lights and you’ll see a sign for the Museum.”
She seemed relieved to have been able to put an end to this conversation, so I let her go back behind the coloured streamers where she felt at home. It was a little like watching a hermit crab scuttling back into it’s shell.
I could imagine her thinking, “I’m back safe, all is well.”
The coffee was not bad, but then my expectations were not high. This is not Milan, but also it was not an insult to the machine which had made it. Some of the worst coffee I have ever had, has been when a non-coffee drinker has been let loose on an expresso machine. Some training is required, otherwise you really shouldn’t bother. Oh dear, I sound like such a coffee snob. Which unfortunately I am, so I guess we will just have to leave that impression in your head. It is, after all, accurate. Perhaps I could redeem myself by returning to the point of this story? Let’s skip on to the museum.
The museum was not actually what I had in mind. As I said I was hoping for a local archive, what I found instead was a very small natural history museum with a butterfly house attached to the side. Upon entering I was greeted by a large dinosaur skeleton, which seems to be the hallmark of all natural history museums around the world. Dinosaurs seem to take up hours of little boy’s time, and I guess some of them then grow up to run museums. It’s the only explanation I can find.
My hopes of finding anything useful were at an all time low, but it was too embarrassing to walk out again, as I think I was the only visitor that day. So I casually asked if they had any local archive material. This time I was a little more successful, which given I was in a museum was, I guess, not unreasonable.
The lady behind the counter had very serious looking rimmed glasses , grey hair in a sort of bun, which was trying to escape from itself. And succeeding. Her clothes suggested a uniform, but were in fact her own choice.
“We have a fascinating collection of stag beetles donated by the family of Mr Edwin Bradbury. He’s a celebrated Victorian naturalist who lived in Southsea in the 1890’s.” She said most ardently.
At this point I must have looked a little disappointed, for she tried again.
“ We also have some very interesting moths….?”
Clearly this was not what I had in mind, but given the nature of the museum her efforts were not foolish, so I gave her an encouraging smile.

“Do you perhaps have any of his diaries or something which gives me some historical context for his work?”
“Well, we do have a collection of letters to his sister, Augusta. But very little else I’m afraid.”
Now I was stuck, if I said I wasn’t interested, she would feel that she had failed in her duties. I decided the best course of action would be to spend half an hour or so reading the letters and then make my excuses and move on elsewhere. After all I still had the rest of the day to do what I had really come for.
“Thank-you, that would be most interesting.” I lied.
Frances, for that was the name on her badge, pushed her glasses a little further up her nose, straightened out some unseen creases in her skirt and set about the task of setting me up with a space to work. It was clear there was little call for research at her little museum and the chance to spend time with another human being in close proximity was not to be wasted. Therefore she cleared a desk near her own, which prior to that moment had been covered in a stack of books on indigenous species of flora and fauna, and some leaflets on a nearby dairy farm.
“I’m afraid it will get a bit busy later this afternoon, we have a school party visiting, but if you work in here then you won’t get distracted by the noise. They can be a little trying at times.”
So this was the sum of her days, endless minutes of tedium, interspersed with bursts of noisy children vandalizing her carefully tended displays. I was very pleased that I had chosen to be a writer. Although of course as my father pointed out, does not being published still mean you are a writer, just a readerless one?
I let that thought evaporate as quickly as I could. It is not an area I like to dwell on for too long.
Fortunately Frances soon returned with a dusty archive box which clearly had not been touched for a very long time.
“How long ago were these donated?” I asked.
“About fifty years ago. They were found in the attic along with his collection of insects and some old books and newspapers. To be honest I’m not sure if any has ever bothered to read them, I certainly haven’t.” Frances looked at me concerned that she may have made a mistake. Now I would realize that the letters were useless, I would leave, and she would have nothing else to look forward to that day.
“Fascinating.” Followed by a reassuring smile, was the best I could muster in the circumstances.
I carefully took at the first bundle of letters, they were tied with ribbons of different colours. Mostly a little faded and full of dust. They hadn’t been sorted into any particularly order, so I decided the best course would be to just dip in, take a bundle and start reading.
Untying the first bundle proved a little troublesome as the knot was old and tight with time. I was about to give up and try another bundle when Frances offered to help. Women’s fingers are naturally smaller and find such things easy, so I conceded the task. When Frances concentrated she bit her lips together, and so by the time she had managed to untie the first bundle her lips had flushed red and looked a little bruised. I found the sight delightfully erotic, and so got up to distract myself, as this would not be helpful right now. Sex, like food, was another of the reasons I hadn’t managed to finish my book.
I’m not really doing a good job of presenting myself am I? Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not some kind of sex maniac. It’s just that I think humans are not really designed to work in the way we do today. We are all really cavemen and women. We are designed to hunt, eat, have sex, create a family and generally do all we need to do to stay alive. The rest is just the trappings of modern society which has tied us up into all sorts of knots. But perhaps I should get back to the knots, as I have gone off the track again.
Frances handed me the first bundle of letters, and I saw that her hands were not as lined as I had expected. The grey drab clothes had aged her beyond her years, and probably she was only in her thirties, not her fifties as I had at first thought. I glanced up and caught her eyes, they were pale and grey like the rest of her. Except her mouth, which once again forced it’s way into my head. Those lips were disconcertingly red and full. Taking the bundle of letters I went back to my desk and buried myself in the letters. Frances came towards me, took several bundles of letters from the box and placed the pile on the desk. Picking up the first packet she concentrated on untying it, perching herself on my desk to do so. I continued to read, trying not to notice the sound of her breathing.
The first few letters were extraordinarily dull. They were sent by Edwin in 1879 from some village in Dorset. He’d gone to look at fossils, and was staying at a hotel in Lyme Regis. The news he sent was mostly about the weather, the terrible hotel food, he mentioned some people that Augusta knew, and lots of writing about fossils really. However much one had missed one’s brother, I can’t imagine why Augusta had bothered keeping the letters.
Frances passed me the second packet. This was from a different year slightly earlier, 1875. Edwin was a little younger and a lot more interesting. He was in London attending parties, just down from Oxford and eager to sample city life. Clearly the interest in beetles and fossils came later. He talked about nights at the theatre, visiting his father’s club, bridge nights, a visit to Alexandra Palace, and many happy hours spent at the Royal Society of London. These were letters that were worth receiving. Unfortunately they were useless for my research as none of them contained any mention of Portsmouth, or even any sense of Edwin wanting to be there. Of course he said he missed his family, and sent his regards to all, but you could tell he clearly had no intention of hurrying home. London at that time was a hotbed of explorers bringing back wild tales of pygmies in Africa, of cannibals in New Guinea, of faraway exotic lands where your life was constantly in danger. To a young man it must have sounded very exciting. It was hard to see this Edwin and the Edwin of 1979 as the same people.
Putting down the letters I glanced at the clock and realised that an hour had passed already. Frances had undone the knots on the remaining bundles and left them on my desk. Where she had gone I wasn’t sure. I stood up, stretched my arms and legs and let out a huge yawn. The kind you can only do alone. Which was unfortunate, as when I turned around Frances was standing in the doorway.

“I thought you might like some tea James?”
“Um. Well yes I would. Thank you very much.”
“How do you take it?”
“Oh the usual way.” Some more explanation was needed I could tell, she was a very factual person. “White, no sugar.” I paused. “My name…how did you know it?”
“The form you filled in, so I could give you access to the archives.” She replied most matter of factly.
“Oh yes. Of course. So I guess that means you know my date of birth and everything.”
“Indeed I do.”
This time there seemed to be a hint of laughter in her voice. I felt a little unnerved, she appeared to have the upper hand. All I had to go on was a name tag and set of assumptions about old ladies in museums.
“I thought I’d pop outside for a bit of air.” I stated to the room at large as Frances was moving away.
“If you need some air why don’t you have you tea in the garden next to the butterfly house. It’s just through there. Follow the signs.”
As I stepped through the doorway and back into the reception area I did indeed see a sign, saying “to the Garden” and an arrow pointing to a green door at the far end of the hall. Earlier, the door had been hidden from view by the Tyrannosaurus. Stepping out into the daylight was dazzling and it took me a moment to recover my senses. The garden was a recreation of a Victorian English cottage garden, and the air was thick with scents and the sounds of bees buzzing over the lavender bushes. The tables and chairs were scattered randomly around a patio full of flower pots, and an enamel watering can was propped against a cold frame full of young plants waiting for some space to grow. The whole scene was a complete and utter shock. I felt like I had stepped into someone else’s private heaven. A moment later Frances walked into the garden with a tea tray, and I realised I had.
“The garden, it’s lovely.” I said as she handed me my tea.
Frances beamed.
“It is. I so love the month of June, the garden is just perfect then.” She said.
“ So, how is the research going? Are the letters helpful?”
“The first letters were a little dull I confess, but the second bundle were infinitely more interesting. What do you know about Edwin?”

“Well Edwin was a local naturalist who became famous after joining an expedition to Africa. While he was there he wrote a very detailed account of the flora and fauna of the Congo and brought back a fascinating collection of insects many of which had never been seen before in Europe. The butterflies were particularly amazing. Unfortunately we don’t have those, he presented them to the Royal Society in London on his return from the expedition, but nonetheless some of what we have is pretty special.”
“He mentions going to the Royal Society in his letter to Augusta. But nothing about himself going on a expedition.”
“The expedition to Africa left Plymouth in 1885 and Edwin decided to stay on there as part of the mission for a number of years before returning home in 1890. He’d picked up some mysterious disease and was ordered to return home by the station commander. Fortunately for us he survived the journey and when he had recuperated he presented his findings to the Royal Society and in return was made a Fellow.”
Frances was a very fact based person. Reading his letters would be a much better way of discovering who was Edwin Bradbury. I drank my tea and asked questions about the garden.
Frances came to life. She knew all the latin names of the plants, which ones attracted which insects, which ones were edible, which could be used for herbal remedies. I allowed her to burble along content to sit in the sunshine and drift off to the sound of her voice. Of course I kept my eyes open, but I paid no attention to what she was saying. So of course it as quite a shock when she stood up and walked off.
“Damn, I had clearly missed my cue.” I thought to myself.
Not the first time a man has been caught out not listening to a woman, I know, but still I like to come across as caring and interested. Even, when I’m not.