They were in Bee’s back garden, near St Ives bay. Bee was completing a crossword, while Ruby was changing the oil of her motorcycle; she had ridden from London the previous day. Breno, Bee’s collie, was seeking refuge from the heat indoors. His staccato barking suddenly drowned out the drama playing on the radio.
‘Must be someone at the front door,’ Bee said, without looking up from her puzzle.
‘Are you expecting visitors?’ Ruby smeared oil across her flannel dress.
‘Not a soul.’
Whoever caught Breno’s attention had gone by the time Ruby reached the porch. The path was quite empty. There was only an origami rabbit, sitting at the centre of the doorstep. Ruby picked the rabbit up. Two words were inked in copperplate on his ear: For Barbara.
Ruby looked around once more – as if the messenger might be hiding behind a shrub or hedge, to watch her reaction. Breno sat panting happily. He could normally be relied upon to pester lurking guests; they must have passed out of his range.
Defeated, Ruby returned to the back garden.
‘Look what I found by the door.’ She placed the rabbit on the picnic table.
Barbara put down her pen, and ran her finger over the rabbit’s ear.
‘Do you know who it’s from?’ Ruby asked.
‘Grace Taylor. She wrote her capital letters that way – all curls. A mystery present is just her style. She liked to keep everyone guessing.’
Like the other pioneers, Grace Taylor had become a household name. But Ruby had never heard Bee speak of her old colleagues. This breach of familial silence left Ruby unsure how to react. Instead of looking her grandmother in the eye, Ruby stared at the toes of her boots.
‘D’you hear from Grace often?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t want to stay in touch?’
‘She kept her distance, after I first went into hospital. All three of them did. I did try to contact Margaret several times, early on – there were issues over who owned what in the lab. But she wouldn’t talk to me directly. It wasn’t just my career that was over. It was our friendship.’
Ruby dared to look up. Bee was smiling sadly.
‘Granny, that’s awful,’ Ruby said.
‘In some ways it’s just as well. Your mother doesn’t like me to discuss that time of my life.’ Bee’s mouth pursed in a moue of anxiety. For years Ruby had thought Granny Bee’s past was too painful for her to mention. Ruby hadn’t known Bee’s silence was imposed by Dinah.
‘Why doesn’t she like you to talk about it?’ Ruby asked.
‘The idea of time travel frightens her.’
‘That’s true for lots of people. It seems such an… alien thing to do.’ Time travelling was an elite profession, out of reach for the average Joe or Josephine.
‘Yes, but your mother’s fear was very personal. She was scared of what it had done to me. And the one time she encountered some other time travellers… let’s just say that didn’t go well either.’
‘You don’t need to talk about time travelling with her.’ Ruby took Granny Bee’s hand. ‘You can tell me what happened, instead.’
‘Yes.’ Bee smiled, squeezing Ruby’s hand in return.
*
Back in the cottage, Bee pulled down shoeboxes from the top of her wardrobe, which were swollen with creased photos from the past. The box contained scenic pictures of the Fells where Barbara had worked; horizontal triptychs of mist and rippling earth and water. Others were technical shots, of machine components and test subjects, which Ruby assumed were a record of experiments. But she was most interested in the four women. She picked up a sun-bleached photo. There was Bee, her rosy face still recognisable; Lucille, who looked so full of wisdom and mischief; Grace, exuding all the cool of a French New Wave actress; and Margaret, her face already showing the determination that would make her one of the most powerful women in Britain. Such different women, and yet their laughter and uniforms suggested camaraderie. Bee didn’t look mad. She looked like she belonged.
Bee pointed at the photograph.
‘That rabbit in my arms was the first time traveller. He was my pet.’
‘Is that why Grace sent you a paper rabbit?’
‘Maybe.’ Granny Bee took the origami from the pocket of her pinafore. She unfolded it into a small square of paper. ‘Hm. That’s interesting.’
‘What is?’
‘There’s information printed on the back. It’s notice of an inquest. From Southwark Coroner’s Court.’
Ruby craned forward to look. The inquest was to be held in February 2018, and concerned the death of a woman in her eighties. The space where the victim’s name should be read Undisclosed. But the most intriguing information was the date of death: 6 January 2018. This woman wouldn’t die for another five months.
‘This is from the future?’ Ruby asked.
‘Looks like it.’
‘Why would Grace send this?’ The most obvious explanation was that the body belonged to Grace herself. Or – Ruby’s throat tightened – it belonged to Bee. ‘It isn’t a warning, is it?’
‘What melodrama! I think it’s a memento mori.’
‘A what?’
‘Dear me, Ruby. Fancy a woman of your education not knowing that. A memento mori is a symbol, to remind you life is transient. We all need a spur to action now and then.’ Bee’s eyes were bright, and she fingered the grey paper eagerly. ‘I think often about how I should spend the life I have left. And I’ve decided. I’m determined to time travel again. Just once would do – just once before I die. Grace is back in touch – that’s a good sign she’s willing to listen to me now. And I’ve got a plan to make Margaret listen too. Margaret was always very pragmatic. She may have seen me as a liability. But that’s not true any more. If I can make a new scientific discovery – something Margaret wants – she’ll let me back in. I know she will.’
‘Oh, Granny. I don’t think this is a good idea. The last time you time travelled you were so ill.’ Ruby had looked up the old news reports of Bee’s breakdown. It had sounded dreadful. To see Bee return to that state would be unbearable.
‘Life’s better with a few risks than a lot of regrets,’ Bee said.
Fear made Ruby curt.
‘If Margaret has any sense, she’ll turn you away.’
‘Dear heart,’ Bee said. ‘We can forget we had this conversation. I need never mention it to you again, if that means you’ll be less anxious. But I’m still determined to make one last time travel trip, with or without your support. I won’t stop trying, Ruby – please don’t ask me to.’
It was tempting to pretend Bee had never raised the topic. Wilful ignorance was one way to manage the stress of her wilful recklessness. Then Ruby considered how, all her adult life, she’d maintained the silence around Bee’s past. Was it right to return Bee to that isolation by refusing to support her? In spite of all Ruby’s misgivings, she didn’t want Bee to enter danger alone.
‘All right,’ Ruby said to her grandmother. ‘I’ll help you.’
She watched Bee refold the coroner’s announcement. Their implicit deadline – the date of death, 6 January – was concealed once more.
3
JANUARY 2018
Odette
The toy museum relied on voluntary labour to keep afloat, and the newest volunteer was a young archaeology student called Odette Sophola. A shortage of hands meant that on Odette’s first day, she would be responsible for opening the building.
It was Epiphany: the sixth of January. Odette walked up the museum steps at two o’clock, key ready. Her toes were numb despite the sheepskin lining her boots. The sky over the museum was as pale as porcelain and the chill hurt her teeth. But her eagerness to get into the warm was short-lived; for when she unlocked the doors, the reek of sulphur was waiting.