"Interdimensional travel, please."
The reception clerk ignored me and continued running his grubby index finger down a long column of neatly annotated figures in an open ledger. His lips moved silently as he laboriously tried to keep a running total in his head, allowing me to take a closer look at him.
Following the grand nineteenth-century style of his employers at 'Menschen's Portal Emporium,' he dressed (badly) in the fashion of that era: a black dress coat with shiny elbows, a faded white shirt with a heavily starched upright collar, badly frayed, and around it a drooping black tie, surprisingly finished off in a fashionable bow. Did this awkward-looking character have social aspirations?
Eventually, he admitted defeat in his task and, with a pained sigh, removed his finger from its place on the column of figures and closed the ledger. An eyebrow twitched in grudging recognition of my presence, and he bowed respectfully.
"With pleasure, sir, I will make the necessary arrangements. If you would care to wait."
His thin voice was an unpleasant nasal whine with a fake upper-class accent that was unintentionally comic, and I tried not to laugh at his strangulated pronunciation.
Earth Minor, my home world, has a population of immigrants from different historical periods in the parent world, and we take pride in our cosmopolitan way of life. All accents are socially acceptable here, but any attempt to conceal your heritage by mimicking a different accent to impress, especially British, goes against the grain.
Our planet is an artificial satellite built to house refugees from an overcrowded Earth, but we are fiercely independent. Most people dressed according to the historical era of the country of their ancestors in the same way that the clerk had adopted the dress code of his employers. Still, for the receptionist of a high-class travel portal emporium, his appearance fell far below the expected standard. For a start, he looked in need of a wash. His shirt was more grey than white, and his bow tie was crooked, but I was not in the position to criticise and carefully folded my arms to conceal the rip in my T-shirt.
After his automatic greeting, he now gave me the full once-over, and by the way his lip curled, I guessed he did not like what he saw. Assuming that I was an easy target and unable to fight back, he smirkingly made what he imagined to be a witty riposte.
"I assume, sir, that you have a client account with us. You are a gold cardholder, perhaps."
Heavy sarcasm was no substitute for wit, but it was not in my interest to point this out.
"Well, no," I said. "That is, not now. You see…"
He didn't let me finish.
"In that case, sir, you need to make an appointment. You can contact General Inquiries here by most acoustic devices. If you don't own one yourself, then perhaps a neighbour will oblige. Please close the door as you leave."
As he was picking up his ledger, he glanced at my hand and breathed in sharply. His manner instantly changed, and he became pathetically servile, wringing his hands together and bowing low.
"My dear sir, do forgive me. My lapse in manners was quite deplorable."
He coughed deferentially.
"I see that the signet ring you are wearing bears the crest of Lord Foxberry. A most noble family. His Lordship is an esteemed client of ours. You are the younger son, perhaps?
Oh, dear, manners, Mr. Cheap, manners," he said before I could reply. "It is not my place to ask personal questions of Your Grace."
I confess that Mr. Cheap baffled me.
'Lord Foxberry?'
Who was he talking about? My father worked for the city council, and my sister gave me the ring for my birthday. She made it herself and copied the crest from a magazine. His deference made me feel even more uncomfortable than I already was.
Menschen Brothers, 'Specialists in Inter-Dimensional Travel,' was an exclusive establishment, and a scruffy, seventeen-year-old student like me was not their typical customer. I had planned to overcome their prejudice by adopting what I imagined to be the appropriate style of speech for this era, based on the novels of Charles Dickens we were reading for my English class. It was a massive mistake, but it was too late now, and taking a deep breath, I plunged straight in.
"A potential new customer, if you wish to be precise, but I will not quibble with words. Time is too precious to insist on grammatical exactitude in matters of business. Do I have the pleasure, sir, of addressing the manager of this establishment?"
"Oh no, sir," he replied with an ingratiating smile. "But these are the early days of my career, sir, and the best is yet to come. I am Cluan Cheap by name and humble by nature. I serve my superiors as a mere clerk, sir, a simple employee, somebody of no great account. Yet for all my 'umbleness, so sorry, my humbleness, people often remark that I have a certain flair for business matters, especially those, how shall we say it, at the fringes of normal business practice, but profitable, sir, always profitable. In my modest way, I can be of valuable assistance to a young gentleman like yourself, a person of means and noble family, for whom the details of business and commerce are too sordid for any personal involvement."
Mr. Cheap gave me a conspiratorial wink and leaned over the counter as if about to impart a great secret, but first, he glanced theatrically over his shoulder to check that nobody else could hear. He edged closer, and I caught a whiff of his stale breath.
"No doubt, your portal travel will simply be a holiday jaunt with fellow nobles of your acquaintance; one finds society so quiet during the summer months. While you are away, I recommend that you engage my services as your financial advisor. You will find that my youthful verve, flair, and complete discretion will ensure that your business affairs flourish. Unlike older men in my line of business who insist on clinging to outdated conventions and codes of conduct, my approach is more flexible; rules and regulations have no place in the modern world of commerce."
I didn't have a clue what he was talking about, but he was way too close and personal, and I instinctively backed off. Mr. Cheap's emotional antennae, no doubt honed by many shady deals, instantly picked up on my reluctance to proceed.
"Pray, do not be deceived by my present modest circumstances, sir. I am an up-and-coming young man with bright prospects. 'One to watch,' as I overheard a leader in the business world describe me to a friend."
From an outside corridor came the sound of approaching footsteps, and Mr. Cheap cocked his head to one side, ears outstretched like a guard dog, but he must have recognised who it was, and he hurried to bring our interview to a close.
"Enough for the present," he said. "Address all correspondence for the personal attention of Mr. Cluan Cheap. I am always the first to see the mail, and I will reply by return mail. Now, sir, may I have the honour of shaking your hand and sealing our agreement? As gentlemen, we require no further assurance; our word is our bond. Quickly now, if you would, sir."
I had no intention of entering into any dealings with Mr. Cheap, but he clasped my hand in a limp grip, and his flesh had the queasy softness of a wet fish. His fingers eventually let go, and I rubbed my palm against the cloth of my jeans, trying to remove every trace of his touch.
"Good morning to all and sundry!" boomed a large lady as she crossed the heavily carpeted floor with a vacuum cleaner, a feather duster, and various other cleaning materials clasped in her copious embrace. She glanced at the clerk behind the counter, and her cheerful manner vanished as he cringed under her gaze.
"What are you doing front of house, Cheap?" She barked, "Your place is in the back office."
"I know my place well, ma'am. I just came out to ascertain some figures from the Daily Sales Ledger."
His words and tone were polite, but his body shook with indignation. It was clear that Mr. Cheap did not appreciate interference with his duties.
"Well, go and ascertain them somewhere else," said the lady brusquely, and Mr. Cheap scuttled off without another word.
"My apologies for this undignified reception, young man. Somebody will be here to deal with you shortly." Her voice was loud and intimidating, but she had a friendly face and a warm smile.
"Are you one of the owners?" I asked.
Judging by her air of authority, she was either a boss with an eccentric dress sense or a cleaning lady with an attitude.
She laughed aloud. "You could tickle me helpless, and I'd still deny it. – I'm Aunt Gladys. Most people just call me Aunty. Chief cook and bottle-washer for the boys since they were both in diapers. It's young Mr. Albert that you will be wanting to see."
Aunt Gladys went behind the counter and pulled down a speaking tube that was hanging from the ceiling. Puckering up her lips, she sent a piercing whistle down the open end, and then, taking a deep breath, she bellowed down the tube.
"ALBERT, SHOP!"
Her voice was so loud that I could have sworn the chandeliers rattled. Wherever Albert was, he could not have failed to hear. She put the tube down and gave me such a demure and ladylike smile that I could hardly believe it was the same woman. I took an immediate liking to this larger-than-life character and returned her greeting.
"He'll be with you shortly, my dear. Please take a seat. Browse through the books if you like; they are all for sale. Make me an offer if one takes your fancy; most of 'em are first editions." She gave me an exaggerated wink and began her dusting.
A girl about my age popped her head out from a door behind the counter and stared openly at me. Her skin was the colour of beaten copper, and her eyes shone a luminous green from the prettiest face that I had ever seen. Tall and slim, with sleek black hair that fell to her shoulders, she stepped out into the open wearing a silk blouse and a tailored skirt. Our eyes met, and she blushed but still held my gaze.
She was stunning, but way out of my league.
She walked over to where I was sitting and gave me a broad grin.
"Hi, I'm Montana."
Her voice was pleasant and assured, with a faint accent that I could not place.
"Peregrine," I replied.
I guessed that she must work here, and the clothes were probably a high-class uniform. I told myself to forget the smile; she was just being professionally friendly to a new client, and I wondered if I should offer to shake hands.
"Nice to meet you, Peregrine," she said. "I heard you earlier talking to Cluan Cheap."
"Oh, "I said, is he a friend of yours?"
The fact that she knew that rattlesnake on first-name terms cut deep, but the depth of emotion it aroused in me was inexplicable, and I tried to ridicule my overreaction.
Never seen a pretty girl before. Calm down.
But my heart was pounding. The French call it a coup de foudre, and it was love at first sight in any language.
"Cluan Cheap, him?" said Montana contemptuously.
"No, he's not my friend."
"I'm glad," I said.
The words came out without thinking, and the heat rose in my cheeks. I tried hard to convince myself that I was just another customer as far as she was concerned.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. None of my business."
"That's all right," she said. "I'm glad you're glad."
She put her hand over her mouth in embarrassment, and we laughed, both of us red in the face.
"We don't get many people around my age in here," she said.
"You look about seventeen. Are you?"
I nodded.
"Right, the first time. And you?"
"The same," she said. "Well, nearly. I'm sixteen, but it's my birthday next week."
"Happy Birthday," I said. "In case I'm not around to say it on the day, I'd like to be, though," I added.
Stop babbling!
I was suddenly desperate that I might not see her again and tried to keep the conversation going on safer ground.
"You have a slight accent, and if it's not rude to ask, where do you come from? Montana?"
"No, it's not rude. I am a Native American; my mother is Cheyenne, and my father is French Canadian."
"Quite a combination!"
"Yes, I am immensely proud of having such a unique heritage, but sadly, both my parents were killed in a plane crash when I was eight years old."
She spoke calmly, but I could see the hurt in her eyes. I wanted to hug her, but it was way too early for that, if ever, and I had to settle for more formal commiseration.
"I am so sorry, Montana. It must have been awful for you at such an early age."
"At any age," said Montana.
"They were wonderful people and wonderful parents that I will never forget, but I am lucky that Uncle Ernest was there to care for me and later adopt me. But here I am telling you my life story, and we have only just met; this is so unlike me, and I had better stop before I go too deep."
"Of course," I said hurriedly, "I didn't mean to pry."
"You didn't. It all came out without thinking."
We both became silent, and then we heard Aunty shouting from the back of the shop, where she was still dusting.
"Montana! Have you nothing better to do than stand around chatting? You have work to do, my girl."
She spoke sternly, but there was amusement in her voice.
"Sorry, Aunty," said Montana. Just taking a quick look so I'll know him if he comes in again."
She smiled at me, and my stomach lurched.
"Would you like to go out with me sometime?" I said it impulsively.
I don't know where that came from. I'm usually shy with girls. Then it hit me. What was I doing? A gorgeous girl like her—no way could she be unattached.
"That is if you haven't already got a boyfriend, of course."
Montana raised her eyebrows in comic surprise.
"So, you're to be my boyfriend, are you?"
"No! Sorry, I didn't mean that–not that I don't want to be, of course. What I'm trying to say is, "
I gave up. "Look, I'm making a bit of a mess of this."
"No, you're not," she said softly. "I think it's sweet, and I don't have a boyfriend."
"Montana!" shouted Aunty, and this time she was serious.
"Sorry, Aunty! I'm coming. I love to go out with you, Peregrine," she called over her shoulder as she ran back towards the counter.
"Great! But how will I get… in touch?"
But I was talking to myself; she had disappeared behind the counter. I turned my attention to an antique oak bookcase set back from the counter. Beside it, there were half a dozen chairs and a small coffee table for the use of waiting clients. On the shelves stood lines of beautifully bound books.
The complete set of the Chronicles of Narnia, my favourite childhood reading, and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Tom's Midnight Garden, The Labyrinth Gate, and others, side by side with a shelf of Greek and Roman classics, including The Odyssey and The Aeneid, and books on ancient philosophy and myth.
As well as fiction, I am interested in classical civilisation and all things ancient. The past shapes the present and the future, and it is wrong to think of them as separate zones or something. There are no borders to cross; it is like going from one country to the next; it is all one world. I also have a great interest in how ordinary people lived after the Industrial Revolution and the unfair class system that kept the wealth of a country in the hands of the few.
I am a complex person, and people tend to jump to the wrong conclusions. I have always been quiet and introverted, keeping myself to myself and getting on with my work. I have a reputation for being dull and studious, and some people call me a swot, but I don't study just to pass examinations. I want to acquire knowledge about the world and discover my own identity in the process because it seems clear to me that we know extraordinarily little about who we are. Not only me, of course; I am nothing special, but all of us.
School was never a happy time for me, and I became increasingly withdrawn. I was always the youngest of my year, and the older boys often bullied me. Dad said I should take a year out before going to college to toughen myself up a bit and see the world. That was fine with me. I thought I might get the chance to visit ancient ruins and even have an adventure or two. I'm not a complete geek.
I got into the habit of keeping my mouth shut when I was small, but young people mistook my shyness for me thinking I was superior. I have never once thought that I was better than anyone else—quite the opposite—but people gave me a tough time, and not just at school. My dad was quick to fly into a temper, and he took it out on me. My mother said that it was his artistic temperament, and I soon learned to keep out of his way.
I was often lonely and used to read to cheer myself up. I even got into the habit of pretending that the characters I read about in books were real friends, especially in school stories. Sometimes I made up adventures with myself, having lots of friends and being popular at school.
But Aunty's voice interrupted my thoughts and brought me back to the present.