A Stitch in Time

...

Time went quickly on the train. The rhythmn of the lurch and pull was soothing. It was a good four hours to Bristol as the train stopped all stations. They had a thermos of tea and pasties and a few books and magazines. They settled in for a good rest. The other passengers were similarly disposed. Many women were knitting. One was sewing a few buttons on blouses and shirts. Teenagers were mostly buried in books. One played with a yo-yo, getting the string tangled constantly.

A last moment dash onto the train at Chelford saw a red-headed young couple wearing sunglasses push in, two seats down across the aisle, displacing a pimply teenage boy and his caged guinea-pig. They had a satchel full of small Cocacola bottles and crisp packets and began rustling and eating noisily, laughing and making loud remarks about other people they knew and sniffing without blowing their noses. Most studiously ignored them, although a thin woman across from Bess and Susan gave them disapproving looks that could have killed.

Susan was comfortable enough. But she kept thinking of Colin and couldn't help wishing she had been the one to ride Melynlas to Bristol. Despite everything, adventure still called. She felt the horn, a lump under her arm and the Mark hidden in her sleeve.

After another hour, Bess nodded off. She had been up since three-thirty. Susan ate another sandwich and leafed through a back issue of the Women's Weekly. It had knitting patterns, notes on embroidery stitches, a chapter in a romance and an article on growing geraniums. Susan yawned, bored with information on needle sizes and the right grit-mix to stimulate root growth. Then she read the short story about the robin family that was in each edition. It was comforting, the inanity of Roly and Rowena Robin and their friends dressing a Christmas Tree and singing carols to their neighbours. It had echoes of her cosy childhood. A far cry from recent events.

Then she felt the call of nature. So she slipped down to the space near the gangway where the lavatory signs were displayed. Black silhouettes of a top hatted man with a cane and a perm-haired woman holding a powder puff. She opened the powder puff door and closed herself into the linoleum and metal lined space, cut off from the world by the frosted window. The rituals of unclipping the toilet bowl, sitting, rocking, wiping, flushing, clipping it back up, lowering the washbasin, pressing levers, washing her hands, drying, tidying herself, were steadying. She stared at her face in the mirror under the harsh fluorescent light. There were subtle differences from the one that had alighted on the Wilmslow Station platform nearly six months ago. More mature, less puppy fat, the brown eyes more knowing.

Suddenly, Susan felt a sharp itch at her wrist. The rocking slowed and then stopped. Sounds deadened, all curiously silent, as if she had her ears muffled. Even the blurred image of the outside looked stilled. Her nape hairs raised. Still looking in the mirror, she pulled her sleeve back. There, a pair of words floated out at her from deep in the mirror. She spoke them unhesitatingly CANFOD SILLAFU! Susan opened and closed the door with difficulty and found that it was like walking through deep water as she returned warily to her seat.

The landscape on either side was not moving, caught in a still blur. Everyone seemed frozen still, eyes staring or closed, faces caught in frozen expressions. A baby with a fist in its mouth, its mother smiling stupidly. A man holding an apple to his mouth, eyes squinted.

And the young woman with the crisps was going through Susan's bag. She was watched eagerly by her Cocacola drinking boyfriend, just tipping the last of another bottle down his gullet. They were the only other people moving.

Susan was bristling. She held the bracelet out in full view like a shield. "What the hell are you doing?"

Her words sounded to her as if they had been spoken under water, but the young couple had no trouble hearing. They both rocked backwards, the woman snarling like a cornered dog. The young man stared at Susan through his sunglasses and licked his lips.

Then the Mark of Fohla sparked, arcing out to them both. The woman yelped, ducked past Susan back to her seat, scrabbling unsuccessfully at something on the floor. Before she could recover whatever it was, her boyfriend grabbed her arm and they ran down the frozen train and disappeared into the next carriage.

A few seconds later, time gradually sped up and returned to normal. The fields and hedgerows raced by. Bess was still asleep.

Empty crisp packets littered the seats and bottles rolled on the floor. And one of Susan's angels was missing.

Susan went through the crisp packets and bottles, brushed some crumbs away, looking for any items that had been left behind. That was when she found a spiked dog collar. And on the floor, was what looked like a small spinning top.
...

The rest of the journey was uneventful. Susan said nothing to Bess about what had occurred and she pushed the top and dog collar deep into her shoulder bag.

They pulled into Bristol Temple Meads about three o'clock and alighted onto a crowded platform. Susan was on edge, but no-one accosted them and they made their way through and caught a cab to their hotel with no drama and no-one following them. They had only to wait on Colin.

Bess slipped off to the bathroom and Susan was left alone for a while. Gingerly, she took out the top and holding it in her fingers very carefully, spun it on the bedside table. It took a couple of goes, and it rolled off onto the floor once, but once she had it right, the top spun faultlessly on a point, only wobbling slightly. And as before in the train, time seemed to come to a halt, sounds deadened as if she had earmuffs on. Susan sat there watching the top, mesmerised. Until she thought better of it and grabbed the top again. In a few seconds, time again returned to normal.

She waited for Bess restlessly, mind on fire.

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