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'I don't get it,' he said quietly, sucking the end of his spectacles. 'That cyclist lived and the world still ended. Maybe it's not him. But nothing else happened at that particular time and place. Maybe it's something to do with—' He frowned and looked at me oddly. 'Maybe it's something to do with you.'
'Me? Listen, I didn't do anything.'
'You were there. Perhaps me handing you the bag of slime was the key event and not the death of the cyclist – did you tell anyone where that pink goo came from?'
'No one.'
He thought for a bit.
'Well,' he said at last, 'see what else you can find out. I'm sure the answer is staring us in the face!'
He picked up the paper and read: 'Chimp merely pet, claims croquet supremo,' before putting the paper down and looking at me with a twinkle in his eye.
'This non-husband of yours—'
'Landen.'
'Right. Shall we try to get him back?'
'Schitt-Hawse told me they had the summer of 1947 sewn up so tight not even a trans-temporal gnat could get in without being seen.'
My father smiled. 'Then we will have to outsmart them! They will expect us to arrive at the right time and the right place – but we won't. We'll arrive at the right place but at the wrong time, then simply wait. Worth a try, wouldn't you say?'
I smiled.
'Definitely!'
Dad took a sip of my coffee and leaned forward to hold my arm. I was conscious of a series of rapid flashes and there we were in a blacked-out Humber Snipe, driving alongside a dark stop of water on a moonlit night. In the distance I could see searchlights criss-crossing the sky and heard the distant thump-thump-thump of a bombing raid.
'Where are we?' I asked.
'Approaching Henley-on-Thames in occupied England, November 1946.'
'Is this where Landen drowned in the car accident?'
'This is where it happens, but not when. If I were to jump straight there, Lavoisier would be on to us like a shot. Ever played "Kick the can"?'
'Sure.'
'It's a bit like that. Guile, stealth, patience – and a small amount of cheating. Okay, we're here.'
We had reached a section of the road where there was a sharp bend. I could see how an inattentive motorist might easily misjudge it and end up in the river – I shivered involuntarily.
We got out and Dad walked across the road to where a small group of silver birches stood amidst a tangle of dead bracken and brambles. It was a good place from which to observe the bend; we were barely ten yards away. Dad laid down a plastic carrier bag he had brought and we sat on the grass, leaning against the smooth bark of the birches.
'Now what?'
'We wait for six months.'
'Six months? Dad, are you crazy? We can't sit here for six months!'
'So little time, so much to learn,' mused my father. 'Do you want a sandwich? Your mother leaves them out for me every morning. I'm not mad keen on corned beef and custard, but it has a sort of eccentric charm – and it does fill a hole.'
'Six months?' I repeated.
He took a bite from his sandwich.
'Lesson one in time travel, Thursday. First of all, we are all time travellers. The vast majority of us manage only one day per day. Now if we accelerate ourselves like so—'
