I want badly to go into that pub with him. I want to sit with him. I want to buy him a drink. And as fucked up as it is, I realise now, I might like to do a whole lot more with him.
I’m not sure what to make of that.
But you know what? How often does an opportunity like this present itself?
Fuck the consequences, and fuck this universe. It can implode triple speed for all I care. I’m going for it. “We’ll just have to be careful we don’t make a ripple.”
His smile is conspiratorial, but not a tenth as sly as mine almost definitely is when I ask, “Can I buy you a drink?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
GOOD AUGUST
HAS PROBABLY, ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, EARNED A DRINK
Can he buy me a drink?
What is even happening?
But August seems so confident when he starts across the street that I’m inclined to follow.
And I hardly want to be left alone here in eighteen forty-four.
I’m in eighteen forty-four.
Reallyeighteen forty-four.
I don’t want to miss this. I’m shit-scared, but this is also the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.
Before I know it, I’m running after him.
It’s a busy street, people walking back and forth, lots of them milling around the entrance to the pub. I can’t believe how many horses there are. And the noises. No cars, of course not, but it’s only now I realise how used to that sound I am. That constant whirring and whooshing. But instead of engines, it’s wheels on stone, and the clomp of boots, some made with wooden heels, not synthetics. The echo rings around the buildings.
I can’t smell any perfume, not a drop, like I might out at night usually. It generally doesn’t smell as bad here as the alley did, but the scent of horse manure is ever-present. And straw. It’s like visiting a farm, only that mixed with the scent of thousandsof chimneys, lots of them burning coal judging by the acrid harshness in the back of my throat. Then there’s the stagnant puddles, garbage, but it’s like being on holiday I guess, in that it doesn’t smell half as bad as it usually might.
August’s heading directly for the door of the pub, and the second we step inside, everyone’s staring at us, on account of our strange clothes, I suppose. But he’s so self-assured, and he takes it all in without a flinch. It’s the weirdest thing to watch. He’s me, I know he is, but it’s like he just doesn’t care what other people think.
I’d love to be like that. I’d love to know where he gets that from. What is the key difference between us that lets him act that way, when I’m always so nervous?
Heat floods my cheeks as we approach the bar. It’s dark in here, lit only by candles and a fireplace, so it’s even dimmer inside than out, and I’m thankful August probably can’t see my embarrassed blush when he looks back at me. I hate the way it happens all the time, so easily.
He threads his way past people, and even beyond the weirdness of brushing up against the rough brown coats and big skirts, there’s an extra layer of bizarre. This bar is exactly the same as I remember it from my own time. The tiles, those I’ve stared at over a few beers, haven’t changed a bit, beyond a touch of discolouration. The pressed-copper ceiling is no different. The bar is an identical wooden countertop. Maybe it’s been replaced at some point, but it’s the same shape, in the same spot, the same height.
Suddenly, August’s ordering drinks… What money did they even use? Shillings and… and things? My card’s certainly not going to work. But August’s leaning over anyway, talking to a shrewd-looking man who seems increasingly displeased.
I feel like this is going to end very badly.
The barman, a mostly bald guy in a dirty and stained brown shirt, shakes his head.
August’s response confounds me. He reaches around behind his neck, unclasps a necklace I hadn’t realised he was wearing, and holds it out for the barman to inspect.
At this stage, I need to know what’s being said, so I squeeze past a couple more people, who pull back from me anyway, and lean in close to hear August’s, “It’s pure gold. A very fair exchange for a few ales.”
Is he selling his jewellery? To buy me a drink?
I catch his arm. “Don’t do that. You don’t have to. We don’t need to have a drink.”
The way he dips his head close to mine, the way he holds my eye contact, and says, “Let me do this for you. I want to have a drink with you.” It’s so disarming. His earnest tone, his… What even is that? It’s not the words he says, but the way he says them.
