The Unsatisfied Time Traveller

I tried reasoning with the girl behind the counter, whose hair was the colour of pink sand, but she would not lower the price.

“It’s already discounted,” she said, tapping her finger against a machine that was made out of glass in front. It could fit in her hand and it glowed against the side of her face.

“Perhaps that machine of yours has made a mistake.”

“Are you gonna pay for it or not?” she asked.

“You are asking twenty-five dollars for this?” I replied. “That, where I come from, miss, would be considered a crime.”

She stared at me for a moment. I could only concentrate on the streaks of pink in her hair.

Then she asked, “Where you from?” with a furrowed brow.

I could not tell her exactly where I came from. It was hard to explain it. There were always more questions that follow when I tell the truth.

I replied instead, “London.” It was better to keep things simple.

“If you don’t want to pay for it,” she said angrily, “I’ll just put it back.”

She reached over and grabbed the book right out of my hand. It was not even a good edition. It had no hard back and its pages were too soft.

On my travels, I rarely purchase anything because of the prices. In the year 1856, no one would dare charge such a price for a book, especially one of such poor quality. But the reason why I chose to use my very convenient ability to time travel to the year 2018, even against my father’s wishes, was to purchase a copy of Dickens’ Little Dorrit.

In this time, I had found it in a section of the bookshop called “classics,” whereas in my own time Dickens’ next novel—whatever followed Hard Times—would only cost me three shillings and six-pence had that novel been published before I left.

Honestly, I had only read Oliver Twist and enjoyed some of it, but had virtually given up on David Copperfield and Bleak House.

But back home, Little Dorrit hadn’t been written yet and I had hoped that whatever the author published next would be better. I simply had to find out.

I was finding that the modern world was very much as my father had predicted it would be. Rather bleak at times, especially regarding the prices.

However, something unexpected did happen at the dear bookshop.

Right when I was about to walk away from the girl with pink hair, frustrated as I was, I plunged my hand into my pocket and found a note that represented the number fifty on it. Before coming here, my father had told me it was wise to find a bank and exchange it for modern currency. He said that something as little as three shillings and six-pence could fetch for much more in the modern world. He was right.

So I handed her the money.

The girl didn’t smile in our exchange. Nor did I. She turned the book over, and before sliding it into the paper bag, she ripped off the red price sticker aggressively.

“Here you go,” she said, handing me the bag. “I hear it’s a great classic.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “Though if I ever return to this part of the city again, I shan’t be coming back to this bookstore.”

Before I could let her respond, I started walking away towards the sliding doors.

“Wait,” she said.

I turned and watched as she ran out from behind the counter and approached me. She was short and skinny and had three silver hooped earrings dangling from her right ear.

“You forgot this.”

“What?”

“Here,” she said, placing a small card into my hand along with the change she had been reluctant to give me. “You should come tonight. We’re doing the classics. People bring in whatever they’re into right now and we talk about it. Sometimes we argue a little. You’d love it.”

Unexpectedly, she brandished a smile and then quickly ran off back behind the counter, her pink hair bouncing between her shoulders. I looked down at the card.

Evening Literary Society: Starts at 8:00pm. There was an address on the back.

Was this girl really inviting me to a reading group or was she simply mocking me?

My ego was flattered, of course, but I made a rule the first time I ever travelled to this century, which was to never stay past nightfall. This city changes too much when the sun goes down. Skyscrapers become more melancholic as the city’s lights become brighter, cast onto the streets as if trying to battle the sun’s glare. On top of that, everyone is out doing something rather adventurous, and I don’t mean that in the way of innocence.

How could I ever hope to concentrate on my book if music thunders through the walls at three in the morning? And the honking of cars. I have also witnessed the strangest things at night. Last Christmas, I time travelled eight times to the city of Melbourne and with each visit it was more perplexing. In my own time, Australia is where the empire sent their convicts, but I had always kept an opened mind, thinking that perhaps in time it would be a land of opportunity. In some ways it had changed. In others it was just as frightening.

As I walked away from the bookstore, heading for the spot where I might return to my own time, three men were drinking outside a public house and one had slipped on the pavement, landing in the middle of the road where an automobile refused to slow down. Sirens proceeded to wail for a long time, louder than any church bell I had ever known. On the street, I stood beside the body as travelling doctors arrived. They asked me to move back.

I did as I was told, unaccustomed to the way things were here.

I took out my pocket watch, which I always set and reset each time I arrived in another century. It was almost 7:45pm. I should have already started to make my way to Flinders Station, but I had been distracted by death. It seemed that for all the inventions of the modern world, people still died.

The train would be leaving soon and I had never missed it before. Typically, once it passed by St Kilda Station, I would feel a surge of energy and butterflies in my chest. I do not know why, but this sensation often told me when it was time to return home.

This time, however, I did not feel any such sensation.

I took a seat on the train, which was heading further into the city. The doors closed behind me mechanically as the carriage lurched forward, gliding like a bird on the tracks, which had become a steadiness I came to admire about this future. Life was so much faster here, and everyone was busier. Not once during my travels to this time had anyone so much as talked to me, except the girl from the bookstore with the pink hair.

I had a sense that I had been given not a card of acceptance but a chance time itself was giving me.

When the train came to a halt, I got off. The address printed on the card was only a few blocks away, and the streets on this side of the city were surprisingly quiet. Night had started to descend and the bright city lights cast shadows over the walls as I walked.

I walked down a narrow street and found a townhouse with a hanging light turned on at the end of it.

My heart was beating fast before I knocked my knuckles against the door.

The door opened.

“You actually came,” the girl from the bookstore said.

“It would seem so,” I replied, smiling.

“We’re just about to start,” she said, nodding to a group of people forming a circle near the centre of the room. “My friend Maria’s leading it tonight. She’s a Janeite. She’s really serious about her work so whatever you do don’t say you hate her.”

“I won’t.” I nodded. I had no idea what an Janeite was.

I followed her into the room and took a place at one side of the circle.

“I’ll introduce you.” But then she stopped and turned to face me again. “Actually, I don’t know your name.” Her tone, I have to say, was so much different from when we first met, just hours ago, at the bookstore. I wanted to tell her about it right there, but I was on the spot as it were.

“James,” I replied. “My name is James.”

“Hi, James!” everyone in the room said simultaneously.

The woman in the dark green jumpsuit, who was sitting next to me, shook my hand first. I had seen many women in the modern era wearing this style of clothing. Bright colours made of fabric that stuck to the skin.

“Welcome, James. I’m Maria and this is Sharon, Michael and Kelly.”

Kelly was the name of the girl who had invited me. Her pink hair made it seem as though she had been born that way.

“We’re starting with Jane Austen tonight,” Maria said enthusiastically, lifting up a copy of Pride and Prejudice above her head. “Now, what do we appreciate from the Bennet sisters?”

I looked at the rest of the group.

“Elizabeth,” Sharon answered. “She’s witty and doesn’t take things too seriously.”

“I think Jane’s kindness because of the way she sees the good in people,” Sharon said.

“That’s also what I like about Elizabeth,” Kelly added. “She just kind of says things, you know?”

I considered this for a moment. I was not an expert on Miss Austen’s work. Not many from my time were. Not even my father, who was as an avid reader as anyone. All I knew about her work was that her books were clever and mainly read in small literary circles. How times have yet to change. I thought.

“Yes,” I agreed, and giggled. They all looked at me. “She seems to say a great deal,” I continued. “But not always what she truly means.”

Maria tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“Elizabeth, it seems to me, displays a habit of concealing herself in humour. It allows her to speak freely without ever quite revealing herself. I suppose it’s clever of Miss Austen to write her heroine in this way.”

Kelly smiled at me. “So, she’s guarded? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I believe so,” I agreed. “Though, as like a natural heroine, Miss Bennet would not dream of admitting it.”

“Go on,” Kelly said.

“She prides herself on being a good judge of character,” I continued. “And often she is. However, not always.”

“Do you mean with Darcy?” Michael asked.

“Mr Darcy,” I explained to the group, “is a man who knows what he wants, especially in terms of love, but he is afraid to go after it. He is a coward in that sense.”

“No, no,” Sharon said, shaking her head. “I read that differently. I thought Darcy was completely confused about what he wanted and was using his privilege to torment those around him. You know, upper class and all that.” She rolled her eyes.

“No, I think James has got a point,” Kelly said, and suddenly I felt not so alone in my thoughts anymore.

However, when Kelly left the room, presumably to bring some more refreshments from the kitchen, I was left with the rest of the group. In her absence, they talked amongst themselves, forgetting their own arguments about Austen and moving on to other subjects.

After they finished, Maria looked at me and asked, “So what book did you bring?”

I reached into my paper bag and pulled out the book.

Kelly returned and her eyes lit up when she saw it.

“Hey, I just sold James that one this afternoon. Have you read it already?”

“Dickens,” said Michael, nodding, saving me from having to answer. “I’ve only read Great Expectations myself.”

“Hmm,” I said, not knowing what he was talking about, but assuming that it was another of Dickens’ future books. I thought I had seen a cover in the bookshop with that same title when I bought Little Dorrit.

“So, what do you think of his work?” asked Michael.

“He writes about people who are trapped. By money or by circumstance, which is really the same thing. His characters always try to rise above their situation.”

“That’s a good observation,” Kelly said.

“Though I am not sure he lets them succeed in the way they expect.”

Michael smiled at my comment. Then the rest of the group clapped. But I felt Maria staring at me.

“Well,” she said, crossing her arms. “I think you gave us some interesting things to think about, even though I don’t agree with everything you said.” She looked at the rest of the group. “I think that’s enough discussion for today, guys.”

Michael and Kelly looked up. “Already?” They both said, concurrently.

“Oh, come on, Maria,” Sharon said. “We just got started.”

“If we keep talking this way, we’ll go over and I have other commitments I need to get to.”

The group sighed as they packed up their things. It appeared that Maria was upset, I thought, because my bringing Dickens implied that we no longer had need for Jane Austen.

Maria walked out the door first. But I stayed near Kelly.

“Don’t you need to get home, too?” I asked her.

“This is my home, James.”

“Oh.” I looked around the room again. “You run these meetings here at your own home?”

“Most weeks,” she said, smiling. “I noticed that you didn’t talk about your family like others in the group did during break. Are you backpacking alone?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Are you travelling alone?”

I could not tell her the whole truth.

“I just arrived from London,” I said.

“Oh, London. I’ve always wanted to go. What’s it like?”

What was it like? I had only been to the modern London once during my time travelling and it was not the London I knew. In this modern era the streets were crowded with electric light, and there was constant noise. The only word I could think of to describe it was “unsatisfying.”

“It is different,” I replied.

“Hmm. I get that, but I don’t travel much.”

Kelly picked up the cover of Little Dorrit from the table and handed it to me. “People think if they go somewhere else, or become something else, things will change.”

I looked away. “That is somewhat pessimistic, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think it is,” she said. “I think people carry a lot of baggage with them wherever they go.”

“You should tell that to my father.”

“Is that why you don’t want to go home?”

“How did you know?”

“I pretty much saw it in your face. Is it your dad? Did you guys have a fight?”

“We did.”

“And you left?”

“I had my reasons. Nothing I do seems to please him.”

“Maybe you should just tell him that.”

I suspected she wasn’t simply making conversation, but rather she was reading me.

“I will,” I said, sliding the book back into the paper bag. “But as for now I should go.”

“Okay, so same time next week?”

I nodded. But as I stepped toward the door, I already knew I would not ever come back.

#

I caught the train to St Kilda. All the while I thought about how I would finally tell my father how I felt. Once I passed the last stretch of lights on the platform, the train rocked from side to side and everything around me began to blur into colours. Then the windows sucked inwards. Only I could see it and feel the sensation. A sharpness pierced under my ribs, butterflies hovering around my chest, and sweat started to soak my forehead. It was time to go home. It was happening. Just as my father said it would.

And in the blink of an eye, it was over.

Outside the window, I recognised the platform very well. I was at the railway station near my home, back in 1856. The surrounding buildings were still mechanical, but less so. It’s hard to explain sometimes.

At home, my father sat near his desk reading the Daily Telegraph.

“Ah, James,” he said when he saw me. “Back from your travels, are you?”

“I am.”

He turned the page.

“You’re never satisfied with anything I do,” I said without blinking. I came right out with it. It was the first thing I thought to say.

He lowered his paper.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re never pleased,” I repeated.

“You are the one who is never satisfied.”

“How so?”

“Do you remember the law course? I did everything in my power to have them accept you, but you withdrew after a few days.”

“It was not for me. I told you that.”

“What about the apprenticeship with Mr Hargreaves, which you resigned from? Then you wanted the clerk position, yet here you are not a clerk.”

I said nothing.

“And now you have fashioned yourself a writer.”

“I will be successful this time, Father.”

“That is what you said the last time you travelled through time. And has it been successful, James? Has it made you happier?”

I was going to tell him about Kelly. About my evening at the literary society, but perhaps he would still not understand, so I held my tongue.

“You keep searching for the thing that will finally satisfy you, but son, when will that be?”

I looked at him. “Perhaps things will be clearer tomorrow morning.”

I would try again. Perhaps, the year 2030 will be better and will teach me what I need to know.