To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 4

The Lancasters' was located in an unreasonably distant part of Thameton. Over the course of two hours, Timothy made his laborious way through the crowds, stopping often to rest when his right leg began to hurt. What little was left of it below the knee had not been made to bear his full weight, and it made this fact known through the dull pinch of bone against flesh. He didn't have money for a cab, and rued it every day. Four years ago he never would have guessed that one day walking would be so painful. Difficult, yes, but not this slow agony.

At last, winded, Timothy stood outside an imposing iron gate that was taller than he was. Beyond the gate stood an immaculate garden planted with symmetrical trees, bushes, and flower beds. Running through all of this was a gravel path that ended in a circular drive at the foot of an austere brick mansion that made the Astors' look like a country cottage. There was an orderliness about the place that seemed almost too peaceful—something like the unnatural perfection of a doll house.

As he stepped closer to the gate to see if there was anyone about he could talk to, a squeal drew his attention to the hedges on the right side of the path. Two girls, aged about ten and five, stood staring at him while their governess tried to shoo him away as if he were nothing more than a stray dog.

Timothy pretended he had not understood this gesture, and pantomimed lifting a nonexistent hat. "I beg your pardon, but I am a reporter for the—paper—and I've heard that Lady Lancaster has an animal menagerie. I'm writing an article on it, and would like to speak with her; or anyone, really." He judged it best not to be too nice when he saw the look on the woman's face.

By this time the governess had sent the girls inside and stood in front of him, expression as forbidding as the front of the mansion behind her. "And what, pray, does a news rat like yourself think he'll find?"

Timothy wished, not for the first time, that he could afford to dress in a way that inspired trust. He looked down. Four-year-old stained hand-me-downs from his father was not the way to ingratiate himself to higher-ups. "I believe I'll find a great curiosity that will only improve society's view of Lady Lancaster as an appreciator of the natural world. If it's an inconvenient time—"

"Most inconvenient," the governess interrupted, and turned. "Good day."

Timothy scrambled for his notebook, and thrust a scrap of paper through the bars of the gate after her. "Timothy Wright—my calling card. I'll be here tomorrow morning, if Lady Lancaster is busy afternoons." It was ludicrous to call a piece of paper with his name scribbled on it a calling card, but printing proper ones was as out of reach as dressing like a gentleman. He held it out and held his breath, desperate that she'd take it. If she didn't, getting paid this time would be doubtful.

She kept walking. Timothy shoved the crumpled paper back into his pocket, heart sinking, and turned unsteadily towards the street. He bowed his head. Tired. That was the word. He was tired. He didn't have the energy left to feel disappointed, angry, or sad.

Mechanically, he began limping back the way he'd come. He didn't see the well-to-do people passing him on the street. He didn't see the shining carriages, or the gleaming horses that pulled them. He didn't see the sunshine, or the glimpses of green he was so hungry for behind each wall.

He'd try again tomorrow. But even that thought seemed too weighty to bear.

A dirty brown dusk was settling over Thameton by the time that Timothy hauled his aching body up the stairs and into their rooms. As soon as he stepped through the door he was greeted by the disheartening aroma of a burnt dinner. His heart sank even lower.

Mrs. Wright put down a shirt she was mending and hurried apologetically to the stove where she dished up boiled potatoes that seemed to have gotten rather too acquainted with the bottom of the pan. "Your father and I have already eaten," she said, and winced as he took the bowl. "I visited the neighbors to ask for some milk to make gravy, and when I came back the water had all boiled out. I'm sorry. They didn't have any milk to spare."

Mr. Wright snorted from the end of the table where he pored over scattered receipts. Gingerly, Timothy sat down across from him and ate his gravyless potatoes with stoic determination. His mother really did try. They all did. His father worked the counter at a maddeningly routine railway ticket office. Timothy wore holes in his shoes walking to interviews every day. His mother tried to learn the domestic skills no one had taught her. And yet despite it all they struggled.

Timothy escaped as soon as he could, taking refuge with St. Vincent in the only room that he could be truly alone: the pantry. Closeted in the cramped space lined with too-bare shelves, Timothy prepared to write. He pulled a footstool over to one low shelf occupied with only a couple spare jars of preserves, set down the stub of a lighted candle, and looked at the papers spread there.

Some days the words came like pulling teeth. Other days there seemed to be a fountain inside of him that bubbled over so abundantly it was all he could do to keep up with the pace of the ideas pouring through his pen. He rubbed his eyes, looked at the papers, and could tell that today would be one of the former. They seemed to come more often than the other kind of late.

As he sat down, St. Vincent hopped off his arm and onto the shelf above. "Let's give it a go," he told the parrot with a sigh.

St. Vincent scratched his eye composedly, which Timothy took as a sign that he should stop talking to the bird and start writing on the paper. He was just settling down to decide what unfortunate circumstance befell William next, when the parrot let out a shriek.

"Help, help, murder!"

Timothy jumped so badly he left a broad stroke across the entire width of his page. He gaped at the bird. "Don't do that!" he gasped. "How many times do I have to tell you that, you feathered ingrate?"

St. Vincent, however, was eyeing something on the ceiling. Timothy craned his neck to look, and noticed an eight-legged spectator occupying the nearest corner. "That's a spider," he told the bird, and went back to writing, shaking his head. "Not a murder."

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Timothy's writing experience mirrors the writing experience I had writing this book... and many others.