Chapter Five
A City of Stories
The sound of church bells and birdsong broke Eva’s sleep.
The windows were thin enough to hear nearly every noise outside, including what seemed to be an extremely passionate argument between two seagulls over what was probably a discarded chip.
She pulled open the heavy curtains and watched as the weaker winter sun battled against dense, grey clouds.
But here? She had no idea what time it was, and for once, it didn’t matter.
The floor was ice-cold beneath her feet as she padded to the bathroom. The radiator in her room made occasional alarming clanking sounds, like something was trying to escape from the pipes, but it did a valiant job of keeping the bedroom warm. The bathroom, however, was an arctic temperature.
After a shower that involved a complex dance of keeping various body parts under the hot water while washing others, Eva wrapped herself in a towel printed with bright green frogs.
The shower itself had been a uniquely British experience—an electric box on the wall that seemed to offer two temperature settings: ‘surface of the sun’ or ‘ice bucket challenge’.
The water pressure alternated between a gentle mist that wouldn’t disturb a butterfly and a blast that could strip paint.
She’d finally found a sweet spot by standing at exactly the right angle, but only if she didn’t breathe too hard or think incorrect thoughts about the water temperature. Positive vibes only.
She pushed her wet hair back from her face and opened the bathroom door. Releasing a cloud of steam into the hallway, she stepped onto the patterned carpet that had probably been rolled out there since the Victorian era.
Through blurred vision, she walked directly into a firm surface. Looking up to clear her vision her eyes were met with a familiar scowling face. The mapmaker.
“Oh!” Eva yelped, clutching the towel tighter as she stumbled backward. “What are you—why are you—”
The seemingly permanent scowl slipped from him suddenly as the scene unfolded.
The man looked as startled as she felt, his eyes wide, a toolbox dangling from one hand and what appeared to be a wrench in the other.
His mouth opened and closed soundlessly for a moment like a fish before he managed, “Radiator. Florence said it was making noise.”
In hearing his voice Eva became acutely aware of several things at once: her wet hair dripping down her neck, her bare feet on the well-trodden carpet, and the way the stranger’s eyes seemed to be determinedly fixed on a point somewhere above her left ear.
“A little warning would have been nice,” she said, trying to sound dignified.
“I thought you were out,” he replied, his usual gruffness replaced by something that sounded almost like panic. “Florence said the guest upstairs was early riser. Always up with the birds.”
“I am. Usually. Back home.” Eva shifted uncomfortably. “Different time zone.”
“Right. Of course.” He shifted the toolbox from one hand to the other, the metal tools clanking loudly in the quiet hallway. “I’m Charlie, by the way. Charlie Blackwood. Florence is my aunt, well not exactly, but she’s as good as.”
“Eva,” she managed, acutely aware that this was possibly the worst first impression she’d ever made. “Eva Coleman. The American in the frog towel.”
“Right.” Charlie’s mouth twitched slightly. “Well, Eva Coleman, I should—” He gestured vaguely with the wrench. “Florence will be wondering—the radiator—”
“Are you having a stroke? Also, my eyes are up here buddy.” Eva asked, surprised by his flustered rambling but finding it slightly amusing nonetheless.
That seemed to snap him back to himself. His expression shifted back to its usual studied indifference, though his ears remained suspiciously pink. “Excuse you! Look, Florence likes to meddle,” he muttered. “She probably knew exactly where you were. Thinks this is funny, sending me up here now.”
“Meddle how?”
“She’s been trying to set me up with half of York for the past year. Says I need someone ‘steady’ in my life. Last month it was the post office clerk. Month before that, the baker’s daughter.” He shook his head. “She’ll definitely read into this.”
“Read into what? You fixing a radiator while I happen to be getting out of the shower?”
“You don’t know Florence,” Charlie said darkly. “She once tried to lock me in the storage closet with the dental hygienist during a Christmas party. Said it was an accident, but that closet locks from the inside. Make that make sense.”
Despite trying, Eva found herself fighting a smile. “That’s … dedicated.”
“That’s Florence.” Charlie gestured vaguely with the wrench. “I should actually fix that radiator before she comes up here and finds us talking in the hallway. She’ll have us married by teatime.”
Eva’s eyes widened in mock horror. “By teatime? But I haven’t even seen your tax returns yet. In America, we at least wait until the second date before planning the wedding.”
“Bold of you to assume this counts as a first date,” Charlie shot back, then immediately looked like he wanted to swallow the words.
Eva stepped aside to let him pass, pressing herself against the wall. As he squeezed by in the narrow hallway, she caught a whiff of his scent—wood shavings and something like old books.
“For what it’s worth,” she called after him, “I promise not to let Florence marry us off.”
Charlie paused at her door, glancing back. “Appreciated. Though fair warning—she’s very persuasive. She once convinced me that plaid and stripes could work together.”
“And did they?”
“I looked like a vintage sofa that had lost a fight with a circus tent.”
Eva surprised herself by laughing. Charlie’s mouth twitched in what might have been the beginning of a smile before he disappeared into another room, presumably to wage war with another clanking radiator.
Twenty minutes later, Eva descended to find Florence pushing a cheerful red vacuum cleaner across the dining room carpet. The machine had a painted-on face that made it look like a rotund, smiling cartoon character.
“Morning!” Florence called over the noise, switching off what Eva now saw was labelled ‘Henry’. “Sorry about the racket. Henry and I like to get an early start on Saturdays.”
“Henry?” Eva asked, amused by the idea of naming a vacuum cleaner.
“Best help I’ve got around here, besides Charlie when he shows up.” Florence gave Henry an affectionate pat on his red dome. “Been with me fifteen years and never complains. Can’t say that about most men.”
She wheeled Henry to the corner and gestured for Eva to sit at a table already set with a cheerful yellow cloth. “Full English this morning—none of that continental nonsense.”
Florence disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a plate that could have fed three people: eggs, bacon, sausages, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, baked beans, and toast. A pot of tea appeared next, in a China teapot painted with forget-me-nots.
“This is amazing,” Eva said, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of food.
“Can’t have you wandering York on an empty stomach,” Florence said, finally sitting down with her own cup of tea. “Speaking of which, what are your plans for the day?”
“I’m not sure. I was thinking of exploring more of the city, maybe trying to find more of Margaret Wells’ notes?”
Florence’s eyes sharpened with interest. “Persistent, aren’t you? Well, if you want to know about York—the real York, not just the tourist bits—you should take Trinkett’s tour.”
“Trinkett?”
“Mister John Trinkett. Bit of an odd duck, dresses like he’s escaped from a Dickens novel, but he knows every stone in this city. Does a walking tour every morning at ten, starts at The Shambles. Tell him I sent you.”
Eva took a bite of bacon—perfectly crispy—and asked, “Has he lived here long?”
“All his life. His family’s been in York since before America was even a twinkle in King George’s eye.” Florence poured more tea. “If anyone would know about Margaret’s hiding spots, it’d be Trinkett. Though he does tend to go on about the plague pits.”
“The what now?”
“Never mind. You’ll find out soon enough.” Florence’s smile was mischievous. “Just don’t let him scare you off with his ghost stories. Half of them he makes up on the spot.”
John Trinkett was exactly where Florence had said he’d be, impossible to miss in his top hat adorned with what appeared to be several decades’ worth of tour badges. A small group had already gathered around him.
“Gather ‘round, gather ‘round!” he called. “The Trinkett Tour of Truth and Tales is about to commence!”
For the next two hours, Trinkett led them through York’s hidden corners, his theatrical delivery making even drainage systems sound fascinating.
As they squeezed through The Shambles, Trinkett had to raise his voice over the crowd.
“And there—” he pointed to a shop with Gothic lettering: York Ghost Merchants, where a queue of tourists snaked halfway down the narrow street, “—is proof that people will wait an hour in Yorkshire rain for a good ghost story. York is filled with all kinds of experiences, that place over there, they’ve got some sort of interactive experience.
I think they act out séances or some such nonsense.
” He sniffed disdainfully. “Though I’ll admit, whatever they’re doing in there, people come out looking properly spooked.
See that couple?” He nodded towards a pair emerging from the shop, eyes wide and clutching each other.
“That’s the look of folk who’ve paid twenty quid to be scared by someone in a Victorian nightgown. ”
But it was when they stopped at The Golden Fleece pub that his tone grew serious.
“One of York’s oldest watering holes, dating back to 1503. And now—” his voice dropped dramatically, “—threatened with closure. New owners want to turn it into luxury flats.”
“That’s terrible,” Eva said, thinking of The Riddle & Quill and Florence’s worried expression.