Chapter 3
The ceiling was covered in small mosaic sized tiles; night after night he’d studied them, trying to work out what they were made of and how they could be so perfect. These small squares were mounted on larger tiles. He hadn’t realised that at first, until some man had lifted one down and repaired something in the space above it. He’d debated getting out of bed to go and study it close up, find out what it was made of. But he hadn’t, the people here already believed he was mad, without him asking questions about ceiling tiles. He knew each large tile had 144 smaller tiles which meant that the ceiling was covered in 20,736 small tiles. Basic mathematics in this strange world had not changed. During the past week John had found himself searching for familiar things, grasping for them like a drowning man groping for a life line.
He should be asleep, but his mind was too active and the long night time hours provided no distractions. He was deeply worried. Not just about this strange world that scared and unnerved him, far more than he would ever admit to, but about his Mother and Fanny. How were they coping with his disappearance? They must be out of their minds, wondering where he was. It had occurred to him that it was likely that they thought he had perished in the fire. He was racked with guilt, visualising their grief. They had already had to come to terms with the death of his father, that had almost destroyed them, but thanks to his mother they had survived and even prospered. His Mother was strong, he realised that, but he’d been the head of the family since his father’s death. No matter how strong and capable his mother was, she could not run the mill alone. Another thought occurred to him, what if the mill closed? They employed hundreds of people. What would become of them? Without work they would starve. He had to get back to Milton in 1855, he just had to.
He turned restlessly, pulling his bed coverings up higher. Even these were strange and filled him with dread, for they were not made from cotton. He knew the texture and feel of material and these were like nothing he had felt before. Not silk, muslin, linen or cotton. Did the world no longer need cotton? If it did not, what had become of his mill? It was still standing, that much he knew, but what did it produce, if not cotton? He turned again. What if he was trapped here in the future? What would happen to him? How could he make his way in this world? What did he have to offer? The skills he had were acquired in a different time. How could they be transferred and used here, He wasn’t even sure they could be transferred. Without work he could not feed and clothe himself.
His stomach churned and a bitter taste entered his mouth. He had already had to accept charity. He hadn’t wanted to accept the things the young woman, Miss Hale, had bought him. Such strange things they were as well; bed clothes that she had called pyjamas instead of a night shirt. She hadn’t been embarrassed when she had handed him undergarments, which only skimmed his thighs unlike his long johns which reached his ankles, but he had been. She’d also provided some wash things. Soap, he’d never seen so many types of soap, but only one was familiar, a small white bar with a subtle fragrance. This was to be used when he washed his face. There was something called shower gel, but he’d been here three days before he discovered what a shower was. Most alarming of all was a can that at the push of a button produce copious amounts of white, creamy lather. Shaving foam the label said. She also provided a razor, not that it looked like one, but it was, according to the label, the best his money could buy. His money hadn’t paid for it though, hers had, Miss Hale’s, and he had never felt more ashamed in his life. Taking money from a woman was wrong and he had to do something to ensure it never happened again.
He turned again. He needed to get out of the hospital. He had recovered from the effects of the fire. The pills they had given had eased the pain and stopped his coughing. The ointment they were putting on his hands was helping the burns heal. Other people had come and gone, but he had remained. He wasn’t stupid, he knew why. They thought him mad; a danger either to himself or society. He sighed, he had to convince them he wasn’t mad. The image of Miss Hale flashed before his eyes and he realised with absolute certainty that it was she he had to convince of his sanity.
