The Little House on Everywhere Street

  Contents

  The Little House on Everywhere Street

  Copyright © 2021 F.M.A Dixon. All rights reserved.

  Dedication

   SONNET CLV 

  Chapter 1.

  Chapter 2.

  Chapter 3.

  Chapter 4.

  Chapter 5.

  Chapter 6.

  Chapter 7.

  Chapter 8.

  Chapter 9.

  Chapter 10.

  Chapter 11.

  Chapter 12.

  Chapter 13.

  Chapter 14.

  Chapter 15.

  Chapter 16.

  Chapter 17.

  Chapter 18.

  Chapter 19.

  Chapter 20.

  Chapter 21.

  Chapter 22.

  Chapter 23.

  Chapter 24.

  SONNET CLV

  Acknowledgements

  The Little House on Everywhere Street

  F.M.A Dixon

  Fitzroy Books

  Copyright © 2021 F.M.A Dixon. All rights reserved.

  Published by Fitzroy Books

  An imprint of

  Regal House Publishing, LLC

  Raleigh, NC 27612

  All rights reserved

  https://fitzroybooks.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781646030743

  ISBN -13 (epub): 9781646030996

  Library of Congress Control Number: ?????

  All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.

  Interior and cover design by Lafayette & Greene

  Cover images © by C.B. Royal

  Regal House Publishing, LLC

  https://regalhousepublishing.com

  The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Donna, Ellie and Maisie, my fine, fine fellow travellers!

   SONNET CLV 

  Who can’st escape the mortall claimes of Time

  And see his debt from Deaths grim ledger struck?

  Who mighst by wit alone and conceald rime

  Evade his Fate and all ill fortun’d lucke?

  Alas, none, my friend. Nay, nere the long-liv’d

  Phaenix, nor the red-man’d Lyon mighst pay

  That deadly reckening and yet survive

  To breath Gods sweet air for an other day.

  But one way be knowne to cloake thy bright page

  From Fates long seeing eie: obfuscate all!

  Crosse out thy trackes, erase thee from the stage,

  Be ye not found when the Reader doth call.

  Hide. Forsake love, and be as one forsook,

  Strike out, or else by Times red pen be struck.

  WS 1603

  

  Chapter 1.

  One of the many strange things about the little house on Everywhere Street was that it wasn’t very little. Not at all. In fact, it was deceptively large. Everyone said so, especially once they had explored the upper floors, of which there appeared to be several too many, for a house that size, that is. From the outside it seemed that there should be only three floors at most. Or four, counting the basement. But visitors frequently ran out of puff on the West Staircase and found themselves wondering exactly how far they had climbed. Mr Redmayne, who occupied the house with his wife and three children, when asked, always remarked that he had not the slightest idea how many floors there were, never having counted them all. And his guests always took him to be joking, as they knew him to be that sort of a man. However, on this matter he was being quite serious. Count the floors? When on Earth would he find time to do that? And why? At this point Mr Redmayne’s wife, Gloriana, would usually intervene and request that her husband should desist from his cruel teasing at once and, after quite artfully changing the subject, take the unfortunate guest by the arm and lead them back down the East Staircase, which only confused them all the more.

  Why should a house so apparently, well, thin-seeming, at least from the outside, have two staircases? And how could it accommodate them both within its narrow architecture? Mrs Redmayne, who was very beautiful and European to boot, possibly French or Romanian, depending, would laugh as if their guest had made the cleverest joke she had ever had the good fortune to hear and treat them to several delicious scones from her kitchen, a confection whipped up only that morning by her own fair and highly skilled hand, in accordance with an ancient Cornish recipe. With hot tea. And cream. Mrs Redmayne was very fond of a traditional cream tea and her enthusiasm for this, like all her famous enthusiasms, was highly infectious.

  At which point, any lingering confusion over the number of floors or staircases would be quite forgotten. Afterwards, if pressed, everyone would agree, vaguely, that the house was exceptionally roomy, for its size. On the inside. Yes. Remarkably so. And that would be that.

  But none of this was by any means the strangest thing about the house. Not at all.

  The three children, George, Felice and Emile, loved the house and believed they knew everything about it, all of its secrets, but they were wrong. Their knowledge was limited, for what was thought to be good reason, for their own protection. But lessons must be learned, even hard lessons, by children and over-protective parents alike. And, happily, their errors in this area are the occasion for this tale. All actions have consequences, Mr Redmayne will remark towards its close. Unpicking them can prove very messy, very messy indeed, not to mention downright dangerous. For everyone. But if you must do it, you’ll want to do it right. And to do that you must go right back to the beginning, the very beginning, and start over.

  And so, that’s exactly what we will do…

  Chapter 2.

  The little house on Everywhere Street had stood in its present location in New York since 1900. That, from Mr Redmayne’s perspective, was a very complex statement, very complex indeed, far more complex than it might appear at first examination, especially to the lay mind. But no less true for all that. In fact, all things considered, he postulated one evening, quite pleased with himself, it surely satisfied all the necessary conditions for a true statement. Mr Redmayne was a philosopher and spent the most inordinate amount of time looking as though he was doing nothing at all. But really he was thinking very hard.

  “If you say so, dear,” replied his wife. “Do eat up your spinach, won’t you? It will be quite cold before you know it.”

  Mr Redmayne looked surprised. “Spinach, you say?”

  “Yes, dear. On your plate. We’re eating dinner, remember? With the children.”

  The three children giggled and Mr Redmayne’s face was once again a picture of surprise.

  “Sorry, I was
miles away,” he said sheepishly. “Spinach. Yes, so I see.”

  Mrs Redmayne’s culinary repertoire included a stunning number of spinach-based dishes, all of which her children—and to some extent her husband, it must be said—thoroughly detested, as one. On this matter, at least, they were united.

  Mr Redmayne, with noticeable reluctance, took a first bite. Then, he laid down his fork on his plate while he ate, a habit that his wife found “very American.” Usually her tone made it clear that this was not any kind of endorsement of the practice. Indeed, Mrs Redmayne suspected that left to his own devices her husband might all too readily take to beating his knife and fork on the table as if they were drumsticks, much like George Washington, whose table manners were known to be generally deplorable.

  On this occasion, however, she merely looked at her spouse most disapprovingly but said nothing.

  Mr Redmayne went on in any case, quite oblivious. “See, the thing is, a fellow I know asked me the question and, well, I wasn’t entirely sure how to reply. Not without telling an untruth. A lie. So, I was thinking it over.”

  He left it there. All four pairs of eyes were fixed upon him, clearly expecting more.

  Mr Redmayne took another portion of pistou creamed spinach bake onto his fork.

  The four exchanged glances. Mrs Redmayne took charge.

  “What question, darling? This fellow, what did he ask you? We’re all waiting.”

  “What?’ Mr Redmayne looked around at the four expectant faces.

  “Yeah, Pops, what was the question? Don’t leave us hanging.”

  This last was from Emile, the youngest and by far most impetuous of the three.

  Mr Redmayne looked at Emile as though he had never seen him before in his life.

  Once again, he laid down his fork while he chewed. “Well, he comes up to me, this fellow I know, and he says, as if all very chummily, ‘So, Redmayne, how old’s this fabulous house of yours, then?’ And I say, ‘What?’ And he says, ‘Your house, the one everybody talks about, it’s just off the park, there, isn’t it?’ I say, ‘Yes, it is,’ not seeing the relevance. ‘Well, okay,’ he goes on, ‘how long’s it been there, would you say?’ That’s all.”

  “And what did you say, dear? In response.”

  “All that I could say. I told him I’d have to think about it.”

  The children groaned, as one. “Really?” cried Felice, quite exasperated. “Papa!”

  Why her father couldn’t learn to tell a simple lie once in a while was a source of constant frustration to her. She managed it all the time without the slightest problem. Surely he could, too?

  Most indignant, she turned to her mother. “Mais vraiment, Maman, est-ce que ça le tuerait de ne pas dire la vérité, pour une seule fois? Surtout à propos de quelque chose de si important—pour nous tous!”

  But Mrs Redmayne merely smiled at her daughter, albeit in a kindly, knowing way.

  “Tu connais bien ton père, ma chérie! La vérité est primordiale pour lui. C’est une des choses que j’aime le plus en lui.”

  Now the two boys groaned, and this time Mr Redmayne elected to intervene.

  “English, English! Come on, you two. You know the rules—and it is the house’s rule after all. English everywhere, all the time. Otherwise who knows what might happen? Chaos, most like. And, yes, Felice, it might kill me to tell a lie, even just one time, you never know. Consequences, all of our actions have consequences, dearheart, no matter how trivial they might seem at the time. Now, this fellow”—Mr Redmayne paused to note that his daughter had reddened and appeared suitably abashed—“he asked me a question and I wanted to answer it as truthfully as I could, as difficult as that is under the circumstances. So, what could I say? That the house has more than one location? That wouldn’t quite be true, despite appearances. That the house is where it is, always, and the locations find the house? Strictly speaking, that would be the most true of all. But I can’t tell him that, obviously. He’d think me quite mad. And so might I, for saying it. No, what I can say—without fear of a lie or contradiction—is that the house could be found in its present location here in New York since 5:27 a.m. on Sunday, 25th March, 1900. That is a true statement. Not the whole truth, I admit, but true enough.”

  “Really, must you be quite so absolutely precise, darling, on the matter of the time? You know, that might only lead to more questions. Possibly the year itself would suffice? Just a suggestion. And who is this darned fellow of yours anyway? Why is he so interested in our lovely house, do you think? You don’t imagine that he suspects something, do you? I should hate to have to move again, not with Georgie doing rather so very well just now in school. I’m not sure I could face all the upheaval, you know, coming so soon after the last time.”

  “No, no, nothing like that, I’m sure. Just some fellow I chat to at the library now and then. Watkins, that’s the chap’s name. Yes. Works there, I think. Wears a hat.” Mr Redmayne risked a glance at his eldest son, George. “No, dear, I’m quite sure. No need to worry. He’s only a librarian, after all. What harm could he possibly do? Fine us?”

  Mr Redmayne laughed out loud. No one else joined in, but he didn’t mind that. He always enjoyed his own jokes far more than anyone else did. That was approval enough for him.

  George coughed a tense little cough. “Well, Pops, some librarians have been known to take an interest in matters of historical public record. You know, events, maps, dates, and such—all that sort of thing. Your friend at the library could be looking us up right now, trying to pinpoint the house, the street even, on some turn of the century survey thing or other. It’s possible.”

  “That would be daft, wouldn’t it? He’s not likely to find us on any map, is he?”

  “Exactly, Eric, darling,” said Mrs Redmayne. “That’s quite possibly the problem.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Mr Redmayne, a little abashed himself now. “I see. Well, yes, quite.”

  And there being nothing else to do about it, he tried another forkful of spinach, which, as his wife had so accurately predicted, had now turned rather cold. Indeed. Quite chilled. Very.

  Chapter 3.

  Chaos. School mornings, in particular, it has to be said, could be nothing short of chaotic in the little house on Everywhere Street, as is commonly the case in what are otherwise the best regulated and most orderly of households. All happy families are alike, Mr Redmayne used frequently to profess, they’re all quite chaotic in their own special way. And just as the Redmaynes were undoubtedly a happy family (the usual minor temporary disagreements notwithstanding), equally they were also on occasion truly and quite uniquely chaotic, especially in the mornings.

  Of course, it didn’t help that the children attended different schools in what were really—in a way that will soon become more clear—very different areas indeed. Nor did it help that these schools no doubt quite rightly insisted that pupils should meet their particular local requirements to the letter. That was their prerogative. Mr and Mrs Redmayne respected that. Rules are rules, after all. But it did make things difficult.

  As a consequence Mr Redmayne synchronised everybody’s morning routine with military precision. Bathroom visits were scheduled according to a strict rota and tightly monitored. Uniforms would always be first laid out and then donned, or not, as required (Felice and Emile, yes; George, not). Breakfasts prepared (Mrs Redmayne), consumed, typically, in double short order (esp. George, Emile); school bags readied (owner, lackadaisically); lunch packs packed (Mr Redmayne, fussily); and appropriate amounts of currency procured and allocated to each child (Mr R., ditto). A tall, rather imposing grandfather clock stood in the hallway, counting out the morning’s all too rapid progress in loudly chimed quarter-hour segments, in a real sense driving it all forwards and helping things to run, well, like clockwork.

  But it didn’t take much—the introduction of some unforeseen element, an unexpected caller, m
isplaced keys, a lost shoe, anything—to upset the finely tuned mechanics of the household arrangements and threaten to throw the entire enterprise out of whack.

  In short, chaos.

  On the morning in question, when this story really begins, the very start, everything was proceeding in the regular fashion. In the cosy basement kitchen, the boys had wolfed their breakfasts down quite unceremoniously, almost without a word between respective mouthfuls of their bacon and eggs. Felice much preferred a lighter ‘continental’ breakfast these days—croissant, espresso—but, even so, proved no more communicative than either of her brothers. Not that Mrs Redmayne minded. Gloriana was not, by nature, what might be regarded as a morning person, an attribute, if indeed this quality might be regarded as such, to which she had grown perversely attached over the years. Washed, dressed, fed and out. That was the mantra that played over in her mind each morning. Washed, dressed, fed and out. With a special emphasis on the out.

  On this particular morning, however, at the point at which we join them, the ‘fed’ stage was already drawing to a close. Despite this, neither boy was displaying the least urgency in looking to move on to the ‘out’ portion of the operation. Unlike them, their Europhile sister had managed to leave the table quite successfully several minutes earlier—without either of her brothers noticing her departure in the slightest—but that did not necessarily mean that whatever she might be doing now in her room was dedicated to the purpose of leaving on time. Still, at least Emile had managed partially to leave the table. That is, he had gotten up from his chair with the intent of doing so and had even gone so far as to take a couple of steps away, but at the last second his keen and roving eye had fallen on the funny pages portion of the newspaper, which had been carelessly left lying open, right there, and this had suckered him back in. He stood now, a foot or so away from the source of his capture, swaying back and forth while conscientiously scrutinising the detail of every single cell of every panel in turn, and therefore could be observed in the condition of both half-leaving and half-staying at one and the same time—virtually a quantum state.