Philomena Bucket and Reggie Upton were ransacking the attics of The Squid and Teapot, in an effort to find some fresh reading material for the hermit, Neville Moore. Neville, as you may remember, lives with his pet raven, Lenore, in a decrepit old mansion on a part of the island known as Ghastly Green.

“There are plenty of books,” declared Reggie, “but not a lot of what you might describe as light reading matter. There seems to be an endless supply of encyclopaedias, dictionaries and suchlike – even the odd grimoire or two – but very little that would entertain Neville for very long on a winter’s evening.”

“How about this one?” said Philomena. “It looks quite old… ah, but maybe not. It’s written in German, I think.”

“Let me see,” said Reggie, his curiosity whetted.

Philomena handed the old soldier the tome, heavy and dusty in its dark leather binding.

Reggie stared at the cover, then gently opened the book to view its first few pages.

For a brief moment a deep silence fell upon the room, until Reggie exclaimed,

“Good Lord.”

“Is there something amiss?” asked Philomena, worriedly.

“Good Lord,” said Reggie again.

“You have said that twice, now. Is there any chance that you might tell me what’s wrong?” Philomena insisted.

“Nothing wrong, m’dear. Just the contrary, in fact. This book, dear lady, is virtually priceless. It would realise a fortune at Sotheby’s.”

“And totally worthless on Hopeless,” reflected Philomena, drily. “But go on, anyway.”

“It is no less than a first edition of The Chemical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz, by Johann Valentin Andreae, published in 1616. How the devil did it get here?”

Reggie’s excitement was palpable, unlike that of Philomena.

“Oh, is that all,” she said, a little disappointedly. “So, who did this Christian fella marry, and what was chemical about it? Perhaps they meant to say that it was a comical wedding. I’ve been to a few of those.”

“No, Christian Rosenkreutz was a guest, not the bridegroom, but anyway, the book is an allegory. It isn’t about a marriage between people at all. It is all about alchemy.”

“Ah, like my old friend Doctor John Dee practiced,” she said, feeling on firmer ground now. “I wonder if he ever read the book, back in his study in England?”

“Sadly not,” said Reggie. “John Dee had been long dead when this book was published. In fact, it’s likely that some of his teachings inspired the work.”

Philomena’s face fell.

“It is weird to think that Doctor Dee has been dead for centuries,” she said. “It was only a few months ago that he was here with us.”

“Strange things seem to happen on Hopeless,” said Reggie. “I feel, sometimes, that this island defies all natural laws.”

Philomena fell silent, then said, hesitantly,

“On that subject, there is something I need to say, and you might find it a bit of a shock.”

“I doubt it m’dear,” replied Reggie, in avuncular tones.

“How old do you think I am?” she asked. “Go on, be honest. I won’t be offended.”

Reggie shuffled uncomfortably.

“Twenty-five, twenty-six…” he ventured, crossing his fingers behind his back.

“Not bad,” she grinned. “I’ll be thirty on my next birthday. So, in your opinion, in which year was I born?”

“One doesn’t have to be a genius to work it out,” smiled Reggie. “Eighteen-eighty-two, or three at the latest.”

“Not quite,” said Philomena. “Try seventeen-ninety-five.”

“Oh, come on,” said Reggie, suddenly a little afraid. “That is impossible. It would make you old enough to be my grandmother.”

Philomena said nothing, but took him by the arm and led him to a pile of encyclopaedias lying in a corner. She selected one, thumbed through the index and opened the book for Reggie to read the entry.

“Gosh,” he said with delight, “why, there is a photograph of The Titanic. I was supposed to board her, just before I was whisked off to this island. It looks as though it was taken before she docked in New York. Let me see, now…”

As he read the article in the encyclopaedia, Reggie’s face became paler and paler, and his jaw dropped open.

“She sank? But this cannot be…” he started to say, then Philomena handed him another encyclopaedia.

He scanned the page she had offered him, and his incredulity grew.

“I’ve missed a war,” he spluttered.

“At least one,” murmured Philomena.

“So what year is this, exactly?” Reggie asked, his voice trembling.

“I do not know, and besides, it doesn’t matter,” said Philomena. “Hopeless and Time seem to have a complicated relationship.”

Reggie flopped down on to a conveniently placed chair.

“I don’t know if I can cope with this, I need a drink,” he moaned.

“You always need a drink – and of course you can cope,” said Philomena. “Just look upon it as another of your adventures. One of the more unusual variety.”

Reggie puffed out his cheeks in exasperation.

“It is a lot to ask, m’dear, but it seems that you and I – and I suppose everyone else on this island – are stuck with this. As far as I can see, the whole issue appears to be about time.”

“Speaking of that, it’s about time we found some suitable reading matter for Neville,” said Philomena brightly, helping him to his feet. “Come on, we haven’t got all day.”

It was much later, when a pale moon was peering through the mist, that Reggie strode out to meet Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man. Having lost his sense of smell years earlier, he had no problem associating with Rhys.

“I have a package to deliver to Neville at Ghastly Green,” said Reggie. “We eventually managed to unearth a few books for him this afternoon.”

“That will cheer him up,” said Rhys, adding, “and I have a letter for you to deliver for me, please. Don’t worry, it won’t take you out of way; it’s for Philomena at The Squid.”

“I’d be delighted to,” said Reggie with a knowing wink.

The delivery to Neville went remarkably easily, with the raven, Lenore, displaying only the tiniest amount of malevolence, and hardly any violence, which made a refreshing change.

Having accompanied Rhys on his rounds, it was not until the very early part of the following morning that Reggie wandered wearily back to The Squid and Teapot, where he took care to leave the letter to Philomena on the kitchen table.

When he came downstairs a few hours later, he was surprised to see the barmaid sitting in the otherwise deserted snuggery, and staring into space as though stunned. In fact, the look on her face was not so different to the one that Reggie had worn when he had discovered how Time was playing tricks with the island.

“Are you quite well, m’dear?” he asked, concernedly.

“I think so,” said Philomena.

“And…?”

“It seems that Rhys has been training a new apprentice, and had decided not to tell me.”

“Is that so very bad?” asked Reggie, puzzled.

“Not really,” she replied. “But, on the strength of that, he is giving up Night-Soil work. He has asked me to marry him – again –  and promised that nothing can possibly go wrong.”

“And what is your response?”

Philomena looked at Reggie for what felt like an age, the faintest blush colouring her pale features.

Then she smiled.

“It’s about time!” she laughed.