Step Back in Time (12 page)

George makes us both a cup of tea, and while I eat a piece of flapjack (I pass on the peanut butter) he tells me all he knows about time travel. Which isn’t that much considering George is the only person I’ve got to help me out on this – I’d call it an adventure if I was actually enjoying it, but really it’s more like a bad dream. It’s not quite bad enough to be classed as a nightmare – yet.

‘… so if I change something back here it could affect what goes on in the future?’ I repeat while George takes a sip from his mug of tea. I’m pleased to see the mugs are back, even if the one I’m holding has The Bee Gees on it, and George’s a very fetching photo of Noddy Holder and Slade.

‘Uh-huh. And that could be a very bad thing. But, it might also be a good one too,’ he adds unhelpfully.

‘But how will I know?’

‘You won’t.’

‘But what if I do something that majorly changes mankind in some way?’ I ask, my mind beginning to race.

George smiles. ‘No offence, Jo-Jo, but I don’t think you’re likely to influence any world leaders while you’re here, now are you?’

‘You never know. When I was back in the sixties, it was just before JFK was shot. It felt odd knowing that was going to happen. Like I should do something to try and prevent it.’

George nods. ‘Exactly. That’s just the sort of event you must stay away from. You would create too many waves that would rock and wreck too many ships in the future if you even
tried
to prevent world events of that magnitude from occurring.’

All the terrible disasters that will happen both in this country and abroad suddenly flash through my mind. I know many of the dates and the times they will occur, so how can I just stand by and let them happen? Surely I should at least
try
and do something to prevent them? But who would listen to one person spouting off about some terrible event that was going to take place, like a bomb going off on the underground, an assassination attempt, or even something as devastating as 911? There are always people trying to warn us of events like this. More often than not they’re dismissed as loonies and freaks; they’re laughed at, ridiculed, or even worse, locked up. I wonder if they’re people like me, caught up in some strange time-travelling nightmare, doing their best to try and help.

George rests his hand on mine. ‘You look as if you’ve suddenly got the weight of the world resting on your shoulders, Jo-Jo. Please don’t fret about this. There
are
those that are here to affect world events, but there are many more who are here to affect their own journey in life and that of those around them.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Take for instance the Ellie and Harry of the sixties. In the years after you left Ellie went on to become a famous baker and entrepreneur – she owned eight cake shops in London alone.’

‘Ellie did?’ I ask in surprise.

‘Yes, pretty impressive, eh? And there’s Harry, too. After you got him that audition for George Martin, EMI employed him as a songwriter, and he went on to write some very well-loved tunes for some very big stars – some of which are still played well into the future.’

I think about this.

‘But that doesn’t make sense. How can they both exist in the sixties, and then in the seventies as different people? Surely the sixties version would just age? Are there two of them here now in 1977? And what about the Ellie and Harry of the future from 2013? How does it all work, George, how?’

George sighs. ‘So many questions, Jo-Jo. I didn’t say I had all the answers, did I?’

‘No, but you must at least have some, George?’ I plead. ‘I’m not good with all this let it be, see what pans out, trust it will all be fine stuff. I’m an accountant. I deal in figures and if the sums don’t add up you keep redoing them until the books balance.’

George nods. ‘Perhaps I can explain it in a way you might understand, then. Hmm, let me see…’ He strokes his moustache thoughtfully. ‘Let’s try this: imagine if you were doing someone’s accounts, and they’d mislaid a whole page of figures, what would happen?’

‘That’s easy, their books wouldn’t balance,’ I say with certainty.

‘Exactly, but those missing transactions would have still taken place whether you could see them written down or not.’

‘Yes…’ I say hesitantly, not really knowing where George is going with this.

‘That’s a bit like what’s happening to you right now. Instead of a page of your yearly account book that’s missing, it’s a page of your life account book. Once you find that again, everything else will balance. But until you do, you just have to believe in those missing transactions until you can fit them back into their rightful place.’

I stare dubiously at George. ‘What you just said shouldn’t make any sense at all. But strangely it does…’

George smiles. ‘Life is often like that, Jo-Jo; it doesn’t always have to balance, but just because it doesn’t, it doesn’t stop it from happening.’

‘But if all that’s true, how do I find the missing page?’ I ask, thinking aloud. George’s accountancy analogy has struck a chord.

‘When I said I didn’t have all the answers, I meant it. I’m sorry, Jo-Jo, I didn’t say time travel would be easy or simple to work out.’

‘No one ever said it was possible either, but look at me now!’ I say, the realisation truly dawning that I’m not suddenly going to wake from a dream, or a coma, like in that TV show, the police one when she went back in time.
Ashes to Ashes
it was called. That character went back to the eighties, but was never quite sure if it was all in her subconscious mind. Apparently this wasn’t, according to George – it was actually happening to me right here and right now.

‘Yes, look at you now,’ George says proudly. ‘You’re coping incredibly well with everything that’s being thrown at you.’

‘Really?’

‘Definitely. As I’ve mentioned before, you’re not the first to do this. And no doubt you won’t be the last either. But you
can
do this; you’re strong, and bright and capable. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’

I’m touched by George’s compliments. ‘You make it sound like I’ve been specially selected. Like this isn’t just random?’

George looks down into his now virtually empty mug and thoughtfully swills the last of his tea around in the bottom.

‘Wait, are you saying I have been?’ I demand. ‘What about these others you’ve mentioned before? I think I might have met someone else like me back in 1963. Are there many of us doing this?’

George opens his mouth, but I hear Harry’s voice.

‘Would you like fries with your Donna Summer album?’ he calls, piling back through the door carrying a takeaway bag with the Wimpy logo on it.

‘If you fuel your insides with junk, your outsides will look like it too!’ George says knowingly, getting up from where we’ve been sitting next to each other on the now-familiar wooden chairs.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Harry says, pulling a greasy-looking burger from his bag. ‘If it’s good enough for the Yanks, it’s good enough for me! Listen, you’ll never guess who I just saw walking along the King’s Road? Only Malcolm bloomin’ McLaren!’

‘Was he heading towards SEX?’ George asks.

‘Yeah, off to see Vivienne, no doubt. God, I’d love some stuff from their shop. No way on my wages, though. Any chance of a rise, George?’ He winks at George and offers him a chip.

‘Ditch the Sex Pistols hairdo, start selling some more records, and I’ll think about it!’ George smiles, turning down his offer.

I look hopefully across at George, in case we might be able to continue our conversation. But with Harry back I know that’s going to be impossible in the tiny shop.

‘I guess I’d better be getting back to Rita then,’ I announce, casting one hopeful last glance in George’s direction.

‘Yes,’ George agrees, collecting up our empty mugs and the remains of his lunch. ‘Return to Rita, Jo-Jo. I’m sure an afternoon spent in her company will be most enlightening for you.’ His piercing blue eyes look directly into mine. ‘
Most
enlightening.’

I leave George and Harry to their various lunches and head back towards Tranquillity and Rita.

‘Good lunch?’ she asks as I re-enter the shop.

‘Yes, not bad, thanks.’

‘And what did George have to say for himself today?’

Rita is sitting behind the counter arranging some beaded jewellery on a display stand.

‘Not too much – wait, I meant to ask you before: how did you know I was going to see George earlier?’

Rita lifts her head and her bright blue eyes stare intently back at me. ‘Sit down, child,’ she says, gesturing to a high-backed wooden stool in front of the counter. ‘Now, if I could have your hand?’ she asks as I pull myself up to sit in front of her.

I hold out my hand and she turns it over, clasping it in hers, palm upwards.

‘Ahh…’ Rita says, examining the lines on my hand. ‘That makes perfect sense. I understand now.’

‘What do you understand?’

‘This,’ she says, running her finger along a line on the heel of my palm, ‘is your lifeline. On most people it’s a fairly solid line, broken occasionally to represent any traumas in their life or major events.’

I look down at my hand.

‘But yours,’ she says, running her finger up and down, ‘is solid to here, see, then it breaks off into many different lines.’

I pull my hand away to take a closer look at my palm. She’s right, there’s a strong indent, which further down suddenly branches off like a tree into many other lines.

‘You know, don’t you?’ I ask her. ‘You know I’m not the real Jo-Jo.’

‘You’re the real Jo-Jo, all right,’ she says, smiling serenely. ‘Just from another line.’

‘But…’

She takes hold of my hand again. ‘This is your heartline,’ she says, again tracing her finger along my hand. ‘See how it’s strong, yet it breaks off occasionally in the middle, then forms a strong line again at the end. It shows you will care many times, but truly fall in love only once.’

‘Sure,’ I mutter, dismissing this. The last thing I need to know about at the moment is my love life. ‘But back to the lifeline, you just said —’

‘And your headline just here,’ she points to a different line on my hand. ‘That shows me you’re a very practical, analytical person, that you need black and white answers, no grey areas.’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s exactly right, I do need answers. I need to find the missing page. Can
you
help me find it, Rita?’

Rita studies me carefully across the desk. ‘I don’t need to, Jo-Jo, the answers you need are all in here.’ She turns my hand over and places it on to my heart.

‘But, that’s no good!’ I cry, jumping off the stool. ‘I need to know why I’m doing this! You know, don’t you?’ I desperately search Rita’s calm face. It gives nothing away. ‘Is there going to be more when I’m finished here? Is there?’

‘Calm down, child.’ Rita takes a deep, almost meditating breath. ‘Now take a seat again,’ she says, gesturing to the stool. ‘I can’t help you if you’re leaping about the place.’

‘What
can
you tell me then?’ I ask, pulling myself back on to the seat. ‘You obviously know something, I’m not stupid.’

‘No, you’re definitely not that, Jo-Jo,’ she smiles. ‘I know that you can be very demanding at times, and you always want to know what’s going on right at this very minute, and you’re not good at letting things be and waiting for answers to arrive at their own pace.’

She’s right. That is one of my faults. I’m not very good when it comes to waiting. In fact, it’s amazing I’ve been able to be so patient this far. Maybe my brain has been more addled by the process of time travel than I realise.

‘You’re also a very determined person, and once you set your heart on something nothing will prevent you from getting it.’

I nod at this. Also true.

‘This has helped you in your life so far, in your career especially.’

‘Yes, you’re right. I’m very determined when it comes to my job.’

‘But for all your success you’re very lonely too.’

‘Of course I’m lonely. At the moment I’m being thrust into all sorts of random time zones with complete strangers most of the time. It doesn’t take a genius to work that one out!’

Rita regards me with another patient, yet knowing look.

‘I mean you’re lonely back in 2013.’

‘I am not,’ I answer without thinking. ‘I have plenty of friends, colleagues and family. I see them all the time.’

‘Do you, Jo-Jo? Really?’

‘Yes,’ I answer firmly. ‘I do.’

‘You may see them, but are you close to them?’ Rita may only be looking into my eyes as she asks her question, but it feels as if she’s burrowing deep into my soul. ‘Aren’t most of them more casual acquaintances than close friends? What people do you have in your life who you could share your every thought and desire with?’

‘Maybe I don’t want to share my every thought and desire with people,’ I respond huffily. ‘Maybe I prefer keeping them to myself.’

‘But why is that?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ I rub at my forehead, and I’m surprised to find tiny beads of sweat there. I wipe them away. ‘It’s just easier if you keep things to yourself.’

‘Why?’ Rita’s eyes blink innocently back at me. ‘Surely the more you share with people the easier life becomes? A problem halved and all that?’

‘But it doesn’t work like that, does it? When you share with people you can’t keep things ordered; you don’t know what you’re doing. Humans are too unreliable, in my experience. Life is so much easier when it’s just you. You’re in complete control.’

‘Ah…’ Rita says, nodding. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think we are. Look, are you going to help me discover why I’m travelling through time, or are you just going to sit there and judge me and my choice of lifestyle?’

‘Jo-Jo, you will discover all you need to know in time. I can promise you that. And when that time comes this journey will truly be worthwhile for you.’

I sigh. How frustrating this all is. First George and now Rita. They obviously know more than they’re letting on, but they won’t tell me.

‘Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?’ Rita suggests. ‘I think your time would be better spent elsewhere while you’re here than in my shop, don’t you?’

‘Will it make me leave here any quicker?’

‘Have patience. All things are difficult before they become easy.’

I have to smile. ‘You may be very infuriating, Rita, but you’re very wise.’

‘Sadly not one of my own,’ she says, gesturing to a book of quotations on the shelf. ‘But there are some very wise words in there if you’d like to read it some time. Take it.’

I lift the book down off the shelf. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Jo-Jo, I’m never wrong. Trust me.’

So, still feeling a little frustrated, but with new reading material under my arm, I leave Tranquillity early and walk back down the King’s Road. I pass the World’s End pub, which doesn’t seem to have changed much since the sixties, and carry on along the high street, stopping occasionally to look in shop windows at the weird and wonderful assortment of goods on sale in 1977. In an electrical store I see a cassette tape recorder being advertised as the latest must-have gadget and I can’t help but pause outside a hairdresser’s window to stare at all the tight poodle-like perms being applied to lovely locks of straight hair.

‘Want to come in, love?’ one of the hairdressers mouths at me through the window.

I shake my head ferociously. Perming my long hair is the last thing I want to do to it. I think I’d rather have it cut like Harry’s.

I think about this version of Harry as I carry on down the street. He’s a strange mix again – in some ways very mature for his sixteen years, even with that silly haircut. It’s like he doesn’t quite fit in, but is also desperately trying anything to do so. There is something very endearing about him that seems to transcend all the times we’ve met. It never feels like I’m meeting him for the first time. It’s as if I’ve always known him.

‘Watch it!’ a raucous voice calls, barging into me as it exits the newsagents I’m just passing.

‘I think you’ll find you should be the one watching it!’ I snap, swivelling around to find Stu, Harry’s punk mate glaring at me.

‘I should have know it would be you, dreaming your way down the road,’ Stu says, lighting up a cigarette from his newly purchased packet.

‘I was not dreaming my way down the road, I was —’ I stop myself. Actually, I had been daydreaming; I’d been thinking about Harry.

Stu sniggers. ‘I thought as much. All you lot do is dream your way through life, ain’t it?’

‘What do you mean, “my lot”?’

‘The flower-power brigade. Heads in the clouds. No idea of what’s going on here in the real world. Blip on society, that’s what you are, if you ask me.’

I look at Stu leaning up against the shop wall, with his shaven head of green spikes and his upper lip formed into a permanent snarl.

‘
I’m
a blip on society? Look at you!’

Stu regards his look in the window of the shop by strutting to and fro along the pavement. ‘Yeah, and your point is? Nothing wrong with the way
I
look,’ he says, holding out his hands. ‘I stand out. I don’t try and blend into the background like all them other morons.’ He gestures across the road at the shoppers bustling up and down the street – who are by no means your dullest-looking Londoners. This is the King’s Road, mecca to all things and all people wanting to be hip and trendy. But he’s right; they don’t make anywhere near the statement Stu did.

‘But you look aggressive dressed like that. People are scared of you, afraid to approach you.’

‘And so?’ he shrugs. ‘That’s a good thing far as I’m concerned. Don’t want people approaching me. Not them sort of people anyway.’ He shudders.

I look at him again. And suddenly I see something different behind all his bravado. I see a streak of vulnerability.

‘What you staring at now?’ he demands. ‘You’re weird, you.’

‘You’re scared, aren’t you?’ I ask in a quiet voice.

‘I ain’t scared of nothing, me.’ He raises his face up to the sky and blows a plume of smoke casually in the air.

‘What are you scared of?’ I continue. ‘All people? Or just these sort of people? People who conform to life?’

Stu throws his cigarette to the ground and stubs it out viciously on the pavement with his boot. Then he turns to me, pushes me up against the wall and presses himself up against my chest so his face is centimetres from mine. ‘Listen, you. You don’t know nothing about me and who I am. So don’t you go spreading any nasty rumours, or you’ll find out just how
not
scared I really am! Of you, them, or anything in this lifetime.’

Then as quickly as he’s pinned me up against the wall, I’m released, and he’s strutting off down the street, lighting up yet another cigarette.

I stand in the middle of the pavement staring after him, pedestrians brushing against me as they try to get past along the busy street. As scared as I’d been for that split second when Stu had had me pressed against the wall, when he’d looked directly into my eyes, I’d seen something. Something I’d seen somewhere before, but where? And on whom?