The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel

by Keith A Pearson

  Even if this isn’t real, I think it’s a game I’d like to play.

  3

  As the countdown continues and I reluctantly accept my ludicrous situation, I decide that I need to get organised, and reacquainted with my teenage life. As any right-minded teenager would do, I spend a few minutes searching the bedroom for my mobile phone, before the obvious dawns on me. Even if my phone had made the journey here with me, the mobile phones in 1986 are almost as unportable as my Ferguson TV, and the current infrastructure is unlikely to support an iPhone. Besides, a mobile phone without access to a yet-invented Internet, would be nothing more than a glorified calculator. No Google, no Facebook, no Twitter, and not even email. Perhaps no bad thing.

  The lack of technology gets me thinking. All I have to do is invent something commonplace in twenty-first century life, and I’d wake up a billionaire. I immediately dismiss the idea as I doubt I’ll be able to convince anyone of my futuristic ideas within 39-odd hours. How the hell do you sell the idea of Facebook to somebody who doesn’t even know what the Internet is? More shortcuts to wealth are considered and quickly dismissed. Gambling? I don’t have any stake money, and as I’ve never been into sport, I have no idea who will win anything this weekend. Shares? Again, where does a sixteen year-old get sufficient money to invest, and can you even buy shares over a weekend, especially without the Internet? Perhaps I could approach a record company with a song that’s a huge hit in the future and sell it to them? No, I wouldn’t have a clue where to start.

  I conclude there aren't any paths to instant wealth I can take in the here and now. But what if I write instructions and leave them for my teenage self to implement? Would my notes still be here once the timer reaches zero, or would they disappear with me? Even if the notes survive, would a teenage Craig have the wherewithal to follow through on my instructions, or would he file them in the bin? Truth is, I have no idea. It seems there aren’t any practical, or foolproof shortcuts to creating easy money for my future self. I'll have to do this the hard way.

  I’m punched from my thoughts by a knock on the bedroom door that nearly invokes an involuntary bowel movement.

  “Are you awake yet, love? I’m starting breakfast in a minute.”

  Holy shit, my mum. But it’s not the frail voice of my septuagenarian mother, rather the sprightly voice of a much younger woman.

  What do I do? What do I say? My heart pounds. Keep it together Craig.

  “Yeah, I’ll be down in a minute,” I croak.

  Hearing Mum’s youthful voice is almost as unsettling as hearing my own. It seems to have increased by several octaves since the last time I used it.

  “Okay love,” she replies, before I hear her potter back down the stairs.

  Sitting in my teenage bedroom is mind-bending enough, but the reality of interacting with actual people from my distant past is just insane. The obvious problem is that while I might look and sound like the teenage me, forty-six years of life experience have shaped everything in my head. My vocabulary, my persona, my mannerisms, all so far removed from those of my sixteen year-old self I might as well be a different person. The only realistic option is to adopt the default teenager setting; sulky and uncommunicative. I can only hope my parents put my odd behaviour down to hormonal changes, but I suspect my dad won’t even notice.

  I need to get dressed so I go back to the wardrobe, avoiding the door with the mirror, and inspect the contents. The hanging space, which was definitely empty earlier, is now full of clothes on wire coat hangers. I sort through the first dozen garments: two navy blue school jumpers, a black tank top, a blue polo shirt, two pairs of jeans, three t-shirts of various designs, a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms, and a khaki green Parker jacket. The final item is a burgundy shirt. I reach up, pull the hanger off the rail, and lay the shirt on the bed. I run my hand over the soft material. It’s the same shirt I wore to Tessa’s house on that fateful afternoon in 1986, and will wear again this afternoon. It invoked so many bad memories I never wore it again, and a few months later it left the house in a carrier bag of clothes destined for the local charity shop. I leave the shirt on the bed and pull one of the t-shirts and the tracksuit bottoms from the wardrobe. I slip the dressing gown off and get dressed.

  My mouth feels like something has died in it, so my first foray from the bedroom has to be to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I tentatively open the bedroom door and step out onto the landing. Even though I’ve visited my parents’ house hundreds of times since I moved out, the ambience is now markedly different from their twenty-first century home. Dad used to be a heavy smoker until his early sixties, and he would smoke in the house with no thought to the damage his habit inflicted on our health. As bad as the odour in my bedroom smelt, the pungent stench of cigarette smoke on the landing is far worse. Coupled with the underlying smell of fried food coming from the kitchen, it reminds me of the saloon bar at the Fox & Hounds before smoking in public places was banned.

  I sneak across the landing and close the bathroom door behind me. The stench of cigarette smoke is replaced with a cocktail of coal tar soap, medicated shampoo, and pine disinfectant. Memories of my once-a-week childhood bath night. I survey the small bathroom and I’m immediately struck by how little is in here. Not that I recall, but ablutions in this era apparently require little more than a bar of soap, shampoo, and a flannel. My bathroom at home looks like a supermarket shelf, stocked with a variety of shampoos, conditioners, exfoliators, cleansers, and moisturisers. I pad across the linoleum and stand at the avocado-coloured basin. The last time I used this bathroom the basin was white, the avocado suite replaced at least a decade ago after coloured bathroom suites fell from fashion.

  Beside the sink sits a ceramic cup containing a tube of Colgate toothpaste and three coloured toothbrushes. I remember that red is Mum’s and blue is Dad’s, so I grab my yellow toothbrush and examine the bristles, which are flattened into a centre parting. With little faith in my own oral hygiene, I turn on the hot tap, wait until the water steams, and hold the head of my toothbrush under the flow. Satisfied most of the bacteria on the brush should now be dead, or at least lightly steamed, I squeeze a line of the toothpaste onto the brush and set about trying to remove the filthy taste from my mouth. I can’t recall the last time I brushed my teeth with anything other than an electric toothbrush, and I’d forgotten what a chore it is to manoeuvre a blunt piece of plastic around your mouth. The chalky toothpaste tastes like shit, but I tolerate it long enough to give my teeth a cursory scrub. I run the tip my tongue across my teeth. Not great, but better than a few minutes ago.

  I’m just about to leave the bathroom when it dawns on me I should take a leak. It’s been a long time since I slept for over eight hours without getting up to empty my bladder at least once in the night. It’s not something I usually need to remind myself about. As I stand and wait for my bladder to empty, I become more conscious of my teenage body. Now the pain in my head has subsided, there’s a void which would typically be filled with the pain of aching muscles and stiff joints. Not this morning.

  The other noticeable difference is just how nimble this body feels compared to its middle-aged counterpart.

  The sensation reminds me of the time I had to attend a god-awful Outward Bound course, which all RolpheTech managers had to complete. It was four days of absolute hell, spent traipsing across the Brecon Beacons in the pissing rain, and camping in tents we had to transport in our rucksacks. We spent every miserable day shuffling mile after mile across muddy terrain, following maps nobody could read. When we reached each camp, the simple act of removing the rucksack was heavenly. Unbridled by thirty pounds of sodden kit, I felt as light and nimble as a ballet dancer. But that was only a fleeting illusion whereas it’s the reality in this body. As disconcerting as it initially felt, I now quite like it.

  I wash my hands with a bar of coal tar soap and draw a deep breath as I prepare myself for the first of the many challenges coming my way — breakfast as a teenager. I leave the bathr
oom and head back across the stinking landing. As I descend the stairs, the smoky fog intensifies with every step. How did we ever live in this? At the bottom of the stairs, I open the door to the sitting room and cautiously enter. Neither parent is present, and it’s quiet, apart from the ticking of the carriage clock. Little appears to have changed over the years although the chintzy two-seater sofa looks in much better condition than when I last sat on it.

  I move across to the window and pull back the net curtain. Dad’s maroon Mark II Vauxhall Cavalier is sat on the tarmac driveway. Apart from our house, the car represented the single biggest purchase Dad ever made, and it was his pride and joy. Whenever I was privileged enough to ride in it, I was under strict instructions to wash my hands, and ensure my shoes were clean. I never liked the car. The spongy suspension always made me feel sick, and after one close call, Dad made me carry a plastic bucket on my lap for any journey of more than a few miles. Even then, he'd spend a worrying amount of time staring intently in his rear-view mirror, checking I wasn’t about to projectile vomit across his velour upholstery.

  Beyond our driveway, the street is quiet, and free from the scores of cars cluttered along the kerb I’d expect to see on a typical Saturday morning in my time. The scene looks more orderly, tidier. Front lawns are neatly cut, driveways are uncluttered, and there’s a distinct absence of rubbish anywhere. It’s a shame that the obvious sense of civic pride amongst the homeowners has diminished over the years. The still scene is interrupted as a gate beside a house across the street swings open. A young kid pushes his bike out of the side passage, and I recognise the striking blue and yellow colours of a Raleigh Burner BMX, with its distinctive five-spoke plastic wheels.

  When the BMX craze was at its peak in the early 1980s, I begged my parents for a Burner. One Christmas morning, I recall excitedly unwrapping what I assumed was the Raleigh Burner I craved. It turned out to be a red and grey Falcon BMX, with normal spoked wheels. My disappointment turned to humiliation when my pre-pubescent friends later pointed out that my new bike was from Woolworths. They accordingly mocked my budget BMX for months.

  I watch the kid wobble down the street with no helmet, no hi-viz tabard, and probably no parental concern for his safety. We must be at least a decade away from the dawn of the over-protective, health & safety obsessed society that killed childhood adventure. I wonder if we’ve made things better for them.

  I let the net curtain fall back to the window and switch into moody teenager mode. With my nerves jangling, I slowly shuffle across the sitting room and open the door to the kitchen. The smell of frying bacon sets my mouth watering in an instant. Mum is stood at the hob, busying herself between pans, while the old man is sat at our dining table on the opposite side of the room, his copy of the Daily Express raised in front of him. I plant my eyes to the floor and take a seat at the table opposite Dad. I raise my head just enough to read the headline on the front of the newspaper…

  ’MAGGIE: YES I DO CARE - New Tax-Cut Pledge’

  I assume it refers to the Prime Minister, Maggie Thatcher, unless former Swap Shop presenter, Maggie Philbin, is now Chancellor of the Exchequer in this fucked-up version of my life. I’m past taking anything for granted.

  The old man suddenly lowers his paper and looks directly at me before I have the chance to drop my eyes. I try not to soil my tracksuit bottoms as I stare at the steely face of my forty-something father. There are no happy memories triggered by that face. No learning to ride a bike in the park. No trips to the zoo. No impromptu games of football in the garden — and it was only after I left home I discovered that Mum had paid for every one of my birthday and Christmas presents. She had a part-time job in a cafe, and would put a tenner aside every week so she could afford to buy me a decent gift. The old man was never happy about this and complained about how spoilt I was. I think it might have been because Mum felt guilty that I had no siblings. What good is a football, or Monopoly if there’s nobody to play with? I realised all the expensive gifts I’d acquired over the years were things I could use on my own. The computer, the stereo, the portable TV, the expensive trainers, even the sodding Falcon BMX. They were all gifts for a solitary child.

  My gaze meets the cold eyes of my father and I squeak the least cheerful “Morning” I can muster. If there is any residue shock on my face, he fails to notice it and returns a barely perceptible nod. He then looks across the kitchen to where Mum is still stood at the hob, with her back to us.

  “How’s that tea coming along? I’m bloody parched,” he grumbles.

  Mum replies over her shoulder.

  “One minute dear, it’s just brewing.”

  The old man rolls his eyes before returning to his newspaper. A tiny part of me wants to tell the lazy bastard to get his own tea, but I’ve always been just as subservient to him as Mum. At least I eventually escaped his tyrannical ways. I don't understand how Mum tolerated him for so long.

  I return my stare to the green chequered tablecloth and continue my best impression of a sulky teenager. Mum approaches the table and I can’t resist the overwhelming compulsion to look up. The brooding resentment towards my father is immediately replaced with a warm glow as my eyes absorb the figure before me. Mum is stood with a stainless steel teapot in one hand, and a small milk jug in the other. Her ever-present apron covers a light blue dress, dotted with tiny yellow flowers. She places the teapot and milk jug on the table, and then ruffles my hair with her hand.

  “Sleep well, sweetheart?”

  I smile and nod. I desperately want to leap from my chair and throw my arms around the cuddly frame of my childhood mother, but I resist. She looks down at me with her kindly green eyes, her sandy hair tied back into a pony tail, and a rosy glow to her cheeks. I think about the mother from my future and I’m suddenly slapped by an irrational feeling of betrayal. Irrational, because it’s the same woman, only it’s not.

  When I left home to move in with Megan, the mother I left behind slowly ebbed away, devoid of purpose and anchored to my cantankerous father. With no maternal duties to perform, she became a mother in name only. Once again she was solely the wife of Colin Pelling, not a duty I’d wish on anyone, but she did it with steadfast resolve. Maybe I should have made more effort. I should have visited more often, taken her out to lunch now and again. But I didn’t. I let our bond wither away, until Mum only had the most fragile of threads to cling to. As crap a husband as my dad might be, in hindsight, I wasn’t a much better son.

  Seeing the bubbly, cheerful mother in front of me makes me realise what I lost.

  4

  Maybe it’s a nostalgic illusion, but I’m convinced everything tasted so much better when I was a kid. I suspect it’s because nobody seemed to care what went into our food, or worried if it was actually bad for us. Sugar always tasted better than sucralose, butter always tasted better than polyunsaturated margarine, and anything fried in lard always tasted better than just about everything. We went through an unhealthy amount of lard in our house, particularly on Saturdays. Sunday to Friday we ate cereal and toast for breakfast, but Saturday brought the ‘Full English’.

  Mum delivers two plates to the table, each laden with two pork sausages, three rashers of streaky bacon, fried slice, black pudding, tinned tomatoes, beans, button mushrooms, and two fried eggs with runny yolks. No matter how many times I have tried to recreate this gloriously unhealthy meal over the years, it’s always ended in disaster. There were too many components that needed to be cooked at specific times to coincide with the final serving. My efforts inevitably ended up with either partially raw sausages, cremated bacon, or vulcanised eggs, sometimes all together in one inedible disappointment. Mum has it down to a fine art and everything looks cooked to perfection.

  My stomach rumbles as I salivate over the plate in front of me. I try to recall when I last ate. It must have been yesterday morning and the bowl of bland, high fibre cereal. I tuck in to the breakfast like a ravenous dog, every sumptuous mouthful sparking a delicious memory of
Mum’s cooking. It’s one of the things I really missed when I moved out. Megan’s culinary ineptitude meant that by default I became responsible for the cooking in our home. But as bad as Megan’s few attempts at cooking were, I wasn’t much better. For the first few months we lived on a diet of chicken nuggets, crispy pancakes, and fish fingers. Whenever we went food shopping, we had one simple rule; if something couldn’t be cooked by simply throwing it in the oven, or microwave, it stayed on the shelf. We did exclude tinned foods from our rule, but never anything more exotic than peas, beans, or spaghetti hoops.

  As Dad and I tuck in to our breakfasts, Mum joins us at the table and sets about her equally generous breakfast. The silence is only broken by the chinking of cutlery on ceramic and the occasional slurp of muddy tea. From the outside, we must look like the typical nuclear family, sat together eating breakfast. All very civilised, all very normal. Beneath the surface I feel anything but normal. I look up at the clock on the kitchen wall and calculate that I’ve been living this life for about forty-five minutes. I’m actually surprised how well I’ve coped. Here I am chewing on a sausage when I could have just as easily been running around like a demented lunatic, screaming at my parents that I’m actually a middle-aged man trapped in a living nightmare. On further reflection I understand why I’m not currently being taken away by men in white coats. I’m simply doing what I always do in life, and that’s treading the path of least resistance. Just go with the flow, accept the status quo. No ambition to change anything, no stomach for conflict. A sad man accepting whatever life throws at him, good or bad, but generally bad.