The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel

by Keith A Pearson

  I see something in his eyes I’ve never seen before — panic. He doesn’t respond, which suggests he’s still hoping I’ll just fuck off, or he doesn’t know what to say. I can see him scrambling for the appropriate reaction, but nothing comes.

  I don’t want to lose my momentum, so I continue.

  “You don’t want me to tell Mum I know, do you? Shall I tell you why I think that?”

  He rests his hands on the workbench and stares straight ahead at the panelled wooden wall. He takes long, heavy breaths through his nose, as if he’s trying to control his anger. As his anger subsides, I can feel mine rising.

  “The only reason Mum puts up with your attitude is because she’s afraid I’ll find out the truth. She puts up with you to protect me. But if I know the truth, you no longer have any hold over her.”

  During a management training session a few years back, I recall the course leader telling us that the greatest tool in negotiation is silence. Once you’ve shown your hand, keep your mouth shut and your adversary will eventually feel compelled to fill the silence. It’s one of the few things I’ve ever learnt on a course that has been useful beyond the shop floor. It’s a strategy I deploy with brutal efficiency now, as we stand in complete silence.

  He eventually breaks.

  “You can’t say anything to her,” he mutters.

  For the first time in my life, I don't feel like the old man is in control. It’s a liberating feeling and I take full advantage, releasing years of pent-up anger.

  “Why can’t I say anything to her? Because if I do, she’ll have her bags packed and we’ll be out of here in a heartbeat? You’ll have nobody to cook your meals, nobody to clean the house, to do your washing, iron your shirts, run your errands. You’ll just be a sad, angry man, living out the rest of your days on your own.”

  I keep quiet again. It takes roughly ten seconds before he feels compelled to say something.

  “All right, all right. What do you want?”

  Stripped of his power he sounds broken. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. I take a step forward and prepare to conclude the negotiation by offering him a way out on my terms.

  “I’ll do a deal with you. I’ll give you my word I won’t say anything to Mum, but in return, I want something from you.”

  He turns to face me.

  “What?” he grunts.

  “Firstly, you need to treat us with a little respect, Mum in particular. Secondly, I want to know how your name ended up on my birth certificate.”

  He shakes his head and swears under his breath.

  “You’re opening a can of worms here, boy, but if you insist,” he huffs, the reluctance in his voice obvious.

  I can almost see him physically deflating. He gestures towards the two large cylindrical tubs sat on the floor opposite us.

  “Sit down, my knees are killing me.”

  We both grasp a container each and drag them across the wooden floorboards, a comfortable distance apart. The old man drops down, with obvious relief, and runs a hand through his thinning hair.

  “Before you ask, I don’t know who your real father is. Your mum never told me and I never asked. Whoever he was, he wasn’t on the scene when we began courting.”

  He pauses, perhaps hoping I’ve now got the answer I want. I haven’t.

  “Carry on.”

  “She was a typist in the office where I worked. We got to know each other because I worked in the payroll department and she needed some advice, something to do with her hours, I can’t remember exactly what. I eventually plucked up the courage to ask her out on a date, and she just broke down in tears. It was only then she told me she was pregnant. Anyway, she said the father wasn’t around any longer but she wanted to keep the baby. I think she assumed I’d run a mile when she told me, and I probably should have.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Obviously not, I’d already fallen for her by that point. We talked about it for a while and I persuaded her we could make a go of it, and I’d be willing to bring you up as my own. She hadn’t told a soul she was pregnant so everyone assumed I was your father. It all happened so quickly, but it made sense all round.”

  “And at what stage did you realise that bringing up somebody else’s child wasn’t quite what you’d hoped?”

  His head drops, and he draws a deep breath.

  “I thought we’d have kids together, and when we did, we’d feel more like a family. We tried for years but it didn’t happen. Your mum kept nagging me to see the doctor, but I never did. What would have been the point? And all along, there was this constant little reminder that some other bloke had managed to do something I couldn’t.”

  “Me, you mean?”

  “I’m not expecting you to understand but yes, you. It’s no excuse but the more time that went by, the more resentful I became. I was angry at myself and started taking it out on you and your mother. It started with just the odd snappy comment but the less your mother reacted, the more I pushed it. I know it’s wrong, but I justified it by telling myself that I’d given you both a nice home and looked after you. I’m not proud of the way I’ve treated either of you, but I didn’t know any other way to cope with the jealousy, the resentment. It ate me up.”

  Silence descends on the gloomy shed. I’m not sure how I feel about what I’ve just heard. I want to be angry, I really do, but it’s just not there. Can I honestly say I would have felt any different in those circumstances? It certainly answers a few questions about my upbringing and Dad’s lack of involvement. Whichever way you cut it, none of us have come out of this particularly well, Dad included.

  “You okay, boy?”

  “Fine, and stop calling me that,” I murmur.

  “So where do we go from here?”

  There is something unfamiliar in the tone of his voice. I wonder if its relief. Perhaps he’s become so trapped in his own, angry little world, he’s just relieved to be offered a way out.

  “That depends on you. You’ve already fucked up the first sixteen years of my life so I’m not going to let you ruin the rest of it, or Mum’s for that matter.”

  His expression suggests he’s about to chastise me for swearing, but he thinks better of it and poses a question of his own.

  “Where has all this come from? This isn’t like you, has something happened?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve had a long time to think about it.”

  He doesn’t press me any further.

  “So what do you want from me then?” he asks.

  It’s a good question.

  “Honestly? I want you to be happy, Dad. I want us to be happy, you know, like a normal family. I’m sick of living in fear you’re about to lose your rag over something and nothing. I’m sick of you never giving a damn about anything I do. I’m sick of your constant complaining about stuff that doesn’t matter. I want a Dad, not a distant stranger who just pays the bills and stomps around like he hates the world.”

  He closes his eyes and rubs his fingertips over his temples in circular motions. He eventually opens his eyes and looks down at the floor.

  “I knew this would happen one day. I’ve carried on the legacy my old man left behind. He was a terrible father too, so I learnt from the best.”

  “Perhaps you should have known better then.”

  “For what it’s worth, I am sorry you know. I can’t make any promises I’ll change overnight, but I can promise you I’ll give it a go. I know you’ve got no reason to believe me but I do want to be happy, it’s all I ever wanted, really.”

  There is enough sincerity in his voice for me to believe him. I guess I won’t know just how successful this brief conversation has been until I return to my timeline, but I’ve done what I can.

  “Okay, we have a deal then? I’ll give you my word I won’t tell Mum I know, and I want your word that things will change.”

  He pauses for a moment as if he’s still thinking of another way out of this, but he eventually leans forward and offers me his hand.<
br />
  “All right, deal.”

  “And just so we’re clear, Dad, I’ll pretend this conversation never happened. I’m going to act exactly as I always have, so the onus is on you to make this work. I don’t want to tell Mum I know anything, so don’t let me down and I won’t have to.”

  He looks me in the eye and nods. I think I believe him.

  At this point I’m minded of those Hollywood films where everyone wears their heart on their sleeve. If this was such a movie, we’d now embrace one another, with tears and apologies flowing. As this isn’t Hollywood, we both just stand and endure a moment of excruciating awkwardness. The old man thankfully breaks the silence.

  “I need to finish up in here so I’ll see you a bit later.”

  “Okay, I’m going to my room.”

  “Right...off to listen to the hit parade eh?” he says with an uncomfortable smile.

  I want to tell him he’s just uttered the lamest sentence I’ve ever heard, but he’s making an effort, so I don’t.

  “Yeah, I am. I’ll see you at teatime, Dad.”

  9

  Seven hours. Ridiculous. As I lie on my bed, I can barely believe it was only seven hours ago that I awoke to this madness. For the first time since my day began, I can pause and take stock of all that’s happened. I’m not sure how I feel. I should feel elated because I’ve been so uncharacteristically decisive, but there are other emotions swimming around my mind that take the gloss off the elation.

  The old man’s confession has stirred feelings about my own childless existence. The child we lost, and I’m yet to create, would be in their mid-twenties in my timeline and maybe they’d have brothers or sisters. Would my life have been so much different if I’d been a father? Judging by how it had affected the old man, maybe it’s not a question I want to explore too deeply. All hypothetical anyway — by sticking with Megan I had willingly consigned fatherhood to a wish-list that would never be fulfilled. Different situations, but neither Dad nor I got the chance to see our own child grow up. While I can’t excuse his behaviour towards me, I can at least now understand it, even empathise with him I suppose.

  Trying to shake thoughts of fatherhood from my head, I think about what I’m going to do for the rest of the day, and tomorrow. There are still a few loose ends I’d like to tie up while I’ve got the chance, and while they might not necessarily make much difference to how I hope my future pans out, I’m keen to exercise my newfound assertiveness. But right now, I’m tired. The day has been mentally exhausting and I could do with a nap. I set the alarm on my watch to go off in an hour and close my eyes.

  I spend the next twenty minutes tossing and turning, but sleep doesn’t come. Too many thoughts and too much latent emotion. With time to kill before tea, I do what any bored teenager would do in such circumstances, and review my porn collection.

  My earlier dalliance with Tessa brings a premature end to my ‘duvet time’. Barely ten minutes later, and after a nervous dart to the bathroom, I’m back on my bed listening to the tail end of the American Chart Show on Radio 1.

  The top 10 of this week is a mixed-bag that predictably includes Madonna, Janet Jackson and Whitney Houston. I guess the audience is revelling in this fresh, new music, but having had to listen to it for thirty years, it’s now irritating white noise. Thankfully the top 10 is saved by the presence of OMD, Mike & The Mechanics and much to my delight, The Pet Shop Boys at number four with ‘West End Girls’. There’s even the rare gem and one-hit-wonder, ‘I Can’t Wait’ by Nu Shooz, one of my personal 80s favourites.

  For reasons best known to themselves, our American Cousins have decreed that Whitney Houston’s ‘Greatest Love of All’ should be number one this week. It’s with great relief that thirty seconds into it, Mum knocks on my door to tell me tea is ready. I turn the stereo off and hope Whitney’s lyrics aren’t stuck in my head for the next five hours.

  I visit the bathroom to wash my hands before heading down to the kitchen where Mum is predictably busy, preparing tea. Also predictably, the old man is sat at the table reading the newspaper — did he listen to a word I said? The stainless steel teapot is already on the table, along with three china cups and accompanying saucers. I pour myself a cup of tea, sit down and take a sip.

  “I hope the tea is okay, your Dad made it,” Mum chuckles across the kitchen.

  I almost spit a mouthful of tea across the table in surprise.

  “It’s not bad, for an amateur.”

  I look across the table at the old man. His eyes lift from the paper and the faintest hint of a smile surfaces on his craggy face. The slight nod I return betrays the significance of what just happened. Forcing him to change his ways through blackmail alone would never work in the long term. He had to realise that our conversation was a desperate act by a desperate kid, and that his destructive behaviour had to end, for him as much as us. Maybe it was just a slight smile and a cup of tea, but those simple gestures represent so much more. He made an effort, and that gives me a sliver of hope for the future.

  As I contemplate the old man’s progress, Mum delivers a plate to the table, piled-high with toasted crumpets. She then heads over to the fridge and returns with a ceramic butter dish she places next to the crumpet mountain.

  “Tuck in then,” she orders.

  I grab a still-warm crumpet and drop it onto my plate. I scrape a knob of butter onto my knife and spread it over the crispy surface. The creamy butter slowly melts, saturating the floury innards of the crumpet and oozing onto the plate below. I lift it to my mouth and take a large bite, warm butter dribbling down my chin. I can’t remember the last time I ate a crumpet, and I’d forgotten just how moreish they are. Five crumpets later and I no longer need reminding. Despite my gluttonous assault on the crumpet mountain, there’s still just enough room for two large slices of Battenberg cake. I wash it all down with the dregs of my tea and slump back in my chair, defeated by Saturday tea.

  “Thanks Mum, that was lovely.”

  “Yes, thank you, Janet,” Dad adds awkwardly.

  She pats me on the hand and gives Dad a lingering smile.

  “You’re both welcome.”

  To his credit, Dad offered to clear the table but Mum ushered him out of the kitchen. With the benefit of witnessing my earlier efforts, Mum also declines my assistance with the washing-up. I help her clear the table while we swap small talk.

  “Anything planned for this evening, sweetheart?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  “There’s a good film with Robert Urich on BBC1 later if you fancy it?”

  Notwithstanding the fact I have no idea who Robert Urich is, I suspect my mother’s definition of a good film differs greatly from mine.

  “Maybe. I might go up to the arcade though.”

  “That’s nice. Your dad is taking me out for a drink,” she says casually.

  Such is my surprise, I almost drop the butter dish on my way to the fridge.

  “Really? That’s...good.”

  For as long as I can remember, the old man has ritually spent every Saturday evening playing snooker at the British Legion Club. Whether it was a birthday party, a wedding reception or a family barbecue, if it landed on a Saturday night then Mum and I would always attend with an abashed apology for the old man’s absence.

  As Mum continues with the washing-up, Dad pokes his head around the kitchen door.

  “I’m just going upstairs to freshen up.”

  “Okay darling. I’ll finish in here and I’ll be up to get ready,” Mum replies.

  I know the old man said he’d make an effort, but this is beyond anything I had expected. I dread to think what his ‘freshening up’ is likely to entail but one thing is for sure, I won’t be touching that flannel in the bathroom anytime soon.

  With the kitchen spick and span, Mum disappears upstairs like a giddy teenager on prom night. I head into the sitting room and slump down on the sofa. I grab Dad’s newspaper from the magazine rack and study tonight’s TV schedule. It’s not an
altogether unexpected disappointment. Maybe there might be some nostalgic entertainment to be gleaned from the adverts so I scan the room looking for the TV remote control. There is no TV remote control.

  I get up from the sofa and cross the room to our archaic TV set. As was the fashion in TV manufacturing, the bulky unit is bedecked in a fake oak veneer, with a vast plastic casing at the rear to house the cathode ray tube within. Beside the bulbous twenty-one inch screen is a plastic panel that contains the on/off button, four push buttons for the channel selection, and dials for the volume, brightness and colour.

  I poke the ‘on’ button and wait while the TV splutters into life. I’m greeted with a sepia-tinted scene of a car chase, involving an American Police Cruiser and The General Lee. I was never a fan of ‘The Dukes of Hazzard’, although one of the earliest entries into my fledgling porn collection was a magazine cut-out of Daisy Duke in her tight white vest and denim shorts. With the enticing prospect of seeing Ms. Duke again, I return to the sofa and make myself comfortable. I watch the final eight minutes before the closing titles and disappointment roll. Just a fleeting glimpse of Daisy Duke. I instinctively pat the cushion next to me in search of the remote control. Christ, no wonder people were fitter in this day, all that marching back and forth to change the channel. I’m too full of crumpets and Battenberg to be bothered, so it looks like I’ll be watching BBC 1 for a while.

  The stiff BBC announcer informs me that the next program is ‘The Keith Harris Show’. Kill me now. I pick up the paper and scan the pages while trying to ignore the TV. I manage ten minutes. If Keith Harris and his insufferable green duck weren’t bad enough, cockney duo Chas & Dave are wheeled out. Enough is enough. Just as I’m about to get up and switch the TV off, my parents enter the sitting room, their arrival announced by the overpowering fragrance of Old Spice and Tweed. Despite smelling like a prostitute’s handbag, they do look quite the dapper couple. They actually look happy.

  “We’re off now sweetheart, we won’t be too late,” Mum smiles.