Step Back in Time

by Ali McNamara

  I stare at him for a few seconds before my voice eventually stutters into action. ‘What? How… I mean, why me?’

  ‘Because you, Jo-Jo, keep this company moving at the grass roots level. You’re the person our clients see when they first come into our building, and we’ve had some very favourable reports about you recently. But more importantly than that, I believe you helped out Cynthia when she was struggling up in accounts one day with some strategies about how she could make her department run that little bit more productively, am I correct?’

  I nod. Last night when I’d come back for the guitar, I’d gone upstairs to deliver some files before going home, and found Cynthia getting herself in a complete state about how she was going to cope with half her staff off sick, so I’d suggested a few ways an accounts department might run a little more smoothly. But it wasn’t a big deal – accounts were my speciality.

  ‘And if I’m not mistaken,’ Sir Joseph continues, ‘you were also the person who helped Ellie bake the first of her cakes?’

  I shoot a quick glance at Ellie. She always did have a big mouth.

  I nod again.

  ‘And you were the person responsible for making sure Harry was discovered by Mr Martin the other evening. Am I correct, Jo-Jo?’

  Blushing furiously now, I look up at Sir Joseph. ‘Yes, yes you are. But I didn’t do it for any credit, really I didn’t.’ I glance around the room. ‘I didn’t help James with Cliff Richard, did I?’ No way am I taking any blame for anything Cliff Richard does now or in the future.

  ‘No, indeed you didn’t,’ Sir Joseph agrees. ‘But your efforts with the other three, and with the rest of the staff and clients in the company recently, haven’t gone unnoticed, and as a result, Jo-Jo, have earned you the title employee of the month and the prize that goes with it. So, everyone, I think that deserves a round of applause.’

  Clapping, interspersed with the odd cheer breaks out in the foyer of EMI House.

  ‘Who are you going to take with you, Jo-Jo?’ someone shouts across the room. ‘Who will be your special guest at the luncheon on Monday?’

  I look from Ellie to Harry. How on earth am I going to choose between them?

  But luckily I don’t have to answer that question right then because both Sir Joseph and Mr Maxwell come over to congratulate me.

  ‘Well done, Jo-Jo,’ they say as the foyer begins to empty and the others begin to filter back upstairs to their offices. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, shaking their hands. ‘I’m sure I don’t deserve it, though.’

  ‘Well, we’re sure you do,’ Walter Maxwell says. ‘In fact, I know you deserve it. Chances like this don’t come around more than once in a lifetime, you know.’ He nods knowingly at me, and gives my hand a little squeeze before letting it go.

  I look at him. There are so many questions I want to ask him right now, but I can’t, I need to get him on his own.

  ‘So, do you know who you’ll take with you?’ Sir Joseph asks. ‘I hope you know someone who’s a huge Beatles fan?’

  I’m about to ask them if it might be possible to have two tickets because there’s no way I’ll be able to choose between Ellie and Harry, when I stop.

  ‘You know something, I know just the person…’

  Ten

  As I hurry along the King’s Road, my mind is whizzing as fast as my legs. I haven’t got long; George will be shutting up his shop soon. He always stays open a bit later on a Friday night to try and catch keen music buyers on their way home from work with their weekly pay packets clutched in their hot little hands. He’s been doing it for years, he once told me. It was one of the best things he ever did when he first started up, and he’s been doing it ever since.

  I can see now how George has kept that shop running for so long; he was way ahead of his time even back then – by which I mean now. Oh, this time travel thing is still confusing me, and I’ve been living in 1963 for nearly a week.

  When I told Ellie and Harry what I was going to do with my spare ticket they were fully behind me. As Harry pointed out, he’d have enough excitement on Monday auditioning for George Martin without anything else happening, and Ellie’s response was much the same.

  ‘Jo-Jo, I’ll be up to me neck in flour and icing sugar on Sunday making these cakes for Sir Joseph’s niece on Tuesday. What sort of state would I be in for meeting the Beatles? You go and take George with you. He’ll really enjoy himself – you know what a huge fan he is.’

  So here I am, hurrying towards Groovy Records. But there’s something else bothering me too as I walk. I’ve seen another newspaper with a photo of John F. Kennedy on the front, and I’ve worked out why this bothered me in the pub last night. 1963 was the year JFK was assassinated. I knew this because I’d had to do a project on American history at school and dates always stuck in my head. They’re numbers, aren’t they? And I’ve never had a problem remembering numbers. This event that will shape US history, probably world history, is going to happen a week today, on the twenty-second of November; in fact, the same day the second Beatles album is released. Is there anything I can do to prevent the assassination happening? And more to the point should I do something? Every time travel TV show or movie I’ve ever watched has always warned against changing the future. But now I’m here it seems different. Can I live with myself, knowing that something of that magnitude is about to occur, and not at least trying to do something to prevent it?

  As I arrive at the zebra crossing opposite the World’s End pub, my mind is racing with this new dilemma. There’s already a mother pushing a big old-fashioned pram over the crossing in front of me. She’s managing to do this with one hand, because her other one is gripping tightly to the small hand of a young boy wearing school uniform. He’s wriggling and squirming as they cross, and just as they’re about to reach the other side I notice the boy has dropped something on the crossing.

  I see him try to wrestle himself from his mother’s grip, so he can go back and retrieve it, and to prevent this I take a quick look either side of me and step out confidently on to the stripes, quickly picking up the dropped item as I cross. As I lift it up I’m surprised to see it’s an issue of the Beano comic. I wave it in the air for the little boy to see, and shout to his mother to wait.

  But as they stand on the pavement watching me, it’s not joy that I’ve rescued their possession for them that I see in their faces, but looks of horror.

  So I turn my face to see the cause of their dismay.

  And as the white car hits me at full speed, everything goes cold. Again.

  Lady Madonna

  Eleven

  I can feel warmth again, so I open my eyes to see the sun shining down from a bright blue sky, with fluffy white clouds floating gently across it.

  Breaking my lovely view is a sea of faces hovering above me, looking with concern at my prostrate body lying strewn over the zebra crossing once more.

  I turn my head to the side; there’s an extremely high, platform-soled boot placed right next to my face. Turning it to the other side I see a pair of flared tartan trousers.

  I sit bolt upright.

  ‘Careful, love,’ a woman wearing a floaty kaftan-style dress says with concern. ‘You’ve had a bit of an accident.’

  ‘Yes, no sudden movements.’

  I turn to the man who’s now speaking. He’s wearing flared trousers too, only they’re denim this time. He has on a tight yellow shirt with a long collar. And his hair is long and scruffy with big sideburns extending down both cheeks.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I mumble, trying to stand up. ‘Really, see?’ I jiggle my limbs around a bit on the ground, and as I do so it sounds like I’m a one-man percussion band. I look down at my wrists and they’re covered in bangles and beads.

  ‘I don’t know how you can be,’ the woman says again. ‘The way you bounced off that car, it was like something from The Professionals.’

  ‘Have you seen that?’ another woman joins in now. ‘It’s great, isn�
�t it? That Martin Shaw is gorgeous.’

  ‘Yes,’ the kaftan woman coos. ‘He can screech to a halt and slide over his bonnet towards me any day.’

  ‘Ahem!’ I clear my throat. ‘If you can just help me up, I’m on my way to the record shop.’

  ‘You mean George’s place?’ the man asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s shut early today – I’ve just come from there.’

  ‘Why?’ I demand. ‘Why would he shut early?’

  ‘I don’t know, the sign just says personal reasons. I was over there just now trying to buy an Abba album for my wife’s birthday.’

  ‘A – Abba? But they’re not around yet, are they?’

  The assembled crowd look at each other suspiciously. ‘You sure you’re all right, love?’ the man asks, bending down to take a closer look at me. ‘Maybe we should call that ambulance after all.’

  ‘No, no don’t do that,’ I insist. ‘Really, I’m fine. Just give me a minute.’ Oh lord – this isn’t the sixties, is it? I suddenly realise. The clothes, the things they’re talking about, it’s more like the —

  ‘Jo-Jo! What the bloody hell happened to you?’ A small figure pushes its way through the crowd and I see a familiar face at last – Ellie.

  Except this Ellie isn’t wearing the striped dress I last saw her in. Neither has she got her long blonde hair all piled up in a beehive on top of her head.

  No, this much younger-looking Ellie is wearing tartan from head to toe, and her long hair is arranged in soft curls around her face. She’s taller than I remember, too. Possibly because she’s balancing precariously on top of some enormous silver platform-soled boots.

  ‘Car accident, apparently.’ I shrug. ‘But I’m fine. Help me up, Ellie.’

  Ellie holds out her hand and tries to pull me up, but she doesn’t have very good balance in her skyscraper boots, and nearly topples over on top of me herself.

  There are loud guffaws and sniggers from the pavement; I look towards them to see a small crowd of scruffy-looking yobs standing around on the side of the road. They’re wearing an assortment of jeans, leather trousers and T-shirts, all of which seem to be torn or ripped in some way.

  ‘Ah, you can just bugger off,’ Ellie shouts at them, ‘if you can’t do better than laugh and jeer when you see a lady in distress.’

  ‘You ain’t no lady, Ellie Williams,’ one of the boys with shocking green spikes all over his head shouts back. ‘I’ve seen ya behind the bike sheds when we was at school.’

  Ellie snarls at him, then she holds her hand out to me again. ‘Come on, Jo-Jo,’ she says. ‘Let’s get out of here, if you’re sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Yes, really, I’m fine.’ I take her hand and haul myself to my feet. ‘Thank you,’ I say to the other people as they stand back to let us past. ‘I’ll be fine now my friend is here.’

  As we cross over to the pavement, the gang smirk at us. Ellie juts out her chin and ignores them, but I can’t help taking a quick glance at their outfits. They really are quite intricate, not simply scruffy, as I’d assumed on first sight. Chains and leather bind the rips in their clothes, and a number of them have Union Jacks as added embellishment to their outfits; some of the flags are plain, and some have pictures of the Queen. I could almost be back in our jubilant summer of 2012 with this much patriotism about. I think for a brief moment. But then I notice the Queen’s face is blotted out on the prints, and I suddenly realise they’re not royalists at all, but punks, and of course this isn’t 2012, but is very definitely the seventies.

  It has to be; it all makes sense now – the punks, the platforms, the flared trousers. I’m just about to ask Ellie what year we’re in, when one of the punks steps forward.

  ‘Are you OK, Jo-Jo?’ he asks in a much gentler voice than I would have expected.

  His voice sounds familiar, but I don’t see anyone I recognise. Then he speaks again.

  ‘Only I was waiting outside a shop when you got hit by the car and I saw the whole thing. It looked pretty bad.’

  It’s Harry again! But not Harry in any guise I’d know him in. The Harry I’ve met before has always been suited and booted, both in the future and in the past. But this Harry is a fully-fledged seventies punk rocker, with pierced ears, a mostly shaved head and a blue Mohican on top of his head that any parrot would be proud of. And he’s much younger.

  ‘H – Harry?’ I stutter. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Ooh Harry, is that you-oo?’ the others mock, looking at Harry with derision.

  ‘Of course it’s me,’ he whispers, pretending to adjust the collar of his battered leather jacket. ‘What do you think to the hair? Me mum’ll go up the wall when she sees it. But I think it’s far out.’

  I stare at the bright blue comb on top of his head. ‘It’s… different.’

  ‘You don’t like it, do you?’ He folds his arms. ‘I knew you wouldn’t.’

  I glance at myself in the shop window opposite. Apart from looking incredibly young, I’m wearing navy flared cotton trousers, a white smock top and sandals, and I have a truly vast quantity of beads and bangles hanging all over my arms. My long hair hangs loosely around my shoulders, save for two thin braids which are pulled tightly back to the side of my head.

  ‘I’m a hippy!’ I exclaim, voicing my thoughts aloud.

  ‘Exactly,’ Harry agrees. ‘Which is precisely why you don’t appreciate this new look of mine.’

  ‘Come on, Harry,’ one of the other lads shouts now. ‘We’ve stuff to do. Leave the flower power reject and her wee tartan friend alone.’

  Ellie makes an angry move towards them, but I put my hand out to her. ‘Just leave it, Ellie.’

  ‘I’d better go,’ Harry says. ‘I’ll see you both later.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ellie smirks. ‘We’ll be hearing your mam all the way down the street when she sees your hair like that.’

  Harry fires a scornful look in her direction then heads back to his pals.

  ‘Come on,’ Ellie says, linking her arm through mine. ‘I think we’ve had enough fun on the King’s Road for one day. Let’s go home.’

  I look briefly in the direction of George’s shop, wondering if, even though he’s closed, he might be in there stocktaking or something. But what excuse could I possibly find to remove myself from Ellie’s grasp and head over there? Besides, if I don’t go with Ellie now I won’t know what I’m doing, or where I’m going in this decade, will I? And desperate as I am to see George again and find out what’s going on this time, he won’t be able to speak to me with Ellie there. No, I’ll have to wait until I’m alone again.

  We catch a bus to Lambeth, not Fulham, this time. While I sit quietly staring out of the window at the passing London scenery, desperately trying to think about what’s going on now, Ellie babbles about the Bay City Rollers and their latest song. That explains the tartan then, I think, glancing across at her while she’s off in her Les McKeown dream world. The Bay City Rollers were a Scottish glam-rock band from the seventies, and their lead singer, Les McKeown, was a teenage pin-up back then. I happen to know all this because we used to look after his accounts at the firm when I was a junior, and some of the older ladies in the office would come over all of a fluster when he popped into the office occasionally.

  I think about the office and wonder what’s going on there while I’m away, if everything’s functioning successfully without me. I’ve never left it alone for more than a day since I’ve been in charge. The place will surely fall apart – won’t it?

  Oh, why didn’t I go back home to 2013 when I was hit by the car again? Why have I moved on into the seventies? I wish I could have caught up with George before we left the King’s Road. He’s the only one who seems to know anything about what’s happening to me. All I know is I’ve time travelled again, and into a new decade. But, incredibly, Ellie and Harry are with me again, albeit in very different guises. Yes, I definitely need to speak to George as soon as I possibly can to find out just what’s going on. But until the
n I’ll just have to follow Ellie’s lead in this new world I find myself in.

  ‘Righty-ho, then,’ Ellie says as we alight from the bus, walk down a long street of Victorian terraced houses, then stop outside one with a blue painted door. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she says, pulling a face. ‘For the meeting.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, wondering what ‘the meeting’ is.

  ‘I wonder what me mam’ll have me signed up to this time. I’ve only just finished making miles of bunting and if I never see another red, white or blue triangle it will be too soon!’

  Bunting? What might we be celebrating?

  ‘The Jubilee!’ I exclaim. ‘The Queen’s Silver Jubilee. It’s 1977, isn’t it?’

  Ellie looks at me oddly. ‘You sure you didn’t bang your head on that crossing? Maybe you’d better lie down for a while when you get inside.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps I’ll do that.’

  ‘See ya later then,’ she calls, and I watch as she skips across the road and disappears into a similar-looking house to this one, but with a green door.

  ‘Right then,’ I say, turning towards my own blue door. ‘I wonder what awaits me behind you?’

  Twelve

  Gingerly I push open the blue door and step inside the house.