by Ali McNamara
‘Jo-Jo, is that you?’ I hear my name called from a room at the bottom of a messy hallway.
‘Yes, it is,’ I reply carefully. I make my way down the narrow hall, skilfully avoiding stepping on the pieces of Lego and half-naked Barbie dolls that lie in my path.
The door at the end of the hall is partly ajar, so I push it a little further open and find a woman sitting at a kitchen table bottle-feeding a baby.
‘There you are, sweetie,’ the woman, who I’m guessing is in her mid-forties, says, smiling at me. ‘Could you be an absolute angel and pick the twins up from school for me today? Bonnie hasn’t settled all afternoon and I’m exhausted.’
She certainly looks tired. Beneath her mop of bleached blonde hair, there are big dark circles underneath her brown eyes. She heaves the large baby on to her shoulder, and tries to wind her.
‘Yes – yes of course.’
‘You all right, Jo?’ she asks, looking at me with concern. ‘You look a little pale.’
‘Yes, I’m fine. I had a slight accident this afternoon, that’s all. But I wasn’t hurt, so nothing to worry about.’
‘Nothing to worry about?’ The woman leaps up out of her chair with the baby still on her shoulder and comes rushing over. She puts her hand on my forehead. ‘You’re my daughter, I’ll decide if you’re hurt or not!’
Whoah, just hold on a moment! This woman is claiming to be my mother? This is just too weird. I may be feeling a bit woozy from my latest jump through time, but I know this woman standing in front of me isn’t my mother. Besides, I wasn’t even born until 1983! Calm down, Jo-Jo, this is the 1977 Jo-Jo’s mum, of course it is.
‘Really, M – Mum,’ I mumble, backing away from her hand, ‘I’m just fine.’
She stares into my eyes, narrowing her own at the same time. ‘No, you’re not, there’s something different about you; a mother can tell these things.’
I turn my face away. ‘I’m fine, really.’
She sighs. ‘You’ve not been the same since you turned sixteen. I think it’s working in that weird shop you’ve got yourself involved in.’
A shop? How bad can that be? Let’s hope it’s not some salacious sex shop, or an early version of Ann Summers.
‘I like the shop,’ I venture. ‘It’s fun working there.’
Please don’t let it be something incredibly dull like a supermarket, or grotesque like a butchers.
‘Hmm,’ my new mother huffs. ‘What good is a shop selling all this hippy nonsense? It’ll be another passing fad like all this computer stuff will probably turn out to be.’ She gestures towards the table where there’s a magazine lying open, and on the page there’s a photo of a man with a beard, demonstrating a large, cumbersome computer.
I go over to the table and pick up the magazine. ‘That’s Steve Jobs,’ I smile. ‘Wow, look at the size of that Mac!’
‘What are you talking about, Jo-Jo? The man isn’t wearing a mac; he’s wearing a shirt and tie. I just read that article. And how do you know his name?’
‘I just saw it on the page,’ I say hurriedly. I fold over the front cover of the magazine. ‘BusinessWeek?’ I look at my mother in surprise; she doesn’t look the sort of person who reads BusinessWeek as a rule.
‘I just picked it up at the hairdresser’s,’ she says casually, taking the baby off her shoulder; it looks suspiciously up at me from her arms. ‘They were busy and didn’t have anything else to flick through.’
‘Ah, OK.’
She glances up at a clock on the kitchen wall. ‘The twins, Jo-Jo! Quick, or you’ll be late! I’ll try and get Bonnie settled while you’re gone.’
The mere mention of the word late jolts me into action. ‘Don’t worry, I’m on it!’
I turn and head back down the hall, hesitating for a moment on the front doorstep. In theory I could escape now and go and see George, it’s the perfect moment, but I can’t exactly leave two kids standing all alone outside a school, can I? And will he even be open? No, my need to see George is going to have to wait again.
I look down the street figuring I’ll just ask someone where the local primary school is, but luckily I don’t have to, as I step out on to the pavement and see a steady stream of mums, buggies and prams all heading in one direction. So I follow them.
While I walk I eavesdrop on some of their conversations. They’re much like any group of mothers I’ve ever heard as they flock to collect their young from school, except instead of chatting about what was being discussed on Loose Women at lunchtime today, they’re talking about the guests on a programme called Pebble Mill at One, and whereas a group of 2013 mothers might be debating the pros and cons of their latest smartphone, these mums are discussing the latest in hair styling – the merits of a Braun electric curling iron against their favoured Carmen Rollers.
Eventually we all arrive outside some school gates, so I stand with the other mothers, waiting for my charges to come pouring through the gates with their fellow pupils, desperate to escape their day’s schooling. My mother said ‘the twins’; I don’t know whether to expect twin girls, boys, or one of each, so I just have to hope they recognise me first.
While I have a few minutes, I think about what’s happening to me this time.
It’s pretty clear I’ve time travelled again, to the seventies. And it happened when a car hit me on the exact same zebra crossing on the King’s Road where it occurred the first time. There must be a link there of sorts, right outside that World’s End pub. The World’s End… I wonder if that’s relevant? It’s quite an apt name, considering. And then there’s Harry and Ellie again. They’re here with me, which is quite comforting in one way, but weird in another, because they’ve changed personas again, as I have. And we’re all so young this time, teenagers, which is incredibly odd. I want to work it out, to know why. I don’t like unanswered questions and unsolved puzzles. They unsettle me, almost more than the actual time travelling itself.
I really, really need to see George.
‘All right, Jo-Jo?’ a young woman standing next to me remarks. ‘You’re deep in thought this afternoon.’
‘Not really,’ I reply. ‘Just waiting for the twins.’
‘How’s your mum doing?’ the woman, who is wearing the most hideously patterned purple blouse and orange flared trousers continues. ‘She still holding out?’
‘Yes… I think so.’ Here we go again; I have no idea what I’m supposed to reply.
‘She’s a brave one, is Penny. That’s all I can say. Single mum. Four kids. You’d think she’d snap the council’s hand off, being offered a brand new home out in the country.’
‘But she’s not snapping their hand off?’ I ask in surprise.
‘No, you’re right, she’s not. She’s got her pride, that one. And good on her for sticking to it. More than I’d do in her position, but they don’t wanna knock down the shithole I’m livin’ in, more’s the pity!’
Just then the familiar sound of a school bell rings, and suddenly doors burst open and children rush euphorically out on to the playground and through the school gate.
I look helplessly at the children swarming around us now. Twins… there must be some twins here somewhere, I think, looking all around me at the schoolbags being swung in the air, and the newly painted pictures being thrust proudly under mothers’ noses. Suddenly I feel tugging at my top. I look down to see a young girl of about ten standing quietly next me.
‘Hi,’ I say, presuming this must be one of the twins. ‘Good day at school?’
‘Yeah, not bad, Sean’s just coming – he forgot his PE kit and went back for it.’
So there’s a girl and a boy, I know that much now.
‘Good, good.’
Turning her head side to side, she looks up at me suspiciously, and her long chocolate brown plaits move up and down her shoulders. ‘You look different.’
‘Do I?’ Here we go…
‘What have you done to your hair? I know, you’ve got it braided up at the sides. Did Ellie do
that for you?’
‘Erm, yeah.’
She screws up her face. ‘I want a friend like Ellie! The girls here are so dull and she wears such great clothes.’
I think of Ellie in all her tartan today.
‘And she listens to great music too.’
I smile even more now. The Bay City Rollers make great music?
‘You’ll find your own way when it’s your time,’ I say, surprising myself by sounding so wise. ‘You’ll have your own clothes and your own music in the eighties. You won’t need to borrow someone else’s taste.’
‘I don’t know about taste, but I think someone’s borrowed me PE kit,’ a young boy, looking exactly like the girl but with a messy mop of brown wavy hair, says now. ‘I can’t find it anywhere.’ Ah, this must be Sean then…
‘Mum will kill you if you’ve lost that!’ the girl says. ‘Your new football boots were in that kit.’
‘Shut up, Sally,’ Sean says, giving her a shove. ‘Just cos you’re Miss Perfect.’
‘I ain’t!’ Sally pushes Sean now too. ‘I’m just not stupid enough to lose my PE kit like you all the time.’
‘OK, OK!’ I say putting my hands out to hold them apart. ‘That’s enough. Let’s get you two home.’
We set off in the direction I’ve just come from while Sally and Sean continue their bickering behind me as we walk.
‘Can we get sweets, Jo-Jo?’ Sally asks as we pass a little corner shop at the top of the road.
‘Yeah, please, Jo-Jo,’ Sean joins in. ‘You said the other day we could have some if we were good when Mum went out, but then you rushed off and never got us any.’
Did I? I look inside the large cotton patchwork bag I’ve been carrying across my body for the first time since I’ve arrived here in the seventies, to see if I’ve got any money on me, and I’m surprised to find, in amongst the odd bits of make-up and a comb, a small rolled-up magazine, or is it a newspaper? It feels more like that type of paper as I pull it from my bag.
‘Why have you got a copy of the Beano?’ Sean asks, looking at it in my hand. ‘It’s an old one too, by the looks of that front cover.’
‘I… I’m not sure.’ I look at the comic; it must be the one I picked up on the zebra crossing before the car hit me. But how could that be here with me now? Did it come with me like Walter Maxwell’s photo did with him?
‘Can I have it?’ Sean asks, reaching for the comic. ‘It might be old but I bet Dennis the Menace is still the same.’
‘No!’ I snatch it away from him. ‘I mean,’ I say a little more gently, ‘I’m just looking after it for someone, so you can’t.’ Quickly I shove the comic back in my bag and retrieve my purse. ‘Let’s get you some sweets now. Luckily for you both, I have a little bit of money on me.’
We finally leave the sweetshop after Sally and Sean have spent a great deal of time and deliberation choosing their confectionery. Sean has a Marathon – which looks very much like a Snickers bar to me – and Sally has a packet of Spangles, some sort of brightly coloured fruit-flavoured sweets.
It’s quite interesting just how many of the sweets from the seventies I recognised in the shop. Their packaging may have evolved a little differently by the time they reach 2013, but children and adults here are enjoying the same delicious contents in 1977 as they will be in the future.
Sally and Sean clatter and crash their way back into the house when we arrive home, immediately abandoning their schoolbags on the hall floor in favour of their sweets.
‘I’m in here, kids,’ Penny calls.
We all go through another door into a living room this time, and I feel as if I’ve stepped on to the set of a seventies TV sitcom. One of the four walls is papered in a bright, bold wallpaper, patterned with big swirly orange and brown circles. The other three are plain, but are still painted a vibrant orange. Nearly all the furniture is brown, except for an olive green beanbag sitting in front of a large, boxy TV, which is currently showing some type of children’s TV programme, with a Humpty Dumpty, a teddy bear and some dolls sitting in various different shaped windows.
‘Mum, are you watching Play School again?’ Sean asks as he jumps on to the settee.
‘Bonnie likes it and it gets her off to sleep,’ she says. ‘She’s only just gone off.’
‘What’s on today?’ Sally asks, settling down next to him. ‘Is it Take Hart? Do you think my picture might be shown on the gallery today, Mum? Do you?’
Sean laughs. ‘What, that mess of dried lentils you sent in? I hardly think so. You’d have been better sending it to that cookery woman Mum likes.’
‘Delia Smith,’ Penny says. ‘Yes, it might be, Sally, you never know.’
‘Well, I wanna watch The Red Hand Gang,’ Sean says. ‘That’s definitely on today.’
‘More American rubbish.’ Penny shakes her head. ‘So much of it on our TV these days.’ She sighs. ‘But if it keeps you quiet…’
I watch them all arguing over the television, and I’m taken forward to a time in my own past, when my own sisters and I will be doing something similar. Except we’ll be arguing over whether to watch Ant and Dec in Byker Grove on the BBC or David Jason voicing Danger Mouse on ITV.
‘What are you doing?’ Sally demands as Sean leaps off the sofa in the direction of the television.
‘Jamie and the Magic Torch is on!’ Sean says, pressing a button on the TV, then settling back down on to the sofa, channel changed.
‘You’re such a baby,’ Sally teases.
‘It’s just to pass the time until something better comes on.’
At least they don’t have a remote control to fight over yet! I think.
‘Are you OK, love?’ Penny asks, watching me as I stand in the doorway. ‘You’re very quiet.’
‘I’m fine. Do you guys want anything?’ I ask, looking at the children now completely engrossed in the TV. ‘I’m just going to get myself a drink from the kitchen.’
‘Don’t you be waiting on them hand and foot, Jo-Jo,’ Penny says dismissively, ‘they’ll get something when they’re ready.’
‘Right, so it’s OK if I head up to my room then?’ I ask, hoping I actually have my own room.
‘Sure, love, whatever you like. I’ll give you a shout later and I’ve got your favourite in for tea tonight!’
‘You have?’
‘Yes, that new pot noodly stuff! I know how you love them, and since we’re gonna be in a hurry tonight, what with the Jubilee meeting ’n’ all, I thought we’d have something quick. I’ll do fish fingers for the kids though – I think Pot Noodle is a bit adventurous for them!’
‘Yes, that’s… great, Mum, thanks.’ First Babycham, now Pot Noodle; time travel is sure turning into a culinary experience – of sorts – if nothing else.
In the kitchen I pour myself a glass of water, and then I head back through the hall and up the narrow staircase. I pause as I reach the top of the stairs. Now which room might be mine?
I open one door and know immediately it’s the twins’ room. There are Sindy dolls and Action Men abandoned on the beds in mid play, a space hopper over in the corner of the room, and a half-finished game of Mousetrap lies in the middle of the floor.
I close the door quietly and open the one next to it, assuming I’ll probably find Bonnie’s nursery, or Penny’s room, but I don’t, it’s my room.
I know this must be mine, because the dressing table is covered in make-up and jewellery and there are clothes left all over the bed where I obviously had many changes of mind as well as outfit before I left the house this morning. More importantly, covering every inch of my walls are posters; posters of boys. Actually, on closer inspection I realise they’re posters of pop, film and television stars.
Staring back at me I recognise TV cops Starsky and Hutch, film star Sylvester Stallone, pop star Donny Osmond, the Six Million Dollar Man Lee Majors, and the original cast of Charlie’s Angels.
Great, this will make it easy to drop off at night with all these eyes staring down a
t me! I had posters up on my wall as a teen in my own time, of course, but somehow Boyzone and Take That seemed much more innocent than these testosterone-filled, hairy men – the ‘Angels’ and Donny Osmond being the exception.
I push some of the clothes out of the way and sit down on the bed.
So I’m a teenage girl in 1977 this time, with a mother who serves Pot Noodle and fish fingers for dinner, TV addict twins for siblings, and a baby sister who – well, Bonnie doesn’t seem too much trouble, right now, but I don’t want to rule her out just yet. There’s obviously not a father around; the woman outside the school said Penny was a single mum. So maybe I’m being a bit harsh criticising. Penny’s doing well to keep us all together with a roof over our heads and food in our mouths. I’m not too sure about the benefit system in 1977, but I bet it isn’t great.
Once I can get over to see George on the King’s Road maybe he’ll be able to shed some light on why I’m here this time. I’ll definitely go tomorrow.
Right then, I sigh to myself, I’m just going to have to make the best of it. Now what did teenagers do in the seventies? I look around the room. Jo-Jo from 1977 doesn’t seem to do much apart from try on clothes and put on make-up. I get up and wander over to the half-open window.
‘Yo, Jo-Jo!’ a voice calls, and I see Ellie waving at me from the bedroom window opposite. ‘Check it out!’ She points down the street and I see Harry walking along casually with his hands in his pockets.
Ellie puts her finger to her lips in a shushing fashion as we watch him go into a house a few doors down from mine.
Then Ellie cups her hand to her ear. ‘Wait for it,’ she mouths from her window.
Suddenly shrieked from the house we hear: ‘Harry! What the bloody hell have you done to your hair? You look like one of your grandad’s parakeets!’
Ellie laughs. ‘Serves him right for mocking us,’ she calls across the gap. ‘I knew his mam would go mental when she saw him.’
I continue to listen at the window. But it all goes quiet. Then the front door opens again and Harry comes storming out.
‘Shove it then, you old bag,’ he shouts back through the open doorway. ‘I ain’t changing me hair back and that’s final. You either like me the way I am or I go!’
