Step Back in Time

by Ali McNamara

  ‘Say hello to George for me,’ she says, placing some joss sticks in a jar on the counter.

  ‘Yes, I will!’ I call back as I’m exiting the shop.

  Wait, I think, pausing on the doorstep for a moment. How does she know where I’m going? I didn’t say. I look back at Rita, but she just smiles serenely.

  I don’t have time to worry about that now, I think, leaving the shop and sprinting along the pavement towards Groovy Records, praying that George is open today. Hurrah, you are! I celebrate silently as I push open the door and the bell rings above my head.

  ‘George!’ I call, wincing as a barrage of heavy punk music assaults my ears. As I enter the shop I glance at the familiar surroundings. The sunflowers are in their usual spot and the wooden clock ticks steadily away, even though I can’t actually hear it today. There are a few new posters up replacing the framed photos of the sixties, but it’s still Groovy Records. ‘George, are you here?’ I call again.

  ‘No, but I am,’ Harry says as the music ceases and he appears from the back of the shop.

  ‘What – what are you doing here?’ I stutter.

  ‘Work here, don’t I?’ Harry says, curling up his lip. ‘What else would I be doing?’

  ‘But where’s George?’

  ‘On his lunch break, why?’

  ‘I just needed to see him, that’s all.’ I stare hard at a poster of Freddie Mercury and Queen on the wall in front of me and try not to look too disappointed. Then I glance at Harry again. ‘He lets you work here like that?’ I look up at his hair; he’s so tall it almost touches the ceiling of the little shop, like a big blue brush sweeping for cobwebs.

  ‘He wasn’t best pleased when I came in this morning looking like this, no.’

  ‘I bet. So, was everything OK after I left the park last night? With the others, I mean?’

  ‘Ask a lot of questions these days, don’t you?’ Harry says, folding his white arms across his ripped, sleeveless black T-shirt. I notice he has quite well-toned biceps.

  ‘Perhaps. I just wanted to know you were all right.’

  Harry shrugs. ‘Yeah, why shouldn’t I be?’

  Gosh, he was being particularly awkward today. ‘It’s just things were getting a bit heated, and I thought it might be best if I said what I did and just left.’

  ‘I’m here in one piece, ain’t I?’ Harry shrugs. ‘What’s up, Jo-Jo? Bit late to be worried about me, isn’t it?’

  He’s a teenager, Jo-Jo, I remind myself. Try and remember what it feels like to have hormones surging through you, tipping you off kilter all the time.

  ‘You know I only said what I did to get you out of a tight spot with your mates.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  Some of the hostility drains from Harry’s face, and is replaced with a sense of hope.

  ‘I see,’ Harry replies, and looks about him shiftily.

  What’s he up to now?

  ‘It’s just that I was wondering, Jo-Jo…’

  ‘Yes?’

  He clears his throat. ‘I was wondering if you might like Star Wars at all?’

  Star Wars – where was this heading? ‘It’s OK. I’ve seen it a few times, why?’

  Harry looks stunned. ‘You’ve been already?’

  ‘Yeah, why do you ask?’ I think hurriedly. Star Wars – Star Wars. Is that only just out?

  ‘It’s just I was going to ask if you’d like to go and see it some time, with me like, but if you’ve already been, it’s fine, don’t worry about it.’ He hurriedly begins rearranging some Rolling Stones records.

  Oh boy!

  ‘What I meant was, I’ve seen it advertised lots of times and I’ve seen the trailers!’ I improvise. ‘Of course I’d love to go and see it with you.’

  Harry swivels around as fast as his DM boots will allow, a broad grin covering his face. ‘Really?’ His voice is an octave higher than it usually is. ‘I mean, that’s cool,’ he says in a gruffer voice.

  ‘What’s cool?’ The door of the shop opens and George comes through it carrying a couple of paper bags. ‘Jo-Jo! How wonderful to see you again. I knew you’d be back.’

  I stare at George. He’s wearing black flared trousers with a thin tan belt, a black T-shirt, and the same tan leather safari jacket he wore in the sixties. His brown hair now hangs messily around his shoulders and he has long sideburns down each cheek with a thick brown moustache to match. He removes his gold aviator-style sunglasses and smiles at me. ‘How have you been?’

  I’m not sure if this George is asking about the 1977 me, or the time-travelling one. ‘I’m well, thanks, George.’ I reply cautiously, unable to take my eyes off this new version of him.

  ‘Did you come in for something in particular?’ he asks, putting the paper bags down on the counter. ‘Only I’m just about to eat my lunch, and you’re welcome to join me if you like – I have plenty.’

  ‘Thanks, that would be good.’ I glance at Harry.

  ‘Harry, do you want to take your lunch break now?’ George asks. ‘You won’t eat what I’ve got in here, not enough grease and chip fat.’

  ‘Have you been to that god-awful veggie place again?’

  George nods.

  ‘Yeah, I’m definitely outta here then,’ Harry says, his indifferent manner returning. ‘Time me, man,’ he says, pointing to the wooden clock behind the counter. ‘I won’t be late. Never am, am I?’ He turns and winks at me. ‘Catch you later, Jo-Jo, and we’ll sort out a date for that… thing.’

  ‘Sure, Harry,’ I smile, ‘let’s do that.’

  Harry and his blue hair disappear out of the door and I’m left with George. I look at him, wondering if I should say anything, but luckily I don’t have to.

  ‘So, you’re back again, then?’ George asks. ‘You obviously didn’t do everything you needed to in 1963.’

  ‘Thank goodness you know,’ I sigh with relief. ‘I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘Of course I know! I remember you back in the sixties – it wasn’t that long ago,’ he winks. ‘So the most important question: have I aged well?’ he asks, holding out the sides of his jacket and posing like a catalogue model.

  I have to grin. ‘Yes, you have, actually. You look very… smart!’

  George grins. ‘You don’t need to lie. But right now what I’m wearing is considered the height of fashion for men. So, you’re a teenager this time?’

  I nod. ‘And it’s not easy. If there’s one time I wouldn’t want to go back to, it’s my teenage years.’

  ‘Why?’ George asks thoughtfully. ‘Particularly difficult time for you, was it?’

  ‘No more than most teenagers, I expect. We were travelling a lot back then with my father’s job and we didn’t stay anywhere too long.’

  ‘So you must have found it difficult to make friends?’

  I think about this. ‘Maybe, sometimes I guess. Depends on where we were. I try not to think about it too much, though.’

  ‘Hmm,’ George nods knowingly.

  ‘Hmm, what?’

  ‘Just thinking.’

  ‘I can see that. Thinking about what?’

  ‘Why you’re here again.’ He still has the same contemplative look on his face.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. But I’ll work it out,’ he finishes brightly.

  ‘Great! So until then?’

  ‘Just do your best to fit in,’ George says helpfully. ‘Make sure you don’t do anything to upset things in the future too much.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, Jo-Jo,’ George sighs. ‘Do you know nothing of the rules of time travel?’

  ‘Not really, but I’m having to learn pretty fast.’

  ‘Let me put the kettle on, make us a nice cup of tea, and I’ll tell you all about it, while we munch on my peanut butter sandwiches and flapjack.’

  Fourteen

  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.’

  Fifteen

  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.’