Step Back in Time

by Ali McNamara

  George grins now. ‘Keep them, they’ll be worth something one day.’

  ‘Funny! What shall I do with them, carry them with me in my magic bag where I carry all my other goodies?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I have a copy of the Beano from the sixties, a pair of football boots from the seventies, and now I’ve added a four-leaf-clover brooch from 1985 to my time-travelling mementoes. I bring them with me into each new decade; they’re the only things that I take with me.’

  George rubs at his chin. ‘Interesting…’

  I sit back on my stool. ‘So, do you have any theories about that? Or new ones as to why I’m still time travelling? Or are you going to do your usual enigmatic I know nurthing act.’

  I see Jude’s eyes flicker our way.

  ‘Keep your voice down, Jo-Jo,’ George says, leaning into me. ‘Walls have ears. And barmen have even sharper ones.’

  ‘Sorry, George.’

  George waits for his Guinness to settle, then he takes a long, slow drink from his creamy pint. It’s odd seeing him drink beer and not tea. Most of our conversations are over a cuppa in George’s shop. At least the sunflowers on the bar are similar to the ones George always has on his counter, which in an odd way makes me feel reassured.

  ‘Where should I begin?’ he asks eventually.

  ‘What happened between you and Harry after I left last time?’ I ask, thinking quickly. ‘Did you make it up properly?’

  George nods slowly and he rests his pint on the bar. ‘We did indeed. Thanks to you.’

  ‘Oh, good!’ I clap my hands together. ‘And Stu, did he make it to the concert or did I hold him back long enough?’

  ‘I’m afraid he did, Jo-Jo.’

  ‘Damn!’ I bang my fist on the bar loud enough so Jude looks around again. ‘I tried my best to prevent that,’ I whisper to George now. ‘But Ringo said I couldn’t do everything. So the same thing happened when he plugged in the amp?’

  George nods again. ‘I’ve told you before, Jo-Jo, you can’t always change things. And sometimes it’s best not to.’

  ‘But what’s the point to all this if I can’t do something positive with it. It’s all just a waste of time.’

  ‘And you hate that, don’t you?’ George asks. ‘Wasting time.’

  ‘Yes, I do. I can’t bear it.’

  ‘The same as you hate not being in control?’

  I look at George and try to figure out where he’s going with this.

  ‘In fact,’ he continues, ‘if you think about it, so many of the things you’ve been forced to do in your time travelling are things that are completely out of your comfort zone.’

  I think about this. ‘Not really,’ I shrug. ‘I think I’ve coped with everything quite well so far.’

  ‘Yes, you have,’ George agrees. ‘And that is exactly my point. Who would have thought you’d have enjoyed being an office junior again, or a teenager, or a journalist, for heaven’s sake – they write for a living, don’t they? And you hate creative writing. You’re a numbers person.’

  ‘Are you saying that this is all about me being made to do things I hate?’ I ask incredulously. ‘Because if it is, that sucks.’

  George smiles. ‘No, Jo-Jo, I’m saying it might not just be about you helping other people. It might be about you helping you.’

  Thirty-Eight

  I stare at George and I’m about to ask him more, when the pub lights dim a little and the small stage that I remember performing my early karaoke on in 1963 is suddenly lit by a spotlight.

  ‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the World’s End this evening,’ Jude says, squinting a little into the bright light. ‘May I now introduce to you our entertainment for the night, back by popular demand and with an all-new set, and an all-new name – it’s Billy Vanilli!’

  And on to the stage, wearing a full-length evening gown in blue sparkling sapphire, four-inch silver heels, and a long blonde wig, sways Billy.

  ‘He’s a drag artist!’ I exclaim, nearly choking on a piece of gherkin from the burger that Jude has just served me.

  ‘He said it was different,’ George smiles, still looking up at Billy on the stage.

  Billy’s set covers hits from all the decades I’ve travelled through, and he sings the songs incredibly well. When he gets to the nineties part of his show, he seems to revel in singing the Take That songs more than any of the previous medleys. Definitely another fan, I think watching him give a particularly good performance of ‘Everything Changes’.

  ‘He’s good,’ George remarks as we sit and watch from our place at the bar. ‘I like the new songs he’s added tonight, and of course his new stage persona.’

  ‘What was he singing before?’ I ask as Billy comes to the end of his set and makes an extravagant curtsey to the applauding audience.

  ‘Mostly just Take That stuff, but that was a bit limited. It is at the moment, anyway.’ George winks at me.

  I’m about to enquire just how he knows this, when Billy steps elegantly down from the stage and comes tottering over to us. ‘Well, what did you think?’ he asks me expectantly, his blue eyes shining with euphoria and excitement.

  ‘You were fantastic, Bill,’ I tell him truthfully.

  He does a little jig on the spot, then looks across at George. ‘I have no idea who you are, but did you like it too?’

  ‘This is George, Bill,’ I explain. ‘He’s an old friend of mine.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Billy,’ George says, holding out his hand for Billy to shake. ‘I’ve seen you perform here before. Very impressive range you have.’

  ‘Why, thank you,’ Billy says, delighted. He regards George’s sober attire. ‘I must say my act doesn’t really look your sort of thing.’

  ‘Never judge a book by its cover, or a record by its sleeve,’ George says knowingly.

  ‘I like that!’ Billy says playfully, punching George in the arm. ‘Record by the sleeve! Very good.’

  ‘George owns the record shop down the road,’ I explain.

  ‘Groovy Records! I’ve seen that little shop when I’ve been on my way to HMV. I must pop in some time and see you, Georgie, now I know you’re a fan.’

  ‘I am. I particularly liked your rendition of “Relight My Fire” tonight – very energetic there with the actual fire-eating in the middle.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Billy says, grinning. ‘Took a bit of practice, that. Do you think I carried off “A Million Love Songs” OK, though? It’s one of my favourites and I’d hate to do the great Mr Barlow a disservice by singing it badly.’

  ‘That was very good too,’ George says, smiling at him. ‘I’m sure Gary would be very proud.’

  Billy’s face lights up with pleasure. ‘Super-duper, I just wish I could sing more of their great tunes, but —’ he stops abruptly.

  ‘But, you have to sing some other bands too, I guess,’ George fills in for him.

  ‘Yes, yes that’s right, I do. And it seemed to work tonight; people really seemed to enjoy it. Even the Beatles stuff, which I thought might be a bit too far back.’

  ‘Never!’ George says. ‘The Beatles are classics, aren’t they, Jo-Jo?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they are.’ They certainly seem to follow me everywhere I go.

  ‘Billy, that was great! We’d like to book you for some more dates,’ Jude says, leaning over the bar with a diary. ‘Have you a moment to discuss?’

  ‘I have indeed!’ Billy replies with glee. ‘I’ll just get my diary and check when I’m available! One moment.’ He leans in towards us. ‘Just between you and me I’m available all the way through to 2004 if he wants me, but he doesn’t know that!’ He winks. ‘Back in a bit.’

  I watch Billy and Jude move around to a quieter part of the bar to discuss dates.

  George drains the last of the Guinness from his glass. ‘That’s me done for the night,’ he says. ‘I’m off home.’

  ‘Where are you living now?’ I ask him, wondering if he still has the house or if
he’s back in the flat,

  ‘I still have my little house. I rent the flat over the shop now.’

  ‘Ah…’ I wonder to whom. It seems funny to be living there one minute, and not the next. Except it’s not really a minute in reality, is it? It’s a decade.

  ‘Will you be all right getting home tonight?’ he asks. ‘I don’t live far from you, if you’d like me to walk you back?’

  I’m about to agree, always eager to get the chance to talk to George further, when I’m distracted by someone suddenly crashing through the pub doors. It’s Harry, and he doesn’t look happy as he makes a beeline for the bar.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll stay on for a while. You know, in case Billy wants some company.’

  ‘Or someone else?’ George says knowingly, looking across at Harry sliding on to a bar stool.

  ‘George, Harry is married this time. You know that.’

  ‘We all need a little help from our friends on occasion, Jo-Jo, and I think that’s just what Harry needs right now.’

  ‘Exactly. Our friends.’

  ‘I’ll see you very soon,’ George waves as he leaves me sitting alone at the bar. ‘Have fun.’

  I pick up my half-empty glass and sidle over to where Harry sits waiting for his drink.

  He looks up. ‘Jo-Jo, what are you doing here?’ he asks, looking surprised. ‘I didn’t know you drank in this pub?’

  ‘I don’t normally, but I was here watching my friend Billy perform earlier.’ I nod in Billy’s direction. Billy is now caught up talking with a bunch of new ‘fans’ and is having a whale of a time.

  ‘I see.’ Harry glances in Billy’s direction, but I get the feeling he doesn’t really see him at all. ‘Cheers,’ he says to Jude as he places a double whisky down on the bar in front of him. ‘Can I get you something?’ he asks me.

  ‘I’m fine right now,’ I say, holding up my own glass. I pull up the stool next to him. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

  Harry shrugs. ‘No, go for it.’

  ‘Everything OK?’ I venture after a minute or two when Harry doesn’t say anything, and his whisky is diminishing rapidly.

  ‘Been better,’ he replies, studying the bottom of his glass.

  ‘I guessed that.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Harry says, looking up now. ‘It’s been a – a difficult evening at home.’

  ‘Any particular reason why? Sorry, you don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Just married stuff, you know, the usual.’

  No, I don’t really. ‘So you just walked out?’

  ‘Yeah, seemed like the best thing. It was getting a bit heated.’ Harry waves his glass in Jude’s direction and Jude helpfully takes it to refill.

  ‘Ah.’ I don’t know what else to say. I’m not a marriage counsellor, and to be honest I feel a bit awkward talking to Harry about his wife, considering in all our other past encounters we’ve been… well, we’ve been heading towards more than friends, even if we never quite got there.

  Harry suddenly thrusts his head into his hands. ‘I hate my life! Hate it!’ He turns his face towards me. ‘Ask me why.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask, doing as I’m told for once.

  ‘I’m a loser, Jo-Jo, a nowhere man.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ I reply, wondering if Harry has been drinking before he even got to the pub tonight.

  ‘I am. I’ll still be working eight days a week when I’m sixty-four, marking homework and thinking up lesson plans.’

  ‘No you won’t, not if you don’t want to be doing that.’

  Harry doesn’t look very convinced. ‘Do you want to know a secret?’

  ‘What?’ I ask, wondering where all this is heading. Although Harry is making sense, he’s talking very oddly, as if he’s talking in code.

  ‘They say all you need is love, but everybody’s got something to hide, Jo-Jo. Everyone. That’s what screws everything up. I bet even you’ve got a secret?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Do you want to know mine?’ Harry has emptied his glass and is holding it up to be refilled again. ‘Hey Jude,’ he calls across the bar, ‘another when you’re ready, please.’

  I stare hard at Harry. The code he’s talking in. It’s only bloody Beatles songs! I may not be their greatest fan, but their songs constantly being played during my childhood means I know every one.

  ‘Tell me your secret, Harry,’ I urge him, sensing there’s more to this than simply a bit of marital discord. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I want to tell you, Jo-Jo, I want to tell you so much, but I can’t.’

  ‘Yes, Harry, yes you can.’

  Jude brings Harry’s whisky over.

  ‘I’ll take one of those, Jude,’ I tell him. ‘Quick as you can, please, and make it a double.’

  Jude raises his dark eyebrows, but immediately lifts a glass and turns towards the optics.

  ‘Maybe I should just let it be,’ Harry says, as he drinks from his own glass. ‘It’s a long and winding road we both travel along, Jo-Jo, and I’ll get by with a little help from my friends.’ He lifts his head and looks meaningfully at me. ‘We both will.’

  I look deep into Harry’s blue eyes. What is it he’s trying to tell me? I know there’s something.

  Jude is about to place my glass of whisky down on the bar in front of me, but before he does I grab it and rapidly down the contents, taking a few moments to recover as the first few gulps of Scotch catch the back of my throat.

  ‘Enough with the Beatles clues, Harry,’ I gasp. ‘I get it. What’s going on, what are you trying to tell me? Are you and George in this together? Is there something I need to know?’

  Harry shakes his head before he looks at me again and this time it takes a few seconds before his eyes are able to focus properly on my face. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘All the Beatles stuff just now, it’s as if you were talking in riddles.’

  ‘Was I? Really?’ He looks down at his glass. ‘Maybe I’ve had a bit too much of this stuff. Don’t do it, Jo-Jo,’ he says, looking at my now empty glass, ‘it will ruin you.’ He stands up, swaying a little from side to side, then he gently cups my face with his hand.

  ‘And you’re too lovely to be ruined. Come on,’ he says, quickly letting go, ‘I think we’d better be getting you home.’

  I’d like nothing better, I think, as I watch Harry waver back and forth across the pub floor in the direction of the door. But if that time ever does come, I want you to be there with me.

  Thirty-Nine

  When I come down for breakfast, Harry is still asleep where I left him last night – on my sofa.

  We took a taxi back to Apple Close last night. When we arrived Harry staggered around the outside of the cab, holding on to the door and then the boot for support while I paid the driver, so I’d suggested he come into mine and have a cup of coffee to sober up a bit before he went home. But he fell asleep on my sofa before I even had a chance to make his coffee, so I covered him up with a blanket, and left him quietly snoring away to himself.

  ‘Harry,’ I call gently to try and ease him from his sleep now. ‘Harry?’

  ‘Mmm…’ Harry murmurs, turning over. ‘What year is it this time?’

  ‘Harry, you need to wake up,’ I say, raising my voice a little.

  Harry sits up with a start, staring at me. Then he looks around the room. ‘Bloody hell, I’m still here! She’ll kill me!’

  He leaps off the sofa and pats at his clothes as if he’s checking he still has them on.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, slightly annoyed by his reaction. ‘Nothing like that went on. You simply crashed out last night on the sofa. So I thought it best to just cover you up and let you sleep it off.’

  ‘You’ve never been married, have you, Jo-Jo?’ Harry asks, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Covering me up and letting me sleep it off is not going to go down well with my wife when I try and explain where I’ve been all night.’


  ‘I didn’t think of that, sorry.’

  Harry runs his hand through his tousled hair. He’s got dark stubble on his chin this morning too, and his dishevelled appearance is making him look very sexy.

  I shake my head a little. No, Jo-Jo, now is not the time to begin developing feelings like this for Harry; you’ve had three decades to do that – he’s married this time, remember?

  But I can’t help it. I want this Harry. No, not just this Harry – all the Harrys. The Harry. Oh, it’s so confusing, but I know what I mean.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, this isn’t your fault,’ Harry apologises. ‘I was the one who got drunk last night, then poured out my troubles to you. You were just good enough to listen.’ He looks at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Is that the correct time, 6.25?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Sorry, I’m up pretty early this morning.’

  ‘No, that’s good. Patricia doesn’t usually wake up until around 7 so I might just be able to sneak back in without her noticing.’

  We both hurry towards the front door and open it wide. Harry is about to say something to me when we both see two people talking over the low wall at the end of the garden.

  It’s Mrs Sullivan from next door; she’s wearing a pink fluffy dressing gown and slippers, and in her hand she clutches a bottle of milk while she chats to another woman I don’t recognise.

  ‘Patti!’ Harry exclaims with a gasp, looking with horror at them both.

  I’m pretty sure Mrs Sullivan isn’t called Patti, so I have to presume the second woman is Harry’s wife. For a split second I wonder if the garden is just long enough to be out of earshot so I can whisk Harry back indoors before she hears him.

  But as her head snaps around in our direction, the look of fury on her face suggests it’s not.

  ‘Patti!’ Harry calls, beginning to run down my garden path. ‘It’s not what you think!’

  ‘Stay right where you are, Harry,’ Patti, who doesn’t look anything like I expected her to – she’s petite and pretty, with long auburn hair – commands. She holds out her hand like a policewoman holding back traffic. ‘Don’t bother coming any further. If you want to be with her so badly, then I suggest you stay there. Because you won’t be setting foot inside our house ever again!’