Time School: We Will Remember Them

by Nikki Young

  First published in Great Britain by Troubador Publishing 2018

  This edition published in Great Britain by Hashtag Press 2019

  Text copyright © Nicola Young 2019

  Copyright Cover illustration © Tim Budgen 2019

  Cover Design © Helen Braid 2019

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictions and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-9161617-6-4

  eBook ISBN 978-1-9161617-7-1

  Typeset in Garamond Classic 11.75/14.5 by Blaze Typesetting Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

  HASHTAG PRESS BOOKS

  Hashtag Press Ltd

  Kent, England, United Kingdom

  Email: info@hashtagpress.co.uk

  Website: www.hashtagpress.co.uk

  Twitter: @hashtag_press

  To my family

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a journalist. More specifically, I wanted to write features for a magazine. It may come as a surprise, therefore, to know that I ended up studying sciences and maths - by the time I got to A-Levels, I was forcibly guided into the science route against my better judgement, but pitched up against adults who seemed to think they knew what was best for me. Despite this, I somehow always managed to steer whatever job I had towards something writing related - at my very first job, I had a feature published on food allergies and intolerances. Writing was always where I felt most comfortable.

  As cliché as it sounds, I have, for as long as I can remember, wanted to be an author. The problem was, I didn’t know what I wanted to write about. That was, until I became a mum and began to experience my children’s journey to reading. It was then I remembered how important reading had been to me as a child, when I spent most weeks at Heckmondwike library with my mum, devouring everything in the children’s section. I don’t remember ever having brand new books but it never stopped me reading. I spent hours at the top of a Swiss mountain, countless days in the creeks of the American West wilderness and umpteen adventures in an idyllic English countryside. None of these places resembled the tired old Victorian market town where I grew up. That didn’t seem to matter though. These surroundings have still influenced my own writing.

  The remnants of the glory days of the Victorian industrial revolution are still visible in my home town, though you have to look hard to see them. The mills that once churned out the wool that carpeted and clothed the empire are long gone, turned into flats and shopping complexes. The many railway lines that served the area now lie disused, overgrown and reclaimed by the land. What remains is the legacy of the architects of that time, the library being one of them, my old school, the other. So much change has occurred around those buildings. The economic decline of the area, socio-economic and political change, historical events, all while these buildings have steadfastly remained in silent observation. It occurred to me one day that my old school, Heckmondwike Grammar, had continued educating young people regardless of what was going on around it. It was the one constant among a sea of so much change and I began to explore that idea for my Time School series. The towns of Hickley and Kirkshaw from the books are loosely based on Heckmondwike and nearby Dewsbury, though none of the characters are based on real life people and many of the features in the books are made up - there is no railway line between the two towns, for example, even though there once would have been.

  I have my husband to thank for encouraging me to write. He believed in me even when I so often didn’t believe in myself. Also, becoming a mum reawakened me to the true joy of discovering great stories, making me realise what sort of writer I wanted to be. Reading was my saviour as a child and I truly believe in its importance. To be even just a small part of that brings me great joy.

  My children, Hope, Scarlett and Ike are my biggest critics, as well as my greatest allies. I cannot write this acknowledgement without thanking them for their patience and for letting me read numerous drafts of this story to them. The book itself, wouldn’t be where it is without my editor, Vicky Blunden, though. It is always a joy, and a relief, to work with an editor who gets you, understands your work and genuinely loves the characters as much as you do. And then to meet Abiola and Helen from Hashtag Press, who, just to be in their presence means being surrounded by an energy and enthusiasm that emanates from every pore, is a real privilege. It means the Time School series is now a real and tangible thing. And I will be forever grateful to both these amazing women for that.

  There have been occasions when I might have given up if it weren’t for my writing buddies, Maddy, Renee, Alice, Jo, Chrissie, Teika, Sophie, Antonia, Becky, Sarah, Rachael, encouraging me on. As one put it, being with these ladies is soul strengthening and I couldn’t agree more. Also, thanks to Linden for all your support and for having my as a guest on your monthly Bookclub on BBC Radio Kent. To Helen at Families Magazine West Kent and to Paul, for organising regular write-ins at Cafe Nero that have kept me on track many a time. My creative imagination, not dampened by the sciences, has my oldest and dearest friend, Chloe, to thank. As the childhood heroines of our youth, we are kindred spirits, who grew up sharing a love of stories that is as strong as our bond, no matter how far from each other we are. Thanks must also go to all the parents who bring their children to my Storymakers Writing Club, which leads on nicely to the children who come to my weekly groups and workshops. I know you’ve been waiting for this, so I hope it doesn’t disappoint!

  Chapter 1

  The Ghosts Within These Walls

  “Has anyone ever asked where you come from? Do you know? Mr Mundair?”

  “Yes, Miss. I came from Kirkshaw this morning.”

  Ash Mundair. Already firmly established as the class joker within the first few weeks of the Year Sevens beginning their secondary school careers. There was a collective giggle that spread across the room like air escaping from an untied balloon. Mrs Kennedy, the history teacher, remained straight-faced. She’d seen it all, and worse, before.

  “Thank you for that, Ash, but you know what I’m talking about: your family tree. Your roots. And please, no mention of grey hairs and hair dye.”

  The class giggled once more as Ash pulled at his spiky black hair. His face one that expressed pure innocence but for the sparkle in his dark eyes made large and round by the glasses that framed them.

  “We all have rich histories, more interesting than you might think and our heritage
connects us to the area in which we live and the changes that have happened during that time,” Mrs Kennedy explained. “Think about this school. In one hundred and twenty years, it’s seen a lot of changes, not only physically, as buildings have been added, but culturally, economically and politically, too. This classroom we’re in right now, and the hall just through that door, are part of the original building of this school. You’re sitting in a lesson, just as hundreds of children have done before you. Imagine if these four walls could talk and what they would say about the things they’ve seen and heard over the years. The ghosts of the past are absorbed within the walls of this building and as part of our history project this term, we’re going to explore that.”

  There was nothing in the classroom to indicate it was anything other than bland and uninteresting. The stale smell of sweat in the air, punctuated with cheap body spray and anticipation, reminding you it was a room full of preteens, sitting restlessly on plastic chairs designed to be as uncomfortable as possible. Double desks lined the room, all facing a whiteboard, names scratched into the surface, gum stuck hard underneath.

  Jess Chadwick sat up straight. Was that what Mrs Kennedy meant by the ghosts of the past being with them? Had other children sat in this very room, staring at the peeling white paint of the huge sash windows that looked out on to the road beyond, with nothing but an old work unit for a view? Grey on grey, obscured by cobwebs and dust. Minds filled with anything other than what the teacher had to say.

  Although she didn’t hate it, school was a place where you had to go, day in, day out, until finally the day came when you didn’t have to go anymore. It was a constant in your life, as sure as the sun rising in the morning and setting at night. Jess wondered if that’s how pupils of the past had thought of it. Had they enjoyed learning, or dreaded the whole idea? Stressed about exams, or relished the thought of being in a classroom rather than working for a living?

  A few weeks into the start of Year Seven and Jess was beginning to settle into the routine of secondary school. The thought of moving on from her small, safe junior school had made her anxious. She wasn’t like Nadia, Tomma and Ash; her best friends. They were full of confidence and ready to move on. Jess would have stayed at her old school forever if they’d have let her. The only comfort had been knowing she was moving on with the three friends she’d been inseparable from for as long as she could remember. It had been a huge relief when they’d all been put in the same class as well—something that helped ease the anxiety of the change.

  Hickley School had felt enormous to begin with. Flanked on all four sides by roads and housing, it wasn’t that big for a secondary school. It was a mixed bag of buildings, added on over the years, using all of the available space. But with everyone so cramped together, it felt like there were thousands of pupils, making for a hectic and noisy environment that had initially seemed intimidating.

  As a newcomer, Jess felt small, young and immature. The older years looked down on them as the babies, which was embarrassing, to say the least. Jess was almost twelve! She didn’t feel like a baby and didn’t want to be treated like one. So far, she’d stuck close to her friends and avoided eye contact with anyone who wasn’t in her year group.

  “Double History to start the day. Bo-oring,” Ash said.

  It was break time and they were perched on a low wall in the yard reserved for Year Sevens only. Jess took the opportunity to look around. She hadn’t appreciated that the entrance hub just across from them was a modern glass bubble added on to what was the original school building. The sand-coloured Yorkshire stone walls were discoloured from the pollution of time, like many of the buildings of Hickley town and the surrounding area—remnants of its Victorian industrial past, when the mills churned out wool that made cloth and carpets, exported across the Empire. When coal mines fuelled the mills, and the steam trains that transported the goods. All that remained of those prosperous days were disused rail tracks and falling down old mills. Here, at the school, however, the past came together with the present in a way that didn’t make sense, but somehow worked, showing how the school had evolved. It was a sign of its strength, rather than of any weakness.

  Whereas the town around it had somehow lost its identity along the way and was struggling to understand its place in the world, Hickley School was stronger than ever. The number of times Jess had been reminded of how lucky she was to have a place there was a testament to that.

  “At least you actually have an interesting history,” Jess said, looking at Ash, who was balancing on the wall on one leg.

  Reminded on a daily basis of where he came from and how lucky he was, Ash was more than aware of his heritage. His dad’s struggles as a young Indian boy coming over to England from Uganda in the 1970s were held around Ash’s neck like a noose, constantly pressing down upon him. As far as his dad was concerned, what was the point in going through all that, if his own children weren’t going to work hard and make a better life for themselves? To Ash, it was like an annoying song stuck on repeat. He liked to have fun and messing about at school was his speciality. Despite the pressures from home, Ash refused to take life too seriously.

  Jess had lived her whole life in nearby Kirkshaw village, in the same house with her mum, dad and older brother, Declan: standard family, ordinary life. . . dull.

  “As far as I know, my family’s from Kirkshaw and there’s nothing remotely exciting or interesting about my history,” she said. “I’m not part Polish like Nadia, or half Croatian, like Tomma. Just out and out Yorkshire.”

  “Like the Brontë’s,” said Nadia. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Not exactly exciting though, is it?” Jess said.

  “There’s nothing exciting about my life either,” Nadia said. “The only Polish part of me is my name.”

  “Or mine,” Tomma said. “I’ve never even been to Croatia and Mum never talks about it, it’s like that part of her life never existed.”

  “Have you ever asked?” Jess said.

  “Yeah, course! But she gets all weird, so it’s best not to,” he said.

  One side of Tomma’s mouth looped up in a half-smile-half-frown, but his almond-shaped eyes betrayed a concern the rest of his face tried to hide. Only Jess could see that. She knew Tomma almost as well as she knew herself.

  “You know, Jess, that red hair of yours has to come from somewhere,” Ash said. “You never know. You might be Irish somewhere down the line.”

  Jess’s hand immediately flew to her hair, tied low in a side plait. She’d always been slightly embarrassed by it, worried she’d be teased for being ginger. Most people only gave compliments though, about what a gorgeous colour it was. She was yet to decide whether she agreed with them on that.

  She wished she had Tomma’s or Nadia’s darker skin tone. Her skin was easily burnt and erupted in freckles at the slightest touch of the sun’s rays. She smiled, despite her reservations about her looks. Perhaps it might be interesting to delve more deeply into her past. Maybe she would uncover something that would make her life seem as interesting as those of her best friends? Despite what they said, Jess knew instinctively that Nadia, Tomma and Ash would uncover far more about their past histories than she ever could.

  Chapter 2

  Power Failure

  Jess woke to the sound of shouting and banging from downstairs. In her dazed state, she realised her alarm hadn’t gone off and for a brief moment, had trouble working out what day it was.

  Peeling herself from under the cosy warmth of her duvet, Jess peered out of her bedroom door, with all the caution you’d expect from someone who had just woken up, eyes not yet focused. The scene before her was like a video in fast-forward as her older brother, Declan, ran past her towards the bathroom.

  “Clocks stopped. Power cut. All late,” he said, before slamming the door shut, making Jess jump.

  Jess shook her head in irritation. Declan had an annoying habit of talking in clipped tones, never seeming to feel the need to use full sentences. I
t was only a matter of time before he added words like ‘Hashtag’ to his speech.

  She stood for a few seconds, letting his words seep into her sleepy brain before turning around and looking at the powder blue, digital radio alarm clock on the chest of drawers next to her bed. The same powder blue, digital radio alarm clock that had been her trusted friend and never let her down until. . .

  It was flashing, blink, blinking away, and the time read 03:42.

  Declan was right, which was something that didn’t happen very often! Jess groaned. She hated being late and having to rush around. Mornings were for easing you gently into the day, not firing you into it as if you’d just been shot out of a cannon. It was a school day too and running late for school was an unimaginable thing to happen to someone who was always up and ready before everyone else. Jess was the sort of girl who arrived early, finished projects ahead of time and never skipped homework. You know the type.

  She sprang to attention, no longer the bleary-eyed zombie, and rushed over to her desk, grappling around in the semi-darkness until she found her watch. Turning on the desk light, she saw it was 7:30 and a lump dropped to the pit of her stomach where it bounced around like a rubber ball, adding to the sick feeling she already had due to morning hunger pangs.

  Plenty of people get up after 7:30 and still make it to work and school on time. Not if they live in a village, though. One where the only way to get to school is by train and the only train you can get leaves at 8:00. And when you live fifteen minutes’ walk from the station and you can’t leave home without showering, washing your hair or eating breakfast!

  Jess screamed. Once she’d stopped screaming, her brain switched to attack-mode and she ran towards the bathroom just as Declan swung the door open. He bombed out. His big, burly frame almost knocking her over, but used to his bumbling ways, Jess avoided colliding with him just in time.