The first issue is whether I stay where I am and, if so, how long for? Seeing as my presence proved pointless when the clock ticked past forty-eight hours, I can only surmise my precise whereabouts isn’t key. In reality, staying here isn’t an option for another reason: I need food and fluids. That is the second issue I need to address but with just three pence in my pocket, there are only two realistic options: if I can find one, I visit a food bank, or indulge in a spot of shoplifting.
I’ve never stolen from a shop before but it has to be easier now without security systems and CCTV. It’s only a short-term solution but I can only think in the short-term. I need food and I have no money.
The next issue is so sizeable I can’t ignore it; as much as I want to. I could be dragged back to my time any minute but that minute might not arrive for days, for weeks, for months, which means I need a contingency plan. However, I now face the same unwelcome dichotomy every homeless person faces on a daily basis; you can’t get a job without an address and you can’t get an address without a job. God alone knows how I solve that conundrum — unless one of God’s earthly advocates can help.
Whether he thought I was crazy or not, Father O'Connor is the only person I can turn to. Perhaps he knows of a charity that could help me. He might also know the whereabouts of a food bank.
Decision made.
With Father O'Connor currently occupied with his flock, my immediate and most desperate priority is food. I’ll visit a few shops and liberate just enough to get me through the day. I know it’s wrong but I promise myself I’ll pay the shopkeepers back when I can; although that might not be for a few days … or decades.
With much reluctance I clamber to my feet and head back down to the street.
It seems 1969 hasn’t finished with me yet.
19.
The first opportunity to address my hunger pangs arrives in the form of Barlow’s Newsagent. I dismiss it and walk on by. The shopkeeper seemed a decent guy and I can’t bring myself to steal from him. As desperate as I am, I still possess a conscience and I’d rather steal from a faceless national chain than a small business.
I make my way towards the town centre.
Residential properties give way to commercial, and I pass a handful of clearly independent shops which are all closed. I press on and eventually reach the same street where I consumed my first pre-decimal meal. It’s deserted which is odd as two days ago the pavements were heaving — unlike the town centre in my day.
As I pass another cafe with the lights off and door shut, I notice a sign jutting out from the wall about sixty feet away; a beacon of shoplifting promise — Safeway Supermarket. I’ve never heard of it but the branding has all the hallmarks of a national chain.
Summoning the last vestiges of energy, I up my pace.
Reaching the supermarket, I come to a sudden halt — beyond the windows the aisles are dark and empty.
I press my face up against the glass and peer into the darkness. There’s not a soul around but there is a large clock on the wall; both hands approaching vertical to signify it’s almost midday. I knew the forty-eight hours had elapsed, but the clock confirms I’m now well into uncharted territory. It also confirms this supermarket should have opened two hours ago. Unless consumer habits have radically changed, this is the busiest day of the week for food shopping.
Puzzled, I turn around. The reason there’s no one around becomes obvious as every shop appears closed.
It makes no sense.
I attempt to dredge memories of history lessons at school. Did a member of the Royal Family pass away in the late sixties? If so, perhaps today is a national day of mourning.
From nowhere, the actual reason leaps from the murk of my mind.
“Ahh, shit!”
I don’t remember a time when I couldn’t shop on a Sunday, but somewhere along the line I must have questioned why shops could only open for six hours. Dad said I should be grateful as there used to be a time they never opened at all on a Sunday.
This is that time.
Now I’m truly screwed. I can’t even steal food.
With my shoulders against the supermarket window, I slide to the floor; the weight of despondency too much.
I’ve had some low moments in my life. At its worst the depression proved so draining I could barely function and, until now, I thought I’d plumbed the absolute depths of hopelessness. How wrong I was. As I sit here — in this world I never asked to be part of — I have nothing, and I am nothing. This is what absolute rock bottom feels like and it terrifies me because I just can’t see any way to escape.
“If this is a nightmare,” I whisper to myself. “Please, just let me wake up.”
Another hunger pang proves a timely reminder I am already awake, and this is no nightmare; least not in the accepted sense. I have never needed food so desperately and that need is all that’s stopping me from curling up in a ball and praying for death.
I clamber to my feet.
My last hope is Father O'Connor, but if he can’t or won’t help, I can’t even contemplate what I’ll do. Not wishing to dwell on that thought, I set off back down the street at a pace.
The walk to St Joseph’s is a new kind of hell. Being Sunday lunchtime, I’m trailed through residential streets by the aroma of roast beef and Yorkshire puddings. If there is a God, he’s doing his utmost to break my spirit.
Mercifully, the belfry of St Joseph’s church comes into view above the rooftops. A final dash past a row of terraced houses and I’m back on the street where I made the fruitless call to the police.
I arrive to find a few straggling members of the eleven o’clock congregation still chatting outside the church. Like many urban churches, St Joseph’s looks out of place in its contemporary surroundings. I’d guess it must be at least two hundred years old but the tarmac forecourt and stark redbrick wall at the front jar against the Georgian architecture. The church itself appears to have been extended over the years; the later additions built on a budget with attention to function rather than detail.
Skirting past the gaggle of worshippers in their Sunday best, I head straight into the church where the transition in temperature is welcome.
From the back of the pews I look around in search of Father O'Connor. I’m so parched my eyes linger on the font as I weigh up the ethics of gulping down holy water.
“Hello again, young man,” a familiar voice echoes.
I turn to my left. Father O'Connor strides over, looking every part the priest in his milky-white cassock.
“I didn’t expect to see you again,” he adds, taking a sly glance at his watch.
“Likewise, but, well … I need your help, Father. I’m desperate.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I shouldn’t be here.”
“Unfortunately, neither should I. I’m having lunch with a few of my parishioners and they’re waiting outside.”
My shoulders slump.
“Right. I understand.”
“Maybe you can pop back later and we can have a chat before the five o’clock service?”
“Um, sure. Thank you.”
Just as I turn to skulk away, a middle-aged man strides in through the vestry. Several inches north of six feet and broad-shouldered, he looks the kind of man more accustomed to wearing overalls rather than the brown suit his frame is currently struggling to contain.
“Nearly ready?” he calls to Father O’Connor.
“I’ll just be a minute. Don’t want to get gravy down my cassock.”
My stomach growls loudly at the mention of gravy. I shoot an embarrassed smile at the middle-aged man.
“Sorry.”
“That’s alright, lad. I’ve got quite the appetite myself.”
His accent is distinctly Northern. Yorkshire, I think.
Father O’Connor formalises the introduction.
“George, this is Toby.”
George thrusts a meaty hand in my direction.
“How do, lad.”
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“Nice to meet you,” I rasp, as the big man crushes my hand.
“Toby’s had a run of bad luck,” Father O’Connor adds. “He popped in for a chat.”
“Sorry to hear that,” George replies, turning to me. “And I’m sorry we’re dragging Father Michael away.”
“It’s no problem.”
My stomach growls again.
“When did you last eat?” Father O’Connor asks.
“Um, I had some crisps yesterday afternoon.”
He frowns but I can’t tell what’s going on behind his pale green eyes.
“You’re welcome to join us for lunch,” George pipes up.
Before I answer, I glance across at Father O’Connor to gauge his reaction to the invite.
“Are you sure, George?” he asks.
“Of course. Alice always cooks far too much, anyway.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
Father O’Connor then turns to me.
“Can we have a moment?”
“I’ll wait outside,” George confirms, noting the priest’s uneasy tone of voice. “Don’t be too long.”
He then strides away and once out of earshot, I decide to get my defence in first.
“I wasn’t angling for a free lunch. If it’s a problem, I won’t come.”
“No, it would be rude to decline, but George and his family are good people and I wouldn’t want their hospitality taken advantage of. I hope I haven’t misjudged you, Toby.”
“You haven’t, I swear.”
“Fair enough, but I think it would be best if you don’t mention the circumstances of your … situation.”
“No, I agree.”
“Good, and I should also point out that although George and his wife are the more liberal-minded of my parishioners, they’re of their time.”
“Err, okay.”
“Basically, young man, mind your manners and be on your best behaviour.”
“I am house trained.”
“I’m sure you are, but be mindful you’re there as my guest.”
“Noted, and understood.”
“Okay,” he nods. “Wait here while I change and use the time to come up with an explanation how you’ve got yourself in such a pickle — just in case anyone asks.”
“Like what?”
“I’m sure a bright young man like you can come up with a plausible explanation.”
“Lie, you mean?”
“I think the Lord will forgive us on this occasion, considering the alternative. I’ll just be a moment.”
He goes off to change.
Ordinarily, the prospect of sitting down to lunch with complete strangers would fill me with dread but I’m past desperate now.
I turn my attention to Father O’Connor’s request for a cover story. Inspiration comes from the plot of a TV show I saw a few years back. It’s a little far-fetched but I guess the one benefit of no Internet is you can concoct any amount of bullshit and there’s no easy way for someone to disprove it.
“All set?”
Father O’Connor has changed into civilian attire, although I’d hardly call it casual. I wonder if it’s compulsory for everyone over the age of forty to wear a collar and tie in this day and age.
“Ready when you are, Father.”
He ushers me out through the vestry and locks the door. Back on the sunlit church forecourt, just three parishioners remain; one of which is George.
“Come over here, lad,” he beckons.
With Father O’Connor’s warning still fresh, I smile and wander over. I arrive to catch the final few words as George explains my presence.
“Toby, this is my wife, Alice, and my daughter, Jan.”
I offer Alice my hand.
“Lovely to meet you and thank you so much for the lunch invite.”
“We’re only too glad to help,” she replies with a warm smile. “Any friend of Father Michael’s is a friend of ours.”
Unlike George, Alice’s accent is local. Also, unlike George, she’s petite and pretty with shoulder-length hair the colour of coffee and a cheery face.
I turn to Jan who is the spit of her mother but a few inches taller and noticeably more curvaceous.
“Nice to meet you, Jan,” I chirp, offering my hand.
Her blue eyes narrow just a fraction before she accepts the handshake.
“I’m sure it is,” she replies sternly.
“Please excuse my daughter’s lack of manners,” George interjects. “She always gets grumpy when she’s hungry.”
Jan shoots her father a glare but can’t quite stop her lips curling into a thin smile.
“Can we get going, please?”
“Righto.”
Tagging along like the spare part I am, our party follows George to the road, where he climbs into the driver’s seat of a maroon four-door saloon. To my surprise, Alice gets into the back with her daughter as Father O’Connor calls shotgun on the front seat. One seat left for me; in the back next to frosty Jan.
I squeeze in and pull the door shut.
“All set?” George asks.
He doesn’t wait for a reply. First gear is engaged, and the engine revs hard as we pull away. I’m still struggling to find the seatbelt by the time George slots the stick into fourth gear.
“What are you doing?” Jan asks.
“Looking for the seatbelt.”
“Did you hear that, Dad?” she calls out. “Toby doesn’t trust your driving. He wants to wear a seatbelt.”
“Eh? I … it’s the law.”
“I’m pretty sure it isn’t,” she replies, with a smirk.
Jan might be right. I’ve no idea what the current law is on seatbelts, or much else for that matter.
“You won’t find any seatbelts in the back of a car, lad,” George calls over his shoulder. “But we’re nearly home, anyway.”
“Um, okay.”
With the car now uncomfortably warm, we trundle along in silence for what feels like hours but in reality is only a minute according to the dashboard clock. Then, a sharp right turn into a cul-de-sac of semi-detached houses before George pulls up to the kerb.
Everyone gets out and makes for the front gate of number sixteen. Everyone except Jan.
“Who are you?” she hisses at me before I can escape.
“I’m … no one. Just a guy who’s fallen on hard times.”
“My parents are suckers for a sob story but I’m not. If you’re planning on …”
"Hold on a sec,” I snap. “I appreciate you’re only looking out for your parents but at least hear my story before making your mind up.”
“Fine,” she huffs. “But be warned: I’m keeping my eye on you.”
Warning issued, Jan slides across the vinyl seat and gets out of the car. I’m about to follow but pause for a moment. Is a plate of roast beef and two veg worth the hassle?
Yes it is.
I get out of the car and follow Jan at a safe distance. We reach the front door where George is fiddling with a key.
“Damn lock,” he mumbles.
“Language,” Alice chides. “Remember, we have guests.”
“Sorry.”
He finally gets the door open and we’re invited in. The sumptuous aroma of roasting meat greets us.
“Lunch will be about thirty minutes,” Alice declares. “I’ve just got to boil the veg and roast-off the potatoes.”
She beckons Jan to follow and the two disappear through a door at the end of the hallway.
“Drink, gentlemen?” George enquires.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Father O’Connor confirms.
We’re led into a dining room as dated as my grandparent’s old house; only the floral wallpaper and paisley-patterned carpet are probably bang on trend at the moment. Dominating the room is a reproduction oak dining table; four places already laid out with cutlery and cotton napkins.
“Jan will lay you a place,” George remarks, hovering over a drinks trolley. “Once she’s finished helping her mo
ther in the kitchen.”
I’m about to suggest I set my own place at the table but decide against it. As the two women of the house are in the kitchen preparing lunch whilst we’re about to have drinks, I don’t think sexual equality has quite caught on yet.
George pours generous measures of what I presume is Scotch into each of three crystal tumblers. He then passes one to Father O’Connor and one to me. The last thing I need is alcohol, particularly Scotch which I detest, but I don’t want to appear rude.
“Good health,” Father O’Connor toasts, raising his tumbler.
I join George in repeating the toast and lift the tumbler to my parched lips. I risk a sip and instantly regret it — it burns like Satan’s piss.
My host notes the pained expression on my face.
“Did you want some water with that?”
“Err, no, thanks. It’s just I’m more of a gin man.”
“Gin? You’re not one of them are you?”
“Them?”
“A homosexual.”
“I’m not, but what’s drinking gin got to do with sexuality?”
“Only two kinds of people drink gin, lad: women and homosexuals.”
Father O’Connor clears his throat. I think it might be an opportune moment to introduce my back story.
“Gin is all the rage where I’m from. Everyone drinks it.”
“And where’s that exactly?”
“Mountain View, in California.”
It's a town known for one reason; Google's vast headquarters are located there. Besides a family holiday in Florida, it’s the only place in America I’ve visited after Graham decided I should attend a digital marketing seminar last year — as much fun as it sounds.
“Eh? You’re an American with a British accent?”
“Err, not quite. I was born in the UK but my parents moved out there just after my twelfth birthday. I attended an ex-pat school, so I grew up surrounded by Brits; hence the lack of an American accent.”
“I see. And where are your parents now?”
George has just picked a rather significant hole in my story — one I haven’t got around to filling yet. The most obvious explanation isn’t one I can bring myself to say but it would have the desired effect.
Tuned Out Page 16
