“Yep, it’s utter wank.”
Her mouth bobs open.
“Sorry,” I splutter. “I mean yes … it’s awful.”
Thankfully, her smile returns.
“That’s an interesting turn of phrase.”
“I am so sorry. I hope I haven’t offended you.”
“Not at all. Did you pick it up in America?”
“Um, yep.”
“I quite like it.”
Like a sweary version of Eliza Doolittle she then repeats my words over and over; changing the intonation each time.
“I think you’ve nailed it, Jan. Probably best to stop before your parents hear.”
“Dad swears like a trooper when he thinks nobody can hear, but I wouldn’t recommend swearing in front of him.”
“Noted.”
Jan is the first young person I’ve encountered here, and I think she's lulled me into a false sense of familiarity. She might be of a similar age but not of my age, and I need to remember that. I don’t think she’s ready to hop aboard the twenty-first century banter bus.
“So, what do you get up to when you’re not being a typist?”
“Not much. I love going to the cinema if I can find someone to go with, oh, and listening to music.”
“Who’s your favourite band?”
An instinctive question I wish I hadn’t asked.
“The Beatles, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
Not so bad. At least I’ve heard of them.
“And The Small Faces.”
I nod, politely.
“And I’ve got every single by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich.”
Reeled off like a shopping list, I’ve no idea who any of them are. And is Dozy the name of a band, or a singer? Not a clue but it’s a shit name for a recording artist either way.
“Who do you like?” she asks.
I try to visualise the names in Dad’s vinyl collection but with no way of knowing which were from the sixties, I’m left with just one safe bet.
“Cliff Richard.”
Jan sniggers as she hands me a cup.
“What’s so funny?”
“I would have thought you’d say The Beach Boys or The Mamas & the Papas — or some other hip Californian group. Cliff Richard is a bit … well, Cliff Richard. He’s not what you’d call cool.”
“Fair point.”
“Do you really like him?”
“Honestly? Not one bit, but most of the artists I like you wouldn’t have heard of.”
“Try me.”
“Okay. Drake?”
“As in, Charlie Drake?”
“Who?”
“You know, the funny little man with red hair. He had a song in the hit parade — My Boomerang Won't Come Back.”
“Um, no. I’m pretty sure we’re not talking about the same Drake.”
“Is it a band?”
“No, he’s a rapper, from Canada.”
“What’s a rapper?”
I knew this topic of conversation would be a minefield and I now have to explain a musical genre which doesn’t currently exist, and won’t do for another decade.
“Oh, it’s like poetry set to music, but with an urban edge. Very popular in America.”
“That sounds interesting. Do you have any of this Drake’s records I could listen to?”
“Sadly not. I’m wearing everything I own.”
“Gosh, really?”
Time to edge the bullshit meter up a notch.
“The reason I’m homeless is … the house I lodged at; there was a fire.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yep. I lost everything, including my bed.”
“Oh, you poor thing.”
Her sympathy appears genuine and I’m unsure how to react. An awkward silence follows.
“It’s just one of those things,” I eventually shrug. “It could have been much worse, I suppose.”
“True. Where have you been staying since the fire?”
“At the serviceman’s refuge. Father O’Connor put in a good word for me.”
“That can’t be much fun.”
“It isn’t, but without money I didn’t have much choice. At least I’ll be able to rent somewhere now your dad has offered me a job.”
“Every silver lining has a cloud, eh?” she replies, with a cheeky grin.
We finish the washing up and I’m about to suggest I help put it away when Father O’Connor pokes his head around the door.
“We need to be going now, young man. I have to prepare for the five o’clock service and as it’s a nice afternoon I thought we’d take a stroll back to St Joseph’s.”
“Oh, okay.”
I pass the tea towel to Jan.
“Thanks for, you know, understanding.”
“You’re welcome, and thank you for helping with the drying up.”
I flash a smile and turn to follow Father O’Connor.
“I’ll be seeing you again, no doubt,” Jan adds.
“Yeah, I suppose you will.”
Back in the garden we say our goodbyes and I thank Alice for the wonderful lunch. I don’t know when I’ll eat again but I’ve consumed enough calories to keep me going for a while.
The couple then see us to the front door with Jan lurking in the hallway.
“Remember: seven-thirty sharp tomorrow,” George says, as we’re about to leave.
“I’ll be here.”
“Good, and don’t be wearing your best clothes. I’ve got a spare set of overalls but we're due another scorcher tomorrow so expect a bit of sweat.”
Father O’Connor glances at his watch. Taking the hint, I decide not to explain about my current wardrobe issues.
“No problem. I’ll see you tomorrow, George.”
With a final wave, we set off back to the church.
“They’re lovely people,” I comment as we wander along.
“Yes, they are,” Father O’Connor replies flatly.
“Have I said something wrong?”
“I’m not sure all these lies sit well with me, Toby.”
“With respect, Father, it was your idea to lie.”
“Yes, before George offered you a job. There’s a difference between an innocent white lie and blatant deceit — you’re straying dangerously close to the latter. Perhaps you should have told them the truth.”
“Seriously?” I snort. “You think they’d have believed me?”
“I meant the real truth.”
“Eh?”
I’m made to wait for an explanation until we’ve crossed the road.
“Listen, Toby. Occasionally, I meet the odd soul who doesn’t believe in God, or any religion for that matter. They always question how I can have such faith in that which science can’t prove. I always reply by saying it’s a matter of faith and whilst I respect their views, my belief in the Lord remains as resolute as theirs does in science.”
“Right. And your point is?”
“You must concede your tale is far more fanciful than any in the Bible. It is beyond any belief.”
“Great,” I groan. “You think I’m making it up?”
“That’s not what I said. I think you believe what’s happened. That’s your belief and I respect it.”
“But?”
“But, like those who have difficulty believing in God, I’m struggling to believe your story.”
“That’s a tad hypocritical, don’t you think?”
“Maybe, maybe not, but that’s not the point. In the same way it’s my job to convert non-believers; it’s your job to convince me.”
“And how am I supposed to prove my story?”
“I don’t know, but it’s more important I believe in you, rather than your story. If you show me you’re a good man, an honest, decent man, you’ll be most of the way there.”
“I understand, I think.”
“George has given you an opportunity to rebuild your life, Toby, and for now I’d concentrate on making the most of that
opportunity. They do say God works in mysterious ways so perhaps this is the path you’re meant to follow.”
“God wants me to be a plumber?”
“Don’t sound so dismissive — Jesus was a carpenter.”
“Yes, but I’m sure there’s nothing in the Bible about Jesus being sent back in time to learn his trade.”
“As I said: just follow the path and see where it leads you.”
“Like I have a choice.”
We cover a good half-mile in silence; Father O’Connor seemingly content to let his advice stew. Unfortunately for him, I’m as far from embracing religion as I am from my flat in Stratfield House; and that’s a long way away. That’s not to say I don’t concur with anything he said. George’s job offer is welcome, and whilst I’m not enamoured at the prospect of being his skivvy, it’ll put some cash in my pocket. If I’ve learnt anything in the last few days, it’s that hunger is no fun so at least I won’t starve.
“How did you get on at the serviceman’s refuge?” Father O’Connor asks.
“I didn’t get much sleep. They’ve got some seriously troubled men staying there.”
“That I do know. The war may have ended twenty-four years ago but a lot of men are still fighting a daily battle to survive.”
“They need proper help; counselling maybe. I’m no expert but the few I met had obvious psychological issues.”
“You’re not wrong. Most men of my generation fought in the war and no matter where you served, it would have been impossible to escape the atrocities. Alas, some men fared far worse than others. Those who ended up in prisoner of war camps, particularly the Japanese camps, are still suffering today.”
I’m about to say I can imagine but really, I can’t.
“You should count your blessings you were born when you were, young Toby … whenever that was.”
There’s nothing I can say in response so I nod.
We turn into the road in which St Joseph’s is located and Father O’Connor changes the subject.
“I’m going to do you a favour,” he declares.
“Oh, okay.”
“I don’t think it’s right you use the serviceman’s refuge another night, but I am prepared to give you my sofa. Just until you get your first wage packet and you’re able to rent a room.”
“I don’t know what to say — that would be fantastic.”
“There’s a condition, mind.”
“What’s that?”
“When you’re back on your feet, you offer a donation to the serviceman’s refuge or, better still, maybe volunteer to help a few hours a week.”
“That seems more than fair. Thank you, Father.”
“And I also need you to exercise some discretion. I don’t want it bandied around the parish I’m willing to give up my sofa to every waif or stray that happens past.”
“You have my word I won’t tell a soul.”
“Good, and while I’m handing out good deeds, there’s a few bags of jumble left from yesterday’s sale. You can have a rifle through them later and see if there’s anything else you can borrow.”
“You’re too kind.”
“To be fair, it’s more for my benefit.”
“Eh?”
“You’re smelling a little ripe in those clothes.”
21.
What a bloody awful dream. More a nightmare, really.
I must have been watching Netflix and fallen asleep on the sofa.
I lie for a moment with my eyes closed as relief washes over me. Once, I dreamt I’d won the lottery and in that dream I led the life of a multi-millionaire: luxury cars, a vast mansion, and exotic holidays with a beautiful woman at my side. It felt so real when I woke up it took a few moments before I came crashing back to reality.
As real as that dream seemed, last night’s was something else. Every scene, every character, every sense; unbelievably real.
“Wakey wakey.”
I sit bolt upright and blink. Father Christmas hands me a mug, although he can’t be Father Christmas as he doesn’t have a beard and it’s not December.
Christ, I hope I’m still dreaming.
“Did you sleep well, young Toby?”
I take the mug as my eyes adjust to the muted light.
“It wasn’t a dream,” I mumble.
“What wasn’t?”
“I thought … this … I thought I dreamt it all.”
“I’m afraid it isn’t.”
“Shit.”
“Language.”
“Sorry.”
I take a sip of sweet tea and examine my surroundings. If I wanted proof of where I am, or when I am, it comes in the form of a boxy, archaic television in the corner of the room.
Father O’Connor shuffles over to the window and sweeps the curtains open. I blink again and turn towards the fireplace where a clock on the mantelpiece reports the time as six-thirty.
“Do you want some breakfast?” he asks.
“That would be great.”
“Get dressed and come through to the kitchen when you’re ready.”
“Sure.”
“But look lively as you need to be away in forty minutes. Can’t be late on your first day.”
“My first … ohh.”
The priest disappears out the door; leaving me to suffer the realisation alone.
Placing the mug on the floor, I scrabble around looking for my phone. Further realisation arrives — it’s not here but the habit of waking up and checking-in with my electronic companion is as instinctual as breathing.
I throw off the blanket to reveal my dark brown pyjamas salvaged from the jumble sale leftovers. It says a lot my entire wardrobe now comprises garments so shit they failed to sell for pennies at a church jumble sale: three pairs of ill-fitting slacks, two cotton shirts that were once white, two garishly patterned tank tops, and a pair of dark brown pyjamas. Worse still, I have no underpants and all three pairs of slacks are made of bollock-chafing fabric.
On the upside, I did enjoy a long soak in the bath last night. Father O’Connor decreed it a blessing for both of us.
I change into the least chafing slacks and a once-white shirt. Despite the heavy lunch yesterday, plus a ham and cheese sandwich for tea, I’ve woken up with a ravenous hunger.
Plodding through to the kitchen, there’s a noticeable absence of cooking odours. I assumed everyone in this era ate a fried breakfast.
“I wasn’t expecting guests so I’ve not much in,” Father O’Connor says apologetically, from his seat at the kitchen table. “There’s some bread if you want toast, or porridge oats.”
“Toast would be great, thanks.”
“Help yourself. The bread bin is over there and the matches for the grill are on top.”
He nods towards a wooden bin before turning his attention back to a magazine on the table.
“Sorry, Father. Grill?”
“Yes, for the toast.”
“You don’t have a toaster?”
“Why would I have a toaster when the grill does the same job?”
He shakes his head and returns to the magazine. I’m on my own.
I open the bread bin and retrieve half a loaf of white bread — uncut white bread. Not wishing to pester my host, I open the drawer in front of me and remove what looks like a bread knife. I’ve never had to slice bread before but it can’t be that hard, can it?
It is that hard.
I end up with two wedge-shaped slices; several centimetres difference between each end. They’ll do.
The next challenge is lighting the grill which protrudes from the top of the oven just below eye-level. Even I know you first need to turn on the gas so I twist the corresponding knob on the front of the oven and pluck the matchbox from on top of the grill. With the distinctive smell of gas already filling my nostrils, I open the matchbox, grab a match, and strike it. I then manoeuvre the lit match towards the grill.
After a sudden whoosh of light and heat I’m good to go, minus my eyebrows.
W
atching the bread toast, I soon realise the issue with my wedge-like slices. The thick end browns while the thin end remains stubbornly white. I don’t have time to try again so compromise on two slices of hybrid bread-toast.
“Plates are in the cupboard to your left,” Father O’Connor mumbles. “Butter is next to the bread bin.”
“Thanks.”
I grab a plate, and not wanting to create additional washing up, use the bread knife to apply a large knob of unspreadable butter to each slice. The result is two slices of lacerated, partly singed bread daubed with chunks of solid butter. Somehow, I’ve managed to balls-up the simplest of culinary tasks.
Choosing to stand and eat — so Father O’Connor can’t see the abomination on my plate — I munch away.
“Have you got much on today, Father?” I ask to be polite.
“Two funerals.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. Death comes to us all.”
“That’s a cheery thought for a Monday morning.”
“It’s all a matter of belief, young Toby. If you believe in the afterlife, there’s nothing to be maudlin about.”
“Do you have any proof this afterlife exists?”
He looks up at me.
“Are we back on that subject?”
“No. Just making the point.”
The priest removes his glasses and sits back in the chair.
“Seeing as you raised the topic, I spent an hour in bed last night pondering what we discussed on the way back to the church.”
“Which part?”
“The part about those poor souls at the serviceman’s refuge. You said they would benefit from counselling.”
“I did.”
“Maybe they aren’t the only ones who might benefit from a chat with a professional.”
“Uh? You think I’m mentally ill now?”
“I think you need to talk to someone who can help you.”
It seems I’ve reached a crossroads in my relationship with Father O’Connor. Initially, he appeared willing to humour me but it’s now clear he thinks I’m barking mad.
I slide my plate on the side and fold my arms.
“I know how crazy it sounds, okay. If I met a random guy, and he claimed to be from the future, I’d be the first one recommending he speaks to a shrink. But I’m not lying and I’m not crazy — how else would I have known about the Post Office robbery, and Gwen Kirby being there?”
Tuned Out Page 18
