Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  Those mixed feelings become confused as I digest the information on the screen.

  “What? No …”

  I zoom in on the salient part of the marriage certificate to ensure I haven’t misread it. I haven’t. On Saturday the twenty-second of November 1969, Miss Janet Wilson married Mr Colin Pelling.

  I can see the date and Jan’s name but it doesn’t make one jot of sense. How could she have married another man only nine or ten weeks after I left? I’m familiar with the concept of rebounding after a failed relationship but Jan wasn’t like that. She’d waited so long for the right man to come along, why would she then agree to marry someone else so quickly? And who the hell is Colin Pelling?

  As painful as it is, I dredge my memories and try to recall if Jan ever mentioned him. Then, I realise Jan not only mentioned a Colin, but introduced me to one — the sulky shit I met while we waited for the coach to Eastbourne. He worked in the same office, and Jan did confess he had a crush on her. The opportunistic bastard! I should feel relieved, but it irks to know Colin Pelling pounced on Jan when she was at her most vulnerable.

  I return to the previous screen and after a couple of further clicks, I’m even more annoyed to discover they had a child together just the following year. Talk about planting your flag. I’ve no idea if Jan was truly happy, but the website confirms she and Colin only had one child — not exactly the sizeable brood Jan had in mind.

  I’m minded to slam the laptop shut; such is my distaste at the predatory way Colin Pelling stole my life the minute I left the scene. I then remind myself he only had that opportunity because I failed to keep Vernon and Gwen on the right path. Nevertheless, I simply cannot believe this is the life Jan wanted — I wish I could talk to her and explain why I left, and apologise for leaving her at Colin’s mercy.

  Perhaps, in some peculiar way, her passing might offer me the chance to do that.

  More clicks ensue as I search Jan’s file until I find what I’m looking for. The document confirms she was buried in the parish cemetery of St Mary’s Church; Jan’s final resting place is a shade over two miles away.

  Two miles, twenty miles, two hundred miles — it would have made no difference to my decision. I shut the laptop and make for the front door.

  Unlike my earlier journey I set off with a sense of purpose and drive like an expectant father heading for the maternity ward of the local hospital. Ten minutes after leaving Stratfield House, I spot the spire of St Mary’s Church poking above the rooftops a few streets away. Slowing down, I navigate the narrow lane which leads to the church and adjacent car park.

  Parking isn’t an issue as I only have to share the space with an expensive-looking Audi in the far corner. I turn the engine off and sit for a moment to gather the thoughts I should have collated before making this journey.

  There are two ways to look at what I’m about to do. I can stand in a windswept cemetery and half-heartedly beg forgiveness from a lump of granite, or I can take heart from the various sermons Father O’Connor delivered, and pray Jan hears my apology from an afterlife the priest believed we are all destined for. It’s a state of mind, I suppose, but only one of the options will improve my state of mind.

  I hope … no, I pray Father O’Connor was right.

  I get out of the car and make my way to the lychgates.

  Beyond the gates, a short path leads me to a church which is markedly different from St Joseph’s. Rather than red brick, St Mary’s is constructed in grey stone, and much older judging by the weathered appearance. Set against the backdrop of a monotone sky and leafless trees, it’s a foreboding, chill-inducing structure.

  I dig my hands deeper into my jacket pockets and follow the path which skirts the left-hand perimeter.

  The sight which greets me does little to raise my spirits; a cemetery the size of several football pitches. There are hundreds of headstones and I don’t have the first clue where Jan’s might be.

  I look up to the sky in the hope of divine intervention. God must have knocked-off for the day as there’s no sign returned, but the darkening sky serves as a reminder the light will be gone within an hour. If I’m to find Jan’s grave before dusk, I’d better get on with it.

  The method is simple: I start at the left boundary and walk up and down the rows. I’m able to discount many of the headstones with a quick glance as the spots of moss and lichen infer a decade or more of exposure to the elements. Others require a closer look.

  Every dozen or so graves I’ll spot a possible contender; only to find the headstone etched with a name which isn’t Jan’s. It soon becomes an exercise in disappointment and introspection. Every headstone I pass signifies a life; some long, some cut cruelly short. It’s a stark reminder that if events had taken a different turn, one of these headstones might now bear my name.

  I feel guilty for thinking it but, for the first time since I returned from 1969, I’m relieved to be in the present as a twenty-nine-year-old. Unlike these poor souls, I’ve got a future.

  With the light fading by the second, I move a little quicker. I’m so lost in my own thoughts, I almost miss it — the slab of polished granite; etched with Jan’s full name in gold letters.

  I stop and double check. The date of birth and death are the same as those on the certificate but seeing the grave first hand is a harrowing experience compared to looking at dates on a laptop screen. For a moment, I consider turning around and sprinting back to the car park. Maybe it’s too soon and I should have given myself a few days to let the worst of the grief pass.

  Fight or flight?

  I remind myself Jan must have considered me a coward most of her life. This time I have no excuse for disappearing.

  Slowly, I edge closer to the grave; my head swimming and my stomach in knots.

  Just tell her, you fool.

  The reason I’m here returns to focus and I regain just enough composure. I reach the foot of the grave and in the gloomy light, squat down to read the inscription below Jan’s name.

  What a wonderful world,

  To love, and to be loved.

  A lump dances in my throat as my eyes mist. I can only guess the brief epitaph was Jan’s choice, but the fact the title of that particular song is inscribed on her headstone suggests she harboured no ill-will. Perhaps I’m kidding myself but, even when I imagine Jan saying the words, I can’t hear any bitterness.

  There’s no relief; just a sense of longing so severe it twists the knife in an already splintered heart.

  I stole fifty years to be with Jan but now I’d take a minute, or seconds, if that’s all I could have. It would be enough to say all that needs to be said. The best I can do is say those words and hope somewhere, Jan hears them.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper gently. “I never wanted to leave.”

  Another few steps forward and I plant a kiss on the cold granite.

  “I loved you then, and I love you now. And no matter how many years pass, I will always love you.”

  A squally wind whips across the grass, prompting a cold shudder. If I were so inclined, I could convince myself it’s a sign I’m not talking to myself.

  “If that was you, honey, thank you,” I continue, swallowing hard. “I couldn’t bear it if you hated me. I swear to God I wanted to be with you for the rest of my life. To get married, have children, and grow old together.”

  The shudder becomes a constant shiver. With an invisible sun sinking below the horizon, the temperature continues to plummet.

  “I … I’ll come back tomorrow, and I’ll bring flowers. It’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow — I hope it’s sunny where you are.”

  I reflect on that statement.

  “No, it’ll be sunny because you’re there. The sun always shined when you were around.”

  I wipe away a tear.

  With words becoming harder to find, I bow my head and force memories of happier times — every one of them featuring Jan’s smiling face. Long minutes tick by as I bask in those memories. It proves a bitter
sweet experience. As Dad inferred, memories are a poor substitute for time.

  I look up to a sky which is approaching the same dark shade of grey as Jan’s headstone. It’s time to say a proper goodbye so I recite a silent prayer I remember from St Joseph’s. The silence is suddenly broken.

  Behind me, someone clears their throat.

  Spooked by the interruption, I spin around.

  “Christ,” I blurt, holding my chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  An inadvertent double-take ensues as I appraise the man stood five feet in front of me. Despite being at least a decade older, he’s the spitting image of my brother, Stephen. The same height and build, thinning fair hair, and eyes a shade of powder blue.

  “I’m sorry,” he replies. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  The man doesn’t appear to be a threat and my heart rate eases.

  “Forget it and excuse my … choice language. Not the most appropriate.”

  To my surprise, he snorts a chuckle.

  “No need. I’m not that easily offended.”

  He then looks over my shoulder towards Jan’s grave.

  “My mum, on the other hand — she’d have slapped your wrist.”

  “Your … your mum?”

  He holds out his hand and fixes me with a look which is unnervingly familiar.

  “I’m Craig. Craig Pelling.”

  42.

  In hindsight, I should have avoided visiting the cemetery today, knowing Jan’s family might visit on the first anniversary of her death.

  Now, I’m torn.

  I’d rather avoid questions I can’t answer, but I have questions of my own and who better to answer them than Jan’s son? This chance meeting could be the perfect opportunity to get those answers.

  Hesitantly, I accept the handshake.

  “I’m Toby.”

  Craig tilts his head a fraction and stares at me; as if trying to read my thoughts.

  “Nice to meet you, Toby. How did you know Mum?”

  An obvious question but one I wish he hadn’t started with. All I can do is throw him a vague answer and hope there’s no follow-up.

  “I didn’t know Janet that well but she was friends with my mum, back in the day.”

  “Your mum?”

  “Err, yeah. She only just heard the sad news — I think they lost touch. I said I’d find out where her grave is so Mum can drop by next week.”

  Weak, but plausible.

  “It’s good of you to do that for your mum.”

  “Least I can do.”

  Silent seconds pass as I look everywhere but at Craig.

  “What’s your mum’s name?” he then asks.

  “Um, Sandra.”

  “Right,” he nods. “The only reason I ask is because Mum was a fanatical diarist and she might have mentioned her. I’ve got a box at home with every diary she penned; going all the way back to her teenage years.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep, and I’ve read them all. I don’t recall seeing the name Sandra but I can check again if you like?”

  “I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble. They’re a fascinating read.”

  It might be my imagination, but the slight intonation in his voice suggests he’s heading somewhere.

  “She gave them to me a few days before she died,” he adds.

  My turn to ask a question.

  “Was she … I mean, she didn’t suffer?”

  “Not really, least physically. Some days she was barely lucid but others her usual chirpy self. I don’t know how she kept her spirits up as I think she knew her days were numbered. Faith, I suppose.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “At least we had the opportunity to say a proper goodbye — some people aren’t so fortunate, are they?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “We had the opportunity to chat quite a lot over those final days, though. I learnt so much about her life through those chats, together with her diaries.”

  “Right.”

  “The year before I was born was an interesting time in her life. Like a good book, I couldn’t put that diary down.”

  For many reasons this is not part of Jan’s life I want to hear about.

  “I’m sure. Anyway, I need to be making tracks. It was nice meeting you, Craig.”

  I offer a parting handshake but it’s not reciprocated.

  “I’m not boring you, am I?” he asks.

  “Eh? Err, no. It’s getting dark and I’m frozen.”

  “Come on,” he pleads. “You can spare two minutes. It’ll be worthwhile, and you’ll have something to tell your mum.”

  My hand drops to my side as Craig fixes me with the same kind of look Jan used to deploy when she wanted to change my mind. A different face but equally effective.

  “I’m sure a couple of minutes won’t hurt.”

  “Great,” he smiles. “Honestly, Toby — it’ll be worth it.”

  I return the smile.

  “So, where to begin?” he then muses, rubbing his chin.

  I’m about to suggest some time in the seventies when Craig makes a decision.

  “I know — let’s start in early June, 1969.”

  “Um, okay.”

  “It was around that time Mum met this guy, and coincidentally his name was Toby. I understand he wangled an invitation to lunch at my grandparent’s house one Sunday. Reading between the lines, I think Mum had a crush on him the moment they first met.”

  I gulp hard as a creeping sense of discomfort builds.

  “The thing is: this guy was … unusual.”

  “Err, in what way?”

  “He said he grew up in America in a town called Mountain View, and his mother worked for Microsoft. I thought that odd as Microsoft didn't exist until the mid-seventies.”

  “Perhaps Bill Gates borrowed the name from another company.”

  “That’s certainly plausible, but he made other odd statements which Mum noted down in her diary.”

  “Did he?”

  “Mum asked what kind of music he liked, and he told her his favourite musician was a rapper called Drake.”

  “Drake?”

  “I’m more a fan of eighties music myself so I’d never heard of the bloke, but I looked him up on Wikipedia. Anyway, the odd thing is: Drake was born in 1986 — a great year by the way — and rap wasn’t even a thing until the seventies.”

  “Maybe your mum mis-heard.”

  “Possibly, but that wasn't the only odd thing Toby said. He mentioned an airline called Ryanair, which didn’t even exist until the mid-eighties. In her diary, Mum also said he mentioned Tinder, and the cab firm, Uber. I’m sure you know they’ve only been around five minutes.”

  “Err, I don’t know how to say this, Craig, but isn’t it possible your mother was confused?”

  “That’s what I thought, and in fairness it wasn’t just the diaries. She had a lot to say in her final days; some of which beggared belief.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah,” he chuckles. “She developed this crazy theory that Toby arrived in her life from a different period in time. Can you believe that?”

  Despite the frigid air my face is getting warmer by the second.

  “That’s some stretch of the imagination,” I cough. “Why on earth would she conclude that, of all things?”

  “Lots of little reasons but this Toby had a close relationship with the family priest — some guy called Father O’Connor. He first introduced Toby to my grandparents and a few years later he confessed to Mum that Toby had spun some yarn about being from the future. I think he felt guilty and wanted to offload, which is kind of ironic for a priest.”

  “Priests say a lot of things which are hard to believe.”

  “Quite, and I know a lot of this sounds ridiculous but one thing is clear: my mother was head over heels in love with Toby and the diaries paint a picture of a couple who were blissfully happy together.”

 
; Rather than look Craig in the eye, I glance at my wrist for a watch which isn’t there.

  “Sadly though,” he continues. “Their tale didn’t have a happy ending. One night, out of the blue, Toby just vanished — all he left behind was a pile of discarded clothes. To be frank, I suspect Mum wanted to believe the crazy time-travel theory as it helped her deal with the loss. Toby was the love of her life and they even had this term for one another. Now, what was it … oh yes … twin flame.”

  I’ve heard enough. More than enough.

  With no watch or phone to confirm the time, I take a quick glance up at the sky.

  “Sorry to cut you short, Craig, but I really must be going. I’ll let Mum know where Janet’s grave is.”

  “Oh, sorry — I didn’t realise the time. But, before you go, there was one other term Toby used which you might be interested to hear.”

  “Another time?”

  Undeterred, Craig continues.

  “Mum romanticised about this wonderful day trip they had together to Eastbourne. When they got off the coach, Toby borrowed her camera so he could take — and I quote — a selfie. I’m no social historian but I’m certain that term never existed before mobile phones.”

  I open my mouth but no words follow.

  “She kept all the photos from her day trip in a box with her diaries; hidden from my dad. I had a good look through them and one photo in particular I couldn’t put down. In fact, I copied it onto my phone. Want to see it?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he dips a hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out a phone. A few taps of the screen and he holds it out for me to view.

  “See anyone familiar?” he asks.

  My legs almost buckle at the sight of two smiley faces looking back at me. One of those is Jan’s and the other is clearly mine.

  “That is you, Toby, isn’t it?”

  I stare back at Craig, confounded. He seems remarkably calm considering the accusation.

  “I, this is … um …”

  “All I want to know is the truth. Did you have a relationship with my mother over the summer of 1969?”

  In any context it’s an absurd question. He might as well have asked me the square root of cheese or the boiling point of trombones.