2
16th January 1977
Cortina
Arm in arm, Sally and Brian took their early morning stroll up the High Street. The weak winter sun, low in the sky, glistened off the snow which had fallen heavily overnight. The pavement had a beautiful white blanket, only punctuated with a few different shaped footprints – all at different angles.
With all the shops closed, the street lay quiet. A paperboy on a bicycle passed them and pushed his way up the gentle hill leading to the main crossroads ahead. They watched the young lad negotiating the black slush as he rounded the solitary parked car, which must have been there all night as it sported a three-inch topper of snow. The windscreen had a clear patch on the passenger side where the thick sheet of snow had slipped and sagged down.
The traffic lights up ahead changed to green allowing a small white commercial Ford Transit van to trundle carefully down the road. The driver appeared to be gripping the steering wheel and staring intently out of the windscreen as the ruts of icy slush forced the wheels in a different trajectory to the driver’s intended direction. He applied the brakes, causing the wheels to lock, which resulted in Gregorio’s Italian Bread van sliding gently into the parked car. The van came to a halt as the two vehicles gently nudged together.
The chrome wing mirror positioned at the end of the van’s near-side wing, bent, toppled, snapped off and plopped into the slush. The slight jolting to the car resulted in a small avalanche that shook the snow from the side windows.
“I could see that coming. The roads must be treacherous this morning,” said Brian.
Sally stopped and pulled on Brian’s arm. “There’re always accidents since they put those traffic lights up last year. They were put in to make it safer, but it’s worse now,” Sally replied, as she gripped Brian’s arm a little tighter.
Joe slid back the driver’s door and hopped out to inspect the damage. He rubbed his hands together, then beat his arms around his body. He’d foolishly left the bakery without his coat, so was just dressed in his blue and white striped apron on top of a roll-neck jumper that covered his bakers-whites. Joe stood looking at his stricken wing mirror as he continued to rub his hands together.
“You okay, mate?” Brian called across to him.
“Yeah, think so. Although the boss ain’t going to be too chuffed about this,” Joe replied. He’d retrieved the broken wing mirror and balanced it back on the front wing as if it would just click back on.
“Don’t think you damaged the car as you only nudged it,” Brian replied.
“There’s some yellow paint on my wing, so I think I’ve scratched it.” Joe looked around as if looking for the owner. “No idea whose car it is. I’ll have to leave a note on the windscreen.”
Brian stepped onto the road and searched for where the car had been bumped. There was the slightest mark on the back wing and, after a quick visual inspection, he rubbed his gloved finger across the small white mark as if to erase it.
“It’s a tiny scratch, mate. I wouldn’t bother. Just get going, fella. Looks like it’s been here all night with all that snow on it. I really wouldn’t worry.” Brian announced whilst he continually rubbed the scratch.
“Brian. Brian, look!” Sally exclaimed.
“What love?”
“Brian, look,” she repeated and pointed to the passenger window.
Brian and Joe gingerly padded their way around to where Sally was pointing at a man slumped in the passenger seat who appeared to be asleep.
“Oh, bloody hell, someone’s sitting in there!” Brian exclaimed, as he pushed the chrome button on the door handle. The jolt of the door opening instantly woke the young-looking man, who jumped in surprise.
“You okay, fella?’ Brian asked, crouching down so he was at eye level with him.
The man yawned and stretched his arms, shaking his head.
“You been here all night, fella? You must be frozen.” Brian felt his hand. “Yes, he’s frozen alright. Colder than the dead.”
“Where … am I?” He glanced around his surroundings, a deep frown across his face, as his head shot side to side.
“You’re sitting in your car. By the feel of you, I reckon you’ve been here all night. You’re frozen, young fella. You’ll catch your death out here.”
The man stared at him and blinked a few times but didn’t reply. Then his eyes darted left and right as if his brain was now on high alert.
Sally leant forward. “Are you okay? What you doing here?”
“Who are you? Where am I?” he spat back aggressively.
“You’re parked up on Cockfosters High Street. I’m Brian, this is Sally,” he said, as he thumbed in Sally’s direction who now crouched next to him.
“Joe,” said the bread delivery driver from behind them.
“Who are you?”
“Martin. I’m Martin Bretton.”
“Okay, Martin. I think you need to get yourself off home. As I said, you will catch your death out here. You look a little confused … are you unwell?”
“Why is there snow? … It’s August … why is there snow?” chanted Martin. He stared through the windscreen and appeared to be transfixed by something in the distance, remaining still apart from the continued chant. “Why is there snow?”
Brian looked at Sally and shrugged. Sally looked at Joe, and he shrugged.
“Is he drunk?” said Joe.
“Martin, it’s January. You seem confused,” added Sally.
“Where’s Jason?” muttered Martin. He glanced at the driver’s seat and laid his right hand on it as if checking for Jason.
“Is he the driver, Martin?” Brian asked.
Martin turned to face the three of them. “We had a crash. A crash with a white van.”
“Hey, look mate, I only nudged you. I haven’t even marked your car, so I think a crash is a bit over the top, pal!” exclaimed Joe, as he leant forward.
Martin looked around himself as he tugged at his parka coat and rubbed his hand across the dashboard. He wobbled the gear stick, then stared back at Brian. “What car is this?”
Brian rocked back on his heels whilst holding the door frame, glanced at the car, and leant forward again. “It’s a Cortina, MK3 Cortina. Does it belong to your friend Jason?”
“What … What?” exclaimed Martin, as his eyes bulged.
“You got a number we can call someone for you? There’s a phone box just up there,” added Sally.
Brian turned to Sally and Joe. “He’s not with it. I think he might need a doctor. Also, as he’s so cold, he could well have hypothermia. Maybe that’s why he’s a bit strange, do you think? I mean, he said it’s August!”
“Martin, what day is it today?” asked Sally.
Martin stared at them, then shifted his gaze to the snow-covered path. Eventually, he raised his head and looked back as they all awaited his reply. Now not confident of what he was about to say – but he knew he was right. “It’s August the 12th. August 12th, 2019.”
Sally looked at the others and arched her eyebrows as they all shrugged their shoulders. “Martin, it’s Sunday the 16th of January 1977. I think we need to get you some help. You poor love, you’re frozen.”
Martin shot Sally a look, eyes bulging again. “What?”
“D’you know where you live?” she asked.
“What d’you mean, 1977?”
“Martin, love, I said d’you know where you live?”
“Four Ridgeway Avenue, Enfield,” he stated, as he shook his head.
Brian, Sally and Joe stood and formed a circle as Brian shook the pins and needles from his left leg.
“He just needs to drive home; that’s only about two miles away,” said Joe.
“We can’t call an ambulance as he doesn’t appear to be physically hurt. I think he’s just a bit confused,” added Brian.
Sally leant into the car again. “D’you have the car keys, Martin? Oh, they’re in the ignition, look.” She pointed at the keys dangling from the steering col
umn.
“I’m going to have to get going. I need to get back to the bakery, and I’ve some explaining to do,” said Joe, waving the severed wing mirror.
“Yes, of course. Will you be able to move your van? Do you need a push?” asked Brian.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” Joe gingerly made his way around the car, his boots sloshing in the slush as he carefully plodded his way back to his van.
“Martin, we think you should drive home now. Get yourself a hot drink and warmed up. Do you think you can do that?” said Brian.
“Err … yeah, think so,” Martin replied, as he shifted his body into the driver’s seat and swung his legs over the gear stick.
Brian grabbed the top of the car door. “Okay, Martin, hope you get warmed up.” As he closed the door, a large sheet of the snow topper slid off the roof and flopped onto the pavement covering his galoshes.
“Well, what a strange man. Did you see that long scar on his face? It was a new scar, and the side of his head had been partially shaved. Looked like he’s had an operation,” she said, as she re-looped her arm in Brian’s.
“You’re right, and what was all that about it being August 2019! Bloody strange if you ask me.”
“He was a bit creepy.”
They stood and watched as a couple of cars passed the Cortina, then it pulled out – no flashing indicator, and kangarooed the first twenty feet – then stalled.
“He needs to pull the choke out; the engine will be cold,” Brian muttered.
The car fired into life again and a punch of smoke ejected from the exhaust as it pulled off down the road.
“Come on, Brian, I’m cold now. Let’s get home and get the fire on.”
The Cortina turned left at the bottom of the High Street towards Enfield.
3
Brexit
Martin released his foot off the accelerator pedal and let the car coast to a stop as the front nearside wheel nudged the kerb. He sat and stared out the windscreen, shaking. Yes, he was cold and, once he’d worked out the car heater sliding controls, the heat helped, but he could still see his breath. Martin knew that although he was freezing, it wasn’t causing the shaking. No, it was this morning’s events that were the problem.
Those problems escalated as he stared down Ridgeway Avenue. Thirty feet ahead was his home, but three people he didn’t know were throwing snowballs at each other in his front garden. A man and a woman he guessed in their thirties and a boy, he presumed about ten years old. The man, decked out in appropriate snow-gear and a woolly bobble hat, continually ducked behind an ancient-looking car that Martin didn’t recognise – just like the one he was sitting in. The man expertly dodged the snowballs being pelted at him as he jumped back up laughing, waiting for the next onslaught.
This morning's events had shaken Martin, and now he truly doubted his own mind and sanity. The only answer was he’d lost the plot and gone completely mad. This was no dream; he was very much awake, alive and frightened.
Before he awoke to this madness, he was sitting in Jason’s Beemer and looking at his phone as he scrolled through Facebook whilst on his way to work. It was 12th of August 2019 and, even though it was only just past eight o'clock in the morning, it was hot. Now, one hour later, he was sitting in a yellow MK3 Cortina. It was no longer hot; it was freezing cold as snow lay everywhere, and three strange people were in his front garden playing snowballs.
Martin scrubbed his hands over his face after he’d laid his glasses on the unfamiliar dashboard. His index finger discovered a strange indent near his left ear which ran all the way down his face. It was a line he’d never felt before – another odd thing. He flipped down the sun visor and studied himself. Yes, a red line did run down his face. A long scar travelled from under his chin all the way up into his hairline in front of his left ear. His hair now had a short patch where the scar ended. At some point, it must have been shaved around the scarring and hadn’t grown back. Repeatedly he ran his finger up and down the scar as if somehow that act would erase it. Martin was convinced it wasn’t there an hour ago. No, definitely not.
Martin pulled at his clothes again. What was he wearing? These weren’t his; they were really outdated. The sort of clothes he might have seen his father wearing in old polaroids before Martin was born. Although warm, and grateful for that, the green parka was definitely not his coat. Rummaging through the pockets, all were empty, no phone, wallet, not even fluff. Exiting the car, he hesitantly stepped forward, approaching the snowballing family.
“Excuse me, does Caroline Bretton live here?” he asked, dreading the obvious answer.
The woman turned to face Martin with a snowball in her gloved hand. Her arm was poised, ready to pelt it at the guy Martin presumed must be her husband.
“No. This is number four, sorry. Think you have the wrong house,” she replied with her hand still in the air, holding her snowball. “John, do you know a Caroline Bretton on this street? I don’t.” She addressed the man who was peering over the roof of the snow-covered car in the driveway.
As he turned to face Martin, the boy achieved a direct hit to the side of John’s head. The snow stuck to his hair in clumps, and the jubilant boy jumped up in a triumphant leap. “Yes, got you!” he exclaimed.
“Hang on, Peter, hang on.” John put his hand in the air and turned back to Martin. “No, sorry, don’t know anyone by that name. Sorry mate.”
“How long have you lived here … can I ask?” asked Martin, aware that his voice was rather high pitched and jumpy.
“Nearly six years. We know most of the people at this end of the street. Sorry old chap, never heard of this Caroline woman.”
“Right. Okay, thanks,” Martin replied. Motionless and rooted to the spot, he glanced at his house. The house, as far as he was concerned, he’d only left just over an hour ago on that hot August morning.
“Is everything all right?” the woman shouted across to him.
Martin looked at her, shoved his cold hands in his coat pockets, and was now giving a competent performance that wouldn’t look out of place in any zombie movie.
“Hey mate, you okay?” John asked him, following up his wife’s question which hadn’t had a reply.
“Peter, come here, please.” The woman gestured to the boy to come closer to her, presumably to put distance between the strange man and her son.
“Can you tell me the date today?” Martin asked, not directed at anyone, just a question into the cold air.
“16th of January,” replied John.
“And the year?” Martin asked, as he turned to look at John.
“1977.” John turned and shot his wife a quizzical look.
“16th of January 1977,” Martin repeated.
“Yes, mate; you sure you’re okay?” John replied, as he waved his hand behind him – a gesture to his wife and son to go indoors, which they did immediately.
Martin backed up a few steps, shaking his head. Back in the car, he turned at the bottom of the road, heading north towards Fairfield.
Flashbacks had started, the first being the car crash that morning. Yes, he remembered it now. Jason had somehow driven straight into a white van. A bloke was shouting and trying to pull the car door open. His head hurt like hell as blood streamed down his face, which had been pushed into the airbag. Although that was it, he couldn’t recall anything else.
The car tyres crunched the dirty rutted snow as he crawled his way along Welsfold Road in Eaton, a suburb of Fairfield. It was only a short walk to his old school, the City School, which he had fond memories of. Yes, he could remember details like that easily. However, trying to remember what happened after the crash this morning, no, he couldn’t recall them. The snow had started to melt in the winter sun, leaving the roads and pavements covered in a mixture of white and grey slush. Three snowmen were dotted along the verges, all donning a carrot nose with striped scarves around their necks.
Martin parked twenty yards from his mother’s house, killed the engine and sat for a moment.
The drive here had added weight to what the couple at his home and the people in Cockfosters High Street had said this morning. There was no M25 on his journey. All the cars he saw were old, classic cars, like the one he was sitting in. With its retro bandwidth dial, the car radio played an interview with Roy Jenkins, the Home Secretary, about his decision to leave government and become the President of the European Commission – nothing was said about Brexit. This gave great sway to the ridiculous idea that he was in 1977. The crash in Jason’s BMW wasn’t an hour ago, but forty-two years two hundred and eight days in the future. Why he’d worked that out to the exact day he didn’t know, but he had.
“Oh, come on, come on!” he blurted, slamming the palms of his hands on the steering wheel. No, this was just ridiculous, bloody ridiculous. Travelling through time wasn’t possible. He sighed heavily, leant back and traced his finger up and down the scar on his face.
He didn’t need to go and ask if Sarah Bretton lived at his mother’s house as that would have been a futile venture out into the cold. As he sat contemplating his next move, he watched an elderly couple he didn’t know as they strolled along, walking a brown Labrador. They stopped at what he knew was his mother’s house and tentatively trod up the drive. The elderly gent brushed the snow from the obedient dog's paws before unlocking the front door and disappearing inside. Question answered – his mother didn’t live there.
He closed his eyes as a wave of exhaustion attempted to drag him back to sleep. The last two hours had seemingly drained the energy from him. Now the flashbacks started to come again, and he could picture himself lying flat as he was being wheeled down a corridor. People beside him were running alongside as the strip lights above went in and out of focus. Hospital, yes, he was in the hospital. He opened his eyes as nothing more came back to him.
Although Martin didn’t know many people in Fairfield, he had when he attended the City School as his mother had before him. After attending university, he’d met his wife, Caroline, and they’d settled in Enfield. A sharp pain gripped his chest as he now feared he would never see his wife again. They’d had a few difficult years but had come out the other side stronger. Now they were so close, and she’d become his soulmate – yes, that old cliché, but she was. Raising his index finger, he wiped away a tear that had trickled from his right eye.
Ahead of his Time Page 2
