by Amanda James
Sarah swallowed a cracker and began to admire the capacity her brain had for such intriguing plots. She was even starting to enjoy it. Great-looking guy, wine, interesting conversation, even if it was all in her head; it was better than watching EastEnders on her own … again.
‘OK, John,’ she said, rolling up a slice of ham and dipping it in the houmous. Sarah wasn’t fussed about what a hallucination thought of her table manners. ‘So, I’m this Stitch. Why are there holes, why me, and what do I have to do?’ She shoved all the ham in her mouth at once.
John raised his eyebrows slightly as he watched her stuffing her face, but didn’t comment. ‘Why do holes appear? There are lots of theories too complicated to go into now. Why you? I have no idea, I just get the information. What you have to do, I can answer.’ He took a dainty nibble of cheese and dabbed his mouth with a bit of kitchen roll. ‘A stitch is a person but it is also the acronym for your task. You have to:
S-ave
T-hree
I-mportant
T-errestrials
C-lose
H-ole.’
Sarah frowned and dabbed her finger at the last few crumbs of cheese on her plate. ‘Great acronym. It has just one dastardly flaw, Mr Depp.’
‘Mr Depp?’ John asked, draining his glass.
‘Yes, you said earlier that I had to close the hole to save nine, like the old saying. Well, now, you just said three important terrestrials.’ Sarah sat back, folded her arms and giggled. Seems like my hallucination is having a breakdown, too!
‘No flaw, Sarah, you save three, and then the children that they go on to have, or sometimes, grandchildren, make up the nine,’ John said smugly. ‘Is it OK if I pour another?’ He held up his glass.
‘Yes, why not? And get one for me, would you?’ Sarah held her glass above her head as he walked past. She’d already had one large glass, but hey, the wine was helping her relax, and she definitely needed that. With any luck she’d pass out and wake up tomorrow John-less. ‘Oh, and I think we’d be comfier in the living room,’ she called over her shoulder as she left the kitchen.
Sarah flopped on to the sofa, punched the cushions, and slotted them behind her back. She stretched and yawned loudly as John came in.
‘Don’t get too comfy and go to sleep. You need to understand what’s going to happen,’ he said, handing her the wine.
Sarah noticed it was a very small glass. ‘So do you ever go back in time, John?’ she asked, swirling the wine around her glass.
‘No.’ He looked at her aghast. ‘If a Needle ever goes back in time without express permission there are always consequences for him. He would be seriously punished.’ Sarah pulled a face but said nothing.
‘OK,’ he said, picking up his clipboard and sitting in the chair opposite. ‘Looks like the three that you are down to save are: a homesteader in the Old American West, someone caught up in the Sheffield Blitz, and,’ he flicked paper, ‘ah, yes, a suffragette in early twentieth-century London.’
‘Well, that confirms it then. I am having a breakdown.’ Sarah sighed, yawned again, and closed her eyes.
‘What does?’ John frowned.
‘Well, it’s a bit bloody predictable, isn’t it? I teach all those things in my job, don’t I? My brain has neatly woven them into my hallucination.’
‘No, Sarah, you aren’t having a breakdown. It’s partly because of what you do, that you have been chosen as a Stitch. You have to know the period well, to be able to blend in.’
Opening one eye she said, ‘I thought you didn’t know why I had been chosen – that you “just got the information”?’ Sarah waggled her index and middle fingers in mock quotation marks.
‘Yes, that’s true, I only know little bits.’ John sighed and looked at his watch. ‘But as far as I can tell, Stitches are chosen because they have hidden qualities, courage and stuff. They don’t always recognise that in themselves and stitching brings it out … in most of them. Look, I need to know, are you going to do this or not?’
Sarah closed her eye. ‘Hmm, I don’t think I’d be in the most of them category. I feel right out of courage at the moment, John, hidden or otherwise.’
‘But will you do it?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Yes … though you will have deaths on your conscience if you don’t.’
‘Oh, that’s nice then. Has anyone ever refused?’
‘A few,’ John said. ‘One had devastating consequences. There was a guy a few hundred years ago, his name was Norman. He refused, and someone who should have been born wasn’t, and eventually someone who shouldn’t have been born was.’
Sarah opened both eyes. ‘Who?’
‘Hitler.’
‘Hitler! God, how awful!’ Sarah said, reaching for her wine glass.
‘Yeah, you know that saying, “time waits for no man”? It was originally time waits for Norman, but unfortunately, Norman didn’t care.’
Sarah scratched her head. ‘But I don’t get it. If I go back to the Old American West and save somebody, their children or grandchildren will already have been born, had children of their own, grown old and may be dead by now. So how can all of that have happened if I haven’t even gone back in time yet? And what I do back in time will totally mess up the future … won’t it?
‘No, Sarah,’ John said, shaking his head. ‘You’ve just grown up watching films and reading books that assume that’s how time works. Scientists have no real clue. They say they do and provide lots of equations and write books to prove it, but unfortunately, they have it all wrong.’
‘Wrong? So, how …?’
‘Never mind all that now. We really don’t have the time … no pun intended,’ John said, smirking.
Swinging her legs to the floor Sarah leaned forward and ran her hands through her hair. This was beyond crazy now. She decided the best option was to agree to everything and then hopefully John would go. He kept glancing at his watch, so must want to be off. There you go again, Sarah; he’s not real!
‘OK, I’ll do it. What happens next, and who do I save first?’
‘Now that’s a little tricky,’ John said, looking sheepish. ‘We aren’t told that bit. It will happen unexpectedly and you’ll just have to cope the best you can … Also, there’s no guarantee that you will pick the right person, and even if you do … no guarantee that you can save them. It’s all part of a test to see if you’re up to the job, I think.’
‘Oh, this just gets better and sodding better.’
John ignored her. ‘Anyway, other Stitches have told me that everything generally falls into place when they get there. So, Sarah,’ he stood up and moved to the hallway, ‘I’ll bid you good evening. I need to check that everything is as it should be at the market garden. I have two staff, Roy and Helen, that lock up for me. They run the small shop that’s attached to it too, but I always like to check everything.’
Sarah jumped up and followed him to the door. ‘You’re a manager of a market garden?’
‘No, I own it. It doesn’t really feel like a job; I love it,’ he said, grinning. ‘I don’t really like this Time-Needling stuff, but as I said, I was born to it and can’t do anything about it – awful really, so much responsibility.’ John opened the door and stepped out.
Sarah shook her head. What kind of an imagination must she have?
John said goodbye and crunched a few steps along her drive. He hesitated and turned round. ‘Oh, and don’t mention anything about the future to anyone from the past. That would be problematic.’
‘Yes, right, I can see how it would be. See you!’ she called, quickly shutting the door.
Bewildered, Sarah walked round the house locking the doors and stacking plates and glasses in the dishwasher. Neil and Karen had a lot to answer for. She wondered if they would feel a tiny bit guilty when the men in white coats showed up at her front door with a nice strappy jacket. She poured a glass of water and opened her telephone/address book at the ‘D’ for doctor page, placing it by the p
hone. Snapping the hall light off, and the house into darkness, she trudged up the stairs to bed.
Ten minutes later, John stepped into the hallway. He flicked on a small torch and tiptoed to the bottom of the stairs. Reassured by thunderous snoring from upstairs, he carefully opened Sarah’s schoolbag and slipped an envelope into it. He dropped Sarah’s spare key, which he’d snatched earlier, back into his pocket, extinguished the torch and then quietly let himself out of the house.
Chapter Three
That cannot possibly be the right time! Sarah held the alarm clock an inch from her nose, trying to force her bleary eyes wide as the morning light seeped through her curtains. Yes, no doubt about it, the clock definitely said 6.30 a.m. Jeez Louise, it only felt like a few hours since she had flopped into bed!
The first coherent thought of the day flitted across her consciousness like a nervous sparrow. It eventually alighted and pecked painfully at her sense of wellbeing. Tuesday … ouch … lesson one, 9CM … Ouch, ouch … 9CM means Danny Jakes … OUCH, OUCH!
Groaning, she pushed her face into the pillow and tried to dislodge the hammering beak with an image of a graceful swan, coming to land on the half-term holiday next week. Just as the swan touched down, stretching its beautiful neck of freedom, John’s face and last night suddenly surfaced, throwing the swan into a flurry of flapping wings and mad panic.
Sarah leapt out of bed as if she’d been scalded. The awful prospect of teaching Danny Jakes suddenly seemed like a walk in the park compared to the experience she’d had the previous night.
Hurrying over to the window and peeping through the curtains, she half-expected to see John outside, clipboard in hand, looking back up at her. He wasn’t there, thank goodness. No, everything was as it should be for a Sheffield suburban Tuesday morning in May.
The milk float hummed, the birds sang in the trees, and next door’s cat prepared to take another poo in her flower bed. Sarah was so relieved to see life unchanged that she couldn’t be bothered to rap on the glass to shoo it away.
After a shower, she was beginning to feel more like herself. Perhaps she wasn’t having a breakdown, just a blip of psychosis due to stress. I mean, if I was having a full-blown breakdown, I would be hallucinating again by now, wouldn’t I?
Sarah wiped steam from the bathroom mirror and pulled down her bottom lids. No, her eyes looked normal. She stuck out her tongue; yuck, normal. But then, what would she expect to find if she were mentally ill: spiralling eyes and little green men dancing on her tongue? Come on; just get on with the day and stop worrying. You need all your energy for Danny Jakes.
Breakfast over, Sarah collected her school bag from the hall. She remembered there were a few books she had meant to mark last night, but of course hadn’t. Glancing at the clock in the kitchen, she realised she didn’t have time to do it now. Oh well, can’t be helped. Now, where were her shoes?
The shoe hunt proved futile in the kitchen and living room, but her eyes lingered on the doctor’s number in her open telephone book. Sarah’s fingers hovered above it but then made themselves busy plumping cushions instead. Just see how it goes for now. And if you don’t find your shoes in a minute, this whole morning will be a disaster!
The shoes were eventually located in the shoe-basket of all places. Slipping them on, and grabbing her coat and car keys, she left for school.
‘Hey, Sarah, have you got 9CM first period?’ Gary Keynsham, Head of English, shouted across the staff room. Gary always shouted, even when there was no need. Sarah thought he just loved the sound of his own voice and was so far ‘up himself’ that he was insufferable.
She forced a smile. ‘Yes, why?’
Gary closed the gap between them and stood inches from her nose. ‘Can you give a message to Danny Jakes?’ The volume of his voice required a step backward.
She nodded.
‘Tell him to come to my room at break; I have a reward for him. He’s behaved brilliantly and is making fantastic progress!’ Gary flashed a row of tombstone teeth.
‘Really, well you must have something I don’t; he’s a complete shit in my lessons,’ Sarah said.
‘Yes, I have heard he can be a tinker, but he’s always great for me. Must be the teaching!’ He winked, punched her arm and let out a heehaw bray that rivalled any donkey’s. ‘Just joking, of course. Thanks for that, pet, see ya laters!’ Gary shimmied off like a peacock in heat. He had his eye on the new student teacher, the lovely Jodie. Jodie, having seen his approach, ducked out into reprographics.
Sarah sighed and picked up her bag. Her watch told her it was 8:50. Ten minutes to countdown, but I need a pee.
After washing her hands, Sarah checked her appearance in the mirror. She wasn’t too bad for thirty-four, was she? Her mousy blonde, shoulder-length hair could do with a trim and more highlights, but she’d managed to keep fairly slim and her light blue eyes still sparkled. Neil had once said that her eyes were ‘wishy-washy’ but then, he was a first-class toerag after all. She wondered what colour eyes his little boy had. Karen’s were brown so … stop it, Sarah. For God’s sake, why do you do this to yourself?
She pulled lipstick out of her school bag and wondered if the assessment of her appearance was correct. Neil dumping her for the beautiful Karen hadn’t done wonders for her confidence. But if she did look attractive, why she was ‘on the shelf’, as her mother called being single. Perhaps she’d ring her mum tonight, or her younger sister, Ella. A chat with Ella normally boosted her confidence and perhaps she could confirm her sanity or lack of it.
And ‘on the shelf’? What a stupid expression. Women weren’t tins of peas, or packets of biscuits, were they? Sarah applied the lipstick and blotted it with a tissue. Maybe her appearance wasn’t the problem; maybe she was just boring.
‘Morning, Sarah!’ Janet Simms breezed in. She taught drama and was the personification of her subject. She was larger than life, both physically and metaphorically, and today was dressed in a flamboyant African-print maxi dress. Her flame-red hair clashed with the pink of her lipstick and her beady black eyes narrowed as they danced across Sarah’s face.
‘Now, what’s up, tell your Auntie Janet.’ She pinched Sarah’s cheek ‘My mission for this morning is to turn that frown, upside down!’
‘Nothing, Janet, I’m OK.’ Sarah managed a watery smile and put her lipstick away in her bag.
‘Nonsense! If you’re OK, then I’m a Dutchman!’
Immediately a picture of Janet wearing clogs, a Dutch hat and standing next to a windmill, popped into Sarah’s mind. She shook it away and was about to close her bag when she noticed an envelope tucked down the side of her pencil case. Pulling it out, she saw that it had her name written in the top left-hand corner.
‘Well, I’m popping for a little wee; when I come out I want the truth, kid!’ Janet bellowed, stomping into a cubicle.
Frowning, Sarah opened the envelope, slid out a letter and tried not to listen to the thunder of Niagara Falls, which passed for Janet’s ‘little wee’. After reading the first sentence, the thump of her heart drowned out Janet’s efforts and a troop of cartwheeling elephants showed up in her belly.
Hi Sarah, John here – hope you have recovered from the shock of meeting me last night.
Leaning on the sink with her left hand, she managed to control the shake in her right, just enough to read the rest.
There are one or two points I forgot to mention. When you have found the person you are supposed to save, you may get a sign. It could be itchy feet, tingling in your back, or perhaps hiccups. These are some of the things Stitches have reported.
Mind you, having said that, sometimes there is no physical sign. Sometimes there is just a feeling, you know?
Oh yes, and if you mention something we have in the present to someone in the past by mistake, you should get a warning. Ringing in the ears, belching uncontrollably or possibly a fit of the giggles have been known.
Sorry this all sounds a bit vague, but every Stitch is different. Anyway, j
ust do your best, Sarah.
See you soon,
John :-)
‘I feel better for that; nothing worse than needing a pee in the middle of a class, is there?’
Janet’s attempt at hand washing was unceremoniously interrupted by Sarah, frantically waving a piece of paper in front of her face. ‘Can you see this?’ Sarah yelled.
Janet took a step back to avoid a paper cut to the nose. ‘Well, of course, you’re waving it inches from my face. What on earth …’
‘Yes, but what is it, what can you actually SEE?’ Sarah held it up with both hands, wild eyes intently watching Janet’s face.
Janet’s normally confident, unruffled expression started to slip. She looked decidedly unsure, perhaps a little scared, and backed towards the hand dryer. ‘It appears to be a letter, Sarah.’
‘Appears to be, what do you mean, is it or isn’t it?’
‘Err … it is,’ Janet said in a small voice.
Sarah tossed her head back. ‘Ha! I’m not crazy then. Here, take it, read it, tell me what it says!’ She thrust the letter at Janet’s ample bosom.
Janet, bewildered, eyed Sarah warily, took the letter and said soothingly, ‘OK, calm down.’ Janet read it and shrugged. ‘Itchy feet, hiccups, it doesn’t make much sense to me … is it supposed to?’
‘No, Janet, but incredibly … it means this whole thing is real!’ Sarah snatched the letter and squeezed Janet’s shoulder.
Janet stepped back again and screamed, ‘Eeee! What the hell …’
The hand dryer blew fiercely down Janet’s back.
‘It’s OK,’ muttered Sarah, grabbing her bag and rushing for the door. ‘It’s only a bloody hand dryer, God knows what state you’d be in if you had my life at the moment.’
Sarah ran across the playground as the bell for first lesson sounded. Why she couldn’t work on one of those nice new compact sites instead of this sprawling 1950s’ job, she didn’t know. The history block was detached from the main school across two playgrounds and when the weather was bad she got soaked, along with her books.
