A Stitch in Time

by Amanda James

  The woman scurried off to help a younger woman pick up a crate of potatoes and Sarah turned back to the chickens. She nodded and smiled over at Chef; he gave her a dirty look and carried on chopping. So Chef was like Gary in more ways than looks. A woman turns down his advances, his male ego is affronted, so he sets out to make her life a misery. Sexist pig. She wondered who the thin-faced woman was; she seemed like her only friend at the moment.

  The chickens looked as if they had fallen asleep, and Sarah really didn’t want to disturb them. She knew they were dead, obviously, but couldn’t bring herself to touch them.

  ‘Doris! Give Sarah her marching orders; she’s just standing lookin’ at them chickens as if she expects ’em to pluck ’emselves!’ Chef bellowed to the thin-faced woman.

  Sarah’s heart sank. She’d not been here five minutes and she was already set to fail. You opted for this mission, remember, snap out of it! She turned to him. ‘Sorry, Chef, I just feel a little queasy today … I’ll get to it now.’

  Doris hurried over. ‘Give her a last chance, Chef, I’ll sort her.’ She elbowed Sarah, and whispered. ‘I know we are best friends, but there’s only so much I can do to help you. Get on with it!’ She turned her back on Chef and with lightning speed pulled a handful of feathers from the nearest chicken and shoved them in Sarah’s hand.

  ‘She’s set to now, Chef!’ Doris called, moving aside to allow the chef a clear view. He nodded grudgingly and walked off to shout at somebody else.

  Gangly-man appeared silently at their side, as if he’d just risen up through a trap door. ‘I’m not Kitchen and Cleaning Manager for nothing, I know what goes on around here, and you, madam,’ he sneered down at Doris, ‘will be tarred with the same brush as her if you don’t watch out.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr Ames,’ Doris said, winking at Sarah and rushing off once more.

  Mr Ames sidled close and put his hand on the small of Sarah’s back. ‘I think you should get on my good side if you want an ally against Chef, my dear.’

  Sarah looked up into his rheumy grey eyes and was distressed to see a lascivious light kindling behind them. What was wrong with the men here? Were they all sex starved? She took a step to the side, coughed, and said in a small voice. ‘Thanks, Mr Ames, I must get on with this pluckin’.’ Though her movement had made him drop his hand, she could still feel the warmth of his handprint on her back. Shudder!

  He folded his arms, leered at her and said, ‘I bet you’re a good plucker, aren’t you, eh?’

  Sarah looked at the chicken in front of her, and fuelled by pity and anger for all the poor women who had to put up with this kind of sexual harassment in the past, grabbed it and pulled out feathers almost as quickly as Doris. Ames smirked and sidled off again. God, he gave her the creeps; he seemed even worse than Chef, and that was saying something.

  An hour later there were three un-plucked chickens remaining. Sarah had had no idea it would take so long. The smaller feathers were very fiddly and she had to use tweezers, which were making her finger ends sore. At least the tedious work had given her time to think. John had said that this trip was supposed to save thousands. Chef must be on the verge of discovering something like salmonella. Perhaps because he was angry about being turned down, he’d get careless, chop his finger off with his cleaver and bleed to death, and it was Sarah’s job to stop that happening by agreeing to go out with him. She pulled a face and sighed. Still, if it saved thousands.

  Blowing on her fingers, she picked up the tweezers and the fourth chicken. Hmm, salmonella and food contamination was known about by the 1920s, she was sure of it, so there must be another reason why Chef was so important. Her musings were halted by a milkman rattling a crate over in the far corner. He looked at a calendar on the wall, ticked off something and went out. ‘I’ve ticked off today’s delivery, Doris! Don’t want Chef saying I forgot, like last week!’ she heard him shout down the corridor.

  The word ‘calendar’ jumped into her head and did a foxtrot. How had she missed that? She checked herself; she had been a bit preoccupied. It wasn’t every day that a loose eyelash turned out to be the 1920s and then she’d had to contend with lecherous Larrys for the last hour. Served her right for thinking she was in control. Sarah wiped her hands on the front of the apron and rushed to the calendar; she must be quick before Chef returned. Lifting the cover, a black-and-white picture of the hospital, she saw ‘September 1928’. She’d been close with the flapper reference of 1926–8 then.

  A black tick had been drawn next to the number 28. Just then, Sarah heard footsteps coming along the corridor and flew back to her chickens.

  The tweezers flew too, as she tried to rack her brains for a significant event happening on or around the 28th of September 1928 in St Mary’s Hospital. Then it came to her like a lightning bolt slamming into her consciousness. Penicillin! Alexander Fleming worked here in the labs. He was Professor of Bacteriology!

  ‘Danny, can you clear those feathers up that Sarah’s plucked? And then, after break, that disinfectant needs takin’ out to the labs. They delivered it here by mistake, stupid buggers, but it will give you a leg up if you know what I mean,’ Chef bawled, as he stepped through the door.

  ‘Yes, Dad, won’t take me a minute.’

  Sarah’s fingers fell still, but her heart picked up speed; she’d know that voice anywhere. Turning round, she came face to face with Danny Jakes.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘Hello, Sarah, you look like you seen a ghost.’ Danny smirked, as he swept an armful of feathers into a sack. Sarah was about to retort, ‘Don’t be rude, I think you’ll find it’s Miss Yates,’ but stopped herself just in time.

  ‘She ain’t seen no ghost, she’s seen unemployment loomin’, that’s what she seen, son,’ Chef said, his chortle sounding like a gurgling cesspit.

  ‘Ha ha, that’s right, Dad, you gotta keep these women in their place. They may have got the vote a few months ago, but they should still do what us men tell ’em, right?’ Danny looked at Chef and winked.

  Sarah opened her mouth, closed it again and slapped the chicken down hard on to the table. Us men? Little shit couldn’t have been much older than fourteen. No point in getting angry. You have to figure out what the hell is going on here.

  She got to work on the chicken and kept one eye on Danny as he cleared the feathers and swept the floor. OK, so this was indeed the big one. She took a deep breath and allowed her knowledge of teaching GCSE ‘Medicine Through Time’ to run through her mind.

  Sarah knew that mould that grew on bad fruit and cheese was spread by spores floating in the air. It had first been noticed by Lister in the 1870s. Spores had landed on the germs he was studying in his laboratory and weakened them. Though he found this fascinating, he’d not really done much with it; simply done a few experiments, made a series of notes and called the mould he’d discovered penicillium.

  Fleming had ‘discovered’ it again accidentally in the same way, certainly in this year, and possibly on this day, yet it wasn’t really made effective until Howard Florey and Ernst Chain got hold of it in the years leading up to WW2.

  They had read an article Fleming had written about penicillin mould and set out to prove its worth by tests on mice and a willing human ‘guinea pig’. They managed to get government backing and investment from big pharmaceutical companies to mass-produce it. It had been invaluable during the war and without it many lives would have been lost. Sarah couldn’t believe how many times she’d set GCSE essays on this very topic. Students had to gather evidence about the input of Lister, Fleming, Florey and Chain and then write a conclusion about who was most important.

  Sarah stopped plucking and felt a cold hand clutch at her soul. If she failed in whatever she had to do today, would that mean that when she returned to the future, penicillin wouldn’t exist? That was a crazy responsibility to place on the shoulders of any one Stitch, or any number of Stitches for that matter. Surely, the powers that be wouldn’t be so reckless.r />
  A comforting thought suddenly occurred to her. John had said that time didn’t always work like that – it was flexible. Perhaps there may be only subtle changes made to events, depending on the ability of the Stitch. She’d had fantastic reports so far, hadn’t she, so why was she in a panic?

  She sighed and answered her own question. Because, you daft bat, this is different to 1940, 1913, and 1874. Yes, she’d saved lives, and all were equally important in her book, whether Elspeth was the granny of a president or not. But this was penicillin they were talking about, one of the most important ‘magic bullets’ of the twentieth century and an invaluable antibiotic ever since.

  Now she understood what John had meant when he’d said that this job could save thousands. By her reckoning, it had already saved millions and would continue to do so just so long as she got this right. She just wished to God she knew exactly what the consequences would be if she got it wrong.

  Danny looked up from his sweeping and poked his tongue out at her. It looked like that little oik and his dad were the key to the riddle, and she wondered again, if she was supposed to save them, why hadn’t her brain chosen someone she liked? More to the point, why would she have to save them? If she was here because of penicillin, wouldn’t she have to save Fleming instead?

  ‘Tea up, Sarah, Katherine, Jock and Fred,’ Doris shouted, popping her head around a side-door. The named staff downed tools and trooped out. Sarah looked round and, realising that she must be the Sarah referred to, set down the one remaining un-plucked chicken and followed suit.

  She found herself in a little offshoot kitchen. It had none of the state of the art (for 1928) facilities of the large kitchen, but it was cosy, had a long table and chairs, a fire and a stove. It reminded her a little of the one in 1913. ‘Tea and biscuits there, you lot, no more than ten minutes as the other shift are waiting for their break too,’ Doris said, and sipped her own tea. It seemed to Sarah that Doris was the backbone of the operation. Chef didn’t appear to do much apart from make people’s life a misery. Sarah slumped down at the table like a sack of spuds. Only an hour or so had passed, but she felt like she’d been there at least a day. A nagging headache was starting behind her eyes and she smelled like a wet chicken.

  ‘Yes, help yourself to them, lad, I made ’em earlier.’ Chef strutted in with Danny, pointed at the plate of biscuits and then scotched a young lad, Fred, Sarah thought his name was, across the ear. ‘Keep your paws off them, the rest are for Danny. You’ve had at least four!’

  Fred opened his mouth to reply, but a sharp glance from Doris silenced him. Sarah heard him mumble under his breath, ‘I’ve only had two.’

  Danny’s hand shot over Sarah’s shoulder like a mechanical claw at a funfair, grabbed a huge handful of biscuits and withdrew quicker than the speed of light. He crunched his prize nosily, right next to her ear, and then picked up Fred’s tea, slurping it down in one go. As a finale, he belched a thunderclap roll into her ear, too. Sarah dug her nails into her palms to distract her from leaping up and punching him in the face.

  ‘Mr Flemin’ back today, Fred?’ Chef asked, pouring himself a cup of tea.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Fred muttered. He was still obviously angry about having his tea stolen and accused of eating loads of biscuits.

  ‘You enjoy all that fetchin’ and carryin’ to the labs as well as doin’ your kitchen duties then?’

  ‘Yes, Chef, it makes for a bit of variety and that, you know?’

  ‘And you think you might get to be a porter full time and go hobnobbin’ with the professors and that when you get older, eh?’ Chef winked at Danny over Fred’s head.

  Fred shifted uncomfortably. ‘Um, I hope so, Chef.’

  ‘So, you don’t like the kitchen job, not good enough for you, is that it?’ Chef folded his arms and frowned.

  Fred looked up alarmed. ‘No, Chef, that ain’t it, I—’

  ‘’Cos Danny here, he loves the kitchen work and to be honest he’s stronger than you. He might be able to do the fetchin’ and carryin’ to the labs an’ orl.’

  Fred said nothing, just looked panic-stricken.

  ‘I might have a word to Mr Flemin’ and one or two others about Danny; he’s what’s known as “grateful for his lot”. He don’t care about no variety, do you, Danny?’

  ‘No, Dad, I just does as I’m told. I knows me place,’ Danny said, smirking at Fred with a nasty gleam in his eyes.

  ‘Danny’s gonna take that crate of disinfectant that got dumped here by mistake up to Mr Flemin’, ain’t ya, Danny? Save you the bother, Fred.’

  ‘Yes I am, Dad. I best get to know all the lab assistants and professors before I gets the job, proper like.’ Danny walked over to stand beside Chef.

  Father and son wore the same peevish expression and glared a challenge to poor Fred. Poor Fred held their gaze for a few seconds, and then looked away; he was no match for such a formidable team of bullies.

  Satisfied that they had won the point, father and son turned the talk to trivia, and the gathered staff made the most of the few minutes they had left of break. Sarah grabbed her cup and sipped her tea while watching Fred over the rim. The heat of his silent rage could have given the nearby fire a run for its money and Sarah’s heart went out to him.

  He looked to be about the same age as Danny, but lacked the other boy’s confidence and mature stature. Fred was slight, pale, had mousy blond hair and, at the moment, looked totally defeated. He’d obviously set his cap at becoming a porter. Sarah imagined it wasn’t much of a step up, but it was a step up nevertheless, and Chef had just moved the ladder – trampled on his dreams.

  An idea was tiptoeing uncertainly around her mind, which involved Fred and the whole reason she was here. Sarah wasn’t completely sure yet of how the whole thing was going to work but the crate of disinfectant scenario had made Sarah very excited. Sarah was so excited in fact that, whilst Chef had taunted Fred with it, she’d had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from squealing.

  Alexander Fleming had returned from holiday to work in his lab. Before he’d gone, he’d left a pile of Petri dishes containing bacteria in a container full of disinfectant waiting to be cleaned. The disinfectant hadn’t covered all of the dishes, and spores of penicillium mould had floated in, probably from the kitchens below, and landed on the uncovered ones. When Fleming had examined those particular dishes, he found that the bacteria that had been covered in the mould were dead … the rest was history.

  Sarah drained her cup and set it down in her saucer with a triumphant clatter. The idea formerly tiptoeing around her mind now stomped confidently towards a eureka moment. Tingles along her spine and hairs on the back of her arms standing up, confirmed her suspicions.

  John had told her that she’d achieved her stitching in time and had saved her nine, even exceeded easily what was expected. But this was a different mission. Saving certain individuals was no longer her concern. She was now certain that Danny was unwittingly going to do something to jeopardise Fleming’s discovery when he took the disinfectant up to the lab. She was also certain that the reason why Chef and Danny looked like the people she disliked was because she wasn’t here to save them, she was here to stop them!

  Break over, Sarah and the rest returned to their jobs in the big kitchen. Sarah knew she had to act fast, as Danny was going to take the disinfectant up to the lab after he’d finished eating everyone’s biscuits. She had a plan; not a great one, but a plan nevertheless.

  While ostensibly plucking the last chicken, she did a 360 degree sweep of the room. Doris was rolling pastry, Jock was chopping onions, Katherine was slicing bacon, and Fred was washing the floor. Chef was still having his break with the other staff. Just as Sarah was wondering exactly how to put her plan into action, Doris left the pastry, washed her hands and left the kitchen.

  Sarah put the chicken down, took a deep breath and hurried over to Fred. ‘’Ere, Fred!’ she hissed behind him. He jumped, knocked the mop heavily against the bucket, splas
hing water over his feet.

  ‘Oy, look what you made me do.’ He frowned at her. ‘What you doin’ creepin’ and hissin’ at folk?’

  ‘Sorry, I need your help; it’s a matter of life or death.’ Sarah looked around to make sure Chef or Danny hadn’t come in.

  ‘Life or death?’

  ‘Yeah, I haven’t got time to explain, I just need you to take me up to Mr Flemin’s lab, right now before Danny gets up there with that disinfectant.’

  ‘Eh, what for?’

  ‘I’ll tell you on the way, so let’s go.’

  ‘You gotta be jokin’. Chef wants any excuse to get rid of me and give Danny all my jobs. If he catches me doin’ that, I’ll be sacked on the spot … you an’ orl.’

  ‘I promise you won’t be, and if I am, then so what? But we gotta go now.’ Sarah took his hand and pulled him to the door.

  ‘You’d better be right, Sarah. If I get the sack, me old mum will have no money comin’ in. She’s too ill to work ’erself.’

  Fred led the way up three staircases and along two corridors. Sarah hoped this plan would work, because she would have Fred’s ‘old mum’ on her conscience, as well as countless others, if it didn’t. As they went, she told Fred that she had started ‘walking out’ with one of the lab assistants. The lab assistant had been angry when she’d told him about Chef’s advances and Danny’s nasty little ways, and he’d wanted to help teach them a lesson.

  ‘But how did he know that Danny was going to start fetchin’ and carryin’ instead of me?’ Fred puzzled. ‘I didn’t even know about it till just before.’

  ‘Ah, well, there’s been rumours goin’ about.’ Sarah tapped her nose. ‘They’ve been plottin’ a while, I think.’ She then told him exactly what they must do once they were inside Mr Fleming’s lab.

  Fred shook his head. ‘I still don’t like it. What if it all goes wrong and we get into trouble, not Danny?’

  ‘It won’t; don’t forget I have my young man to vouch for me, and Doris will back us … probably.’