by Andy Conway
‘Please, not here, Father,’ she whimpered, casting a cautious glance back at the mourners in the distance.
Danny’s fingers groped the surface of the gravestone as he gasped, struggling for air, hyperventilating. The man approached him menacingly, brandishing his cane. He knew he had to run, was about to be struck with it, but he couldn’t move, frozen, like in a bad dream.
‘Is he the one!?’
Danny’s fingers edged towards the same spot he’d touched before.
‘Father!’
Mr Parker glared back at her and shoved her away. But when he turned back, Danny was gone.
— 4 —
Mr Fenwick was close to the north-eastern corner of the church, squatting by a gravestone, admiring the subtle filigreed stonework and wondering how seriously this current crop of students would be taking their task. In every year there were a couple of standout exceptional students you knew would get Firsts from day one. These were the ones you had to feed with steady praise, but not too much in case they suffered vertigo and burned out. The broad mass of students had no academic skills or inclinations whatsoever and would remain like that for three years, if they didn’t drop out. You just had to bully them constantly into the whole concept of research, analysis, discussion and referencing of secondary sources. For some this proved an impossible thing to grasp, even after three years, mainly because they seemed quite content to make no effort at all and cruise through to get a Third because it was a degree after all. If they scraped a 2:2 they’d feel they’d performed an amazing con trick on the educational system. There were only a handful of students in every annual intake that could surprise you by going either way; displaying enough talent that they could make a serious, late burst for a First, or fail at the end and sink into a 2:1 or worse. What was surprising was how few surprises there were.
Rachel, the one in this year’s intake he knew without a doubt would get a First, approached him and coughed shyly.
‘Er… Nick,’ she said.
He grinned before turning to her. It was always funny to see which students had most difficulty shaking off school and realising they could call teachers by their first name now.
‘Rachel,’ he said.
‘We’ve got one. Can’t work out if it’s Rees or Reed but the date of death is definite. I don’t know where Danny’s gone, though.’
Nick squinted in the sun, looking over her shoulder.
‘He’s over there.’
Rachel turned back to look at their gravestone, twenty yards away and frowned. Danny was sitting on it, right where he’d been before.
— 5 —
Danny was breathing hard, staring around him, bewildered, as Rachel clumped back over.
‘I suppose you sloped off for a fag or something. Well I’ve done it now so if you don’t like it, tough.’
She froze. There was something wrong. She could read it in him immediately in the way you just know.
‘You all right?’
‘No.’
‘What?’ she said.
‘You won’t believe what just happened.’
‘What?’
Danny gulped, caught his breath, tried to speak without stammering. His face was white but he breathed like he’d just run twenty times around the churchyard.
‘I was sitting here and you were talking and then, bam, you were gone, and I was here and it was all different and there was this girl and her father in Edwardian clothes and a funeral.’
He shook his head, like he didn’t believe it himself.
‘Have you been smoking?’ she said.
‘It was real. I was there. I talked to her.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘When I touched the stone,’ he said. ‘I went back there.’
This was weird. He was acting like a freak, which threw her, because Danny was one of the cool kids and it was really her job to act like a freak.
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. The past. Or something.’
‘Yeah right. Whatever.’
‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘Touch it.’
He pointed to the spot on the stone.
‘Hell, it was so weird,’ he said. ‘Right there. Touch it yourself.’
She hesitated, frowning, thinking this was all going to be a joke at her expense. She glanced around. His friends were at the far end of the graveyard, lounging on a gravestone, smoking, obviously making no attempt to research anything. No one was filming her on their phone. If it were a joke, what was the point of it? She looked back at him. His face was pale, beads of sweat on his forehead. He looked like he was about to chuck up his breakfast at any second. She could tell he wasn’t joking.
She took a step towards him, leaned across, her fingers reaching uncertainly for the spot on the gravestone he was pointing to, his index finger shaking.
‘Okay, let’s all go this way!’
She flinched. Mr Fenwick was leading the whole class towards them. She snatched her hand back and looked at Danny’s face again, expecting to see a broad grin there, an amused glint in his blue eyes, but he wasn’t looking at her; he was looking at the floor, embarrassed, confused.
Mr Fenwick passed by and headed for the wrought-iron gate, the other students dawdling in his wake.
‘We came in the normal way but there’s a little secret back here,’ he called.
He walked down the slate slope and pushed the gate open. They all filed out and followed him into the alley between the shops. Rachel followed Danny, looking back once more at the gravestone.
Mr Fenwick’s voice echoed out on the alley walls as he strode onwards.
‘This used to be an actual street until the 1970s, with back to back housing. It’s all commercial dwellings now. But if we walk down here we end up...’
They all emerged back out at the village ‘green’, between a chip shop and a bank.
‘Back in Moseley village,’ he said, as if he’d pulled a rabbit out of a hat. ‘So, armed with your person from the past, let’s go back to our dusty old lecture room and learn about all the various kinds of research at our disposal. Field trip over. Mini-bus this way.’
He headed across the green, off to the car park behind the south-eastern corner of the village crossroads, with its crumbling, ornate stucco upper floor above the corner pub that Rachel had always thought was the prettiest building face in Moseley; the upper floor, not the pub below it, which was a mess.
As the students snaked after him, Rachel grabbed Danny’s arm.
‘What happened?’ she whispered.
He looked over at his friends, worried, and snapped with sudden venom.
‘Nothing happened, right?’
She gripped his arm harder and said with total sincerity, ‘I believe you.’
He stopped, glanced at the others again.
‘If you tell anyone. I’ll—’
‘I won’t tell anyone if you don’t,’ she said. ‘Let’s come back. Tonight.’
He thought about it, working out if he could trust her.
‘Okay,’ he said, as if he didn’t believe it himself anymore. ‘Eight o clock.’
They walked on, following the others, swallowed in the full sweep of Moseley village, the pedestrian throng, cars tearing this way and that, the buses sailing through the village crossroads, and beyond it, a cityscape of office blocks on the skyline.
— 6 —
Once they were all back at uni, they bustled into a lecture theatre and stared blankly while Mr Fenwick talked through a Powerpoint presentation on local history resources. Rachel took notes but couldn’t help glancing over at Danny, two rows below, scribbling away at his pad. It was obvious from the way he worked so feverishly that he wasn’t paying any attention to the lecture.
She craned her neck over his shoulder and strained her eyes to see. He was filling a page with images and words, some kind of mind map exercise. She could make out snatches of phrases written out in big bold strokes: AMY PARKER, EDWARDIAN? 12 ALCESTE
R ROAD, FATHER?, FUNERAL, “IS HE THE ONE?” And there was a sketch of a girl in a black gown and a man in a top hat with a cane. He looked like he was a decent artist.
His friends looked at him working hard and giggled, and when he became aware of them, he closed his pad and sat back and pretended to look bored, but she saw him open the pad again later and scribble some more things down.
When the lecture was over, he walked straight out, leaving everyone staring after him wondering what was up, and she didn’t see him the rest of the day as she worked in the library. Had he walked out and gone back to the churchyard to try it again without her? She cursed herself. She should have suggested that to him, not tonight. He would do it without her now.
She realised what she was thinking. It was ridiculous. But she’d seen it in his face. He believed it — whatever it was that had happened to him, and the naked honesty and confusion in his manner had made her believe it too. A tiny part of her also reminded her that she wanted to believe it, just to be able to share it with him.
She drifted out later and started to head for home after her final lecture. She was standing at the head of a bus queue, waiting, when she realised she might not have any money. She dug in her pocket and pulled out a few coins. Not enough. Her face reddened.
The bus pulled up and opened its doors. She stepped out of the way, mumbling something under her breath, and let the passengers behind her get on. She stood there as it closed its doors and sailed off without her, swearing at herself under her breath. Then she saw the car behind the bus.
Jessica was at the wheel. Stacy and Tyrone were there too. And Danny, in the back, not talking. He saw her and looked back after her. She caught a flash Jessica smirking to herself as they sped off up the long road.
She started walking.
— 7 —
She attacked her bangers and mash, even though there was plenty of time to make the eight o’clock rendezvous. Her dad and nan were tucking into theirs at the table with her and the telly was still on across the room.
‘Well?’ said Martyn.
She looked up at him and swallowed.
‘Lots of things,’ she said. ‘Stuff.’
‘Like?’
‘Local history. We’ve got a seminar on you next week.’
Olive laughed.
‘Oh, I see you’ve joined the Comedy Society,’ said Martyn.
‘She gets that from you,’ said Olive.
‘Yeah, it’s your fault,’ said Rachel. He was still waiting for her to report on her day so she sighed and told him. ‘We walked around St Mary’s church yard and looked at the gravestones, then we went back to uni and had a lecture on local history resources and I spent the afternoon in the library researching how Moseley used to be independent of Birmingham and why it took so long to defect.’
Martyn pointed his fork at her, with a bit of gravy-coated sausage on the end. ‘Because Moseley’s always been stuck up,’ he said.
‘That’s where your great grandma was christened,’ said Olive. ‘My mum. When we lived round the corner. Down Anderton Park Road. Number 28. She was born there. So was I. And your dad. Beautiful big house.’
Rachel had heard this a million times.
‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘We used to be rich. How did you lose the family fortune, Dad?’
‘I spent it on women and booze,’ he smiled. ‘The rest I wasted.’
He laughed at his own joke.
‘And now we have to live in poverty,’ Rachel scowled.
‘It’ll make you more ambitious,’ he said. ‘Rich kids are bone idle and they get rubbish degrees. You’ll thank me for growing up a pauper in the end.’
He winked at her. She rolled her eyes..
As soon as tea was over, she washed up and ran to her room to change. She picked out a maxi skirt and a long jacket; an outfit she used to wear when she was more self-conscious about her body and wanted to hide it. It seemed right tonight, if this whole thing wasn’t a very elaborate joke. She sat on her bed and thought about that for twenty minutes. What if it was? What if she got there and they were all waiting for her in the churchyard, waiting to laugh and point? She thought she was coming for some time travel! What a loser! Her stomach lurched. No, why would they do that? His distress had been so genuine. She remembered the beads of sweat glistening on his temple. She didn’t think he was that good an actor. No one was.
There was only one way to find out. She got up and walked down the stairs, calling out that she’d be back in an hour or two.
— 8 —
The sun was low in the sky as Danny walked up Alcester Road past the Moseley Dance Centre and the old tram depot which was now a skate park. He wished he’d arranged to meet her earlier. It might be dark by the time they… He stopped himself even thinking it. The whole thing was ridiculous. Which was probably why he was late and dawdling, reluctant to set out, and had circled round the opposite direction. It must have been the hangover this morning. He’d imagined it. Had an hallucination. It could all be explained scientifically. He’d probably caught something that had messed with his mind. He should go to the doctor’s. He’d been burning the candle at both ends since starting uni. That was it.
Except he knew that wasn’t it. He’d felt it and seen it, and touched it and smelled it. Above all he’d smelled it. The reek of the place. He could still almost taste it in his mouth. It had been all too real. Hyper real.
He stopped and looked across the road at the reason for his detour. Number 12. The house where Amy Parker had said she lived. Lived a hundred years ago. A large terraced house, probably split into student rooms now. A small garden at the front. It looked unspectacular, and a little shabby now, but you could imagine that once it would have been impressive. A family of means would have lived here. Further up the road there was a row of houses with uniform railings that had been restored to their former glory. He could easily imagine it was just the kind of place where gentlemen in top hats would return after a day at the bank.
He rushed on up the hill into Moseley village, knowing he’d be able to see for himself soon.
— 9 —
Rachel walked down St Mary’s Row and turned into the churchyard under the lychgate. No winos there tonight huddled under the wooden awning as they were most evenings, and mornings. She walked up the winding path, glancing back to see if anyone had noticed her entering the churchyard alone. She stepped carefully over the buckled gravestone paving where they’d all stood this morning listening to Mr Fenwick and wondered if he did that thing every year with each new class, relishing the shock as they realised they were standing on old gravestones.
She walked round the church and took the path down to the gate. No one seemed to be hanging around in there. It would be dark soon but there was enough light to see for now.
She reached the gravestone where they’d sat this morning. No Danny. She looked all around, hands thrust in her coat pockets, trying to act nonchalant. What if he’d already… gone through? Should she try it herself? If she reached out and touched it where he’d touched it, would they all leap out from behind trees and bushes and laugh at her? She looked around again, trying to peer through the murk. She stopped breathing and listened for any slight sound of shuffling or stifled giggles. There was nothing but the drone of traffic and the faint hubbub of talk from the village: people gathering for the bars.
She took her hands from her pockets and edged closer to the gravestone, casting one more furtive glance around the graveyard. She reached out, her fingers groping for the spot where he’d touched it this morning, where she’d almost touched it herself before Mr Fenwick had interrupted. Her fingertips stroked the rough stone surface, cold to the touch.
A candle burned her finger, an angel breathed in her ear, the light changed, her ears rang and she was staring into a bearded face, choking on a hot blast of whiskey breath. Her hand was on the stone and the man’s thighs were either side of it. She yelped. He snarled, dropped his bottle, jumped up and snatched her hair.
She screamed, tried to twist away, head burning.
‘Hey! What’s going on!’ he spluttered.
She reeled backwards, crying out, eyes clenching shut as he raised his dirty fist to hit her.
— 10 —
He shouted again and there was a slapping sound, just once, he grabbed her arm and yanked her away. She opened her eyes to find it was Danny pulling her towards the gate. She looked back to see the drunk trying to scramble to his feet.
‘Come on!’ said Danny.
He pushed through the wrought-iron gate and closed it behind them. They watched the drunk climb back to his feet and dust himself down. He shouted something and shook his fist but he was more interested in finding his bottle. Once he’d picked it up he shuffled off. She breathed again. They were safe.
‘He scared me to death. I came through and had my hand between his legs.’
‘It’s okay, we’re safe. I think.’
They turned and looked down the alley and gaped in wonder. It was the same alley they’d walked down this morning but everything was different. It was a grim back-to-back slum. A group of snotty pauper children stood staring at them, frowning, silent. They were half dressed and filthy, their saucer eyes reminding her of starving African children she’d seen on TV adverts for charities. She gagged.
‘Oh God, it stinks.’
‘I know.’
‘I think I’m gonna chuck.’
‘Come on,’ he said.
He still had hold of her hand and seemed to realise for the first time. He mumbled something, looked down at the floor and let go of her. She followed him down the alley, passing the blank-eyed street urchins, giving them a wide berth, keeping one eye on them. She had the feeling they might turn feral at any moment, but they just stared and said nothing. It was creepy.
They left them behind and headed for the strip of light at the end, and emerged to the village green, both gasping out loud at what they saw.
It was a busy crossroads hub of horse-drawn coaches, electric trams and promenading Edwardians. It was like turning a corner and walking into a film set. They stood there frozen, mouths agape in wonder.
