In the distance the yawning opening of an underground station called to Will and Jane as the whole city seemed to quake beneath the vicious onslaught of explosion and fire. Flames could be seen reaching towards the sky, lighting up the buildings beneath the clouds and providing hot points of reference for the next wave of aircraft to use.
As a new flock of planes drew near, the terrible droning got louder and the machines that were the cause could just about be picked out against the fire flooded sky. Will knew the planes would be overhead before he and Jane could make it to the station and, seeing it as the only option, dragged Jane under the concrete archway to a pub's side entrance. He pinned her tightly against the wall of the arch and reached his arms up to cross them over her head, desperate to anchor them there against the brick and provide what protection he could against any masonry that might fall as London burned around them.
Sixty Years Later
As the train entered the tunnel, Jem winced. She didn't like the sensation of her eardrums filling with warm water and all sound becoming a watery echo in her head. She swallowed a couple of times then pinched her nose between her fingers and blew. The relief was momentary as her ears filled again; for the length of the tunnel, she would repeatedly hold her nose and blow.
Jem's eardrums seemed to suck in and she closed her eyes as she held her nose yet again. The noise within the train changed as the sound of the train itself changed. It seemed to slow and lose its smooth speeding run along the tracks; it felt strangely slower and the motion less smooth. It took longer to explain than to experience and no sooner had Jem thought about it than the tunnel was left behind and the journey continued in the daylight again. Jem knew they'd left the tunnel as the echoing sounds which bounced from the tunnel walls were lost to space and air; sunlight now bounced from Jem's closed eyelids, rather than the dull luminescence of the carriage lighting alone. She gave one last blow and let go of her nose as she opened her eyes.
Fran laughed and nudged her with her elbow.
'Stop it Jem; you'll blow your brains out through your ears if you're not careful.'
'It's horrible though, isn't it? I hate that feeling. It's the pressure inside the tunnel isn't it? It's odd how that happens.' Jem liked to have an explanation for everything. She liked knowledge and lists and plans and preparation.
Fran, on the other hand, was more spontaneous and laid back and 'take it as it comes'.
Jem rummaged in her roomy bag and pulled out a map of the underground.
'Right, the theatre tickets are here.' She patted the inside pocket of her jacket to indicate their whereabouts, then opened out the map. 'It's the southbound Bakerloo that we need - 5 stops to Piccadilly.'
Fran leaned her head on Jem's shoulder and sighed dramatically.
'What would I do without you Jemima?' Jem shrugged her away, laughing.
'That's it, mock, but I like to know we have the tickets and everything. Just imagine getting there and finding that we've left the tickets behind.'
'A bit late to check now. They can hardly turn the train around.' She patted Jem's hand. 'Don't worry so much. And I don't know why on earth you have this.' She snatched the map. 'It's not like we've never been before.'
The sisters grinned at each other and sat in happy silence as the train hurried onwards and fields and towns passed anonymously by.
Jem found herself listening. Once she'd tuned in she couldn't then tune out from the women in the seats just behind. One of the party of three was obviously sitting across the aisle, so the more vociferous of the two women behind was very kindly talking louder so her friend could hear. Jem, and quite likely everyone else in the carriage, was treated to a guided tour of the woman's ailments and what pills and medication (including full drug names) that she took to combat these. Her companion concurred and sympathised in all the appropriate places, but Jem wondered if she was a little embarrassed by her travel mate. As well as her ailments, the woman told of her neighbour's friend's cousin's wife who had passed suddenly away, of her own prodigiously talented grandchildren, her plans for the weekend in London and what she'd heard about the hotel that they'd booked. She spoke about their rooms and gave a history of the hotel, being built on the site of a rather grand hotel that had been bombed during the war.
As Jem heard the ongoing tales she glanced about trying to block out the women behind, and noticed the solitary traveller just across the aisle. She'd boarded the train at the last stop, quite close to the venue of a music festival, and wore a flowing purple, white and yellow tie-dyed cotton dress that kissed the floor, a faded denim jacket and muddy green wellington boots. When she boarded she had a full set of very long crimson nails (a little incongruous with the earthy and free spirited outfit) and she was now sitting by the window biting at these false additions, only looking away from the view to glance down at her hands and pick at the remnants of the red appendages. By the time she got off, all traces of red would be gone and in their place bare nibbled stubs and ripped cuticles. Her bohemian but slightly eccentric style struck a distant chord with Jem, imagining her in years to come (but somehow visualising it in the past) as some ageing nonconformist with a floaty home and an equally floaty circle of friends.
In front of the lone woman was another chatty person. A very tall man, obvious by the way his legs were folded into the gap between his seat and the one in front. He spoke occasionally to a companion Jem couldn't see and had the merest hint of an accent even though his English was perfect. He wore a very large watch and, on the other wrist, a wide curvy silver bangle. He had the biggest hands Jem had ever seen. To pass his journey he watched a film on his laptop, ears plugged into the sound by white plugs and a long wire. He occasionally laughed out loud and pointed something out to his travelling companion, but that was preferable to the incessant chatter from behind. His softy accented voice and large stature seemed familiar. She could picture him standing in front of a fireplace, flames filling the grate behind, but didn't have a clue why.
Jem decided that she really should try not to be so romantic with her thoughts; even the immaculate old lady sitting at the very front of the carriage had begged recognition when Jem had boarded the train. The lady had been looking out of the window and slowly turning round a rather large diamond that adorned her finger. She turned as Jem walked past; Jem smiled but the old lady just gave her a sort of quarter smile, her lips barely moving, like it was foreign to her.
The quietest passengers in the immediate vicinity were the two men in front of Jem and her sister. Jem had seen them get on when she and Fran did; they both wore ripped jeans, one sported a vest top revealing tattoos and hairy arms, the other a grey sweatshirt. The man with the t-shirt had an intricate spiky hairdo which was shaved at the temples and his friend had no hair at all, just the finest hint of blond stubble covering his round head. All you could hear from them was quiet chat and the occasional psst sound of escaping carbonation as they discreetly opened their next can of lager. Not everyone was like their stereotype.
Jem smiled to herself as she absorbed the people around her, thinking how she was currently and briefly connected with all these individuals on this journey. No-one knew who else would be on this train as they boarded or what their stories might be. Jem often found herself extending normal situations in her thoughts; she would daydream, or maybe even fantasise, and come up with 'what ifs'. She found herself thinking of a scenario, not in words but in images which told their own story. There was no narrative, just visual ideas. Her cerebral pictures weren't based on fear or panic, but on her thoughts about human nature and interaction - 'If we were detached from the rest of the train and found our carriage jammed in a tunnel miles from anywhere, how would we all react and interact? Who would not be at all like we perceive them? Would the tall man with big hands be the protector or the clown? Most likely the two lager drinkers would be the hidden gems and the saviours of the day. Would festival girl be the laid-back earth mother type, or did her nail biting hint at a more nervous disp
osition? Maybe the woman behind would throw off her mantle of annoying chatterbox and become the warm matriarch of us all?' Jem was a dreamer who loved to drift; to see a glorious old building and wonder at its past, or an ancient tree and question who the many people had been who'd sat in its shade; she loved history and art and music and theatre, with an almost nostalgic fondness of the 30s and 40s, an era long before her time.
'Jem.' Fran nudged her and leaned past her to look out of the window. 'Stop daydreaming. We're nearly there. Next stop Paddington.'
Jem smiled at her sister and felt the flutter of anticipation that she always felt when coming to London. This visit, for a West End show, was excused as the sisters' Christmas gift to themselves even though it was December the 29th. Although born and raised in the beauty of the South West of England, London managed to pull her into its embrace and every excuse to visit (be it for the theatre, museums and galleries, sightseeing or shopping) felt somehow familiar and comfortable but delicately laced with expectancy and excitement.
The End of an Era
As soon as Jane heard the sky screaming, she'd known. Everyone knew. It was coming. It was coming again. No chance of making it underground this time, or into a cupboard under the stairs. 'Oh God,' Jane whispered and she brought the palms of her hands together as she closed her eyes and prayed. Noticing her trembling, a hand slid down to find hers. In that tiniest splinter of a second Jane turned to look up at Will who looked down at her, his face lit from the shadows by the burning red of a city on fire; he held her gaze with an invisible cord to express a thousand things to her in that moment, just in case it was their last. His eyes said don't worry, just keep looking at me. Just keep looking at me.
The shrieking stopped for a second as the world ceased turning. Then all was black and all was silent.
Or Maybe the Beginning…
So when you die the last thing you lose is the power to hear…
Jane. Jane. The man's voice was calling her frantically from an indeterminate distance. It sounded as though she listened through water. Everything hurt. Pain was everywhere but nowhere. His voice betrayed emotional pain as he fought to wake her, to pull her back to him. He was next to her, holding her, above her, all around her. Yet he was far away.
Jem. Jemima, can you hear me? Jem, please be alright. Jem. A woman's voice now. One she knew like her own. It drew her through the watery consciousness, getting closer with each word. It called a name she knew was hers. A hand reached to touch her face.
But then the man's voice called to her again.
Oh please God, please. Come back to me Jane, please, open your eyes. Wake up Sunshine, the desperate voice beseeched. Don't leave me, please. She knew he called to her, a voice crying a name that was right, that was hers, but his words sounded more distant with each second and as much as she tried to reach out to him she couldn't summon the strength. She couldn't open her eyes or force any movement from her body. Her will was no match for the stone from which her muscles seemed to be hewn. With all her might she tried to touch the man who called to her, to open her eyes and see him. Her body wouldn't do as she begged it; there was no power within her and she couldn't fight anymore.
He whispered a promise to wait for her. Another promise. Why did she notice that? And then his voice was gone, and all she heard were his cries as he cradled her and rocked her gently to and fro. And all she felt were his hot tears falling onto her cooling skin as he lost her.
Awakening
'Oh thank God.' Fran cried. Jem's eyes slowly blinked open and began to focus on her sister's tear streaked face through the slowly clearing fogginess behind her eyes. 'Can you hear me, are you alright? Where does it hurt?' As Jem slowly started to absorb the scene above her she saw more concerned faces and heard noise, commotion, the wail of a siren. Not a bomb's wail but confirmation that help was coming or help was there. But why would it be a bomb, why would someone, a man, call her Jane? Why did the name feel absolutely right when she was Jemima? Why did the name Jane seem to call her home?
'It's alright; the ambulance is on its way. You'll be fine. You'll be ok.' Fran offered a tiny reassuring smile.
Jem now realised that she was lying in the road, but she felt no pain just the cold tarmac beneath her. As she carefully checked her awareness of each part of her body and struggled to recall how she'd come to be in this embarrassing place, she saw the crowd moving aside.
Two paramedics soon knelt beside her, one turning to Fran to ask what had happened. She noticed that two policemen were also there now, one talking with a very distressed man by a car who kept looking worryingly at Jem.
Fran's reply as to what had happened, how her sister had been distracted, switched on a light and Jem knew.
A man had called to her. He called the name that felt right but was not her own.
She'd been about to cross the road with Fran but had seen someone in the crowd, the person who'd called the name. It was someone she recognised; a man she knew well, but had no idea how. She'd seen in him a man her whole being knew, or maybe an older version of a man she knew.
Recollection came then of the man calling to her before the car caught her, or was it after? Hadn't he begged her not to leave him? She felt the strongest pulling; she wanted to go to him more than anything else. But she hadn't been able to. Her body hadn't been able to move, so leaden was it that she may as well have been dead. Then she'd fallen asleep. Hadn't she? She'd fallen asleep, not died, and woken up to Fran's frantic begging.
It wasn't a trick played by Jem's mind when she'd blacked out. It was real; the sense of needing this man, this stranger who was so well known to her.
The begging voice circled her. When had she known this man, been begged by him to stay? Now today she'd seen him again, looking different and the same; he'd only been there for an instant, but that was long enough for Jem to take her eyes off the road and step forward. She wanted to close her eyes and go back to the place that the strange but perfectly correct name had taken her, but there were other questions to answer instead.
The car hadn't been going very fast and had clipped her more than knocked her over; but it was enough to spin Jem from her feet and send her into the road. It wasn't the driver's fault, Jem insisted groggily. She wanted to exonerate the poor driver quickly so she could search for the man who called to her; whose voice called to her ears and whose presence called to her soul. She tried to sit up, embarrassed, as the paramedics asked her not to and checked all her vital signs. They carefully put on a neck collar and asked her to lie still, even though she protested that she felt fine as they gently slid a stretcher beneath her. Fran asked her to do as she was told, gently encouraging her compliance. She'd be taken to the hospital and checked over.
As Jem felt herself rise off the floor to be lifted into the ambulance she tried to look around and silently cursed the neck collar which stopped her head from turning. Her eyes darted, looking for the man in the crowd as best she could, but she couldn't find him. Hands in surgical gloves held her firm, gently imploring her to calm down and to lie still. But Jem didn't want to. She had a face to search for. She didn't know why but she wanted to see that face and to hold on to the man who called her. And not to let go.
Her brief but lucid moment of knowing she'd been someone else was over.
Darkness into Light, Present into Past
In the recess of a shop doorway stood the man Jem tried to see. All trace of colour had bled from his face when he'd seen Jem in the crowd; his whole body seemed to drain of blood and be replaced with ice cold water when she'd been knocked down. Unable to reach her across the street before she was surrounded by people, he'd been left with no choice but to fight for broken images through the crowd as he struggled to get closer. When she tried to sit up, looking embarrassed but unhurt, he'd breathed again and the chill in his body warmed. She'd been grasping at eyes, faces in the crowd, and he wondered if she was looking for him.
He raised his hand absentmindedly to touch the worn and folded po
stcard that lived in his breast pocket. He didn't need to look at it to know what faded words were still visible on the back of the familiar picture of London at night. The card had been his constant companion through loss, life and war; reunions, births and joy.
'Poor girl seems ok thankfully. Pretty young thing,' his elderly companion commented, before elbowing him lightly and adding, 'If I were sixty years younger I might have asked her out.'
He smiled at his own quip and was already walking on ahead when Will replied wistfully, 'Harry, when I was sixty years younger I did.'
Will watched as Jem was lifted into the ambulance and the doors closed on a sixty year old promise.
Full Circle
When the two lifelong friends parted company Will returned to his small flat and sat down in an armchair to visit his favourite place. His mind was many years younger than his body and he had no trouble in recalling and reliving events from the past.
His memories always started at the night that had since become known as the Second Great Fire of London; hours of the city burning around him. The calmness and stoicism of the whole country couldn't lift him from his pain on the night he'd tried to protect Jane's shaking body with his own, fighting in vain to be stronger than forces that brought buildings to their knees. His body was no match for the destructive power that could bring down an office block, reduce masonry to sand and flatten a house of bricks to a house of cards.
So many homes were lost, along with churches, shops and offices; and hotels. The Grandchester received a direct hit, with the loss of the magnificent building and all within it. The mystery past of the grand dame of the hotel was probably confined evermore to the shelves of some forgotten archive. Will still found it hard to grasp that he was now older than Mrs Cartlyn had been when he'd known her all those decades before and she'd given Will and Jane the precious gift of time.
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