In Loving Memory

by Winona Kent

  “I think that might be it,” Charlie said. “Change of name…and I’m not entirely sure what they’re selling these days…but yes. There. Shall we go inside?”

  • • •

  The interior of the shop smelled of patchouli and ylang-ylang, and there was a glass wind chime hanging near the door, which tinkled with the passing breeze. Just inside the door was a table covered with spectacles: wire-framed grannies; huge plastic glasses, of the sort Deirdre Barlow wore when she first arrived in Coronation Street; monocles and diamante cats-eyes; and all different colours of lenses.

  Spreading aspidistras and huge ferns stood on shelves and plinths, and hanging underneath those were neckties, scarves, and shawls from every age known to fashion.

  Against one wall hung women’s clothing, salvaged from time and second-hand shops: Victoriana, and flapper, and wide 1950s skirts that demanded crinolines and white ankle socks, and mod mini’s and cotton shifts from the 1960s. Against another wall, gentlemen’s apparel: military uniforms and velvet trousers, and silk shirts and flare-legged denim jeans. Dickensian coats. Leather flying jackets with sheepskin collars. Floral prints and exquisite double-breasted tailoring.

  A giant silk umbrella, fully open; a two-wheeled bicycle; and cooking pots, overflowing with silk flowers were suspended from the ceiling.

  There was a large sofa against the back wall, and a very ornate mirror, and a single dressing room separated from the main shop by a row of hanging glass beads.

  And there was music, which seemed to be emanating from a vintage jukebox beside the mirror. Charlie recognized the song immediately.

  “House of the Rising Sun,” she said to Mr. Deeley. “The Animals. 1964.”

  “What a noise.”

  “It’s a classic, Mr. Deeley!”

  “Might I be of assistance?”

  A woman had appeared from a room at the back. She seemed to be in her forties, or perhaps her fifties. She had long blonde hair with a full fringe and she wore a mauve frock, which might have come originally from a turn-of-the-century brothel.

  “We’re just looking around,” Charlie said. “My mum used to work here. In the 1960s. When it was called—”

  “Marianne’s Memory,” the woman finished. “Yes. I know. It was famous! It all rather fell into hard times after the 1960s though…it sat empty for ages…and then it was a poster shop…and then a touristy souvenir sort of place, maps and flags and t-shirts and mugs…A shoe store. A place that sold mobile phones. And then it was empty again…I’ve tried to make it as much like the original as possible.”

  “Why Easy When You Know How?” Mr. Deeley inquired. “Why not Marianne’s Memory?”

  “Marianne wouldn’t let me.”

  “Oh!” Charlie said. “So you’ve been in touch with her.”

  “She’s my mum,” the woman said. “She’s in her seventies now. She was going to marry that pop star, the one in Brighton Peer. Giles Jessop. But she called it off at the last minute and ran off with his brother, Jeremy, the racing car driver. My dad. They live in the south of France, where I grew up. Anyway I asked her if I could use the name and she said no, and I’m dreadful with naming things and so I asked her, what should I call it then? And she said, just imagine something. And I said, I haven’t got much of an imagination for things like that. And she said, well, it’s easy when you know how. And that’s how the shop got its name.” She paused. “And you say your mother used to work here?”

  “Yes,” said Charlie. “She was friends with your mum. They shared a flat together, too. And I work in a museum—I’m putting together a display of the Swinging Sixties and I can see some of the clothes you’ve got here would look amazing in it. Can we look around?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m Sue. If you want any help, just ask.”

  • • •

  “Giles failed to mention his very famous brother, Jeremy,” Mr. Deeley said as he and Charlie investigated the racks of frocks and jackets at the front of the shop.

  “I wonder why,” Charlie mused. She lifted out a black mini-dress with a trumpet flare, printed all over with bright pop petal flowers, with a white collar and white cuffs. “I love this. And these.” She showed Mr. Deeley a pair of white opaque tights on a nearby rack full of stockings and leg coverings.

  “And the correct shoes,” Mr. Deeley said thoughtfully, examining some shelves beside the sofa. He held up a pair of white t-bar leather Mary Janes.

  “Salvatore Ferragamo,” Sue supplied. “Genuine leather, made in Italy. Kitten heels. Perfect with that frock. You have an excellent eye for fashion.”

  “I should love to see you wearing these things,” Mr. Deeley decided. “Might you change into them, to show them off…for me?”

  “What, now?”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Deeley. “My curiosity has been aroused.”

  Charlie laughed.

  “You too, then,” she decided, selecting a mod-looking tie from the rack, in a floral and paisley pattern of red ochre, goldenrod yellow, bright aqua, and muted pink.

  “John Stephen,” Sue said. “Very nice. Would go with this, I think.”

  She produced a wool suit, dark grey, beautifully tailored.

  “Hardy Amies. You can’t do better than that.”

  “The waistcoat only,” Mr. Deeley decided, removing it from its hanger. “Thank you. I shall retain my own trousers and boots.”

  • • •

  They emerged from the single dressing room together, and stood in front of the large, elaborate mirror.

  “The very picture of a trendy 1960s couple,” Sue judged. “Mum would have hired you on the spot.”

  Charlie laughed as Mr. Deeley made final adjustments to his tie. It was a skill he’d only recently acquired.

  “We’ll take them,” Charlie said.

  “Shall I put them in bags for you…?”

  “Yes. Unless you want to wear your new togs on the train, Mr. Deeley?”

  “I think I might.”

  “Well, I think I might change back into my own clothes. This frock is lovely but it’s far too short to be practical. I don’t know how they managed back then, reaching up for things, bending over…”

  “I should imagine the view was breathtaking,” said Mr. Deeley, admiring Charlie as she turned to go back to the dressing room. Sue totted up the sale and wrote it out on a vintage receipt pad.

  “Mr. Deeley.” It was Charlie, calling from the dressing room. And then, more urgently: “Mr. Deeley!”

  He stepped through the beaded glass curtain.

  “What is it, Mrs. Collins?”

  Charlie was still wearing her mini-dress. “I feel…peculiar.”

  “What sort of peculiar?”

  “I’ve felt it before. It’s…” She grabbed her bag and her original clothing, then thrust Mr. Deeley’s jacket into his hands and grabbed onto his arm. “…the feeling I get when something’s about to…happen…”

  • • •

  They were still standing in the dressing room. And it looked more or less the same, down to the glass beads shielding it from the main part of the shop. And the shop still smelled of patchouli and ylang-ylang and there was still music blaring from the jukebox at the back.

  But it was not the same.

  This was evident as soon as they stepped through the curtain of glass beads.

  The shop had changed. In fact, it was nothing like the shop they entered. This shop had clothes hanging from racks and neatly folded on tables, yes, but it was crammed full of other things: guitars, and portable record players, cardboard record album covers, framed photographs, and posters. Two birdcages, each containing a large stuffed parrot, sat at opposite ends of the room. A grandfather clock stood in the corner. Hats and caps and boots and lots of umbrellas hung on racks around the walls.

  There was a counter, and behind the counter were two young women, one a blonde, one a brunette, both with masses of long straight hair and fringes. The woman with the blonde hair was dressed in a simple green
dress with large white flowers, its hem ending just above her knees. The brunette was slightly more daring, in a pink skirt that was somewhat shorter, and a matching sleeveless knitted top with a high neck.

  “It’s Mum,” Charlie whispered. “I’ve seen photos of her when she was in her twenties. The one with the dark hair.”

  “Then the other must be Marianne,” Mr. Deeley reasoned. “Have we arrived in the fabulous Swinging Sixties?”

  “It would seem so, Mr. Deeley. I’ll just confirm the date.”

  Leaving her bundle of clothing with Mr. Deeley, Charlie approached the counter, where Marianne was engaged in a conversation with Charlie’s mum.

  “You should just go along and stand in the crowd,” Marianne was urging. “You never know—you might catch a glimpse of one of them.”

  “Some of us aren’t quite as lucky as you,” Charlie’s mum replied. “Some of us aren’t going out with dishy pop stars. Say hello to Paul McCartney for me, won’t you.”

  “Oh, Jackie. You know I’d take you with me if I could. Giles only just managed to get two tickets. He did ask if there were more.”

  “I believe you,” Charlie’s mum said. “Thousands wouldn’t.” She turned to Charlie. “Hello. I like your frock. Where’s it from?”

  “Um,” Charlie said. “A little boutique. Easy When You Know How.”

  “I’ve never heard of that one, have you?” Jackie said to Marianne.

  “I haven’t, but I like the name,” Marianne said thoughtfully.

  “You’re probably going to think I’m daft,” Charlie said, “but can you tell me what day it is?”

  “Wednesday,” Marianne answered easily. “Happens to me all the time. I woke up this morning thinking it was Monday.”

  “No you didn’t,” Jackie said. “You woke up this morning shouting, ‘Today’s the day I’m going to meet the Beatles!’” She looked at Charlie. “Some people have all the luck, eh?”

  “Some people,” Charlie agreed. “Where’s this fab meeting going to take place?”

  “You really are out of it, aren’t you,” Marianne said. “Tonight. Just down the road at the London Pavilion.”

  “The premiere of their film,” Jackie added. “A Hard Day’s Night.”

  “Ah…” Charlie said. “Yes. Of course. July the…er…”

  “July the 6th,” Marianne provided.

  “1964,” Jackie said humorously.

  “They’re expecting Princess Margaret and Lord Snowdon. Fifteen guineas a ticket.”

  “Yes, I know,” Jackie said. “And a stuffy old champagne supper party afterwards at The Dorchester and then on to the Ad Lib Club for some late night hobnobbing with the Rolling Stones. I myself will be enjoying a blind date with a bloke Marianne’s boyfriend went to school with. Not quite the same as consorting with Antony Armstrong-Jones, but I’m told he’s just as good-looking.”

  “He is,” Marianne said, confidentially, to Charlie. “I’ve met him. Justin Duran. Isn’t that the most fab name? All terribly aristocratic and French-sounding. He isn’t, of course. He’s English. From Stoneford. But he’s quite dishy. If I wasn’t already spoken for I’d definitely go for him.”

  “Justin Duran,” Mr. Deeley said, thoughtfully, to Charlie. “This name is very familiar.”

  “Oh! Do you know him too?” Marianne said.

  “Indeed. I also attended school with him.”

  Charlie gave Mr. Deeley a look.

  “Top bloke,” Mr. Deeley continued. “I recall he excelled in the study of Latin, and World Geography, and had committed to memory Lacroix’s Differential and Integral Calculus. In English, and in the original French.”

  “There you are,” Marianne said to Jackie. “A gentleman and a scholar. You can’t do better than that!”

  • • •

  Outside the boutique, Charlie burst into laughter. “That was my dad they were talking about!”

  “Hence the familiarity.”

  “You’re mad! She’s going to tell him all about you, and they’ll both know you’re completely insane!”

  “Then they will conclude that I am a rogue and a madman, who enjoys playing pranks upon unsuspecting young ladies.”

  “Perhaps he won’t remember you.”

  “Why should it matter?”

  “Because of the future, Mr. Deeley. Our future. You’ve never actually met my dad…the opportunity’s never presented itself. But I’ve sent him photos, obviously…and I’ve talked about you a lot with him, and mentioned your name…I wonder if he’s wondered about you…”

  “I should think, Mrs. Collins, that it would be your mother who ought to remember. I have met her. And yet, she has no recollection of seeing me before. Unlike your grandmother, who did recall our meeting, but kept it a secret until her death. Do you not think this peculiar?”

  Charlie was deep in thought. “Yes. That’s very true. Mum ought to have remembered.”

  She looked up and considered the road, with its narrow pavement on both sides, and two lanes of cars crammed in between, and everywhere, people, young and curious, their eyes filled with adventure, their faces reflecting the optimism of the very beginning of the Swinging Sixties.

  “What are we doing here, Mr. Deeley? Was it John Lennon’s plectrum? Is that what brought us back to 1964?”

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Deeley said. They were walking north, towards Oxford Street. “Perhaps,” he continued, “we are simply becoming more accustomed to the ability. I have discovered that if I wish it so, it becomes so. The plectrum was a lens for your thoughts. As was the shop, when we went inside. Did you wish to come here?”

  “Not consciously,” Charlie said as they passed the brown and white gables of Liberty and walked up Argyll Street.

  “Palladium,” said Mr. Deeley, reading the golden letters spread across the tops of a collection Corinthian columns.

  “Very famous. And Grade II listed. This, Mr. Deeley, is where Beatlemania began. Sunday, the 13th of October, 1963.”

  “Fascinating,” said Mr. Deeley, who knew about the Beatles because he’d asked Charlie one evening about a song he’d heard, Please Please Me, and Charlie had told him to look it up. And he had. For three days.

  “Is there a purpose to it all, Mr. Deeley?”

  “To Beatlemania? Most definitely. There would be no premiere of A Hard Day’s Night this evening without it.”

  Charlie smiled. “You know what I mean. Is there a purpose to our time travelling? We’ve done this three times before…and each time, it was for a reason. We did something. We influenced something that would otherwise have been un-influenced. What’s the purpose of this journey?”

  “Perhaps,” said Mr. Deeley, “this has something to do with the child. The half-sibling you didn’t know existed. Perhaps this is when he or she came to be.”

  “Perhaps not a half-brother or sister at all. Perhaps a full brother or sister,” Charlie said. “My mum’s going to meet my dad for the first time tonight. But she didn’t actually marry him until 1969. Perhaps their circumstances just didn’t allow them to marry before that…and she had to give the baby up for adoption. The time we’re in now, Mr. Deeley, is very different from the time we came from, when it comes to unmarried women and their babies. It would have been so difficult for her.”

  Charlie stopped. She stopped because Mr. Deeley had stopped, and was observing a little man on the pavement just ahead of them. He looked to be about fifty, with round, wire-framed spectacles. He wore black trousers and an old-fashioned pullover vest, underneath which was a white shirt, with rolled-up sleeves. He was playing something Celtic on a battered fiddle with exceptional skill, his violin case open on the pavement in front of him for the collection of coins.

  “A busker,” Charlie provided. “Usually found in Underground stations…but not all that uncommon on the surface. I expect the police will ask him to move along.”

  “I am acquainted with this gentleman,” Mr. Deeley replied. “He is Fenwick Oldbutter.”

  “T
he time traveller?” Charlie said. “Ruby Firth gave me his business card…”

  “And I consulted him, in matters to do with the interference of history.” He approached the little man. “Good day, sir. Have we crossed paths by design, or by accident?”

  Fenwick Oldbutter completed his tune. “The word ‘accident’ appears in my lexicon infrequently,” he replied.

  “Then by design,” Mr. Deeley said. “Allow me to introduce Charlotte Duran.”

  Fenwick Oldbutter’s eyes were bright.

  “The love of your life. So pleased to meet you at last, my dear. And happy that you did not, after all, perish in the Blitz. Are you hungry?”

  Charlie realized that she was, indeed, quite hungry. They had left Giles Jessop’s flat just after two. It was now, unaccountably, nearly five.

  “There’s a hamburger restaurant round the corner,” Fenwick said. “I frequent it often. Do join me. My treat.”

  • • •

  The restaurant, near Oxford Circus, was not overly busy. The waitresses wore black frocks with white collars, and the tables were stocked with little grey pots of hot English mustard, and tomato-shaped plastic sauce holders.

  “Just wait till the Yanks invade in a few years’ time,” Fenwick said, as their burgers arrived, on china plates with a paper napkin underneath. “I shan’t bother to warn them.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Deeley, applying a liberal layer of mustard to his hamburger. “It is not within your remit to warn anyone of anything, as I recall.” He added mustard to Charlie’s hamburger as well. “He belongs to the same circle of travellers as Mrs. Firth. And he, also, has undertaken the oath of non-interference. Although our meeting, by design, would seem to contradict his intentions.”

  “Did you know we were going to arrive?” Charlie asked, scraping off most of the hot mustard that Mr. Deeley had added to her hamburger and replacing it with ketchup from the squeeze-bottle.

  “Are you in possession of the plectrum which lately belonged to John Lennon?” Fenwick asked.