Step Back in Time

by Ali McNamara

  ‘Where on earth did you learn to do this, Jo-Jo?’ she asks. ‘Have you been taking lessons from that Fanny Cradock?’

  I assume Fanny Cradock must be the sixties TV equivalent of Mary Berry or Jamie Oliver. ‘Er, no, my granny taught me how to bake when I was little, and my sisters and I used to go and stay with her in the holidays. But these,’ I say proudly, scanning my hand across the plates of finished cupcakes, ‘these are almost as good as the ones that the Hummingbird Bakery make, aren’t they?’

  ‘The what bakery?’ Ellie asks, looking puzzled.

  ‘The Hummingbird,’ I say without thinking, as I now concentrate on piping out some pink icing on to a row of cakes. ‘The place you go and get cakes from when it’s someone’s birthday in the office.’

  ‘Have you breathed in too much icing sugar? We don’t celebrate birthdays at work, do we? It’s not allowed. Let alone going out to buy cakes from a bakery!’

  ‘Maybe they should start then,’ I suggest quickly. Damn, I need to be more careful. It was so easy to relax and forget. ‘So what do you think?’ I ask her, standing back to admire my work.

  ‘They look fantastic, Jo-Jo, never seen fairy cakes like them before in me life!’

  ‘Cupcakes,’ I remind her.

  ‘Cakes for giant fairies!’ she grins.

  ‘I don’t care what you call them, when you hand them out tomorrow I’m sure everyone will love them.’ I flop down on to a chair. Gosh that was hard work, but I really enjoyed it. I can’t remember the last time I had a chance to do some home baking. Something else I used to really enjoy, but haven’t had the time for in years.

  ‘I can’t take all the credit for these little beauties,’ Ellie says, still admiring the cakes. ‘You made them, you must hand them out. They can be your attempt to win employee of the month.’

  ‘No way! I did this to help you. You were part of the baking process, I didn’t do it all myself. Plus, I’m not bothered about winning the prize.’

  Ellie looks stunned. Her pert little mouth forms a big round O. ‘How can you even say that, Jo-Jo?’ she asks in shock. ‘It’s the Beatles, everyone wants to meet the Beatles!’

  I shrug. ‘Not me. Can’t see what all the fuss is about.’

  Ellie shakes her head, and a curl of her blonde hair falls down from where she has it pinned up on the top of her head. ‘Jo-Jo, you’ve changed,’ she says, a tinge of sadness in her voice. ‘I dunno what it is about you, it’s almost like…’

  ‘Like what?’ I ask, suddenly afraid she’s going to make some incredible guess as to what’s going on.

  ‘Like you’ve lost some of your spark.’

  ‘What do you mean, my spark?’

  Ellie shrugs now. ‘I’m not sure really, you’re just so down about everything, so serious these days. You’ve no enthusiasm for life like you used to have, and you never have any fun. In fact, making these cakes tonight is the happiest I’ve seen you in ages!’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Ellie,’ I say lightly. ‘Of course I’m happy. I just don’t show it quite as visually as you. I was happy when we went out with Harry and his friends last night.’

  ‘Yes, I have to give you that. Harry certainly seems to put a skip in your step,’ she winks.

  ‘See?’ I grin to keep her happy. But beneath my smile I realise the Jo-Jo she’s describing is exactly the Jo-Jo of the future.

  Maybe that’s why I’m here? To try and regain some of my spark? I’ve already realised in the short time I’ve been here that I must make time when I get back to find some fun outside of work. I enjoyed being out with Harry at the World’s End, and I loved making cakes with Ellie tonight. For a few precious minutes I’d forgotten all about time travel and working out how to get back home. I simply enjoyed being in the moment – and that was something I never did, now or in the future.

  But I get the feeling it’s not going to be as easy as simply discovering how to enjoy having fun again. Life, whatever life you’re living in, never is.

  Seven

  ‘Have you tasted Ellie’s fairy cakes yet?’ Harry asks, bounding into the reception area at EMI. He’s carrying some files and a large cupcake with blue icing and green and pink Smarties on top. ‘They’re delicious!’

  ‘I have, actually,’ I smile as he puts the files down and takes a big bite out of his cake. ‘They’re excellent.’

  ‘They can’t get enough of them upstairs,’ Harry mumbles with a full mouth. ‘I could barely get a look-in. I bet she’s getting plenty of Brownie points.’

  ‘Good. I mean good they’re popular, not good you nearly didn’t get one. So…’ I ask, looking at him as he brushes crumbs off the front of his white shirt. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Harry swallows. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘About the competition, what are you going to try and do to win it?’

  ‘I really don’t know. Everyone is trying everything to get in the bosses’ good books. People are licking up closer to them than they are to Ellie’s icing right now.’

  I laugh. ‘But you want to go, right? To the luncheon? You want to go and meet the Beatles?’

  ‘Too right I do! It’s the chance of a lifetime, isn’t it? But the thing is, I don’t do anything special here, I just shuffle papers around all day, and I sure as hell can’t bake cakes, so what chance do I have of winning?’

  Why do they all seem to think their existence is pointless? ‘There must be something you can do?’ I ask him hopefully. ‘Something special. What do you like doing when you’re not at work, what are you good at?’

  Harry looks down at his shoes and pretends to wipe an imaginary speck of dirt off the toe by rubbing it on his trouser leg. ‘Nothing, I just like my music.’

  ‘That’s all you do, listen to music?’

  Harry’s head snaps up. ‘And what’s wrong with that? God, Jo-Jo, you’re starting to sound just like my dad before I moved out.’

  The irony. ‘Calm down, I didn’t say there was anything wrong with that, did I? So, do you just listen to music, or do you play anything? Like an instrument?’

  Harry fiddles with the lapel of his grey jacket now. ‘I’ve been known to play a bit of guitar, on occasion.’

  ‘Really? Are you any good?’

  ‘No. Look, I gotta be going, I only popped down to deliver these files and eat my cake quickly. I’ll catch you later, Jo-Jo.’ And before I can say anything else he spins around and disappears through the double doors.

  I sigh; I was only trying to help.

  I gather up the files Harry’s left on the desk and sort them into the piles waiting to be collected by Mr Maxwell and Sir Joseph Lockwood’s secretaries. Sir Joseph is the managing director and I’m not sure why all these files have to be delivered here to me at reception first, but apparently that’s what’s always happened, so I arrange them as neatly as possible into two piles on my desk.

  My telephone buzzes.

  ‘Have you all the files yet, girl?’ Mr Maxwell barks down the line at me.

  ‘Yes, they’re right here, Mr Maxwell, I’m just waiting for Prudence to come down and collect them.’

  ‘Prudence has gone home. Her son, or her daughter, or was it her dog? – I don’t know, something equally inconvenient to me – has been taken ill.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yes, well, it means I need you to bring the files up to me as soon as reception is free for you to do so.’

  ‘OK… I mean, yes sir, I’ll do that sir, just as soon as I can, sir.’

  ‘Hmm…’ I hear before the line goes dead.

  As soon as reception is empty I scoop the files up from the desk and head up to the top floor.

  When I reach Mr Maxwell’s office, Prudence’s desk is indeed vacated, so I rest the files on it, freeing up my hand to knock on the big wooden door that leads into Mr Maxwell’s private office.

  But as I go to do this I notice the door is already slightly ajar, so I take a little peek inside.

  Walter Maxwell i
s standing by his desk gazing down at a small silver photo frame in his hand and, as he turns his head a little in my direction, his desperately sad expression makes me gasp.

  His head snaps up. ‘Who’s there?’ he hisses, thrusting the frame down on to the desk.

  ‘It’s me, Mr Maxwell,’ I say, gently pushing the door open. ‘I’ve brought the files as you requested.’

  ‘Oh… right, I see.’ He clears his throat. ‘Well, bring them in! Bring them in!’ He quickly turns his face away.

  I hurry back out to Prudence’s desk and pick up the files. When I return to the office Walter Maxwell is sitting at his desk, blowing his nose hard on a blue handkerchief.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, girl,’ he says, stuffing the hankie back in his top pocket. ‘Put them down on the desk!’

  I do this, quickly glancing at the photo in the frame as I place the files down next to him.

  It’s a photo of a younger-looking Mr Maxwell, with a woman and two children leaning up against a brand new car. Mr Maxwell is holding some keys and they all look very happy and relaxed.

  ‘Is this your family?’ I ask bravely, expecting my head to be bitten off for such a personal question.

  Walter Maxwell looks for a brief moment as if he’s going to do more than just bite my head off; he looks like he’s going to chew my arms and legs off one by one too. Then his face softens.

  ‘They were,’ he says, looking towards the frame again. And I notice his eyes glisten under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the office. Was he crying when I disturbed him just now?

  ‘Were?’ I venture again. ‘Did something happen? Have you and your wife separated?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Worse?’ I ask again, hardly wanting to know the answer. What happened to them? Were they killed in a car accident? Bludgeoned to death by a mass murderer? This was the sixties; what horrible criminals were around then? The Yorkshire Ripper? No I think he was the seventies, or was it the eighties? The great train robbers? They were the sixties, weren’t they? But they were hardly likely to have murdered Mr Maxwell’s family!

  ‘Let’s just say we’re not together any more and leave it at that,’ he says sadly, his gaze returning to the photo again.

  ‘Yes, of course. Well, you all looked very happy in that photo. I’m sure you had some lovely times together.’

  I feel like slapping myself in the face. Shut up, Jo-Jo! That’s not going to help, now is it?

  ‘We were,’ he replies to my surprise. ‘We’d just bought a new car with a little win I’d had on the lottery. It was a great day. But, sadly, no more.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, genuinely meaning it. ‘It’s awful to be parted from your family.’

  ‘Don’t let it happen to you, Jo-Jo,’ he says, looking directly at me for the first time since I came into the room.

  ‘Don’t let what happen, Mr Maxwell?’ I’m surprised he actually remembers my name.

  ‘Don’t become old and lonely like me. Do something about it while you can. Loneliness is a very sad place to find yourself in.’

  ‘You’re not old, Mr Maxwell,’ I say lightly, trying to lift his mood. ‘I’m sure there’s someone out there for you.’

  ‘Yes, there is, Jo-Jo – I just can’t get back to them any more.’

  I’m about to ask him what he means when there’s a delicate knock on the door, and Cynthia from accounts timidly pokes her head through the opening.

  ‘I have this month’s figures, Mr Maxwell,’ she says nervously, as she glances at me standing next to the desk. ‘If it’s a bad time I can come back?’

  ‘No, Cynthia, that won’t be necessary. Jo-Jo is just leaving. Thank you, Jo-Jo,’ he nods at me. ‘And remember what I said. Yes?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Maxwell, and thank you.’ I smile at him, and turn to leave the office, passing Cynthia on her way in.

  ‘You must have the magic touch!’ she whispers as I pass.

  ‘I heard that, Cynthia!’ The booming voice echoes across the office as Walter Maxwell reverts to his usual role. ‘And I can assure you that David Nixon himself wouldn’t have the magic touch on me!’

  As I wink at Cynthia and hurry out of the office, I wonder who David Nixon could be. But as I make my way down to reception again something doesn’t feel right. What was it about that meeting with Walter Maxwell that’s unsettling me? I think about the conversation we just had, and then suddenly stop dead in my tracks in the middle of the corridor.

  He said the lottery. He said he’d won the money to buy his new car on the lottery. There were football pools in this country in the sixties – I know that because my grandad had won some money on them once. He was always telling us about it, and how he’d paid for the first proper family holiday abroad with the money. But there wasn’t a lottery in the sixties for sure – that didn’t exist until 1994.

  Damn! I stamp my foot in frustration. Why didn’t I notice that when he said it just now? I look back towards the office, wondering if I should go back. Then something else hits me in the face. Something so obvious I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before. The car that Walter Maxwell and his family were pictured standing in front of in the silver-framed photo wasn’t a classic sixties Ford Anglia, Volkswagen Beetle or brand new Mini, as it should have been if they’d just bought a new car in the sixties. No, the car they were all standing next to, smiling happily at their win on the lottery, was an extremely expensive-looking, top-of-the-range, bright red BMW.

  Eight

  I stand completely still in the corridor for a few moments, trying to take in the enormity of what I’ve just discovered.

  Walter Maxwell’s car is most probably from the mid-nineties. I know this because my dad had driven one just like it as his company car, and I remember us all scrambling to get our favourite seats in the back for family outings.

  But if that is the case, and Walter’s car is from the nineties, then is he also? Is Walter like me? Is he one of the people George hinted at who is stuck here from another time and unable to return? And if that is the case, how has he got a photo of his former life with him back here in 1963? Can our possessions travel with us too?

  I’m about to head back up to his office to confront him and ask him further questions, when I hear the faint sound of a guitar playing, and someone singing in a low voice. I look round; it’s coming from the room I’m standing outside. The melody is soothing and gentle, and the voice, although quiet, is rich and warm in tone. I push the door, which is already slightly ajar, open a tad more to see who it is playing.

  And the person sitting on a chair with his back to me isn’t a sixties musician strumming his latest tune on a guitar while his manager and roadies look on, but someone that looks remarkably like Harry.

  I listen to him sing gently and quite beautifully along with his guitar. When he finishes I feel like I should applaud, and I’m about to say something when a voice behind me makes me jump.

  ‘What are you doing up here, Jo-Jo?’ Miss Fields asks.

  In the room Harry jumps too and turns around to see me peeking through the door. He glares at me.

  I quickly turn around and step away from the door.

  ‘I was just on my way back from Mr Maxwell’s office,’ I reply smartly. ‘Actually, I’m pleased I’ve seen you, Miss Fields, I have some files for you on my desk downstairs. If you’d be so good as to follow me I can pass them on to you.’

  I begin to walk down the corridor, praying that Miss Fields will follow me. Luckily she does, because I’m pretty sure Harry isn’t supposed to be practising his guitar during work hours, let alone in one of the upstairs offices as I’ve just found him doing all on his own.

  Reception is so busy during the afternoon, there’s no chance of me returning to see Mr Maxwell, or even getting the time to pop up to Harry’s office to apologise for listening in on him earlier.

  When it’s finally time to go home, Mr Maxwell has left early for a business dinner, but I manage to catch Harry on his way out o
f the office.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I pant, almost running down the street as I try and keep up with his big lolloping strides. ‘About earlier. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But you’re very good, you know, with the guitar and the singing?’

  ‘I don’t like people listening to me play,’ Harry says, still walking and looking ahead.

  ‘Why were you doing it at work then? You must have known someone would overhear you!’

  ‘I walked past the room just like you did,’ Harry says, looking across at me and slowing down to my pace. ‘And I saw the guitar all set up with a stand and a chair and everything. It must have been for someone they were going to listen to for a demo. You know, to see if they want to offer them a contract?’

  I nod.

  ‘I just couldn’t help myself; I had to have a go. Pretend it was me for a few minutes.’

  ‘Is that what you’d like to do one day, sing professionally?’

  Harry shrugs. ‘Maybe. Write songs mainly, because that’s what I love to do best.’

  ‘You should give it a go then.’

  Harry stops walking now and looks at me. ‘And just how am I supposed to do that, Jo-Jo? I work in the advertising department of a record company and I’m just a junior office boy, so no one notices me. No one’s going to stand up one day and shout “open auditions for a new talent show, anyone welcome. We’ll make you an overnight superstar”.’

  No, but they will one day, I think. You just need to wait a few decades…

  ‘Maybe not, but there must be some way of you getting heard by the right people.’

  Harry smiles down at me. ‘Very determined, aren’t you?’ he says gently, his eyes tracing their way slowly over my eager face. ‘Does anything ever stop you from getting what you want?’

  ‘Not often,’ I reply, looking back up at him. ‘I believe that if you really want something you should go for it. Don’t let anything stand in your way.’