Step Back in Time

by Ali McNamara

  And the thought of never seeing Harry again is, I have to admit, a scary one.

  But first things first, I must get to Liverpool, pay my respects to George, and see if the city of his and the Beatles birth might solve my time travel mystery for me once and for all.

  The cemetery George is buried in is out in Woolton, a suburb of Liverpool, so as soon as my train arrives at Lime Street station I immediately head over to the taxi rank.

  I’m a little surprised that the taxi driver knows the cemetery as soon as I mention its name. That’s odd, I think, perhaps it’s a popular church for funerals and weddings in the area? After a short journey the taxi pulls up outside a large church with a number of cars and people already milling about outside. Then I see a bride and groom climbing into a big black car a few yards down the road in front of us, and I realise there must be a wedding going on.

  ‘Busy today,’ I comment to the driver as I climb out.

  ‘Yes, it always is,’ he says. ‘I come here almost every day.’

  Strange, I think again. Every day?

  ‘Can you wait for me?’ I ask him. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘Didn’t think you would be,’ he says, already opening a newspaper on top of his steering wheel. ‘Yeah, love, I’ll be right here.’

  I close the cab door and look up at St Peter’s Church in front of me; it’s built in a red-brown brick, which makes a striking contrast against the bright blue of the sky on this sunny Saturday afternoon.

  The wedding guests have mostly filtered away now, so I walk quietly round the back of the church clutching the sunflowers I’ve brought with me.

  In the graveyard I walk carefully past all the new headstones until I find George’s, then I pause in front of it to read the inscription.

  IN LOVING MEMORY OF

  GEORGE ‘LENNON’ McCARTNEY

  1ST FEBRUARY 1933 – 3RD FEBRUARY 2013

  GONE, BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN

  ALWAYS IN OUR LONELY HEARTS CLUB BAND

  I stand and stare at the gravestone, a deep sense of sadness suddenly engulfing me. Poor George. At least he’d just reached that magical eighty, though, before he passed away in February.

  Wait, February? That can’t be right. I was still here in February 2013. It was in the summer that I visited George in his shop with his accounts. The weather had been so beautiful that day, and the shops on the King’s Road full of outfits ready for people’s summer holidays. I’d stopped and looked at some of them, and that’s what had nearly made me late. George was still alive in the summer! I saw him. I spoke to him. He made me a cup of tea. How could this say he died in February?

  I think about George, and how he always knew so much about what was going on with me. I always got the feeling he knew more but wouldn’t say. Then there were those occasions he did seem to know about the future, even though he shouldn’t have done.

  Was George a time traveller, too? But George hadn’t had that look about him that the others had; he wasn’t struggling with everything that was going on. Even Billy, who’d been happy to be where he was, wasn’t like George. George was always calm and serene, always knew the right thing to say, always seemed at peace with everything and everyone. He’d looked after me when I’d been in need, always been there for me when I needed guidance. He was like… I pause. No, I don’t believe in things like that. But I didn’t believe in time travel before, either. Was the George that I knew a ghost? Or even… I look round at the graveyard and see a huge stone angel on top of one of the gravestones… My guardian angel?

  ‘No! No…’ I protest, dropping to my knees. ‘You were real, George, I know you were.’

  ‘Are you all right, young lady?’ a soft voice asks. ‘Loss can be a very frustrating time, as well as a sad one.’

  I turn to find an elderly vicar looking down at me with concern.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. It’s just come as a shock, that’s all. I had no idea he’d died until this morning.’

  The vicar nods knowingly, then he looks at me with new interest. ‘You wouldn’t be Jo-Jo would you, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, yes I am. But why?’

  ‘Ah…’ He smiles. ‘He moves in mysterious ways, that’s for sure,’ he mutters almost under his breath. ‘Wait right here, young lady, I have something for you.’

  The vicar hurries back towards the church while I’m left on my knees in front of the grave wondering what’s going on now. He returns quickly.

  ‘This was left for you,’ he says, thrusting a white envelope in my direction. ‘It was delivered after George’s funeral with the express instruction that it was to be given to a young lady of your name who would visit his grave on this day.’

  I look at the envelope. It does indeed have my name on the front in an ornate black script.

  ‘Should I open it now?’ I ask, standing up to take the letter from him.

  ‘That, my dear, is up to you,’ the vicar says gently. ‘Do you feel up to it?’

  I look down at the envelope again; I know the letter is from George before I even open it because the two ‘O’s in my name have been doodled into two sunflowers. ‘I’ll wait, if you don’t mind,’ I say, looking up at him. ‘I think it will be kind of personal and, as I said before, this has all been quite distressing enough today already.’

  ‘Of course,’ the vicar agrees, nodding. ‘Death can be so sudden, and such a shock for us all to deal with. But I can reassure you it’s not the end.’ He glances at the gravestone. ‘George will be up there somewhere, enjoying himself, playing his Beatles songs. I assume he was a fan?’ He inclines his head towards the stone again.

  ‘Yes, yes he was. A big one.’

  ‘Understandable that he wanted to be buried here, then,’ the vicar says, smiling knowingly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you not know? There’s a common folktale that suggests that one of the headstones here was the one that inspired the song “Eleanor Rigby”.’

  My heart, which skipped a few beats when I read the inscription on George’s gravestone a few moments ago, and then again when I got his letter, now almost stops beating altogether at the mention of another Beatles link. ‘There is? Where?’

  ‘Just around there,’ he says, pointing. ‘It’s with the older headstones. You’ll find it easily enough if you want to take a look. There’s usually someone taking a photo or two around that area.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, reaching for his hand and shaking it vigorously. ‘And thank you, George.’ I lay my sunflowers up against his headstone. ‘I don’t quite know yet how you were there with me all the time, George,’ I whisper to him. ‘But I’m so glad you were.’

  I jump to my feet again, thank the mystified-looking vicar once more, then hurry to the older part of the graveyard, where, just as the vicar had said there might be, a middle-aged couple are taking photos of a gravestone.

  As I get closer they move aside to make room for me.

  ‘Your turn now,’ the man, clearly American, says smiling. ‘We’ve got our photos.’

  I look at the gravestone. The first part reads:

  IN LOVING MEMORY OF

  MY DEAR HUSBAND

  JOHN RIGBY

  WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE

  OCTOBER 4TH 1915 AGED 72 YEARS

  “AT REST”

  The next part then lists his wife and daughter as being buried there too, and then there it is:

  ELEANOR RIGBY, GRANDDAUGHTER OF THE ABOVE, DIED 1939.

  I read the names on the grave again. Is this it? This means nothing to me. How is this going to help?

  ‘Are you a bit disappointed?’ the man asks. ‘We are, aren’t we, Molly? We expected something a bit more.’

  ‘Yeah, “Eleanor Rigby” is one of my favourite Beatles songs. You’d think they’d do something a bit better than this.’

  ‘I don’t really think the gravestone was erected for the song,’ I say, humouring them. ‘The song might have been inspired by the name, perhaps? I think there’s a few
theories actually.’

  ‘Ah…’ they say, nodding and looking at the stone again. ‘You could be right.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m looking forward to seeing the statue more anyway,’ Molly says.

  ‘There’s an Eleanor Rigby statue?’ I ask. ‘Where?’

  ‘Somewhere in the centre of town, we’re not exactly sure where, are we, Desmond? We were gonna go find it tomorrow after our Beatles Magical Mystery bus tour and I’ve read this wonderfully quaint little English tale about it.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask, more out of politeness than interest. My mind is already working out how I’m going to find this statue.

  ‘Apparently when the statue was erected, they buried five things underneath it to represent different facets of life.’

  ‘I didn’t know this,’ Desmond says, looking at Molly with interest.

  ‘You’re not the only one who knows how to use that computer of yours, Desmond,’ Molly laughs, looking up at him smugly.

  ‘What sort of things?’ I ask.

  ‘To represent fun and humour it was a Beano comic – that’s a British thing, right?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah…’ I say, my spine suddenly beginning to tingle. ‘What else was there?’

  ‘For leisure a pair of soccer boots – football, you’d call it.’

  ‘Go on,’ I encourage her.

  ‘For luck, a four-leaf clover; for spirituality, a Bible, and for love… this part is so romantic,’ she says in delight, clasping her hands together.

  ‘Come on, don’t leave us in suspense, what is it, woman?’ Desmond demands.

  ‘Yes,’ I ask quietly, hardly believing my ears. ‘What is it, Molly?’

  ‘Sonnets of love.’

  ‘That’s cool,’ Desmond says, nodding. ‘Do you think it could be true?’ he asks, looking at me.

  ‘I really don’t know,’ I answer honestly. ‘I didn’t even know the statue existed until Molly said. But something I’ve learnt recently is: you should always believe anything is possible. I’m really sorry, but I have to go now,’ I apologise as I dash away from the gravestone, ‘But enjoy your time in Liverpool!’

  I jump back into my cab.

  ‘Do you know where the Eleanor Rigby statue is?’ I ask my taxi driver as he calmly refolds his newspaper.

  ‘Of course I do, love. Stanley Street, right?’

  ‘If that’s where it is then that’s where we’re going next on this magical mystery tour.’

  I smile to myself. They’ve even got me doing it now.

  As we travel along in the taxi I open up my bag and take out George’s letter. I know I’ve got to read it, but I’m a bit afraid of what it might say. Getting old records from someone you loved and cared about is one thing, but a personal letter, that’s something else. After a few moments of staring at the envelope, I rip it open. Inside there are two pages of white paper covered in the same ornate black handwriting, and the date at the top of the first page suggests George must have written it just before he died:

  28 January 2013

  My Dearest Jo-Jo,

  If you’re reading this letter now, well done! You’ve discovered what you needed to learn to return successfully from your journey to an all-new and improved 2013!

  Many of us have taken a life-changing journey like this before you, and, as you will have learnt, not all return. But I was always confident that you would work out your clues and come back triumphant, which is why, in my last few days here on earth I have agreed to be the one to help you through this extraordinary challenge.

  Everyone who is chosen to undertake this type of journey does so for a different reason, and each person’s experience is unique and personal to them. The circumstances you find yourself in will help you to learn about yourself, and about others, so that your future life can be a more fruitful and happy one for you, and those around you.

  I cannot rationally explain everything that you will witness, Jo-Jo, nor would I want to try; we all find our own truth when we take on a life-changing journey of this kind, and I’m sure by now you’ve found yours, but what I can try and answer are some of the more practical questions you may still have about what has taken place.

  By the time you receive this letter in 2013, Julian will be temporarily in charge of my shop because I will have left this earth. But what you may not have realised is that when you come to visit me in the summer with my accounts before your journey even begins, I will already have moved on then as well. My role as your ‘guide’, shall we call it, has already begun. If you remember back to your original 2013, you have not visited the shop for some time, and neither has Harry, so neither of you will know what has happened. Please don’t feel bad that you didn’t know of my passing. Rest assured, Jo-Jo, it’s all been carefully planned that way.

  At the time of writing this letter I’m not exactly sure what role I’ll be playing throughout your journey, but I hope I will be helpful and comforting to you at the times when you need me most. There will be others you recognise from your own life who will be there to help you along too, and many you will meet who are on, or who have completed their own journeys and now remain to help others, but I will be your principal guide throughout.

  I apologise now if at times I may seem vague or awkward when answering your questions, of which I know there will be many. This is, in part, due to the ‘travelling process’ which can addle even the sharpest of brains, and the fact that we are only allowed to reveal so much information to you for your own good.

  But most of all, Jo-Jo, I hope with all my heart that whatever happens to us, I am a worthy choice to take you through this amazing journey of life.

  Your friend, always,

  George x

  I read the letter through twice, then I stare out of the window at the streets of Liverpool as the taxi whizzes past, but I don’t really see anything.

  Now I know what George was to me. Now I understand why he was so evasive at times and at others knew so much. I find myself smiling as a warm feeling spreads right through me. George was right; I’ve found my truth.

  I pull all the other items from my bag that I’ve collected on my travels, along with the records George left for me – ‘Eleanor Rigby’ and ‘All You Need Is Love’.

  I not only knew about George now, but I knew what all these strange little items meant too: they were all linked together by one Beatles song, ‘Eleanor Rigby’. I had all the clues Molly had talked about at the graveside, all except for love. All I needed was love to complete the set.

  Wait, I think… All I need is Love. Love is all I need?

  That’s it! That’s what George’s second record is about. My final clue to help me piece together everything that has happened…

  It’s love, and, hopefully, I’m going to find it at Eleanor Rigby’s statue.

  Forty-Seven

  The busy Saturday traffic means our journey begins to slow as we get nearer to the city centre again. I wriggle about in the back seat of the taxi, desperate to get out and solve this mystery once and for all. I’m utterly convinced now that Eleanor Rigby will finally provide me with all the answers I need.

  ‘Is it far from here?’ I ask the taxi driver as we queue up at a zebra crossing. Bane of my life those things, I think, watching all the Saturday shoppers and tourists covering the crossing while the beacons flash.

  ‘Just around the corner as the crow flies, love, ’ he says, ‘but by road at this speed, good few minutes yet.’ He looks at me in his rear-view mirror jigging about in the back like I’m bursting for the loo. ‘You’d be quicker to walk it, if yer in a hurry, like.’

  ‘You know what, I think I’ll do that,’ I say, thrusting some money at him and jumping from the cab.

  ‘Just over there,’ he points through his windscreen. ‘There’s a Portaloo just over the road there, in case yer desperate.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, looking in the direction of Stanley Street. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  I wait at the crossing with all the other
people for the beacons to begin flashing orange. When they do I step out confidently with everyone else, making sure I keep in the centre of the crowd. There is no way a runaway car is going to screech round the corner here and knock me down. It would have to take out at least five other people first.

  But as I get to the centre of the crossing, something does make me want to stop, but it’s not the threat of a car about to knock me flying that makes me want to turn around and go the other way, it’s the sight of someone coming towards me who I recognise.

  Lucy.

  As she passes opposite me in the crowd of people hurrying across the black and white stripes, I turn to try and follow her, but trying to fight my way through the sea of carrier bags and Beatles T-shirts is impossible. The tide is just too strong. As the waves deliver me safely on to the far pavement, I immediately turn around to look for her, but the traffic has begun to flow again now, and she’s already been swallowed up into the swarm of people moving along the pavement opposite.

  I stand completely still with my mind racing, while people bump and barge into me. That was Lucy I just saw walking over the crossing. Lucy, my time-travelling friend from 1985. That was incredible enough, but what bothered me even more was that Lucy was wearing a sandwich board strapped across her chest, with the words Ticket to Ride: Beatles Bus Tours emblazoned across both sides.

  Lucy had only worn that sandwich board for one day, she’d told me, the day she got hit by Harry in his sports car. So if Lucy is wearing a sandwich board, and this is 2013, that means that Harry can’t be too far away either.

  I have to get to the statue. And fast.

  I don’t take a lot of notice of the many tourists and buskers as I hurry along Matthew Street and into Stanley Street; my mind is only focused on one thing, getting to the statue. This is it; I know it. Eleanor Rigby is going to answer all my questions and help me save Lucy. She has to.

  As I expect, there are a few people having photos taken next to Eleanor when I arrive. The statue is a bronze figure of a woman sitting alone on a stone bench, with a tiny bronze bird resting next to her. I wait for the people to move on before I hurry forward to take a closer look.