by Andy Conway
Table of Contents
About This Book
This collection is dedicated to
1. THE SINS OF THE FATHERS
Dedication
Note on the Second Edition
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— Epilogue —
2. FAMILY AT WAR
Dedication
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— Epilogue —
Historical Notes
3. ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD
Dedication
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— Epilogue —
4. STATION AT THE END OF TIME
Dedication
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— Epilogue —
5. LET’S FALL IN LOVE FOR THE LAST TIME
Dedication
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— Epilogue —
6. FADE TO GREY
Dedication
The Soundtrack
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— Epilogue —
Thank you
Next in the Touchstone saga
FREE DOWNLOAD
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright Notice
About This Book
In a small corner of Birmingham, England, Rachel and Danny are a pair of mismatched History students from opposite sides of the tracks. But they find their lives thrown together when an old gravestone catapults them back into their neighbourhood’s dark Edwardian past, where they have just three days to prevent the murder of a teenage girl.
In 1912, they find that every action has an unforeseen consequence that can ripple through generations, and that some characters from the past have seen them before.
"I believe it’s one of the best series of its kind.”
Six books and a century of time travel. Touchstone Season 1 is a moving saga that has won rave reviews from young and old readers alike with its intelligent blend of time travel, science fiction, historical romance and fantasy.
"If you haven’t read this series yet — you simply must! But beware — you will be hooked!!”
This Ebook Box Set edition contains all six novels in Touchstone Season 1, comprising over a quarter of a million words, and 1000 pages in the original paperback editions.
"Had me hooked from start to finish... It’s a magnificent story.”
Contains the following titles:
1. The Sins of the Fathers [1912]
2. Family at War [1940]
3. All the Time in the World [1966]
4. Station at the End of Time [1959]
5. Let's Fall in Love for the Last Time [1934]
6. Fade to Grey [1980]
This collection is dedicated to
David O’Reilly
who saw it first
1. THE SINS OF THE FATHERS
Dedication
To Norah
Note on the Second Edition
THIS IS A COMPLETE rewrite of Touchstone (1. The Sins of the Fathers), which increases the original story by 150%.
The original novellas for the first two Touchstone books were written in a rush of inspiration in 2011, quickly adapted from TV scripts, and, though successful, always seemed quite light on plot as well as character. As the Touchstone saga grew, the books got longer, the tone darker, and over the years I’ve looked at them and thought they just don’t match the rest of the series, and give a false impression of what’s in store.
Finally, in 2018, I had an idea for how to solve this.
Alongside the original Rachel and Danny timeslip story, now sit a number of other chapters bringing in characters from later in the series. There’s a sense that this is rounding off the experience, or, in the words of the fictional Arthur Conan Doyle who occasionally appears in Touchstone, ‘sometimes the end of the story is also the beginning.’
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RACHEL WAS BACK IN the churchyard in an instant. The rotting smell of the place gagged her as she gasped a deep breath and ran over soft grass to the wrought-iron gates at the back of the graveyard. Stumbling down the slate slope, she heaved the gates open with all her strength.
Men loading barrels shouted as she ran past, heading for the chink of blazing light at the end of the alley.
She darted out to Moseley’s village green, a busy crossroads hub of horse-drawn coaches, electric trams and elegant Edwardians promenading. She ran straight into a couple, wheeled round, shouted an apology and sprinted to her right, up the hill towards the Prince of Wales, gripping her long skirt, the heavy drag of it weighing her down. Startled Edwardians dodged out of her way, shouting admonitions she couldn’t hear over the panting of her own breath.
Her lungs burned as she ran past the Prince of Wales and started the easier descent down the hill, legs slowing, growing heavy, her breath catching in her throat in desperate panic. She heard the rumble of the electric tram behind her, coming from the village green, and let out a desperate yelp, trying to quicken her steps. Another few moments and it would be too late.
The tram let out a wail that jolted her. She was so close now. It rattled alongside her, hissing, grumbling, taunting as it overtook, startled passengers watching her frantic sprint. She saw the house up ahead. Nearly there. And suddenly a bizarre scene erupted from it.
A girl ran out into the street. A young man came flying out of the house after her, as if fired from a cannon.
The tram’s brakes screeched. Sparks flew up from the silver rails. The ring-ring of the tram bell split their ears.
An older man in a waistcoat dashed out of the house, following the couple, waving a cane.
The girl stopped, wheeled around and saw the tram bearing down on her.
The young man careened across the street to catch her.
Rachel ran towards them, panic on her face, arm outstretched, too late, and shouted, “Don’t!”
Someone screamed.
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“RACHEL!”
She shut down her laptop and grabbed her bag, doing a last quick check: phone, purse, bus pass, iPod, then a quick glance in the mirror, a ruffle of her auburn hair and she was out on the landing in a second, feet clacking on the bare floorboards.
She’d hated the lack of a stairs carpet for years, all through school, but now floorboards had become fashionable she’d stopped worrying about it, and she never saw any old school friends anyway, so there was no one to bring round and no embarrassment to feel. Her dad had painted them white, which was better than nothing.
“Do you want a lift or not?”
Martyn was at the foot of the stairs, tapping his wristwatch with a massive finger, a rugby league manager on the touchline.
“Yes!” she said, trying to sound sullen, but unable to hide her smile. Her dad was too funny for her to get away with being a sulky teenager.
“Come on then,” he said. “Some of us have got proper work to go to.”
“Very funny, Dad.”
She clumped down the stairs in her DMs, his amused eyes watching her, always teasing. He called back into the lounge.
“See you, Mum! We’re off!”
Olive, her grandma, emerged from the front room for her goodbye kiss, turtle-slow.
“Ta ra, Nan.”
“Bye, Rachel,” she said and gripped her arm tightly, whispering low like it should be a secret from Martyn. “Now, do you need any money to take to your Uni?”
“No, Nan. I’m fine.”
She kissed her sallow cheek, taking in the stale musk of her perfume and followed Martyn out. She had no money, but she didn’t want to take her Nan’s all the time. It wasn’t fair.
Martyn was already in the car, a rust bucket that wasn’t old enough to be fashionably retro nor new enough to be respectable. Rachel rushed through the chill November air to jump in and slam the door. Cold vinyl seat.
Olive waved them off from the doorstep, hugging herself, and they pulled out of the drive with the heater creaking, to join the slow snake of traffic.
“You know I’m only going to the village today?” she said.
“What?” Martyn clutched his chest, faking a heart
attack. “If I’d known that I’d have made you walk.”
“I’m late, though,” she laughed.
“You’ll get fat.”
“Dad!” She grinned and punched his arm.
“All right, attacking the driver. Where’s that ejector seat button?”
They were there in ten minutes – he was right, she could have walked it in five – the rush hour traffic crawling through Moseley, down St Mary’s Row to the church standing sentinel over the village green. She undid her seat belt and picked up the canvas bag between her feet.
“Have a nice day with your posh University friends,” Martyn joked.
“They’re not my friends,” she said. “They’re all rich kids. I hate them.”
“Do you need any money?” he said, suddenly serious.
“No. I’m fine. You’re worse than Nan.”
She kissed him on his sandpaper cheek and climbed out, waving to him as he drove on through the crossroads. She waited for the lights to turn red so the traffic would stop and she could cross the road. It was busy and she could see the crowd of people already gathered on the ‘village green’.
It hadn’t been a village green for maybe a hundred years or more, but everyone still called it ‘Moseley village’ and they still called the triangular island to the side of the crossroads ‘the green’, which was an historical hangover she found fascinating. An idea for an essay, she thought. How the past clung so persistently to the present, and how it was exemplified in this inner city urban ‘village’. Something along those lines. The thrill of study fluttered in her belly. This was the difference between school and University – a new world of independent enquiry was opening up before her; a means by which she might pursue ideas and forge an identity. To research and cogitate and forge a unique way of looking at the world that was entirely her own; that was the most exciting thing in the world right now.
The lights changed, the traffic stopped and she took a deep breath and crossed over, clutching her bag strap tightly to hide her nervousness. She’d been at University for three weeks now and even though she was the girl who’d lived locally all her life, they made her feel like she was the stranger.
She had seen old photographs of when it really had been a green, but it was paved now and contained a few benches, flowerbeds, the bus stop that led back to her house, low railings that had been put up a few years ago and now had dead flowers hanging from them to mark a road accident. The sad commemoration of someone forgotten. The village green surrounded by shops and busy morning traffic. She tried to imagine what it would have been like in the old days, when it was a peaceful little island at the centre of a real village, horses and carriages the only traffic.
The other students were waiting in clusters here and there, the groups that had already formed, and to none of which she belonged, all smoking and trying to look too cool for school. She didn’t get that at all. It was University. No one had made them take a degree in History so why the pretence that it was so deadly dull and beneath them?