Touchstone Season One- Complete Box Set

by Andy Conway

  — 5 —

  “OF COURSE, I’LL NEED the money in advance, like.” She fidgeted, stroked her greying hair and looked down at the floor. She was embarrassed about money.

  “Absolutely, Mrs Hines,” said Danny.

  He put his suitcase down and dug into his jacket pocket, pulling out a sheaf of notes. He saw her glance at them and her eyes widen. He counted off a few notes — always the same difficulty: why was old money so complicated? You needed a degree in maths to work out how many shillings were in a pound. How had everyone coped before they went decimal?

  He handed the notes over uncertainly and she took them, folded them, didn’t know where to put them.

  “I’ll bring your change to you. It will have to be tomorrow if that’s all right. When the shops open.”

  “That’s all right,” he said. “Whenever.”

  Was she related to Rachel? There was a resemblance but he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t imagining it.

  “So you’ll definitely be wanting dinner tonight?”

  “I think that’ll be great,” he said.

  She frowned again.

  He wasn’t talking properly; wasn’t talking like a man in 1966 should. He had to be careful.

  “Like I said, Mrs Hines, I think most nights I’ll be out and about, but tonight I’d love to just settle in and eat here if that’s okay?”

  “That’s no problem, sir,” she said.

  “Please, just call me Danny.”

  She nodded, grimaced, shrugged uncomfortably.

  He could tell she hadn’t been running a guest house very long. He put his suitcase on the bed. “I was very lucky to get your room. Looks like everyone’s booked up.”

  “You’re here for the World Cup, then?”

  “Yes. I’ll be catching all the Group 2 games while I’m here.”

  She nodded but he could tell she wanted to know more. Was he a tourist, a reporter, an interpreter?

  “I’m a football fan.”

  She smiled for the first time. “Dinner at six in the dining room. Here’s your key.”

  She left him alone. He opened his suitcase and hung up his clothes in the cheap wardrobe. The room wasn’t so bad. A bit bare. He’d have preferred a hotel, something more anonymous, but it was close to Moseley at least.

  When he’d hung up his clothes, he took out his list of World Cup results and went over them again, even though he knew them by heart. Then he counted the wad of money he’d made this afternoon.

  Instead of buying 1966 money from Mitch’s Buygones shop, he’d realized all he needed was a couple of pounds and he could make his own.

  It was difficult to get horse racing results on the internet. You could get results from the last few years, but historical results were harder, especially from day to day races. Wikipedia was useless. He had to go and do what his History tutor Mr Fenwick had always told him to do: forget bloody Wikipedia; go to the library and do some proper research.

  He’d dragged himself to the Central Library and had to wait for an afternoon when they would be open because they were moving their resources over to the new building that was sprouting up in Centenary Square; the latest grand design costing millions.

  He’d known exactly what he needed in order to get his hands on racing results for July 1966.

  Newspapers.

  Old newspapers were a goldmine of information. He never read newspapers; getting all his information off the internet, but if you wanted to time travel, a good look through some old newspapers would set you up nicely.

  He’d noted down all the race meetings, with their winners, and even noted a few runners up too, just so he could pick a couple of each-way wins and not look too suspicious.

  He’d taken his handful of 1966 coins and walked straight into a bookmakers and won a couple of bets. With that money he’d gone to other bookies and spread his bets around, making a tidy sum for the day, enough money to keep him in food and lodging for the month. But tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow he’d place a very different type of bet.

  He kissed the wad of notes and shoved it back into his jacket pocket.

  — 6 —

  THE LATE AFTERNOON quiet spell in the front bar started to thicken with human traffic as more and more of the regulars walked in. There were a good twenty or more who came in every night, many of them straight from work.

  It had surprised her at first, because she’d never been a big pub goer so it had never occurred to her that so many people treated their local pub as a second home.

  Martyn walked in and Rachel’s heart stuttered.

  He smiled and approached the bar and ordered his usual.

  She wondered how he’d never recognized her as the crazy girl who’d turned up on his doorstep a few months ago and tried to walk in, calling him Dad. She would have looked so different though, dressed in her faux-Edwardian Goth clothes, so that when he’d come to his local one night and seen her serving behind the bar, he would maybe think he’d seen her before, another Moseley local, and not fix her as that mad teenager in whose face he’d slammed the door.

  “You’re looking good today,” he said. “Happy, I mean.”

  “Thanks,” she said as she poured his ale. “I’m enjoying the lovely weather.”

  She slid it across to him and smiled politely, trying not to let the feelings welling up inside her gush out.

  “How’s the book? Was it what you wanted?”

  “Yes, thanks! It’s a present for a friend. Someone who asked for it. Not really my thing.”

  “Oh,” said Martyn, frowning. “Boyfriend, is it?”

  He turned half away, leaning on the bar with an elbow as if he didn’t care, but her heart fluttered. This was exactly how he’d enquired about other men in her teenage life when he was her father: pretending not to be concerned, asking ever so casually but waiting for her to divulge just exactly what this boy she’d mentioned meant to her.

  “No, not a boyfriend,” she said, and then hesitated, looking for the right word.

  How did you describe a man who existed long ago in the past who looked after you whatever decade you visited and was always ready with a wardrobe full of historically-correct clothes and who’d given you a large apartment and a trust fund so that you wanted for nothing?

  “My... uncle.”

  Martyn perked up and brushed raindrops off his jacket sleeve. He looked clean. Very clean. And she saw it now for the first time: Martyn, this Martyn, was wealthy. His clothes were not just clean and smart, but expensive, his hair was tidy, he was clean-shaven with nasal hair trimmed, no bristles sprouting off his ears and his fingernails were manicured. His watch was reassuringly expensive.

  She realized it with a pang of terrible sadness: the Martyn who had never had to raise a daughter on his own was doing very well for himself.

  “Do you have children?” she asked.

  He looked surprised. She’d hit him sideways. What did that have to do with anything they were talking about?

  “Children? Me? Naw,” he chuckled.

  “Oh. Good,” she mumbled, then regretted it. He would take it the wrong way. This was horrible. Was she blushing? But she knew if he’d said he had a daughter that she’d want to kill her for taking her place, for stealing her Dad, her life, her everything.

  “I’ve got a sports car,” he laughed. “That takes up all my money.”

  She smiled. Had he ever married her mother? Had she died just as she had in her previous life when Rachel was a girl? She suddenly needed desperately to know that he’d still fallen in love with Lorna Foster, the girl he’d first met on the day England won the World Cup and bumped into fifteen years later at an Ultravox gig in town.

  “So you never settled down?”

  “Oh yeah,” he said, and laughed again. “Divorced. If there’d been any children I probably wouldn’t have my sports car now. She’d have taken the lot.”

  “Oh, right. So you’re on your second childhood?” She smiled and then realized how patron
ising it sounded and rushed to correct herself. “I mean teenage-hood. I meant it in a positive way.”

  He waved it away with his warm grin. “I guess you could say that.”

  “What was her name? Your wife.”

  He frowned, wondering why the hell she needed to know that.

  “Sorry. I’m being nosy.”

  “No, it’s okay,” he said. “We were only married a few years. It was a disaster really.”

  “You must have been in love?”

  “I suppose so. Maybe we were too young to get serious. Dunno why but it never really felt right.”

  “Oh.”

  “And if I’d stayed with her, I wouldn’t have my nice sports car now, would I?”

  He laughed again and she wondered about her Nan, Olive, and missed her and longed to see her again. An idea popped into her head.

  “Can I see it? Your car?”

  “Yeah, of course. It’s not here though, seeing as I’m drinking.”

  “Okay. How about tomorrow? I’ll call round to your place and you can take me for a ride in it.”

  He looked taken aback.

  She didn’t care. She had to make this happen. She had to be closer to him, steal some time with him, see her Nan again.

  “Er, okay then,” he said. “Tomorrow at seven?”

  She shook her head. “Are you free next Tuesday?”

  He checked his iPhone, swiping through his calendar. “Yes, I’m free that night.”

  “Cool. What’s your address?”

  He told her and she made a show of repeating it, as if she might forget: the address she’d known as her own for most of her life. When it was all sorted they looked at each other and there was an awkward silence.

  “I’d better get back to work,” she said.

  He nodded and smiled and made to turn back towards the group of old men he normally hung around with.

  “Oh, you didn’t tell. Your ex-wife’s name.”

  He turned back, puzzled. Say Lorna, say Lorna. Please say Lorna...

  “Esther,” he said.

  He shook his head, smiled it away, like she was a weirdo or something.

  — 7 —

  DANNY JOLTED AWAKE and looked around in panic. Where was he? Unfamiliar room. Lined wallpaper, a chintz lampshade, an old writing bureau, cheap wardrobe. The guest house. The family with the same surname as Rachel on Anderton Park Road. 1966.

  A knock at the door again. Someone had knocked.

  “Hello?” he said, his voice croaking. He sat up and planted his feet on the carpet. Checked his wristwatch. He’d dropped off and slept for an hour.

  “Mr Moore?” came a voice from the landing.

  He walked over and pulled open the door.

  Winnie Hines, wearing an apron.

  “It’s six,” she said. “Dinner time, if you’d care...?”

  “Hi, yes, sorry. I fell asleep.” He grinned his charming grin, the one that worked on most women. “Must have been a bit knocked out by the travel.”

  She rippled her shoulders and allowed the hint of a smile to crease her face for a fraction of a second.

  “When you’re ready, then.”

  “I’ll be right down. Thank you.”

  She tiptoed down the carpeted stairs.

  He looked back at his room. How did you dress for dinner in 1966? Should he put on his jacket? He left his tie hanging on the back of the wooden chair and shuffled into his suit jacket: smart casual.

  Here goes. He walked down the stairs and through the Minton tiled hallway to the back of the house, following the smell of food and the clatter of utensils till he was standing in the doorway of the dining room.

  There were framed photographs all over one wall, a Welsh dresser displaying china plates, a long table in the middle of the room laid for eight people.

  “Hello there, chap. Come and sit down.”

  Danny walked over uncertainly and shook the man’s hand.

  “Lashford,” he said, smiling a crooked toothed smile. He was wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt, with a knitted blue and yellow striped tie, which made Danny feel like he’d seriously underdressed for the occasion.

  “Danny. Danny... Moore.”

  “So, the missus tells me you’re here for the World Cup. Pretty exciting. Big feather in our cap, I’ll say.”

  He saw Danny’s puzzled face and laughed.

  “Sorry, mate. I’m going too fast. Always was my trouble. It’s Councillor Lashford Piplatch. Big times for us here. Bold new world. Moving forward. Modern new city.”

  A woman walked in with a bowl of potatoes.

  “Don’t bore Mr Moore, Lashford. I’m sure he’s not bothered about your bold new visions.”

  She placed the bowl of steaming potatoes in the middle of the table and Danny took her in: early thirties, attractive, bruneete hair in a Jackie Kennedy bouffant.

  “This is my better half, Danny. It’s all right if I call you Danny, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr Moore,” she said.

  “You can call her Olive,” said Lashford, grinning. “Better not call her what I call her.”

  She slapped at Lashford’s shoulder and squealed as he pinched her bottom as she headed back to the kitchen.

  Lashford cackled and winked. “They like to throw on the airs and graces in this house,” he murmured, “but they’re all right, really.”

  Winnie came in with a plate of sliced meat piled high. “Stop boring our guest, Lashford,” she said, throwing him a frosty look.

  “He’s all right. He’s interested in our new vision for the city, aren’t you?”

  Danny nodded. “Oh yes. Dead interested.”

  He’d hoped he would be in control of the situation, sitting down with a 1966 family for dinner — that he would dazzle them with his 2012 sophistication — but the situation was already out of his control and he felt like he was floundering, tongue-tied.

  “You’ve got a very funny accent, Danny, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “That’s very personal, Lashford!” Winnie called as she returned to the kitchen.

  “He don’t mind!”

  “I’m okay,” said Danny.

  “Where you from, then?”

  Winnie and Olive returned with tureens of steaming vegetables and settled down around the table. He expected them to tell Lashford to stop questioning him but they wanted to hear his answers.

  “Well, my family grew up in Shrewsbury,” he said.

  “You’re kidding!”

  Olive looked to her husband. “Is that how they talk in Shrewsbury?”

  “You sound more American,” said Lashford.

  Winnie was dishing out food onto their plates. It looked like braised beef and onions, boiled potatoes, peas, gravy. Why were they serving food like this on a blazing hot day?

  “I visited there a lot,” he said.

  Lashford and Olive cooed. Even Winnie looked impressed. The boy Martyn ran in and stopped to stare at him.

  “Go and play in the garden,” said Olive.

  He trotted out and they heard the back door go.

  “Er, doesn’t he eat with you?” asked Danny.

  They looked at him like he’d suggested the boy should stand for Lashford’s council seat.

  “He’s had his tea — dinner,” said Winnie.

  “So have you met any movie stars?” said Olive. “Have you met Steve McQueen?”

  Danny laughed. “No. I didn’t work in the movies.”

  “It’s not your first visit to Birmingham, though is it?” said Lashford.

  “No. I’ve been here before.”

  Lashford pointed his fork at him. “I bet it’s changed since you last saw it. Transformed.”

  “You could say that.”

  “You see! What did I tell you? City of the future, this is. Have you seen the Rotunda?”

  Winnie and Olive rolled their eyes.

  “Yes, I’ve seen it.”

 
; “And the Bull Ring. Largest shopping centre in Europe. All modern, mind. We’re building a city for the future. Birmingham’s been grey and dirty and run down for years and we’re making it all bright and new again. We’re throwing off that old Victorian overcoat. We’ll look better than London in another year or two, see if I’m right.”

  Lashford chuckled and filled his mouth with braised beef and onions.

  “Can’t you talk about something else?” said Olive. “What about football or something, like normal blokes?”

  Winnie saw that Danny was amused and allowed herself to smile too.

  He noticed that whatever he did, she seemed to go along with and realized she was on edge because he was the guest. He wondered how long they’d been taking lodgers.

  “Who do you think’s going to win it, Mr Moore?” said Winnie.

  “Hungary,” said Lashford. “They play the best football. Modern, forward-thinking, visionary. Like Birmingham.”

  “Let him speak, Lashford,” said Olive.

  Danny looked at them like it was the craziest question, but he’d lived with the reality of the winner his whole life. “England,” he said.

  Olive let out a little laugh. Winnie frowned, having never before considered the possibility.

  “We’ve got no chance,” said Lashford. “Won’t get past the quarters. Alf Ramsey hasn’t got a clue. Doesn’t even use wingers. No one wins anything without wingers.”

  Danny thought of all the iconic images he’d grown up with: Bobby Moore held aloft by his teammates, the Jules Rimet trophy in his hand; Geoff Hurst belting in the fourth goal against the Germans as some people ran onto the pitch.

  They think it’s all over... it is now!

  He was in a world where that hadn’t happened, where that wouldn’t happen for another few weeks.

  “Are you a betting man?” Danny asked.

  — 8 —

  RACHEL KNEW SHE SHOULD be heading straight for the Central Library to look up details of Martyn’s wedding and order the certificate from the Register Office, which might lead her to find out more about this woman called Esther, but the Local Studies floor was closed today so she was walking across the Birmingham University campus.