Touchstone Season One- Complete Box Set

by Andy Conway

  He walked down on the opposite side and peered across till he could read the hoarding. Gigi’s Café.

  He crossed the road and pushed at the door. The room was thick with smoke and the smell of burgers frying and it was full of youths crowded around Formica tables, nursing coffees and chatting, singing, laughing. A few faces turned to check him out. He knew his face was young enough to fit and his suit didn’t look out of place; there were several young men wearing similar suits and slim ties. A transistor radio behind the counter hissed out a tinny song about Summer Nights in a little café.

  He walked up to the counter where a little old lady with white hair and lively eyes smiled at him.

  “Good evenink, young man. What’ll you have?”

  She sounded foreign. East European?

  He scanned the menu board. “A coffee, please. A large one.”

  When she’d made it, he turned and sat at the only empty table. The coffee warmed him through and he shuddered, realizing he had a very cold night ahead of him if he had to sleep in the churchyard.

  The door opened and a young woman walked in, her red hair pinned back in a ponytail, black dress, blue mac, espadrilles. Several faces turned to watch her as she approached the counter. There was something about her demeanour, something in her bearing that wasn’t like the young women he’d already seen here. She was more confident. He’d noticed young women here talked softly and hunched their shoulders shyly and looked at the floor a lot. This woman wasn’t like that. There was something familiar about her. Had she been at the post-game party tonight? Or had he seen her already in Moseley? He couldn’t think where.

  She turned with her coffee and scanned the room and he realized his was the only table where she could sit. She walked over and he tried not to break eye contact as she approached.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” she said.

  “It’s a free country,” he said.

  She took a seat opposite and others in the room resumed their chatter.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said.

  He touched his face, his fingertip smeared blood at the corner of his mouth.

  “Ah, it’s nothing,” he said, snatching his handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping.

  “You’re supposed to say You should see the other guy.”

  He shrugged. “Not a mark on him.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That’s a shame.”

  Her face. Where had he seen her before? He held out his hand.

  “Danny. Pleased to meet you.”

  She took his fingers and pinched them.

  “I’m... Kath. It’s a pleasure.”

  He nodded and sipped at his coffee, not knowing what to say.

  “So are you going to tell me what happened?” she asked. She was holding her cup with both hands, elbows propped on the table.

  “Just a stupid old man thought he was a big shot and didn’t like being upstaged.”

  “Sounds fascinating.”

  He checked for traces of irony.

  “I’m serious,” she said.

  “Ah, I’ve been staying at a guest house nearby and, well...” He rambled on with his story, telling her about Lashford, the big shot councillor, the World Cup games at Villa Park, his big win and the fight.

  “So that’s it,” she said. “You’re a gambler.”

  “Sort of. What do you mean, So that’s it?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing. Just a figure of speech.”

  He looked her over. There was something about the phrase that made him think she was sizing him up, knew more about him than she was letting on. Had Lashford sent her to spy on him?

  “So how much have you won?”

  “One thousand, seven hundred and fifty pounds,” he said.

  Her green eyes flashed surprise but he could tell she wasn’t as impressed as everyone else had been. “That’s a lot.”

  “It’s just the start.”

  “Oh, you’ve got more bets lined up?”

  “Yes, significantly more.”

  “Good for you.”

  “It doesn’t impress you much, I can tell.”

  She smirked. “Well, you’ve got all that money and you’re sitting here in a café nursing your coffee because you’ve no place to sleep tonight.”

  “All the rooms are taken. It’s like Bethlehem at Christmas.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’ll find a stable somewhere.”

  “You just did,” she said. “Drink up.” She drained her coffee and stood.

  He stared at her blankly.

  “I live across the road. You can kip in my spare room tonight.”

  “But you don’t know me.”

  “You look harmless,” she said, heading for the door.

  He followed her out into the night air, the village deserted. St Mary’s clock tower was showing almost midnight. She cut across the green, past the entrance to the underground toilets.

  “I live up there.” She pointed to a window above the shops.

  He laughed.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s... weird. I thought I recognized the shop downstairs.”

  She said nothing; gave him a funny look, sizing him up.

  Mrs Hudson’s costume shop. Except it wasn’t hers yet. She lived above Mrs Hudson’s costume shop, where he’d hired his Edwardian suit and his 1940s civvies.

  She crossed the road and walked up till she came to the gaping black entrance of an alleyway, which would have looked forbidding if it didn’t have an ornate terracotta façade proclaiming it to be Victoria Parade. She walked straight into the blackness.

  “Careful, it’s dark,” she said.

  He followed the sound of her breathing till she turned left suddenly through a gap in the wall and they emerged into a courtyard behind the shops. She climbed iron fire escape steps to a first floor door and let them in.

  It was a tiny flat filled with old-fashioned furniture that must have belonged to her mother; someone older. Not the flat of an independent young woman in 1966. Perhaps it was rented and none of the furniture was her own.

  “Well, you’ve had enough coffee so I’ll show you your room.”

  She gave a come hither gesture and he followed her up a flight of stairs to a square of landing with two doors off it. She opened one and pointed at the other. He looked at her forlornly.

  “I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

  “There’s a lock on my door,” she said. “Just so you know.”

  KATH BRIGHT CLOSED the door, slid the latch to as loudly as she could and smiled to herself, leaning back against the door and listened to him undressing.

  She slipped her espadrilles off and padded across the room to the framed photograph of Moseley village in 1879. She lifted it from the wall, revealing the safe behind it, twisted the dial this way and that and opened it, taking out an old cigar box.

  At her writing bureau, she opened the cigar box and flicked through the twenty or more small envelopes, musty and yellowing, each labelled with a single name: Abshire, Bailey, Collier, DeTamble, Eakins, Foster, Morley, Quilley, Randall, Skinner, Vasser... She stopped at one that was fresh and new and labelled Winston. Inside was a single index card on which she scribbled:

  Instance #1. 20 July 1966.

  Kath Bright (travelling from 26 June 2012), now situated at base, posing as young student girl.

  Have made contact with target: Danny Price, suspected time-breacher. Do not think he has recognized me from two previous encounters in at Central Library. Found him at Gigi’s Café (32 St Mary’s Row) late night, seemingly homeless, claims to have been involved in fight with a Mr Lashford Piplatch, local councillor, encountered due to staying at guest house where he resides. Has admitted to placing bets on outcome of the World Cup, having won £1750 to be claimed in the morning – and has hinted at other bets already placed to make even more money.

  Offered hi
m shelter and will investigate further in the morning to discover if this is sole purpose of his visit to 1966 or if there is more. Have feeling there is something more he is not telling me.

  She put the index card in the envelope marked Winston and slipped the envelope back into the cigar box, resisting the temptation to look into the other envelopes and read the contents of missions she didn’t know.

  She locked the cigar box back in the safe and undressed and fell into the bed where she didn’t sleep until around five in the morning.

  — 20 —

  RACHEL LOOKED TO HER left at the mile or more of canal receding, broken only by the arched footbridge close by. Her bare feet edged the bank. Where were her shoes? And why did she feel an overwhelming desire to jump into the black water before her?

  She was at the canal house, where she’d spent a couple of years of her childhood. If she turned to look behind her she would be able to see the tollgate cottage where she lived. But she couldn’t turn her head. A train wailed. That’s right; there was a rail track behind the cottage. She twisted her neck to see behind her but found herself staring at the canal again, which became a rail track. She was standing at a station platform. The train was screaming towards her and she jumped.

  “Hey, it’s all right.”

  Charlie was holding her wrists. She flinched against him. She was in bed. He loomed over her, in flannel pyjamas. A dream. A bad dream.

  “Oh god,” she croaked.

  She pulled herself up and away from him and he stepped backwards awkwardly.

  “You were having a nightmare,” he said. “I heard you calling.”

  She pulled her knees up and hugged them. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. You’re safe.” He smiled and shrugged awkwardly, as if he wanted to hug her, but afraid to touch her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’m okay.”

  He walked away and turned at the door. “I’m going to make us breakfast. It’ll be on the table when you’re ready.”

  She nodded and listened to him walk to the kitchen next door. Sonny and Cher’s I Got You, Babe wafted through and he whistled as he clattered utensils.

  His flat. Her flat. The place she lived.

  She got up and ran through the lounge to the bathroom, examined herself in the mirror, brushed her teeth, washed her face. No shower. He hadn’t had one fitted yet. She threw a dressing gown over her silk nightgown, and walked back to the lounge where the table was laid with condiments.

  He emerged from the kitchen with a rack of toast triangles.

  “Ah, you’re up. Sit yourself down.”

  He had his glasses on, which looked faintly odd with pyjamas and a dressing gown. His leather slippers slapped the floorboards.

  She took a seat and picked up the newspapers while he returned to the kitchen. Captured American pilots to be tried for war crimes by Viet Cong — New Castle Vale housing estate will end slum misery, says Mayor — West Midlands Police Force new unit to fight organised crime... The back pages with World Cup news.

  The book. She’d forgotten the sports almanac for him. No, he already had it. He’d already used it. Some time in her future she would visit him in his past and hand it to him. It made her sad, because she knew this wasn’t the end – she knew that she would leave him again.

  Charlie set a plate in front of her. Full English, everything fried. She stared at it, tears welling in her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  She shook her head and sniffed.

  “Well, I didn’t think my cooking was that bad,” he joked.

  She laughed through tears. “I’m sorry. It’s nothing. I’m crazy.”

  She wiped her eyes on the cuff of her dressing gown. He rushed for a box of tissues and put it beside her and sat down opposite, not touching his food.

  “No, I think I really am going crazy,” she said. “Proper insane. I’ve thought it for a while.”

  Charlie didn’t know what to say to her. It was 26 years since he’d last seen her and the unmistakable signs of her beginning to unravel, due to the Blitz, of course, but also perhaps the shock of losing her old life. He’d seen it clearly, which was why he’d forced her to return to her present. Twenty-six years ago to him, but only a few months to her.

  He reached over and squeezed her hand.

  “Look, Rachel. I know you’re feeling a lot of pain and confusion. That’s normal... I suppose... if any of this could be called normal. But I know things will get better.”

  “Will they?” she asked, trying to smile through tears.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ve seen it. I know you tell me not to mention what you’re going to do in your future – my past – but you’re going to come to me in 1934. It’s the first time I see you. For me it’s when all of this begins. And you are so lovely and sweet and full of joy. Trust me.”

  She blew her nose. “Thank you. I hope so.” She forced another smile and picked up her knife and fork. “Let’s eat this lovely breakfast you’ve made. I’m starving.”

  She began to attack it with sudden relish, ravenous, and her mood lifted instantly.

  They ate in silence but for a jaunty pop hit playing from the radio. A telephone rang. He frowned and wiped his mouth and walked over to the window where the blue rotary dial phone sat.

  “Hello, Moseley 24697?” He listened and said Oh my word and Don’t you worry and That’s fine before hanging up. He stared at the phone and said, “Oh, hell.”

  “What is it?” she said.

  “It’s one of my staff... Maddy... Oh God... Maddy is... well you’ve met her. You saved her life, in fact. She’s Amy Parker’s daughter. She works for me now.”

  Rachel remembered the girl rushing into the road, about to be crushed under the wheels of the army truck, pulling her back.

  “I remember her, the little girl.”

  “She’s a woman now. Her mother’s been taken ill suddenly. Rushed to hospital. Amy Parker.”

  They both thought the same thing. This was something to do with Danny.

  — 21 —

  DANNY LOOKED TO HIS right at the mile or more of dirt road receding. It was a beautiful morning in the countryside. The air was so clean you could drink it. He took in giddy mouthfuls and felt serenity seep through to his bones. He thought he should recognize the road, but he couldn’t.

  He wondered why he was in the countryside. He was very much a city boy and didn’t care for the country. It was a thing he always said to people to make him seem cool and detached. But he was standing there on a bright summer’s day on a hilltop and feeling so calm. And something else. Relieved. As if he’d come through a great turmoil and emerged unscathed on the other side.

  The dirt road dipped down to his left and ran straight for a mile or more, hazy in the distance, and to his right it bent around a corner, shaded by tall oaks. There were one or two dwellings along the road. He didn’t know why but he sensed there was a village around that bend in the road, just over the top of the hill, even though he knew he’d never been there before.

  Music, out of place, woke him. Take me back, I’m begging please... Take me back, I’m on my knees... The smell of toast. Eyes fluttered open. He sat up with a jolt.

  A tiny room, sloping ceiling, attic room, a rough blanket. Moseley. 1966. The girl in the café. Kath. He could hear her bustling around downstairs and struggled to locate himself. They had walked up iron steps to the first floor and then more steps to these two rooms. Her flat must be two storeys above the shops.

  His dream. The same dream again. He hadn’t realized it was a recurring dream till he’d one morning realized he’d been in this place many times. Or had he only just dreamt it this once, and only dreamed he’d dreamed it before?

  He reached for his clothes and threw them on quickly, feeling overdressed in his suit. His case was back at the Hines house. Would he ever get it back? He checked the inside pocket again. Betting slips. All safe. He was rich. He could buy a whole new wardrobe this morning
if he liked.

  He walked down the stairs and along the corridor and peered through to the room where the music played.

  Kath was taking toast to a small table that sat in the bay window that overlooked the village. She was wearing a purple mini dress, green tights, brown suede boots, a white Alice band. He felt like he was in a movie: the angry young man who’d fallen into the lap of a proper Sixties chick.

  “You’re just in time,” she said, then giggled, as if she’d made a joke.

  He sat down with her and rubbed his eyes.

  “This looks good. I’m famished.”

  She took a pot of tea and poured him a cup. She had the full China set all laid out, like a lady of the manor, not a hot young chick. There was something very modern and yet also old fashioned about her and he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

  “So, what’s the plan for today then?” she asked.

  “I collect my winnings,” he said. “That’s all I have planned really.”

  She hummed with delight and hooked her thumb back at the radio. “England got through last night. Top of the group. Do you think they’ll win it?”

  He tried not to smile, act cocky, think her stupid for not knowing what was going to happen in nine days’ time.

  “I hope so. If they do I’m going to win a lot of money.”

  “Hmmm, I hope it doesn’t get you into more trouble,” she said.

  “Why should it?”

  “Well, it got you a thick lip last night.”

  He looked at his plate and stopped his hand from going to his mouth. He still felt exhilarated, excited by it. He hadn’t thought being in a fight could make you feel so good.

  “You know, after I’ve picked up my winnings, I think I’m going to go shopping. I’m going to need some clothes.”

  “We could go together. I like shopping. They’ve got that big new Bull Ring shopping centre. Biggest in Europe.”

  He smiled. She wanted him to hang around some more. “Okay. That would be cool.”