by Andy Conway
“So I can just think myself back there?”
Fenwick nodded. “I believe that. But if it helps you to touch that thing, then just do it.”
He wanted to reach out and touch it, as much to escape this conversation as to be in the past.
“Bear in mind,” said Fenwick. “Whatever you do, Mrs Hudson and her cabal will be trying to stop you. Rachel too.”
“Who died and made her the queen of the time travellers?”
Fenwick laughed and squeezed his shoulder and shrugged him away roughly. “I know what you want,” he said. “You want to get back to Amy Parker. It’s all you’ve ever wanted. And what right have they got to stop you doing that? You saved her life. She wouldn’t even have lived beyond 1912 if it wasn’t for you. In a way, she belongs to you. You belong together.”
Danny nodded. It was sort of true, when he put it like that. He’d saved Amy Parker’s life. But the last time he’d seen her she’d shouted hate at him, collapsed and died. An old woman in 1966, accusing him, rejecting him.
He wanted to woo her all over again. Go back and find her before then. Recapture the spark he’d first felt with her. The love he’d seen in her eyes in 1912 and in 1940.
“I miss her,” he said. “I can’t stand how I saw her the last time, so bitter, screaming at me to stay away from her daughter. I made her daughter rich.”
“Go back to before then,” said Fenwick. “You can do what you want.”
Danny stared at the touchstone. “It’s always sent me back so randomly.”
Fenwick shook his head. “No, no, no. Think about it. What year were we talking about that first morning, minutes before it first sent you back to 1912?”
Danny thought hard. He’d been hungover from a student party and had barely listened as they’d discussed the history of the church.
“You remember? I asked the class when Moseley had become part of the city of Birmingham. Rachel said the correct answer: 1911.”
Danny frowned, not getting it.
“But you gave the wrong answer. You said 1912.”
“Did I?”
Fenwick nodded. “You said it, and five minutes later you were there. Don’t you see?”
Danny wheeled away and rubbed his face suddenly, trying to wake himself up. “This is crazy. I don’t know how to control this!”
“You don’t need to. Not yet.”
Fenwick flipped open his leather document holder and delved into one of the pockets. He took out a photograph and held it out.
“Let’s try an experiment. What if you knew where she was on a very specific night?”
The photograph seemed to have been taken in the murky interior of a night club or dance hall, but it was unusual in that it was taken from almost behind the singer. A man in a tuxedo was singing into an old fashioned microphone. A crooner. His face was side on. What was interesting about the picture, though, was the group of people you could see in the background. A few audience members, who were right up against the stage, were watching the crooner sing.
One of the women seemed to be a teenage girl in a ball gown with a fur stole over her shoulders, wavy bobbed hair. She was gazing at the crooner as if entranced.
Next to her was an older woman. Not old enough to be her mother, perhaps an older sister. She looked in her mid-thirties, also wearing a ball gown. She was gazing at the crooner too. He must have had a hypnotic effect on women.
Danny could see quite clearly that this older woman was Amy Parker. “It’s her, isn’t it? It’s Amy.”
Fenwick dug into his document wallet again and pulled out another sheet of paper.
“Now what if I could tell you I know exactly when that photograph was taken. Almost to the hour. And the exact location too.”
He passed Danny the sheet. It was a yellow poster. A concert bill, proclaiming in very large letters: BENNY ORPHAN and underneath, in smaller type, With the syncopated accompaniment of Lester Johnson’s Coloured Jazz Orchestra. It was taking place at the Moseley and Balsall Heath Institute on the night of Saturday the 27th of January 1934 at 8 p.m. One lucky lady could also win the prize of being serenaded on stage by Benny Orphan himself.
Danny looked back at Amy’s face with wonder. “She was there. At this.”
Fenwick nodded and smiled paternally.
A sudden gust of wind nearly took the photo and handbill from Danny’s hand. They flapped furiously like captured birds trying to be free, till he shoved them in his pocket and reached out instinctively for the touchstone.
Fenwick gripped his hand, shaking his head.
“Not so fast,” he said. “You’ll want to do some research before you go there.”
— 5 —
RACHEL WALKED WITH Charlie into the rear yard behind the shops and looked up at the iron staircase to the upstairs flats.
Too many coincidences swarming her brain. The apartment was above Mrs Hudson’s shop. The redheaded girl from the library had been staying there in 1966 and she’d had Danny staying with her. Rachel had delivered the letter to him, staggering up the stairs, desperately ill — the letter that had told him Amy Parker was dying in hospital.
And now this. Charlie, her confidante, her protector: he had lived in the same place.
He walked her up the steps to the top, cradling her in case she fell again. Two doors. Perhaps it wasn’t the same apartment. Perhaps it was all a coincidence.
Charlie fumbled for his keys and seemed embarrassed. “Shan’t be long. We can call an ambulance from here.”
She propped herself up against the iron banister. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Once I’ve got my feet back.”
It was the same door. What did it mean? If Kath Bright and Mrs Hudson were on her side, and they’d rescued her from the station at the end of time, then why had they been harbouring Danny here in 1966?
And what was the connection with Charlie?
“Come in,” he said. “Bit pokey, I’m afraid, and rather a mess, but...”
He didn’t finish, just shrugged and blushed and blustered through into the flat, leading her to the sofa where he let her sink gently into the cushions.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” he said, rushing over to a stove in the corner of the room. He filled a tin kettle with water from the sink and lit the gas. Then he took a green glass from a cupboard and filled it with water.
“Here,” he said, offering it to her. “Have some water while the kettle’s on.”
She sipped at it and felt better instantly, the leaden cloud inside her head lifting.
Charlie paced back to the stove, seemed to realize it would be a long time before the kettle boiled, paced back. He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of Craven As, lit one, puffed on it nervously, blew out blue smoke, paced again.
He caught Rachel’s astonished stare.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, do forgive me.” He pulled the packet out and offered her one.
“I don’t smoke,” she said.
“Oh. All right.” He shuffled, thought about it, seemed puzzled. “Really? You don’t smoke?”
“No.”
He scratched his Brylcreemed head. “Oh. I’ve never met a woman who doesn’t smoke. May I ask why?”
“Cancer,” she said.
He seemed surprised. “Really? That’s just an old wives’ tale, surely?” He sat in the armchair, crossed his legs, tried to relax, puffed on the cigarette some more.
Rachel stared. This Charlie was so much more boyish than any of the other Charlies she’d met. She wondered for a moment if it was her that had changed him, perhaps changed him for the worse. But no, surely it had been the war: the war that was coming in only five years’ time and would turn this boy into a man.
“I say, do you like music?” he said.
He rushed over to a sideboard and pulled out a ten-inch disk in a crinkly yellow paper wrapper.
“I have some marvellous new jazz from America. There’s a pianist called Teddy Wilson, who’s quite breathtaking.”
&nb
sp; He placed the heavy disk reverentially onto a wind-up gramophone and cranked the handle. The tinny tinkle of ivory floated across the room like the blue smoke from his cigarette.
His records. Rachel couldn’t help smiling. She knew them all; had worked her way through them in the long days alone after he’d given her his other flat across the green.
A woman’s voice soared over the music; haunting, familiar.
“That’s Billie Holiday,” she said.
Charlie frowned, went over to the gramophone, tried to read the label of the record that was spinning round. He looked back at Rachel with surprise. “How do you know that?”
Rachel shrugged. “Billie Holiday’s famous. I love her voice. You’re the—”
She wanted to tell him she loved Billie Holiday because of Charlie, but she caught the words in her throat.
Charlie stood quite still now, gazing at her as if he wanted to paint her and was memorising every detail.
“What?” she said. She’d never seen Charlie look at her like this. There was something unnerving about it.
“No one knows about Billie Holiday,” he said. “This arrived last week, and I don’t know anyone in this entire city who hears the latest jazz before I do. And I didn’t know the singer’s name.”
She shrugged and tried to laugh it away, but he stared and stared and she knew now that it was fear.
“And another thing,” he said. “How the hell did you know my name when I’ve never met you in my life before?”
She held his gaze and wanted to tell him so many things — about the war to come and how he’d already be wealthy by then because of the sports almanac she was going to give him, and about the Blitz, and all the dates she’d meet him in his future.
A piercing scream cried out and didn’t stop.
She jumped with fear and Charlie walked over to the stove and took the kettle from the hob. He didn’t return to interrogating her. He took a teapot, scalded it, scooped in a few teaspoons of tea leaves, poured the hot water in and swirled it around. When he’d finished, he brought it to the little table by the window and laid out two china cups on saucers.
The music ended.
He reached for another disc and set it going. Al Bowlly drifted through a dreamy version of Time on My Hands.
She watched him from the sofa. He didn’t seem to want her to answer. She watched him pour the tea through a strainer, take a fat bottle of milk from a cupboard that must have been the larder. He didn’t look at her till he picked up a sugar cube with tongs.
She shook her head.
He dropped one into his own cup and stirred, brought them both over, held hers out to her, sat opposite again with the teacup on his lap.
She sipped at it: too bitter. She finally looked up into his expectant face. “I’m going to tell you some things that you’ll find totally crazy,” she said.
He frowned, as if she were speaking a foreign language.
“That you’ll find rather odd. All I ask is that you hear me out. Listen to everything. Will you do that for me?”
“How do you know my name?”
“Because we’ve met before.”
“I’ve never met you.”
“In the future.”
His eyes widened now. He lifted his cup and sipped. It rattled on the saucer when he put it back. Was his hand shaking?
“I’ve met you in the future, Charlie. You probably won’t believe me, but I’m going to give you a book that will prove it.”
When Charlie spoke he didn’t seem surprised or astounded. His tone was light, amused. It seemed he’d already decided she was crazy. “So give it to me. Let me see this proof.”
“I don’t have it with me now. I have to go back and get it.”
“Back where?”
“To 2013.”
Charlie’s eyes widened with a new emotion and she realized it was anger. He’d had enough.
The doorbell buzzed. Someone banged a fist at the door.
Charlie kept his eyes on her as he crossed the room, as if she were a dangerous animal.
He opened the door and a man bustled in, flapping his overcoat and peeling off a scarf. He was young, in his twenties, but, like Charlie, and every other young man in the 1930s, he looked twenty years older than he was. He stopped short when he saw her and his face broke into a giant smile. He raised his hat and held out his hand.
“Well, Charlie didn’t tell me he had a guest! Good day, madam. Henry Curtis, at your service.”
She smiled up at him and glanced at Charlie, who was glowering behind him.
“Yes,” mumbled Charlie. “I sort of... er... that is...”
Rachel shook Henry’s hand. “I’m Rachel Hines.”
“Rachel. Good Jewish name. Charlie didn’t tell me he had such a beautiful female friend.” Henry laughed and wagged his finger at him.
Charlie reddened and mumbled, “We were just discussing some music.”
“Oh. You’re helping us with the concert?”
Rachel checked Charlie’s face, alarm writ large. “Well, yes I...”
“She was just leaving...”
“Nonsense!” cried Henry. “You’re just in time to hear the news.”
Henry walked over to the window table and poured himself some tea.
“Er... Henry,” said Charlie. “You know you have a boot print on the back of your coat?”
Henry wheeled round, swept off his overcoat and laughed at the grey outline. “Ah, I was in town and encountered some of our friends from the British Union of Fascists. They didn’t like the cut of my jib.”
“What?” cried Charlie. “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly. I did what everyone must do when they are hopelessly outnumbered by the forces of darkness. I ran like the clappers.” Henry sipped at his cup of tea and sighed with pleasure. “But never mind those ogres. I have news about the concert. Good news and bad news.”
Henry sat down at the table and slurped his tea.
“What is it?” said Charlie. “Don’t tell me Orphan’s cancelled.”
“No. Benny Orphan’s still with us. Unfortunately, he won’t be accompanied by Lew Stone’s band.”
“What?”
Charlie had forgotten about Rachel now. She watched him totally caught up in his world: the fly on his wall she’d always wanted to be.
“That’s a disaster! We’ve got posters all over Moseley saying it’s Benny Orphan and the Lew Stone Orchestra!”
“Yes, that’s the bad news,” said Henry. “But don’t worry; here’s the good news. I met Louis Szekely this afternoon. That’s why I was in town. He told me Fred Herschel in London has a new band he wants to rehearse. He wants to send them out to the provinces to sharpen them up before they get a residency at one of the London clubs.”
“And can they do it? It’s this Saturday!”
“We’ll call him tomorrow. They’re a good band, he says. Jazz men. From Jamaica.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “They’re a coloured band?”
“Oh yes,” smiled Henry. “Should be something to see here in Moseley, eh?”
“Blimey,” said Charlie. “Imagine that. A coloured jazz band. Here in Moseley.”
“We’ll get a new poster printed as soon as it’s confirmed,” said Henry. “Then we have to go round and paste them up over all the old ones. Should only take a day or two.”
“Yes,” grinned Charlie. “We could do it.”
Rachel felt a wave of warmth gush through her. Charlie was so eager and full of boyish enthusiasm. He seemed to hear her smile, noticed she was in the room again. His smile faded.
“Right. Er, Miss Hines here was just leaving,” he said.
Rachel winced, a dart in her heart. Charlie was chucking her out. “Yes,” she said. “I really have to get back.” She stood, reached for her handbag, waved at Henry. “Lovely to meet you.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” said Henry. “With bells on.” He stood to attention and clicked his heels, bowing his hea
d.
Charlie ushered her to the door, his hand at the small of her back.
“Thank you for helping me, Charlie,” she whispered as he opened the door for her.
“It was nothing,” he said. “Goodbye.”
The door closed in her face. Charlie had thrown her out.
— 6 —
RACHEL DIDN’T REMEMBER walking down the iron steps. She must have sleepwalked her way to the village green because the first thing she remembered after Charlie closing the door in her face was standing outside Boots looking up at the battlement tower of St Mary’s church, standing guard over the Bull’s Head.
Her eyes fell on the latticed windows above the corner house, which was a pub in 2013 but a tailors now. This was her home, the apartment Charlie had left to her. This was where she had to return.
She had to go back there and get the almanac, then come back here and give it to Charlie. She knew she could because she had.
She crossed to the village green and sat on a bench. There seemed to be quite a crowd, people piling off the trams from the city and heading for the church or just promenading. It seemed to be the place to come on Sunday afternoon.
She’d imagined that Charlie might welcome her. That she could stay with him. She must have done more than simply hand him a sports almanac and a list of dates detailing her future visits to him. Something must have passed between them, something important, if he really was going to wait for her to appear again during an air raid in 1940.
At the moment, if she handed him a sports almanac from the future and a list of dates she’d return to him, she could only imagine he’d throw them in the bin.
She still felt a little unsteady. Needed to rest a little more. Her spirits had sunken. The thrill of seeing him again had turned to a cloud of gloom that hung over her head and showered acid rain on her.