Touchstone Season One- Complete Box Set

by Andy Conway

  All his life he’d seen pubs that had the word hotel or inn in their name but did not rent rooms, but it was different here. The Station Hotel really would be a hotel. A handful of rooms above a pub, but a place to stay and hide.

  A fat man with a walrus moustache showed him to a tiny but presentable room above the bar. The décor was still Edwardian. He thanked him and paid for two nights in advance and took a meal at a table downstairs at the rear of the bar. Boiled beef and cabbage.

  He hid in his room the rest of the day, photo-reading Hinton’s thoughts on the fourth dimension, till the walls seemed to close in on him and he craved escape.

  He pulled his hat low over his face, hunched his shoulders and walked quickly to the Kingsway, paid a bored ticket girl a shilling and slumped into shadows in the upper circle.

  A not very funny comedy called Turn Back the Clock was already running. It was about an unhappily married man who wakes up back in his earlier life, relives it all and discovers in the end that he wouldn’t have changed anything after all.

  Then Betty Boop had a crazy Hallowe’en party. Jack Frost was flying around in an aeroplane spraying the fields with frost, and a scarecrow was being blown by fierce winds that blew Betty’s invitation right into his scarecrow hand.

  Then they showed a clip of some crooner sitting on a piano and warbling through The Very Thought of You. He looked like an old uncle with crooked teeth, but some of the women around the cinema were gasping like he was a matinee idol.

  Then a Pathé newsreel showed grainy pictures of the world’s biggest ship, British, arriving in the world’s biggest graving dock, also British. Then it was The Invisible Man, an exciting new feature film with never before seen special effects.

  He let it wash over him with growing wonder.

  This was their TV, their gogglebox, their smartphone. You could sit here and stare at the screen and let its images wash over you all day long.

  The air was thick with cigarette and cigar smoke and it swirled in the beam of light that emanated from a lion’s mouth behind them and filled the screen with giant portraits of Hollywood gods in silver.

  He imagined meeting Amy Parker here, sitting with his arm around her, like the man over there with his arm around his girl, who was hiding her face in his chest at the scary parts.

  Nothing about the film was scary. It was the kind of movie you might catch playing on afternoon TV in 2013. He wondered at how their notions of what was scary were so different. They were like children here. What had happened in the intervening years to make humanity grow up? The war, perhaps. It was coming and it was going to destroy their innocence.

  His nausea grew, a dizziness fogged his whole head, a lurching in the pit of his stomach, he felt the whole row swaying like he was sitting on a ferry.

  He pushed himself up from his seat, hands gripping the velvet arms of the chair so tightly he couldn’t let go.

  A woman came walking up the aisle, head down, checking her footsteps in the darkness. She halted, frozen. He was gazing into Amy’s eyes again, as if he’d summoned her here through his thoughts, the way he’d transported himself to a place and time in history where he knew she would be, purely by thinking about her.

  He fell back into his seat, the whole world lurching violently around him, and reached out a hand to her. And that was when a hurricane began to roar through the cinema.

  Women shrieked, people jumped from their seats and scrambled for the exits. The wind whipped the clouds of cigarette smoke into violent, coiling demons.

  Danny tried to stand but could only sit and stare in wonder at his hands.

  The hurricane seemed to be coming from his fingertips.

  — 31 —

  RACHEL HAD WORKED HARD on the concert throughout the day, only occasionally wondering what she would say to Mrs Hudson, Mitch and Kath when they finally showed up. She’d done everything she could to make sure the concert happened but they would have to deal with Danny when they arrived. She had no idea what he might do to sabotage the night, but they would surely have an idea of what precautions to take.

  By the evening, after they’d eaten soup with the returning men and all enjoyed another free pint, they’d stayed in the pub to celebrate. Everything was in place and it was now pretty much up to the concert to run itself.

  Posters and handbills were everywhere and many people reported a real buzz about the night whistling around the city.

  They toasted each other in the main bar with a whisky, paid for, and Henry crowed, “You just see. We’ll be turning them away tomorrow night.”

  They were shattered but blissfully happy.

  “I hope so, Henry,” said Charlie. “It would be a kick in the teeth if no one came.”

  He gave Rachel a searching look, as if she might know the answer, but she shrugged. It wasn’t in the history books.

  The two men groaned as Sid Haye walked into the bar. “Evening, comrades,” he sneered. “How’s the bourgeois music business going?”

  “Very well, thanks,” said Charlie. “How’s the fight against the National Government today? Any closer to toppling it?”

  “The revolution is merely a few square meals away, comrade. And giving out free soup and beer to the starving workers might delay it, but it won’t stop it, you mark my words.”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “You have clearly exposed our counter-revolutionary intent.”

  “There’s never been any doubt as to that, my friend. And you’ll find out tomorrow that the workers of this particular parish will be much more interested in a discussion on the real issues facing the proletariat than some crooner feeding sentimental dross to the masses to keep them oppressed.”

  Rachel stared aghast at Sid Haye’s smug face. She had seen comedians on TV and in films spouting nonsense like this for comic effect but this was shockingly real because he was utterly sincere. He actually thought he was talking truth.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But are you telling us you actually think that Benny Orphan’s music is oppressing the masses?”

  All three men looked at her with surprise and she sensed their opinions had rarely been checked by a female.

  Sid gave her a withering look, sort of eyes half-closed, as if she were only worthy of half his attention.

  “I’m telling it to you because it happens to be the truth.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re talking rubbish.”

  Sid laughed. But it was an empty laugh. “And why don’t you explain it all to me, missy, so we can benefit from your wisdom?”

  Rage swelled inside her like milk coming to the boil, but she didn’t let it spill over. She’d seen this tactic before in the school debating society: say something outrageous, get people worked up, then force them to explain their opposition, and watch quietly as they tied themselves up in knots trying to articulate their outrage.

  Instead, she took a deep breath, smiled and said, “Why don’t you tell us how you think a music hall singer can oppress the workers?”

  Sid looked her in the eye for a moment, knowing his tactic had failed. “Well, missy—”

  “And don’t call me missy. It’s demeaning and disrespectful. Carry on, comrade.”

  Sid gave a little laugh that was half a choke. She could tell that no woman had ever spoken to him like this before. “As I was about to say... It is a well known fact that popular songs are written by government departments with the sole aim of drugging the proletariat with simple emotions like love, devotion, duty, longing. They act as a narcotic, clouding the workers’ minds with false emotions. It’s even rumoured that they’re not even written by people, but turned out by a machine that is programmed to trigger sentimental claptrap.”

  “Really?” she said, unable to hide her smirk. She could see Charlie and Henry both smiling into their whisky glasses now. “Love songs are written by a government machine? I suppose Benny Orphan is a government agent as well?”

  “Benny Orphan is a cheap pedlar of sticky, sugary sentimental candy th
at rots the souls of the proletariat.”

  “So you’re against love songs?” she asked.

  “If I was in power I’d ban them all!”

  Sid’s face was reddening now. He was losing the argument, making a fool of himself and he sensed it. A few people nearby were listening in and openly laughing at him.

  “And you’d replace them with what? Marching songs?”

  “I’d replace them with songs about the workers and their struggle. Songs about the revolution. Songs against capitalism!”

  “So hate songs?” she said simply. As Sid’s voice had risen, she had deliberately lowered hers.

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “That’s what it sounded like,” said Charlie.

  “That’s what I heard,” said Henry.

  “You’d ban love songs and force us all to sing hate songs,” said Rachel. “And you wonder why the Institute will be full tomorrow night and your meeting will be empty.”

  “We’ll bloody well see about that,” Sid growled.

  He turned his red face away and crept to a tight knot of Communist Party members occupying their usual spot at the end of the bar known as Commies’ Corner.

  “I think I love you, Rachel,” said Charlie.

  Henry hugged her. “I’ve never seen anyone make Sid Haye walk away from an argument.”

  The gaggle of customers who’d listened in applauded and laughed. Some of them patted Rachel on the back.

  “Well done.”

  “Insufferable idiot.”

  “You showed him!”

  Henry knocked back his whisky, slammed his glass on the bar and announced, “Well, I feel an urgent desire to lose myself in the counter-revolutionary bourgeois distraction of cheap cinema.”

  “A movie? After today?” said Charlie. “I’d be asleep in minutes.”

  “A movie’s just the thing after a day like today,” said Henry. “Just sit in the dark and be entertained. I fancy this Invisible Man film. It’s supposed to have the most amazing special effects.”

  “Can we go to the cinema, Charlie?” said Rachel, with sudden excitement. “I’ve never been.”

  Henry looked puzzled. “You’re American and you’ve never been to a cinema?”

  “I mean here,” she said, stopping herself from adding in the past.

  “Kingsway Picture Theatre,” said Henry, checking the clock above the bar. “In twenty minutes.”

  “Do you think we should?” said Charlie. “Have we done everything for tomorrow?”

  Henry slapped him on the back. “We’ve done more than enough. And we deserve it.”

  Rachel and Charlie downed their whiskies and left the bar in high spirits, walking towards the village to the tram stop in the centre.

  None of them saw the lone figure walking behind them, listening to their eager talk of whether they would catch the opening or not. The man slowed down and listened, and passed them without looking back when they stopped for the tram.

  Harold Ogborne recognized them from the fight outside the Fighting Cocks the other night. They were the Jew boy and his friends, the ones who were putting on the concert with the Yid singer and the darkie band that everyone wanted him to take Little Amy to. Well, he didn’t bloody care if he took Little Amy there or not. Not after her loopy performance last Sunday. He didn’t care if the Institute burned to the bloody ground.

  He quickened his step as he saw the corner door of the Fighting Cocks. His drinking mates in the B.U.F. would be particularly interested to know the whereabouts of the Yid and his friends, that was certain.

  — 32 —

  “WOULD YOU LIKE SOME popcorn?” Amy Parker asked Little Amy as they entered the Kingsway.

  The foyer was crammed with people eager for a spot of Friday night escapism and the queue for popcorn was so long she rather hoped Little Amy would refuse.

  “I’m fine, thank you, Auntie Amy.”

  Little Amy was staring all around at the red velvet curtains with gold braid, the bright orange-and-green-painted walls, the large oil paintings of King Charles. The glamour of it all. Amy thought the colour had certainly returned to Little Amy’s cheeks. She had even talked enthusiastically about seeing Benny Orphan tomorrow.

  “Come on then, we’ll get our seats and perhaps pop out later when the queue’s died down.”

  They were about to approach the curtained off inner sanctum when a surprised voice said, “Oh, hallo, Amy.”

  They turned to see Harold, his mouth open.

  “Miss Parker,” he added.

  Amy knew enough about men to know she was looking at one who felt he’d been caught out. She wondered if he was here with another girl, but then he put on a false smile, stuck his hands in his pockets and affected an air of nonchalance.

  “Hello, Harold,” said Little Amy. “Are you here for The Invisible Man?”

  Harold looked confused for a moment and Amy could tell he had no idea what she was talking about. His eyes flashed around the foyer and checked the display for the film.

  “Arr! The Invisible Man. That’s right. Heard it’s a cracker.”

  Amy saw a group of Blackshirts walking through the foyer towards them. It made her uneasy because they seemed to be heading directly for them. Then Harold shook his head and switched on his smile again to Little Amy. The Blackshirts walked right past them. Amy felt sure Harld had just told them not to approach him. What was he up to?

  “Are you looking forward to the concert tomorrow night, Harold?”

  Again a moment of surprise before he caught himself and smiled. “Oh arr, very much so. You still want to go then, Amy?”

  Little Amy blushed and looked at her feet. “Yes, I really do.”

  “Then I’d be honoured if you’d go with me, like.”

  Amy wanted to look away.

  “And, if you don’t mind,” he looked at Amy now. “I could sit and watch the film with you?”

  Little Amy looked at Amy.

  “Certainly,” said Amy. “Why not?”

  “Arr, that’s grand, that is.”

  Harold held out the crook of his arm and Little Amy took it. They walked on ahead with Amy following, the dowdy chaperone; the old woman left on the shelf; the spinster whose one romantic possibility had ignored her letter.

  Harold seemed to look for ages for the right seats and eventually insisted on the middle of row B in the circle behind two men and a woman in the front row. The woman turned round and Amy could see she was a girl just like Little Amy. She stared at Amy for a few moments and Amy wondered if she knew her. She couldn’t recall her face but there was something naggingly familiar about her. She didn’t look again but leaned in close to the man next to her and whispered in his ear. Amy dismissed it as paranoia. She was used to the sensation that everyone was talking about her.

  HAROLD LEFT IT TEN minutes, while some cartoon nonsense was showing, before he made his excuses and nipped to the Gents. He signalled Clifford as he stalked up the aisle and saw him get up to follow.

  He turned along the rear aisle and, just before turning into the Gents, spotted a bloke sitting in the back row. He recognized him straight off. It was that dodgy geezer who’d turned up banging on Amy’s next door. He’d told PC Davies about him. Right wrong un.

  He got a proper look at him, made sure about it, then walked into the Gents. Some bloke was washing his hands and he left the echoing space as Clifford came in. They were alone.

  “What’s going on, Harold? Thought you were in on this tonight?”

  “Bumped into someone I know. Girl I’m keen on, if you must know.”

  “You bottling off, Harold?”

  “I ain’t scared. Don’t you worry about that.”

  “That’s not what it looks like.”

  Harold thought about lamping him one right here. Clifford was soft as. Most of the Blackshirts were useless in a fight unless they were outnumbering a bunch of schoolgirls. A few quick punches and la-di-dah Clifford would be lying on the floor spitting his teeth o
ut.

  “Don’t you worry what it looks like,” said Harold, jabbing Clifford in the chest. “I’ve told you where they are, and I’ve brought you here. Now you’re gonna have to take care of them yourself.”

  Harold left him standing there, his face reddening at the prods in his chest.

  “We were expecting more from you, Harold,” he said, but his voice was weak.

  “Well, you’re not bloody well gonna get it.”

  He stalked out of the Gents and went back to Little Amy, wishing his next door neighbour, Amy Bloody Nosey Parker, wasn’t there to interfere.

  RACHEL LOVED THE INTERIOR of the cinema. It felt like stepping into a dark palace. She could see how everyone walked a little taller and realized for the first time the allure of the movies. This was why older people were so wistful about it — people who’d not stepped foot in one for decades and never seen a 3D blockbuster. To them, cinema meant glamour, and it was the only shred of glamour in their drab, recession-hit lives. She understood now too the lure of the music and what it truly meant to bring Benny Orphan to a place like this.

  The glamour was dissipated by the wall of smoke that hit her when they entered the circle and took seats on the front row, overlooking the stalls.

  It seemed that almost everyone was smoking: men and women. A few men were even smoking pipes.

  Blue-white stripes of light flickered in the air through grey clouds.

  She couldn’t stop looking around at everyone, fascinated by the communal awe of it.

  A man and two women came and sat right behind them and she thought for a moment how they had matched up: three men, three women. Her smile faded when she recognized Amy Parker.

  She stared and Amy Parker looked right back at her.

  It was definitely her. She had talked to her in 1940 and seen her die in 1966, when she’d looked through her photographs and even taken some of her dresses. She knew Amy wouldn’t know her though. That was all in the future for her. She’d never seen Rachel in 1912. They would only meet again properly in 1940.