Touchstone Season One- Complete Box Set

by Andy Conway

  They pushed through, ignoring the cloakroom, and found themselves at the edge of a giant dance floor. An all-black jazz orchestra played on the stage at the far end and she could make out the white crooner, who must have been the infamous Benny Orphan.

  Mrs Hudson was standing staring at the dance floor, a smile on her face. She followed her gaze. She seemed to be looking at a table visible through the swirling dancers. A young man, his skinny neck protruding from his too-big suit, stealing glances at a teenage girl squirming, her legs and arms in knots. Between them a much older couple looking at the proceedings with an air of disapproval.

  Kath could just about recognize them as the couple from the photograph on Mrs Hudson’s wall.

  “Dear lord,” said Mrs Hudson, all her irritation now gone. “They look so young. I thought I’d never see them again.”

  Her eyes were misting over and Kath wondered why she’d not used her gift to visit her dead parents as often as she liked. It seemed stupid to possess such a gift and to go on missing people you loved simply because of a technicality like death; a technicality that was easily side-stepped. She felt a sudden surge of irritation — as if Mrs Hudson had transferred her mood to her — and wanted to be free.

  She backed away into the crowd, leaving the old lady staring at her teenage parents.

  “Where are you going?” Mitch grabbed hold of her arm.

  “I’m going to have a look around,” she said, pulling her arm free. “We can’t all three of us stare at them like weirdoes.”

  Mitch nodded and tried to smile. “You’re right. I’m just worried is all. She might be getting caught up in the moment too much — getting personal. We have to stay detached at all times.”

  Kath nodded and left him there. She began to skirt the edge of the dance floor, looking for Danny. She had a chance now, she thought, to catch him before the others.

  But it was Rachel she saw.

  The girl was wearing a blue ball gown and looked quite stunning. She was staring at her with something like fear. What was wrong with her?

  “Rachel,” Kath smiled. “Here you are. How are you?”

  Rachel let her tug at her hand but there was something in her face — it was as if she didn’t know her. Kath thought for a wild moment she might be meeting a different Rachel, an earlier one who’d never met her, or perhaps her great-grandmother, and she panicked for a moment.

  “Rachel?”

  “Yes. Kath!” said the girl suddenly, smiling. “I was wondering when you’d arrive.”

  “Mrs Hudson’s over there, with Mitch. She’s found her parents and everything seems to be normal so far. But look at this.” Kath waved an arm at the ballroom. “You’ve done so well. Mrs Hudson is very pleased.”

  “It was touch and go,” said Rachel. “But it’s happening at last.”

  “Now. Have you seen Danny?”

  Again the fear in Rachel’s face. Was it suspicion? What had happened to make her like this? Kath knew she’d gone out of her way to make Rachel trust her.

  “No,” said Rachel. “Is he coming then?”

  “We think he is.”

  “I knew it. He can’t resist Amy Parker. But it’s awful. The damned letter. Everyone’s talking about it. He’s totally compromised her.”

  Kath nodded, pretending to understand. “Listen. Is there a side room, a dressing room? With a key?”

  Rachel looked puzzled. “The performers’ rooms are backstage, but we can’t access them. I’ve got a key to the backstage area, though.”

  Rachel indicated a door in the dark corner of the ballroom, hidden behind a giant pot plant.

  “Give me the key.”

  “Why?”

  Again the mistrust. Why was she making things so difficult?”Because when he turns up I want to distract him. Get him out of harm’s way.”

  Rachel had a faraway look in her eyes, as if remembering something particularly frightening. She nodded and reached into her purse, pulling out a brass key.

  “Thank you. If you see him, don’t attempt to approach him. Leave him to me.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Rachel. “I won’t.”

  She marched off and was lost in the crowd, leaving Kath to wonder why Rachel had actually shuddered at the thought.

  — 48 —

  DANNY HAD TRIED TO control the tornado emanating from him ever since Friday night. He’d cowered in fear in his room at the Station Hotel. When he’d thought back, he’d realized it had been there all the time, growing and growing.

  He’d wondered if it was like a super power. Could he control it? It had seemed to increase whenever he’d thought about Amy, he knew that. He’d tried to meditate. To clear his head. Then had let the thought of her drop into his consciousness. The breeze would increase. Just a murmur. He would empty his mind. For hours he’d done this, allowing himself to think more about her each time; taming the zephyr around him to nothing but a light breeze.

  By the time he walked to the Moseley and Balsall Heath Institute he was serene and in total control of it.

  There seemed to be some sort of demonstration outside; men and women waving placards. It worried him for a second. Demonstrations meant fights, and fights usually ended up with Danny in a police cell.

  He paused and read the slogans. Down with Mosley’s Blackshirts! Fight the Forces of Fascism! Unite Against Capitalism with our Coloured and Jewish Brothers and Sisters! It seemed to be a demonstration in support of the event, but Danny couldn’t work out why it was thought necessary. Most people entering in their best clothes were frowning at its peculiarity as much as him. The demonstrators continued chanting and waving their placards. They didn’t seem to care. As if it were enough that they were simply seen to be there.

  He breezed up the steps, paid his money and sauntered into the ballroom.

  He felt detached from it all, as if it was happening to someone else. He had to, in case he created another tornado. He knew that if he maintained serenity and allowed no emotions to build inside him, he could control it.

  He stood for a while, watching the dancers, then began a circuit of the floor. Before he’d reached the stage he was surprised to find himself looking into the eyes of Kath Bright.

  Fenwick had warned him about her. She was the enemy. He stilled the surge of surprise, fear, suspicion peaking inside him. She was smiling. She could do him no harm. He remembered waking up with her on a sunny morning in 1966. A good thought. A calm thought.

  She came to him, still smiling that warm smile, the stage lights glinting on her red hair.

  “Danny,” she said, as if to an old friend. “Long time no see.”

  “Haven’t seen you since thirty years from now,” he said.

  She laughed. She couldn’t be the enemy. He could read the warmth in her eyes and he knew that it was genuine.

  “You’re looking for Amy, aren’t you?” she said.

  “How did you know?”

  A sudden stab of fear in his chest. Control it, quell it, she means you no harm.

  “Thing is, you’ve made it rather difficult for her. Everyone knows about your letter. You’ve compromised her.”

  “Compromised her?”

  “Things are different here,” she said. She placed a comforting hand on his arm. “She can’t meet you here. Too many eyes.”

  He nodded. It seemed logical. Yes, they did things differently here. Perhaps he’d been too forward.

  “I’ve got a key for backstage,” she said. “I’ll get her to meet you there in a few minutes.”

  She turned and he followed her to the shady corner of the ballroom, behind a giant fern, there was a door. She unlocked it.

  He peered through. It was a side stage corridor, illuminated by the light from the stage. He wondered if it was a trap of some kind. It didn’t matter. He could walk right onto the stage and jump off it if he chose. He suppressed a giggle in his throat at the thought that he could blow the door right off its hinges with a breath. Who could stop him?

&nb
sp; “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll bring her along in a minute.”

  He walked through. Before she locked the door he asked, “Why are you doing this for me?”

  She thought about it a moment, her smile fading. “Because I know what it’s like to love someone and not be able to have them,” she said.

  She closed the door. He heard the key turn in the lock and wondered why she thought she could lock him in. Was it to keep him here or prevent someone else entering? It didn’t matter. He waited.

  — 49 —

  RACHEL PUSHED HER WAY through the crowd, heading for the entrance. She needed air.

  She also wanted to get away from Kath Bright.

  She was perfectly pleasant and friendly, but Rachel had seen Future Kath and it scared her. Something was going to happen to Kath that would sour her, and that something was quite possibly going to happen tonight.

  She was being a coward. She should confront her, perhaps even warn her, and here she was putting as much distance as she could between them.

  She saw Mrs Hudson standing at the edge of the dance floor. Mitch was with her.

  She could go over now and warn her. Something’s going to happen to Kath, she’s going to turn against us, I’ve seen it.

  But she remembered how Kath had lunged at her and been repelled by something inside her, something inside Rachel that had knocked her back like an electric shock. Could she explain that? She didn’t want to. It scared her. It was too much like the thing that was happening to Danny and she wanted nothing to do with it.

  She shuddered and pushed through to the entrance, gulping down the fresh night air.

  Charlie was standing at the entrance with Manny. He turned to her. “Rachel, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, forcing a smile. “Just needed some air. It’s so hot in there.”

  “We’ll be carrying ladies out soon,” joked Manny. “I’d better go in and check.”

  Charlie took her hand and walked her outside to the top of the steps. She was puzzled to see a crowd of men out there waving placards.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Sid Haye,” said Charlie, “and his Communist Party members.”

  “Weren’t they holding a meeting tonight?”

  “They certainly were.”

  She read the anti-fascist slogans on the placards. “So why are they here supporting this? Wasn’t he against it earlier?”

  Someone took a photograph with a giant flashbulb that blinded her temporarily.

  “This is what they do,” said Charlie bitterly. “They campaign against something, denounce it as incorrect, tell everyone their way is the correct way. Then when the tide goes against them they don’t even say they’ve changed their mind — they just pretend it was their idea all along and take credit for it.”

  The men were chanting about the evils of fascism and posing with their placards for the photographer. One of them was even holding up a poster for the concert. Anyone would think it was their event.

  “You see, they’ll claim that they were responsible for defeating the Blackshirts. Sid Haye will tell everyone that it was him and the Communist Party who organized the concert. And the worst thing is, in a few years’ time he’ll actually believe it himself.”

  Rachel nodded. “Four legs good. Two legs better.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Yet. But it will do soon.”

  She took his hand, suddenly aware that they had very little time left together.

  “Come inside,” she said. “Let them pretend all they want.”

  — 50 —

  NO ONE SAW JEZ STANDING across the street staring at the Moseley and Balsall Heath Institute, because he wasn’t there. He was still in 2013.

  He was in 2013 as he threw his cigarette aside, crossed the road and walked up the steps to the faded Moseley Dance Centre sign and the much newer plastic banner swaying in the breeze announcing a vintage retro night called Hot Ginger.

  He was still in 2013 as he walked through the entrance.

  But somewhere between the threshold and the door to the dance floor, somewhere half way across the foyer, he drifted from 2013 and melted into 1934.

  It was the first time he’d deliberately willed himself into the past, and he’d achieved it by refusing to allow his mind to believe it wasn’t possible. For a month or more he’d been seeing Amy, the dead wife of Harold, in the old man’s dilapidated house, sometimes drifting back to the house’s past history as a ghost. It had happened so much he no longer felt he belonged in his own time.

  As he walked into the ballroom, the vintage-dressed ghosts of the present day being replaced by the real-life 1930s dancers, a wave of music hit him. He strode purposefully across the dance floor. He knew what he was looking for. He knew who. He scanned the tables that skirted the edges of the room, and there she was.

  Little Amy, sitting alone in a party dress: awkward, shy, a wallflower. She looked up. He stood above her, holding out his hand. Her eyes met his and he felt no fear. There was only hope and love in their eyes. She rose uncertainly, placing her hand on his, letting him lead her to the dance floor where he stopped and turned. They stood face to face. He eased her closer to him and started to dance to the music. She placed her free hand on his arm and let her cheek brush his and he took in the sweet scent of her and felt her body pressed close to his.

  They circled round and she pulled her head back to look him in the eye, unsure of him suddenly — could he be real? — but she was swept away by his tenderness, swept away on a wave of emotion as he stroked her cheek, and she smiled.

  And he thought of her on a photograph that would be taken years from now: the photo that would haunt him.

  They swayed together to the hypnotic music. He closed his eyes, trying to hold back the present, the awful future. He gripped her a little closer to him as the music swelled to a brass fanfare climax.

  Her face on the photograph, eyes averted, unsmiling.

  He stumbled. She stepped back from him. He reached out for her. Her smile was gone now. He reached out for her, desperately, but other dancers were passing between them. Her face receded, lost in the crowd as she backed away.

  She turned, casting a glance back over her shoulder and she was gone and he opened his eyes to find himself in 2013, lying on the dance floor at the Hot Ginger night, blinking up at a ring of concerned faces. Someone was calling for an ambulance on their cellphone.

  — 51 —

  WHEN AMY PARKER RETURNED to their table she felt sure there had been a fight. The crowd had formed a concerned circle. She fought her way through and found Little Amy lying on the floor, Harold propping her up. Her mother was fanning her face.

  “What’s happened?” she cried.

  “Where is he?” spat Harold. “I’m gonna knock his block off!”

  She looked around and saw a strange man with a pointy moustache slinking away from the scene.

  “He was the one,” she heard one of the women say.

  “I’m gonna have him!” shouted Harold.

  “No, not the one dancing with her. He was the one who hit him.”

  “Hit who?”

  “The fellah that was dancing with her.”

  “Inappropriately, I might add.”

  “The one with the girl’s hair. Looked like a right Mary Ann.”

  “Had his hands all over her, poor girl.”

  “She looked scared.”

  “Came over and hit him, he did.”

  “He didn’t hit him. He just tapped him on the shoulder. I saw it.”

  “The bloke just fell down.”

  “Where the hell is he?” snarled Harold.

  “He just disappeared.”

  “Fell on the floor. I saw him!”

  “Must have run off.”

  “He disappeared, I tell you. Like a ghost. I saw it.”

  “Don’t be bloody soft. You’ve had too many sherries.”

  Amy knel
t by the girl’s side and stroked her face. She could smell burning. A familiar smell. No, it was singed hair. She stroked Little Amy’s hair. It didn’t appear to be burned anywhere but the smell was unmistakable.

  “Where the ruddy hell were you?” snapped Mrs Dowd. “You were supposed to be looking after her.”

  “I went to the bathroom,” she said. “I left her with you.”

  Harold and Mrs Dowd pulled Little Amy up and sat her in a chair. Amy fanned her face. “Anyone got smelling salts?”

  “She don’t need it. She’s coming round now.”

  Amy stroked the girl’s cheek as her eyes fluttered open.

  “Are you all right? What happened?”

  Little Amy smiled and whispered, “It was him. It was him. I danced with him. He was real. Then he disappeared. Like a ghost.”

  “Come on,” said Amy. “We should take you home.”

  “I’ll take her,” barked Mrs Dowd. “She’s my daughter.”

  She snatched Little Amy away from her, yanked her to her feet.

  What was wrong? What had she done? “I thought I’d help, that’s all,” she stammered.

  “We don’t need any more of your help, Amy Parker.”

  Amy recoiled. She knew that tone. It was the tone of accusation, of disapproval, of scandal. She’d heard it her whole life. She’d thought Mrs Dowd was above all that.

  Mrs Dowd dragged Little Amy away and Amy watched them plough through the dancers and fade through the exit. She looked all around. The Ogbornes avoided her gaze. Mrs Ogborne reached for her coat.

  “Reckon it’s time for us to leave too.”

  “Oh, mum!”

  “Come on, Judy.”

  Harold glared at Amy like she was somehow responsible for it all. “What a great night this has turned out to be,” he spat, and marched off after his mother and sister.

  Amy looked all around and her eyes met Sheila Sutton’s. She was staring back with a look of malignant glee.