by Amanda James
‘What, so I’ve got nitrogen bubbles in my blood?’
‘No, but you have got this weird hangover due to the pressure of time on your body; you feel giddy, dizzy, sick and stuff. You’re feeling better already though, am I right?’
‘Yes, you are, but what worries me is what happened to school yesterday? They’ll be wondering what’s happened to me, not ringing in sick, and just disappearing in the middle of a lesson on Tuesday!’
‘I fixed that, don’t worry,’ John said, waving the recently popped toast in the air to cool it down. ‘I rang, said you were feeling under stress due to an awful migraine and “women’s problems”; you had an embarrassing leakage and just ran home. I said you’ll probably be in tomorrow, though. Your head of department is setting the work for the kids.’
Sarah stood up so fast she thought her head would explode. ‘What! You told my school that I had … I had …’ She couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud.
‘Yep, your period was majorly heavy, and you had to go home and change. What’s so bad about that? I knew someone wh—’
‘I don’t care who you knew. How dare you! How dare you do that? I’ll never be able to live that down, never!’
Sarah ran out into the living room and threw herself on the sofa, hiding her face with a cushion. Humiliation didn’t begin to cover what she was feeling. God, that’s it then. My whole world has just crashed and burned. She heard John come in and walk over.
‘Sarah? Why are you getting so upset? I could hardly tell them the truth, could I?’ He tried to pull the cushion from her vice-like grip.
‘No, but you could have made something up less cringingly humiliating! Just go away!’ The anger in her voice, though muffled, came through the cushion loud and clear.
John didn’t reply and a few seconds later she heard the front door open and then close.
Damn him! Had he buggered off without answering the rest of her questions? Hurling the cushion across the room she leapt up and ran to the window. A quick glance left and right revealed nothing but an empty street. Probably popped into another dimension; easier to get to his stupid market garden!
Sarah marched into the hall and there was John, leaning with his back against the door, arms folded, head on one side, a cheeky smile playing over his lips and a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
‘Suppose you think you’re funny, eh?’ she said, torn between wanting to slap him and kiss him. Kiss him? For God’s sake, what was she thinking? Must be bloody sex starved after all this time.
‘Yes, I do. I hoped I could make you laugh too, lift the atmosphere a bit,’ he said.
‘It will take more than a little prank to make me laugh today. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take to be honest.’ Sarah felt tears pricking her eyes.
She turned quickly and walked back to the kitchen. There was no way he would see her cry. Picking up the frying pan, she squirted detergent and ran hot water into the sink.
‘Leave that, Sarah. Why don’t we take our coffee out into the garden?’ John said, putting his hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s a lovely day … and judging by the knots I can feel in your shoulder, I think you need to relax.’
She shrugged off his hand. ‘I need to do this.’
‘Why don’t you put it in the dishwasher?’ John asked, walking over to open the back door.
‘Because I always wash pans by hand and because I WANT TO, ALRIGHT!’
John raised his eyebrows, shrugged and went into the garden.
Sarah stopped scrubbing and stared at the bubbles in the sink. She exhaled and, with that breath, most of her anger drained away, leaving her wrung out like the cloth in her hand. What exactly had made her so furious? Was it the humiliation John had caused by his stupid bloody phone call to school? Was it the whole extraordinary and emotional experience she’d just had in 1940? Was it the fact that when she’d gone upstairs to change, her hands had busily applied make-up even though her brain expressly forbade it?
She pulled two clean mugs from the cupboard, sloshed more coffee into them and gave a heavy sigh. All of the above, Sarah … all of the above.
The sun dappled through the leaves of the old silver birch and on to John’s shoulders, giving his white T-shirt a Dalmatian effect. Sarah’s large and unruly garden was a burst of colour at this time of year. She mowed the lawn, but the riot of flowers and mature shrubs were the evidence of a previous owner’s labours.
‘What a lovely garden you have!’ John said, watching her walk down the path, trying not to spill the coffee.
‘Not my doing, I just tidy round. No idea about gardens really.’ She nodded towards a bench under the rose-covered pergola. ‘Do you want to sit down over there?’
Side by side they sipped coffee, while John prattled on about gardening and his love of nature. Sarah half-listened, but mostly enjoyed the soothing sound of his voice, the warm sun on her skin and the heady scent of roses permeating the air.
‘So, do you want to see photo evidence of your neat stitching?’
‘Mm? What?’ she said, only vaguely aware that he’d asked her something.
‘You’re miles away, aren’t you? Do you want to see a photo of John and Sarah?’
Puzzled, she watched as he stood up and pulled a wallet from his jeans’ pocket. Flipping it open he extracted an old black-and-white snap and handed it to her. The photo depicted a laughing couple on their wedding day. The man was tall, sandy haired and moustachioed; the woman was short, raven haired and radiant. The usual gathering of friends and relatives surrounded the couple on the steps of the church; Albert and Violet were at the forefront.
Sarah looked up at John. ‘You said it was a photo of John and Sarah? That’s Albert and Violet, but I’ve never seen the couple before.’
He sat back down next to her. ‘No, but it is them. They really were called John and Sarah. And, in order for you to achieve your aim of saving John and stitching up the hole in time,’ he patted her knee, ‘which I might add, you did brilliantly – you saw yourself as Sarah and John as me.’
She shook her head. ‘But why? I don’t understand.’
‘Well, if you had looked in the mirror and seen a total stranger looking back, you may have quite possibly gone to pieces.’
Sarah studied the photo. ‘Ah yes … yes, I can see that, but why did I see John as you?’
He smiled awkwardly, scratched his nose and coughed.
‘Well?’
John shot off the bench towards a clump of grass at the edge of the lawn. He knelt down and poked at it. She wandered over and peered at the grass, and then at John, noticing that his face was very red. He looked seriously embarrassed. ‘What are you doing?’
He cleared his throat and looked intently at the clump of grass. ‘I think this may be couch grass. You’ll need to get rid of that. It can be very invasive.’
‘Really? I think you are being very evasive, John. Why are you so embarrassed all of a sudden?’
John stood up and looked towards the house. ‘Well, I’m worried about what your reaction will be if I tell you why I was John.’
Sarah stepped round to face him. ‘Try me.’
‘Well, John had to be someone you were, err … familiar with, so you could feel comfortable,’ John mumbled, his green eyes dancing away from hers.
‘Familiar with? I hardly know you.’
‘Yes, well I’m who you wanted to see, apparently. When Stitches are on a mission, the theory is that their brains often conjure up images of friends or loved ones; you know, to help minimise stress?’
Sarah frowned. ‘But there are loads of people I know better than you, and …’
‘OK, Sarah, listen.’ John took her hand and led her back to the bench. He sat down, pulling her beside him. ‘Look, it was because you had to employ, let’s say, delicate tactics to keep John from going out to that meeting. You needed to really feel something for the guy, in order to bring yourself to do … what you did.’
Sarah was mortified. H
ow could her brain be so stupid? Now John knew how she felt. Hang on, how did she feel? When she’d woken this morning, she’d felt in love with the John in the past, but that was just woven in with the experience. OK, admittedly she was attracted to this John, sitting gawping at her on the bench – who wouldn’t be – but love? No way! And how arrogant was he to think that?
‘Well, this time that theory is wrong, John!’ She stood up. ‘It’s obvious that I cared for the other John because Sarah in the past did. You must just have been on my mind due to all the trauma of time travel and everything and my brain popped you out on to the other John. Now, I think I’m going back to bed for a bit, so it’s time you left.’ Sarah walked briskly down the path and into the house.
On his way out of the front door John turned to her. ‘Look, I know you’re angry for lots of good reasons, but please take my card,’ he held out his hand, ‘and call me if you need to ask questions or if ever you’re worried about …’
She pushed his hand away. ‘I won’t need it, thanks. Bye!’ Sarah closed the door on him and with her back against it, shut her eyes and slid down to the floor.
After gathering her composure, a few minutes later she dragged herself up and into the kitchen. On the table propped against her empty plate was a business card. Picking it up she read:
So, looks like he did his time-stopping trick again, then. Nipped round me in the hall and then out again. Sighing, she turned the card over.
Prime Minister, blimey! She hoped he’d be a good one. Sarah stared at John’s empty coffee cup and traced her fingers around the rim. She decided she’d had enough adventures for one lifetime. Nevertheless, she put the card in her pocket and took comfort from its presence as she cleared away the breakfast dishes.
Chapter Seven
‘Dad, what are you doing here?’ John asked, making his way through the tall rows of runner beans towards a kneeling figure weeding a patch of earth.
‘Charming,’ Harry Needler said, standing to a stretch. ‘“Pop over and see me anytime, Dad; I’ll be glad of your help, Dad,” he says. Now he wants to know what I’m doing here.’
John laughed, embraced his father, and then held him at arm’s length. ‘Let’s have a look at you then,’ he said, taking in his dad’s twinkly eyes and scant grey hair. ‘If anything, you seem to be growing younger lately; have you got a portrait in the attic that’s grey and wrinkled?’
Harry pretended to spar with his son, thumbing his nose and dancing lightly on his feet over the damp earth. ‘That’s a backhanded compliment if ever I heard one. I’ll have you know I’m only sixty-two, so why should I be grey and wrinkly, eh, eh? Come on, pud ’em up!’
‘I’d rather have a cuppa. Come on, I have a flask and a spare cup in the greenhouse.’ John chuckled, dodging his dad’s half-hearted jabs.
‘Gawd, you’re no fun. Is there a portrait in your attic that is young and carefree?’
With feet on a bucket and a mouth full of biscuit, Harry looked appreciatively around his son’s well-stocked greenhouse. ‘So what’s that plant there, then?’ He pointed his mug at a spindly plant snaking along the high trellis.
‘That’s a rare chilli plant; I grow a few for specialist restaurants. That end of the business is doing quite well.’ John smiled and drained his mug. ‘So, why are you here really? You never just “pop” by to help with the weeding and ask about rare plants.’
Harry raised his eyebrows and assumed a look of cherubic innocence. ‘It has been six months, John. I thought I’d take a break from my travels and see how you are.’
John said nothing but shook his head, folded his arms and waited.
‘OK, I wanted to see how the business was going,’ Harry said, taking another biscuit from the packet.
‘It’s going OK. People still need to eat even during a recession, but you could have picked up a phone to ask that, Dad.’
Harry sighed and dipped his biscuit. ‘Not the market-gardening business; I meant the business.’
‘Needling? Just as always … Why, what’s going on?’
Harry avoided his son’s eyes, just held out his mug and nodded at the flask. While John busied himself pouring tea, Harry cleared his throat and said, ‘I’ve been asked to have a word … They dropped me an email yesterday. There’s concern about this latest one … this Sarah.’
‘Bloody cheek! Why?’ John asked. This time he was the one avoiding eye contact.
‘I think you know why. She obviously likes you and it is thought that the feeling’s mutual.’
John turned his back and picked up a pack of flower pots. He unpacked them one at a time, setting them carefully along a bench. ‘Of course I like her; it would be impossible to work with someone I didn’t in my line of work.’
‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. It was you who she chose to see to help her through the trip to the Blitz … That should have given you a red light. But you going round cooking her breakfast and sitting under her rose arbour didn’t exactly give her the “stay away” signal. It has to stop, John … Think of the consequences.’
John whipped round to face his father. ‘Give me a break! I just told you I like her, but that’s all! I’ve only known her five minutes. God, isn’t it enough that I do this crazy stuff without the puppet masters sending you to grill me?’ he snapped, his face aflame and his eyes flashing.
A sad little smile replaced the sunny disposition on Harry’s face and he stood up and set his cup down. ‘Fancy a pint, lad? I saw a nice little boozer on my way up here, only about ten minutes away.’ Harry slipped his jacket on and walked towards the door.
John frowned and dusted his hands clean. ‘Right, so we can have a nice little chat and you can grill me some more about my feelings for Sarah, I suppose?’
‘No. I would like a little chat with my only son, but as for finding out about your feelings … you’ve already told me everything I need to know.’
Chapter Eight
Sarah felt as if she were wading through treacle the next morning as she walked heavy-legged through the school gates. Her heart rate went from a waltz to a quickstep and the voice responsible for maintaining her pride and dignity screamed ‘Don’t go in there!’ But every atom of her rational being propelled her forward. You have to go in there sometime, just get on with it.
The first hurdle was to get past reception without being collared by Gillian, the ‘I put my make-up on with a trowel’ receptionist, who took calls about staff absence. Sarah knew she was a terrible gossip and would have already spread Sarah’s ‘condition’ around the whole office of secretaries. What niggled her most was that the whole embarrassing debacle hadn’t even happened; it was just a figment of John’s warped imagination. Still, Sarah had purposely come in earlier than normal. Hopefully, she’d avoid having to speak to many people.
A quick glance on passing revealed not Gillian, but Jenny, sitting on reception. Phew, Gillian must be away herself or …
‘Oh, you’re in then. Alright now, Sarah?’ Gillian popped out of the office door to Sarah’s left. She wore a fake mask of concern, and an unquenchable desire for more juicy morsels of gossip flickered in her heavily mascaraed eyes.
‘Yes, thanks, Gillian,’ Sarah muttered, intending to stride through the doors to the staffroom corridor.
Gillian put her hand on Sarah’s arm and looked around conspiratorially. ‘Don’t worry, love, your secret’s safe with me. Your “friend” explained everything. It must be lovely to have someone like him to look after you.’
Sarah nodded and stepped forward, but Gillian leaned in again. ‘I think it might be the menopause you know. My sister started about your age, fortyish, and it was the same for her.’
Menopause! Fortyish? The bitch! Gillian knew that Sarah was just 34, because a few of them had been out for a drink to celebrate her birthday. Sarah was about to let rip with a few choice words, but then decided to keep quiet. If she started, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to stop. Stepping forward, she pushed past Gill
ian and flung open the door.
‘Well, really!’ Gillian gasped.
In the sparsely populated staffroom, Sarah shuffled through the mountain of paperwork in her pigeonhole. Two days away and the pile rivalled the one she’d have to pick up from the mat at home later. Half were glossy ads for history DVDs and textbooks, the other half were from various members of staff reminding her about meetings, break duty, and detentions.
‘Hey, Sarah!’
Sarah lifted her head. Oh joy, Gary Keynsham; did that man ever do anything else apart from hang round here like a bad smell?
He sidled up to her, flashing a smile at the lovely Jodie who’d just entered.
‘Did you forget to pass that message on to Danny the other day? He didn’t show up at break and—’
‘No, sorry, I had one or two things on my mind, Gary.’
‘Well, no matter, I caught him last night and—’
‘So why bother me with it now?’ she asked, walking to the door.
‘My goodness, you’re snappy this morning; must be the time of the month, eh?’ He winked at Jodie and folded his arms.
Sarah whirled round, her eyes flashing. Had that nasty bitch Gillian been spreading it round the staff, too? Gary pulled a face and stepped backwards. He looked very wary and treated her to his biggest smile. ‘Hey, it’s just a joke, hon, no need to get angry.’
‘Just a joke, eh? Making a joke about the personal workings of the female body is just a joke? How would you like it if I said, “bit snappy today, Gary, must be because you couldn’t get an erection last night”?’
Gary flushed and his voice scaled up a few octaves. ‘What do you mean? I have no problems there.’
‘No? Well I have no problems with my “time of the month” either, hon. Just think before you open your big sexist trap in future!’
From the corner of her eye, Sarah saw Gary’s big sexist trap gape open as he watched her exit the staffroom like a woman possessed. She took great pleasure from the look on his face as he caught Jodie smothering a giggle.