What about us?

by Jacqui Henderson

  What about us?

  by

  Jacqui Henderson

  The story contained within this book is fictional. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2013 Jacqui Henderson

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover by Tiller

  Table of contents

  Part one: Grace

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter ten

  Part two: Jack

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter twelve

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Part three: Jack

  Chapter seventeen

  Chapter eighteen

  Chapter nineteen

  Chapter twenty

  Chapter twenty-one

  Part four: Grace

  Chapter twenty-two

  Chapter twenty-three

  Chapter twenty-four

  Chapter twenty-five

  Chapter twenty-six

  Part one: Grace

  Chapter one

  Paris. Sunday 11th August 1912

  Of all the places and times that we visited, this was one of my favourites. This was also my favourite breakfast cafe. We came here so often, although always at the same time, on the same day, in the same year and I knew if there was any chance of him finding me, he would start looking for me here. I’d gambled everything on this fact and I could be patient. Here was where I was going to wait for as long as it took. I had to believe that he would come back for me; all he needed was to find the right time, so to show my belief in him I was going to wait.

  The sky, as always, was that deep endless blue, the sort you could disappear into. The coffee, strong and aromatic, was as always served in delicate bone china cups with saucers. The croissants were warm, and crumbled at the lightest touch, leaving your fingertips slightly greasy, but in a nice buttery way. The people of Paris, that is those who had not gone away for the summer, were not yet awake, so there was a quiet, almost heavy and sleepy air hovering over the city. On the edge of the pavement sat Lulu, the sleek tabby and white cafe cat, washing herself thoroughly with that languid grace all cats seem to be born with.

  Jack had told me that this was ‘La Belle Époque’, a beautiful time to be alive. He said it meant more than just the good times. He said it summed up the spirit of the age; the discoveries, the smells, the colours, the clothes and everything else that you could possibly imagine. There was such a buoyant expectation of a bright future, you could almost taste it in the air and we agreed that there was nowhere better to enjoy it than Paris.

  I knew of course, that just as at half past ten the clouds would gather overhead, so too would come the terrible storm in 1914 and there was nothing that could be done to change it. Everything would be irrevocably changed, for better or for worse. But who was I to judge? I mean, what did I know, really?

  I heard a noise behind me. I wanted to ignore it, knowing it was wrong. After all, I knew these hours between nine and eleven so well. There was a slight cough and the scraping of metal chair feet on the stone pavement. I knew it wasn’t Jack; he would have crept up behind me, put his hands over my eyes and kissed the back of my neck. So wrong for the era, but he would have done it anyway. I kept watching Lulu, not moving, not acknowledging, just waiting; holding my breath and hoping this unwanted intrusion would go away.

  A deep voice, the sort that is often described as strong yet kind, announced the arrival of its owner. It also announced much more; this person knew me and that couldn’t be good.

  “There are times Grace, when I enjoy my job. Mornings like this are one of them. What do you recommend I order?”

  I didn’t look at him, I just continued to stare straight ahead, as tears began to prickle in my eyes. I didn’t want him to know this, so I answered carefully, trying to inject some confidence into my voice.

  “The coffee is excellent and if you are paying, then a glass of Armagnac would go down well. Or if you prefer something less mellow, the Calvados is also good.”

  I sensed him smile as he replied. “Getting me drunk won’t help matters you know.”

  I shrugged; he couldn’t blame me for trying. I forced myself to turn my head to look across at him and found that I was staring into watery blue eyes and was surprised to discover that he was older than I had thought from the sound of his voice. His head was covered with a shock of thick white hair and his hand shook slightly as it rested on the table. Of course he was dressed correctly for the period, so like me, he did not look out of place.

  “Where is Jack? What have you done to him?” I asked quietly.

  He held my gaze without blinking. “We have done nothing to him. He is living in his own time Grace, as surely you know he must.” he gently answered, looking away only to attract the waiter’s attention.

  “Why must I know that?” I replied, sounding even to myself, like a petulant child.

  “Because Grace, for one reason, the rules have been broken and for another, because he involved you. And that was very wrong of him.”

  He turned to face me again, having ordered more coffee for me, some for himself and a baguette with cheese; all in fluent French, naturally.

  “I wanted to be involved; you can’t blame him for that.” I said defiantly.

  It was true; I had wanted to be involved, involved with him and his life. In fact, my choice had been and still was, to be involved in every conceivable and wonderful way possible.

  “It’s not that simple Grace.” he said, frowning.

  “You sound like the father I never knew and probably like all fathers do when they are talking to a child. But I’m not a child.” I said rather heatedly, causing the waiter to look back at us over his shoulder.

  “No, not a child, I agree, but you are in many ways childlike; unknowing and naive. I don’t mean to be rude or condescending, but it is true. There is so much you don’t understand. But he understood everything, yet still, he involved you.”

  I flinched at his words; they stung, leaving me with nothing to say, so we sat in silence for a while. The waiter came back and poured the hot black liquid into the little cups and replaced my untouched basket of croissants with fresh, warm and usually unignorable yumminess.

  Once again, his voice broke into my sullen thoughts. “Tell me everything Grace, help me to understand.”

  “Will it help?” I asked, looking across at him, wondering if I could trust him.

  “It won’t hurt matters. As things stand, there’s not a lot that could make things worse for him.”

  He spoke with what seemed to be a very honest voice. It was also in a strange way vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

  “So will you tell me?” he asked, softly.

  He was right. In some ways I was like a child; there was so much that I didn’t understand. I didn’t know him and I didn’t know what power he might have over our lives and I wasn’t at all sure if I should trust him or try and run away. While I thought about what my options might realistically be, I broke up a croissant, letting the pieces fall back into the basket. The thick white linen napkin was soon covered in tiny golden flakes, but no flash of inspiration came to me.

  I sighed. I was out of my depth, as I’d been from the moment Jack had come cannonballing into my life. But when he was with me, I never felt I was drowning. He always made me feel that we would somehow be ok, but he wasn’t there. He’d gone,
through no fault of his own, but the result was the same. For the first time since our journey began, I felt completely alone, desperately unsure and afraid.

  “Grace...?”

  That voice... there was something about the way he spoke that triggered something in me. I looked across the table into the watery blue eyes. They weren’t cold and I could see deep concern in them, concern for me. I hadn’t been expecting that.

  “Ok...” I said slowly, “I suppose it would be a waste of my time trying to escape.”

  He nodded. “Time is a funny thing, as you are coming to realise and I know that you have locked the coordinates onto here and now. Here is where you will continue to return to, as shall I. So we have all the time in the world for this discussion...”

  He spoke softly and there was no threat in his voice. There was after all, no need to threaten me, all he had to do was let the hugeness of that last sentence hang in the pause.

  He lifted the small cup and sipped the coffee slowly, clearly enjoying the aroma and flavour before picking the conversation up again. “Or of course, I may be wrong. Perhaps you will go to some other place or time.”

  He shrugged, but both of us knew that I wouldn’t. Being anywhere or any time other than here wasn’t an option for me.

  “You could outrun me easily and if you choose to get up and walk away I won’t follow you. But then I won’t be able to help you and you won’t be able to help him.”

  It was my turn to nod. While there was so much I didn’t know, I did believe that he was telling the truth. Before I told him anything, there was something I wanted to know and figured it would do no harm to ask.

  “Will I see him again?”

  “No.” was his quiet reply.

  “Then why should I tell you?”

  “Because, I suppose, you could think of me as the judge and the jury and this as your hour to defend yourself. More importantly, to defend his actions... if you choose to of course. There is a lot of confusion surrounding his decisions and we wish only to understand.”

  “Oh...” was the only response I could think of. “If he is guilty of something, what will his sentence be?” I asked slowly.

  “His sentence is already underway. As I said, time is a funny thing. Although it is in the future, it is also now. But rest assured, we do not execute those who transgress our rules, nor do we have forced labour or penal colonies, so do not worry. It is the future that we speak of, but for you that future has not happened. Sorry, of course for you it will not happen.”

  His correction made me even sadder.

  “So you will understand that I cannot be more specific. However, you can still help him and you can help me decide what should happen to you.”

  “Oh...” I said again, wondering what his options might be and if I would like any of them. I let the last crumbs fall from my fingers and held my hands in mid-air, wondering where to start. What should I share with the judge and the jury, as he had so charmingly described himself?

  “You could start at the beginning.” he suggested, smiling sadly. “I am old fashioned as well as old and we have time, after all.”

  I had no idea what he had to be sad about.

  “Where did you meet?” he asked.

  That was easy; the very thought brought a huge grin to my face.

  Chapter two

  How could I forget that day? It was early evening, Friday the 5th of May 2000 and chilly. I was walking home, having finished work and I’d just been to pay Mum’s bill at the off-licence, as I always did at the end of the week. She drank much more than was good for her and more than she could afford to, so when I collected my money I paid her bill. I couldn’t stop her from drinking and I’d spent too much of my life hiding bottles, watering the contents down, pleading with her and even screaming at her, until one day I realised it had to be her choice; it could never be mine. I knew she loved me in her own way, but not enough to put the bottle away.

  Anyway, as usual I crossed the High Street and turned into Malvern Gardens, the short cut to the estate. Home was on the eighteenth floor of a tower block, as it had been ever since I could remember.

  The view from my bedroom window was the best thing about it. I could see for miles across London and a lot of my life had been spent imagining and inventing stories for all the little lives going on below in those tiny houses and blocks of flats that dotted the twisting, turning streets and in the toy cars and trains that were always spread out for me to play with.

  The real magic though, was at night or during a storm. Then my eyes and dreams were drawn upwards as I travelled through the sky to the stars, or the home of the thunder god. I’d liked the sound of him from the moment I learnt about him. He didn’t seem to ask for much and he didn’t promise us lesser mortals anything in return, which was fine by me. In my experience, promises are made only to be broken.

  I don’t remember what I was thinking about as I walked and anyway, Mum always says I have my head in the clouds. Well, there wasn’t much going on for me on the ground to make me happy, so I guess she was right. But I do remember being deep in thought. Mum and I had had another bad row, bad enough for her to tell me again that I was the accident that ruined her life. I didn’t believe her, but it still hurt, even after all this time.

  I’m her only child, or only accident of that kind, although her life, as far as I could see at any rate, was a drunken lurch from one mistake to another. Most of her mistakes came in the shape of the many and varied ‘uncles’ that had filled my childhood, most of whose names I could no longer remember and who in all fairness, probably wouldn’t be able to remember mine either. Many of them, if not all, had been as careless about the basic and the emotional needs of a child as my Mum was, but she had never been intentionally cruel, while some of them had.

  At far as mistakes went, at least I took care of her. I made sure she ate and that the bills were paid and as often as not, I went looking for her when she’d been gone too long, just to make sure she got home safely. Now I was working at the old people’s home, we were a little better off too. It wasn’t anything fancy; I’d missed too much school to get anything like that, but I enjoyed it and as far as I could tell I was good at it. I’d had plenty of practice looking after Mum, so taking care of the elderly was second nature to me. They were always crying out for people, so they took me on and trained me, despite my lack of qualifications or experience. As it turned out, I was a quick learner.

  Maybe I’d been thinking about work, but anyway, whatever it was, I didn’t look as I stepped off the pavement to cross the road and I didn’t hear the car; I only saw it when it was too late. Someone screamed and I heard the sound of wheels locking up. I looked up and froze in horror, realising that I had no chance of getting out of the way.

  Funny, the things you see in those moments. I saw the panic on the driver’s face; etched deep into his eyes and around his mouth, but I couldn’t tell you what colour the car was. Then just before it hit me, I was pushed down and roughly rolled out of the way. It missed me by inches, if that.

  My elbow hurt and I rubbed it as I sat up and looked into the face of my knight in shining armour.

  He looked anything but pleased.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” he demanded angrily.

  “D... do what for?” I asked, genuinely puzzled and a bit shaken.

  “If you want to kill yourself, if life is so meaningless for you, why pile the guilt of your death on some poor innocent person?” he said, jumping to his feet.

  Almost despite himself, he held out his hand to help me up.

  I was shocked. “Kill myself...?” I said, astounded at the very thought.

  While life might not have been great, it wasn’t so bad that I didn’t still want plenty more of it. I mean, I needed time for things to get better, to turn out right and doing myself in at the age of nineteen was definitely not part of my plan.

  I’m not sure I said any of this, but maybe I did. Either way, something made him see that
he’d offended me.

  “Oh...” he said, a little contritely, “I’m sorry. It looked to me as though you stepped out on purpose.”

  “Well you looked at it wrongly, that’s all I can say. But thank you for saving me anyway.”

  I’d never had my life saved before and it seemed to deserve some kind of mention. Then the realisation of what had so nearly happened struck me and I wobbled, literally and emotionally.

  “I could’ve died!” I shrieked.

  He grabbed me again before I went over. “Hey, steady, just get your breath back and let’s get out of the road before we cause a real accident.”

  He put his arm around my shoulders and gently guided me to the other side of the street. There’s a small cafe just there and without asking, or saying anything else, he steered me into it and plonked me into a seat.

  The waitress had seen everything and quickly brought over two mugs of hot sweet tea. I held onto mine as if my life depended on it and at his gentle insistence, sipped it slowly. After a while, some colour must have returned to my face and the panic must have left my eyes, because he stopped looking at me in that anxious sort of way and sat back in his chair. He picked up his own mug and started looking at me in a different way, a way that made me want to blush.

  “So...” he said. “My name’s Jack. What’s yours?”

  “Grace,” I said quietly. “And don’t laugh...”

  I’ve always hated my name. I mean who in this day and age calls their kid Grace? Giving a child a name like that is guaranteed to ensure that what she turns into is anything but graceful. It’s like calling some poor unsuspecting baby ‘Ferrari’, they’re bound to be thick and slow on the uptake, or ‘Harmony’; she’s going to be a born trouble-maker, if ever there was one. So it was with me. I am clumsy, awkward in company and too large for my name.

  “I, err, wasn’t going to laugh.” he said, clearly trying to suppress a grin.

  “It’s ok, everyone does.” I said truthfully.