Given Time

by Anthony Burn

  Yet, it wasn’t the sights and attractions that had kept me in the city; it was the friendliness of the people. Having lived in London, where it was possible to stay completely isolated in a crowd, and where I had never spoken to my neighbours more than two doors away, it was refreshing to discover the open and welcoming nature of the native population.

  Most evenings of my first week, I’d chatted with Josh, the barman at the hotel. He’d been genuinely interested in my daytime activities and made good suggestions for things to try next. He said his days at home invariably consisted of sleeping and resting for his late shift, but on the Friday evening he told me he had the weekend off.

  ‘Are you doing anything exciting?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, we’ve got a crowd of people coming over for a Hāngī.’

  I frowned at the unknown term. ‘What’s that?’

  He was happy to complete my education; he told me they would dig a pit, heat rocks on a fire before putting them in the hole in the ground, place a cage of food over the red-hot rocks, and then cover it with wet cloths and all the earth they’d dug out. ‘It’s a traditional Māori cooking method. Once the food is cooked, which takes a few hours, you dig it out and you’ve got a real feast.’

  ‘Sounds fascinating,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t the earth get into the food?’

  ‘Nah, not if you’re careful, but you get a real earthy flavour, and it’s probably the healthiest food there is, because it’s slow cooked. You should come and join us if you’re not doing anything else, eh?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘I’d love to, but I don’t want to gatecrash your party.’

  ‘Yeah, no worries. There’s always plenty to go round. We start at about ten, but it’s an all-day thing. Come over when you’re ready.’

  I arrived in time to help dig the hole in the immaculate lawn while a fire raged nearby to heat the rocks that would cook the food.

  ‘Aren’t you worried about the damage to your garden?’ I asked Josh.

  He handed me a bottle of cold beer after my efforts with the spade. ‘Nah, it’ll recover, eh?’

  More and more people arrived until there were about twenty-five in total and I was losing track of all their names, although no one seemed to mind. There was a flurry of activity after a couple of hours when the hot rocks and embers were dropped into the pit and the food was brought out of the house. The cage, which I’d been expecting to be elaborate, was rudimentary and appeared to be cobbled together from old chicken wire.

  Josh noticed my tepid appraisal and laughed. ‘I made that. I bet you thought it was professional, eh?’

  I raised my beer bottle in salute. ‘With those skills, you’re wasted as a barman!’

  The basket contained several joints of meat and a couple of chickens, surrounded by all sorts of vegetables. There was easily enough for twice the number of people, and I wondered how many more were expected.

  It was late afternoon before the food was ready. It was an unusual mixture, but the flavours were every bit as delicious as Josh had promised. I watched as the other guests tucked into huge platefuls, and it felt as though I was among friends I had known for years. Before the party was over, several had invited me to spend time with them or offered to show me the lesser known sights and experiences.

  Over the next few weeks my new friends took me sailing around the islands of the Hauraki Gulf, surfing and camping at Ninety Mile Beach, swimming in hot pools at Waiwera Thermal Resort and zorbing at Rotorua. Ultimately though, and much as I was enjoying the activities and their company, I still had the rest of New Zealand to see, so I told Josh one evening that I was ‘heading out’, as he would have put it.

  ‘You’ll love the South Island,’ he told me. ‘The people down there are really friendly.’

  I watched to see if I could detect any irony in his face, but when I found none I told him, ‘They couldn’t possibly be any friendlier than you guys have been.’

  He replied with a ‘just you wait and see’ expression. ‘Are you coming back this way after?’

  ‘Sure, yeah,’ I said, ‘but I’m not sure when that will be.’

  ‘No worries, but make sure you come and see us when you get back, eh?’

  For two weeks I travelled slowly south through the North Island and took in many of the recommendations that I’d been given by Josh and his companions. Christmas Day found me on the beach at Mount Maunganui. That morning, I’d picked up a takeaway sandwich and a couple of beers from the hotel and found a relatively quiet spot on the crowded shoreline to sit and people watch. But I’d soon been spotted by a large family group who insisted on me joining in with their barbecue.

  During the afternoon the parents produced a large sack, and I looked on with some amusement at the incongruous sight of people in swimming costumes opening Christmas presents in twenty-eight degrees of heat. One of the mothers nudged her young son, and the boy came towards me clutching a brightly coloured present in both hands.

  The shyness in his averted eyes was equalled by the timidity of his voice as he held it out to me at arm’s length. ‘This is for you.’

  I could tell that it was a bottle of beer that had been wrapped in discarded paper from another gift, but as I thanked him and his parents I delighted in the warmth of the gesture.

  By New Year I’d made my way to Wellington, and crossed the Cook Strait to the South Island. I’d been blown away by the stunning scenery, as the ferry weaved between the islands and coves of the Queen Charlotte Sound on its way to Picton. From there, I’d taken the bus to Nelson and followed the tourist route down the west coast for several days. Stops to see the Franz Josef and Fox glaciers had been awe-inspiring highlights of the trip before I’d headed inland to Queenstown for more thrill-seeking adventures. I’d taken helicopter tours of The Remarkables, the Southern Alps and Milford Sound. I’d ridden in the Shotover Jet boat at breathtaking speeds – dangerously close to overhanging cliffs – through water that was only a few centimetres deep, but I’d drawn the line at the Shotover Canyon Swing. After my leap from the Sky Tower in Auckland, I’d thought I’d be ready for anything, but this attraction was a jump too far.

  It was while I was touring the South Island that I discovered a limitation of my time device. I’d travelled from Queenstown to Dunedin, to stay overnight in preparation for touring back up the eastern side of the island. I’d met a middle-aged English couple in the bar of my hotel soon after I had arrived. Bob and Anne were also touring the country, but they had hired a motorhome for their travels, and they had come in for a cup of tea while visiting the city. I’d fallen into conversation with them after I’d remarked about the number of Scottish accents I’d heard.

  ‘That’s because the original European settlers were from Scotland,’ Bob told me. ‘The city’s name comes from Dùn Èideann – the Gaelic name for Edinburgh.’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘I had no idea.’

  Bob warmed to his theme, apparently pleased to have a new audience for his knowledge. ‘I’ve been told, although it may be an urban myth, that the founders brought a street map of Edinburgh with them and tried to recreate it here, but gave up because some of the hills were too steep; they had roads that stopped halfway up and went nowhere. I don’t know that I believe it, but both cities have a main road called Princes Street.’

  ‘Have you been in Dunedin long?’ Anne asked.

  ‘No, I just arrived this afternoon,’ I told her. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, I was just wondering if you saw the Southern Lights the night before last. They were spectacular.’

  ‘I was in Queenstown two nights ago,’ I said. ‘I didn’t see anything, but it might be because I was surrounded by mountains.’

  ‘Or it could be you were too far north. It’s a shame you missed it though. We were in Bluff, just south of Invercargill, and it was brilliant. Really amazing colours. It’s all anyone has been talking about for the last two days. Isn’t that right, Bob?’

  Bob smiled at his wife. ‘Yes, eve
n here in Dunedin people are saying it was amazing. The most stunning display in many years, apparently. It’s certainly been one of the highlights of our holiday.’

  It had long been an aspiration of mine to see the Northern Lights, and having been so close to the southern hemisphere’s equivalent, it seemed a shame to have missed the Aurora Australis. But any envy that I felt was short-lived; I had a time machine, so it wouldn’t be a problem to go back a couple of days and see the spectacle for myself – or at least, that’s what I thought.

  Having finished my drink and said goodbye to the couple, I went back to my room to turn back time in private. I sat on the edge of the bed and, taking the device from my pocket, I turned it further than I had ever done before. After several turns it stopped abruptly. I tried again but it wouldn’t budge. I attempted to turn it the other way, but it still wouldn’t move. Now I couldn’t get it to turn in either direction. I tried several more times before conceding that it was jammed solid, and I stared at the gadget, wondering what I could have done to break it. A check of my watch confirmed it hadn’t worked at all; it was still 4.43 p.m., and although I’d turned it several times before it seized up, I hadn’t travelled back even one minute.

  If I’d had the time to think about it, I would have despaired at the sudden loss of the power my device had given me, but before I could adjust to the devastating concept of never time travelling again, the bathroom door opened to reveal a very large, very wrinkled and very naked grey-haired woman. She was combing her wet hair as she walked into the room, but she stopped and screamed when she saw me sitting on the bed.

  My heart and breathing raced in shock at the sight of her. Instinctively, I tried the time turner and felt just the slightest movement as the woman vanished before my eyes. I tried to turn some more but it was jammed again. Now I was confused on two counts: the first was that the device had worked briefly but had immediately seized again, and the second was that there seemed to be an obese elderly woman in my bathroom.

  The bathroom door opened to allow her out again, and in an exact replay of our previous encounter, she screamed, I turned the device and she vanished. Once more the time turner jammed, and I realised I couldn’t just sit there and let the same thing happen again. I rushed for the exit, and was almost out of the door when she came out and spotted me leaving. This time I was ready to turn the same tiny amount, and make her disappear back into the bathroom before I stepped into the corridor and closed the door quietly behind me.

  The hotel had thoughtfully placed armchairs in the lift lobby, so I took myself along there to calm down and think about what to do next. Clearly, the woman had got into my room by mistake, possibly thinking it was her own. Perhaps the receptionist had given her the wrong key card, in which case that would need sorting out, but first I decided to give her time to make herself decent, and then I would go and knock at the door to see if I could help her find her own room.

  I checked my watch; it was four forty-five. I decided I’d give it another five minutes, and as there was nobody about I took the turner from my pocket, to make a closer inspection. It looked no different to usual; there was no apparent damage that might be causing it to jam. I could think of no reason for it to suddenly be turning back only a few seconds. I gave it another try, and this time I was sure it turned a little further. I checked my watch, and it was four forty-three again.

  ‘Well, that was clever, Kee,’ I muttered. ‘Now you’ve got even longer to wait for the biddy in the bathroom.’

  It was on the third glance at my watch that I noticed the date. I hadn’t gone back just a few seconds; I’d turned away twenty-four hours.

  Everything fell into place, and I grimaced at my stupidity. In my excitement at the prospect of seeing the Southern Lights, I hadn’t considered that I’d only checked in to the hotel a few hours earlier, and now I’d travelled back to the day before I’d arrived. The old girl was in her own room, which would only become mine the following day.

  There was a bigger problem, though. When I’d arrived, I’d put my luggage in my room and locked my passport in the room safe; now they wouldn’t be there. They were still in my hotel room back in Queenstown. The only way I could retrieve them was to return to that hotel.

  I swore under my breath. It had taken nearly five hours on the bus to get to Dunedin, and I didn’t relish another five hours on the road just to get back to where I started. Fortunately, after a quick check of local websites, I was able to charter a helicopter and returned to Queenstown in less than half the time.

  The flight gave me another chance to experience some breathtaking views of the New Zealand scenery, but I paid it scant attention as I took the time to think things through: I wondered where I had been at exactly four forty-three. If it was somewhere public, I would have vanished into thin air, and despite having dealt with it once before, I didn’t feel much like being challenged about it again. After replaying the previous day in my head, I was convinced I’d been alone in my hotel room by that time, freshening up after a day of mountain biking and riding on the luge run at Skyline Queenstown. With one less thing to worry about, I set my mind to the problem with the time device, and I started to develop a theory: if it had turned back twenty-four hours and stopped, then maybe it worked in the same way as a clockwork toy – once it was fully wound, it couldn’t be turned any further until it had unwound a little way. Perhaps there was a mechanism inside the device that was silently unwinding at the same rate as normal time. It felt like the only logical explanation, and one which I could test when I was in the privacy of my suite.

  I arrived back at the hotel just after eight, and on the pretext of having locked myself out, I had a porter open the door to my room. My clothes were thrown on the bed, and my underwear was on the bathroom floor, so I concluded that at the time I’d vanished I had been getting into, or out of, the shower. I checked the wardrobe and the room safe and found that all of my belongings were exactly where I’d left them.

  Feeling calmer, I set about testing my theory. If I was correct, then, because it was only part-way through unwinding, I would be able to turn back to four forty-three but no further. I took the device from my pocket and turned it as far as it would go. It did exactly as I’d predicted, and while I felt vindicated in my reasoning, it was as nothing to the relief that it wasn’t broken, even if it meant the extent of my time travelling was limited.

  On reflection, that probably wasn’t such a bad thing; I couldn’t use the device to go forward, so every time I went back, I had to live that amount of time over again. Until then, I’d had no reason to go back further than a few hours and hadn’t given it much thought, but maybe it was just as well that it would never let me rewind more than a day.

  I tested the theory a couple of times more over the following weeks, with exactly the same result. I was pleased I’d worked it out, but less happy that I never did see the Southern Lights.

  Towards the middle of April, I’d been back in Auckland for just over two months and I was beginning to feel restless. I’d hooked up with Josh and his friends, and once again they had accepted me without question into their social circle. They had invited me to join them in all sorts of activities at the weekends, but I was finding it increasingly difficult to fill my time during the week while they were all working.

  I was sure there was plenty more that New Zealand had to offer, but even though I was thoroughly enjoying all the adventures, I began to feel there was something missing and I couldn’t quite work out what it was. My visitor’s visa was due to expire soon, and I had originally thought I would go on to Australia next, but as the time got closer the thought of yet more sightseeing began to lose some of its fascination.

  Before I’d set off from London, nearly six months earlier, I’d assumed I could quite easily spend the rest of my life travelling. It came as a complete surprise to find that I could get bored after such a relatively short time.

  I spoke to Drew a few days later and found him in very good spirits. After
a much-extended holiday, he and Amy had come to a firm decision about what they were going to do and had already started their new life. Drew had played golf since his early teens and had always had ambitions to turn professional, but life in the minor tournaments was difficult, especially for the younger players. Many spent months away from home, family and girlfriends in cheap lodgings, trying to eke out a living on the meagre prize money on offer.

  ‘Now we’ve got the lottery winnings,’ Drew told me, ‘I don’t need to worry about any of that. I can afford coaching and caddies, so I can just relax and concentrate on my game. I’ve already improved a lot. You might even get to see me at the majors.’

  ‘What about Amy?’ I asked. ‘It doesn’t seem fair to drag her around while you get to do what you want. Do you make her come and watch, or does she just kick her heels in the hotel while you’re enjoying yourself?’

  Amy had been listening, and answered my question. ‘No, it’s perfect for me. I’ll watch him play sometimes – if he’s winning! But I’ve always wanted to be a writer, and I can do that anywhere. All I need is my tablet. So while he’s doing his thing, I can relax by the pool and write my novel.’

  ‘That great,’ I said. ‘Have you started?’

  She sounded very pleased with herself. ‘Yep, first two chapters done.’

  ‘Brilliant. When can I read it?’

  ‘When it’s finished. Maybe at the end of the year.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll look forward to it. So, what’s it about?’