by Amanda James
John declined it. ‘Er, I meant this is where it will all begin … you know England’s victory.’
Kit man’s face beamed with pride. ‘Oh, yes. No doubt about that.’
His mission looked to have failed unless kit man suddenly produced Sarah, so John allowed himself a few moments to wander around looking at the famous red shirts hanging up around the place like icons to the glorious game. One shirt in particular drew him and he walked over to it and gently traced the number ten on the back. Geoff Hurst’s, the main goal scorer.
John stood back and smiled, then he looked down at the football boots on the bench under it. He picked a boot up and weighed it, imagining its owner in an hour or so scoring a hat-trick and the crowd going wild. Hmm, they looked to be his size … could he? No, what was he thinking of? He had to get back to the future and try and figure out where Sarah was. Though whether he’d break through the barrier a second time was doubtful.
‘Mr Hurst’s they are.’ Kit man nodded.
‘Yeah, I know. He’ll do well today. I can feel it in my waters.’ As John bent to put them back he noticed a kink in one of the laces. And on closer inspection there seemed to be a tiny hole in it too. ‘I don’t like the look of this.’ He frowned and held it out to kit man. ‘If this snaps during the match it could ruin everything.’
Kit man looked and scowled. ‘A blind man would be glad to see it. They sometimes ’ave little defects, still as strong as anythin’.’
John couldn’t believe his ears, was this man mad? He assumed his ‘I am an undercover cop’ authority. ‘I would be happier with a new pair of boots or at the very least, laces for Mr Hurst.’
‘No need they are fine. ’Sides, not a good idea to play a match with brand new boots –plays havoc with yer corns,’ kit man muttered, poking the boot with the toe of his.
‘New laces then. If you don’t do as I ask, I will make sure that you lose that promotion you’re so proud of. Now get it sorted.’
Kit man harrumphed and stomped off to a locker on the other side of the changing room. From his pocket he pulled a bunch of keys and jabbed them into the keyhole one after the other as if he were trying to poke the eyes out of his worst enemy. Because he was so ham-fisted, he got the correct key in but it wouldn’t turn. He rolled his eyes at John but a hint of a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. ‘Stuck. Mr Hurst will just have to manage.’
John suspected he’d done that on purpose and strode over to take a look. He twisted the key but it was indeed firmly stuck. Damn it. Now what? If he didn’t get that open and find new laces the whole England World Cup win might be at stake. Hardly a life saving matter, but John had the gut feeling that this was something he had to see through. And like Sarah’s, his gut feelings were rarely wrong.
‘Nothin’ we can do, officer. Now ’ow about a nice cup of—’
‘I don’t want tea. I want this bloody thing open!’ John growled, and pulled at the key with all his strength. The edge of the locker door buckled a bit then stayed put.
‘Now that’s damaged it right and proper, I don’t think—’
‘No, you don’t, do you? Just stick your finger in that gap and pull the door while I pull the key.’ It soon became clear that kit man’s pudgy fingers couldn’t get a sufficient grip so John took over and with all the strength he had yanked the door back and forth until it was wide enough to get a hand in. John peered into the locker but couldn’t see anything in the dark interior. ‘Right, over to you.’ John stepped back and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. ‘I can’t see and have no idea what shelf the laces are on.’
Kit man sighed, shot in a hand and pulled it out complete with a bunch of laces. ‘Okay, do you want to inspect these?’ He cocked his head at John and pursed his lips.
‘I do as a matter of fact.’ John undid the bunch and selected a perfect pair. He then supervised the re-lacing of the boot, much to kit man’s chagrin.
‘That’s sorted then at last, eh?’ Kit man placed the boot down next to its mate and stuck his chin out as if to challenge any further action by John.
‘Yeah. You thought it was all over. It is now.’ John couldn’t help but parody the famous saying associated with this historic match and grinned hugely at the frowning kit man.
Once more out in the tunnel, he closed his eyes and sent a silent request to return home. An unexpected task was done, but his main quest was still awaiting his urgent attention. Please let that one be just as easy. He shook his head. Now why did he have a feeling that it wouldn’t be?
Chapter Twenty-Two
One moment Sarah was looking at the clouds in a 1940s sky, the next she was standing in her kitchen looking at the dumbstruck faces of Gwen and Harry. Harry blanched and sat down at the table like a sack of spuds and Gwen ran forward and clasped her arms around Sarah as if she’d never let her go.
‘Oh, my poor love, thank God!’ Then she released her and inspected her face closely. ‘Are you all right, in one piece?’
Sarah had to check too before she answered, as she felt an ache in every limb and was thoroughly exhausted. Probably the stress of the whole bloody trip. ‘Yes, I seem to be.’ Sarah patted her mum’s hand and joined Harry at the table before she fell over.
Harry took a deep breath. ‘Where’s our John?’
Sarah’s heart rate picked up a pace and a thousand butterflies took flight in her stomach. ‘I was just about to ask you that question.’
Gwen’s hand fluttered to her mouth. ‘But he went looking for you, love.’
‘Oh God, no. When? How long have I been gone?’ The butterflies fought their way into her throat.
Harry ran his fingers through his salt and pepper curls. ‘You’ve been gone a few hours or so. He went back to the World Cup day – Wembley 1966, first.’ He held up his hand at Sarah’s startled expression. ‘Don’t even go there. Suffice to say it was the wrong call. While he was there, I managed to glean from the powers that you had in fact gone to Topeka 1966 and was in the vicinity of Washburn University. They knew no more than that as they are still having a hell of a job sorting everything out.’
Gwen joined them and took Sarah’s hand across the table. ‘When John came back here we looked on the Internet and found out that it was one of the worst tornados to hit America and that Washburn took a direct hit. But all the folks who managed to get in the basement survived.’
‘We found that out of the four hundred people who were on campus, only fifteen were seriously hurt. It was a damned good job that the students had left for the summer.’ Harry sighed. ‘Or there’d have been a hell of a lot of casualties.’
Gwen pointed at the laptop on the table with a trembling finger. ‘It said that eight hundred houses were destroyed, hundreds injured, and sixteen died. Cars were tossed like toys, chunks of stone flew through the air and slammed into buildings like missiles, and afterwards, there was not a tree nor building standing for miles.’
Sarah’s mind was in turmoil. They obviously didn’t know about her extra detour to 1941 and neither did the powers it seemed. It wasn’t unusual for minutes or hours to have passed in one time period and days gone by in another, so they hadn’t really worried that she’d been missing for nearly twenty-four-hours. There seemed little point in going over all that now and it would probably only cause more worry to Gwen, so she just said, ‘I just got back from Washburn … I was safe in the basement. Please don’t tell me John …’ Sarah clamped her hand over her mouth to stop herself from screaming. The looks on Gwen and Harry’s faces told her all she needed to know.
‘He wouldn’t be dissuaded.’ Harry’s voice trembled and he swallowed hard. ‘Said he had to get to you and the babies, even though the powers warned him to stay put and that they were working on getting you back any moment. John just didn’t trust a word they said, so …’
A moan escaped her clamped hand and Sarah rose shakily to her feet. ‘I have to go back. I know that place better than he does and—’
‘You will do no
such thing!’ Gwen cried. ‘For all we know he could be on his way back and you could pass each other again.’
‘Now he knows I am supposed to be there, he wouldn’t come back without me, you know that,’ Sarah said, surprised that her voice had suddenly become calm. The look in Harry’s eyes told her she was right.
‘But he’ll do his nut if you put yourself and the babies back in harm’s way!’ Gwen yelled and slapped her hand on the table. The fear in her eyes shone through standing tears. ‘At least you’re safe now. Let’s just wait and s—’
‘And you’d just wait and see if you were me, huh?’ Sarah pushed her chair from the table. Gwen did the goldfish act and then closed her mouth. ‘Exactly – there’s nothing to say.’
‘Well, I have something,’ Harry said. ‘Your mum’s right and no matter how much I love my son and no matter how much you want to help, you might end up making things worse, lass.’
Sarah knew they might be right. She also knew that John had risked his life to save her for the second time, and now her dearest love needed her help. Just ‘waiting and seeing’ wasn’t an option. Oddly she felt strangely ready – strong even. Perhaps witnessing the everyday bravery that people endured during the war had galvanised her. Besides, she had the help of an extra Needle and Stitch in her belly. She stroked her little bump and smiled. Then she walked to the door flinging over her shoulder, ‘I have to go, but I will be back with John. I promise.’
Gwen wailed and clung to Harry’s arm. ‘Nooo! Stop her, Harry!’
But even as Harry sprang up and set off in pursuit, Sarah said aloud, in a soft firm voice, ‘Powers, take me back to Washburn, now. You owe me big time.’ And then she felt as if the whole room was floating, rising, growing fainter, but Sarah stayed put. She watched the shocked faces of Gwen and Harry grow smaller and fall away as the scene disappeared sideways as though socked from her line of vision by a giant fist. And to greet her return into her new line of vision whirled the giant and brutal fist of a tornado, thumping flat the landscape – unrelenting in its terrifying power.
It was much closer than she’d seen it last time and coming fast in the green sickly evening sky. The rumble of the approaching train she’d heard when she’d been in the basement, now sounded like six of them piling into the back of each other, with the squealing of brakes and a roar of thunder thrown in for good measure. A tremor ran from her feet and through her body. She had never been so terrified. Standing in the same spot as she’d found herself before, give or take, Sarah turned from the tornado and set her face against the driving rain. The howling gale pulled at her hair and clothes like a demon as she made for the basement, but she made steady progress.
Once under the cover of the entrance, Sarah set off for the stairs as quickly as she dare, given the fact that Artie had taken a tumble on their hard shiny surface. But three steps down she heard a gut wrenching crump of metal impacting on metal come from outside. It was so loud that she imagined a plane had crashed from the sky.
Racing back up again, she saw not a plane, but a truck, concertinaed into a wall of the campus a few hundred yards away as if it was made out of cardboard, and the trunk of a tree whizzed past her only about twenty feet away. Sarah stifled a scream. Jeez, I’m out of here – please let John be safe in the basement … because if he’s outside …
As she turned round, she heard a man’s voice yell, ‘RAH!’ before it was snatched away by the wind. Damn it! Someone was outside the entrance. She took a step back and strained her ears and then there it was again, and closer, but it wasn’t RAH! he was shouting. With her heart thumping in her ears she ran outside grabbing onto the handrail at the entrance and narrowed her eyes against the whipping wind. ‘SARAH!’
Oh my lord! There he was, the most beautiful man in the world, soaked to the skin, his blue shirt clinging to the contours of his body, his dark curls more like ringlets in the downpour, flying out around his head as he searched up and down the driveway, unaware he was just a few feet away from her.
‘JOHN, JOHN OVER HERE,’ she yelled fit to bust a lung, waved her arms crazily and nearly lost her balance against the buffeting. ‘THE BASEMENT IS THIS WAY, QUICKLY!’
John shoved his wet hair back from his forehead, looked over at her and then gave her the most heart-stopping smile. He raised a hand and set off at a run, tucking his body low and powering his long legs against the wind’s barrier. But just as he was within reach, a forked tree branch hurtled past and took his feet from under him. Seconds later, the branch was followed by a larger stump which pinned his left leg firmly to the ground.
What was this, nightmarish déjà vu? Screaming fit to rival the storm Sarah ran towards him but John held his hand up. ‘Get inside, Sarah!’ He pointed in the direction of the tornado. ‘That evil bastard’s moving too fast. There’s no time!’ John put both hands around his leg and pulled, but the stump was too heavy.
‘NO!’ Sarah yelled, her tears drowned by the lashing rain. ‘I won’t leave you—’
‘YOU WILL! FOR THE SAKE OF THE CHILDREN, GET INSIDE!’
Sarah turned and fled but she had no intention of leaving him to his fate. It was the bombed out house scenario all over again! Though she stumbled and tripped a few times she made the rest of the stairs in what felt like nanoseconds and burst into the basement.
Artie looked up and hurried over. ‘Where’d you go, Sarah?’
‘Never mind that now, you gotta help me. My husband’s just outside and trapped under a log!’ Sarah grabbed his arm and dragged him to the door.
‘You’d do better to stay put, Professor.’ The tall farmer from the painting stepped between them. ‘By the screechin’ of that hell cat I’d say we only have a few minutes afore it’s atop us!’
Artie nodded and then stepped around him, his handsome face grimly determined. ‘This woman saved my life, Mr Atherton. I aim to do my best to save her husband’s.’
Sarah’s heart was so full she had no words to express her gratitude as she ran after Artie back up the stairs, his long loping strides showing that his ankle was not as bad as she’d thought, or that adrenaline was keeping the pain at bay. Just as he reached the entrance he turned to face her.
‘You stay here, Sarah. No sense in you risking your life too.’
‘But—’ Sarah began, and then fell silent. John’s hurt and anger that day when she’d come back from 1955 was still fresh in her mind. This was not the time to put her superhero cloak on. This was the time to wait, watch and pray that Artie would rescue John and that all of them would return to the safety of the basement.
She dug her nails into her arm to stop herself from running outside as she watched Artie crouch down and strain to lift the stump, every sinew in his neck standing, his blue eyes popping into bold relief against his red face.
John was trying to do his best to help, twisting his body and trying to lever the stump with his other leg, but the damned thing rose a few inches and then the strength in Artie’s arms gave out. Artie wiped sweat from his brow and yelled, ‘On the count of three you pull with all your might while I lift, okay?’
John nodded and gritted his teeth. Artie counted down and pulled, his knuckles white, his biceps bulging and John wriggled and levered, but Artie’s arms shook under the strain and he blew a snort of frustration down his nose and lowered the log again.
John shook his head and Sarah’s last vestiges of hope were snatched away on the wind when she heard him yell, ‘Go now, man! Save yourself, you did your best!’
She saw Artie shake his head and take another grip on the wood, his face focused and calm. Something about that expression made Sarah feel calm too, and in her heart, hope returned hesitantly – a splash of watercolour on paper, soaking and spreading with every strain of Artie’s arms, until it created a vibrant painting, demanding the attention of every eye.
Though Sarah could see the exhaustion etched on his face, a last herculean effort from somewhere deep within brought a roar of triumph from Artie’s lips and then �
�� John was free! In one fluid movement Artie knelt and tossed John over his shoulder as if he was a child and then powered them both towards Sarah.
Once safely in the basement Sarah knelt next to John and smothered him with kisses, just like Veronica had done to Edward yesterday, until he held up both hands.
‘Okay, okay that’s enough,’ he said laughing.
Artie grinned down at them and wiped the sweat from his face with his forearm.
Sarah launched herself at him too and squeezed him hard. ‘Thank you so much, Artie. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am.’
‘Hey, you saved me first remember …’ Artie’s words were lost in the ear-splitting roar as the ground trembled and walls shook under the fist of the tornado. Sarah flung herself down next to John and she felt as if her breath were being pulled from her body and her ears popped under the pressure. They held each other tightly as the twister did its worst. And after a few minutes that felt like hours, they heard it wreaking havoc a little further off and then further still, until they felt safe to stand up and look around them.
People were praying, laughing, embracing; the joy in the room was almost palpable. John looked into her eyes; his deep olive ones crinkling at the corners as his signature smile lit the room. ‘I love you so much, Mrs Needler. Thank God you listened to me for once and took a day off from heroics.’
Sarah hugged him and put her head on his chest so he wouldn’t see her deepening colour. There would be time enough to tell him later on about 1941 and that she’d been safe back at home but then had come back to save him. ‘I love you too, Mr Needler, and I always listen to you, darling,’ she said with a sigh.
John pointed over to where Artie was talking to Dexter. ‘That man is a true hero – and his name, Artie? That’s some coincidence.’
Sarah explained who he was and John’s mouth dropped open. ‘Wow! So what he did for me out there demonstrates our theory that past and present are all inexorably linked. There actually is a strong, tightly woven cord of human essence keeping time balanced and enabling progress to the future,’ he said, his face full of wonder. ‘Artie’s heroic act of humanity today strengthened that cord and cemented the bonds of history. You saved Artie’s grandfather and his grandson saved me.’