Room 119

by T F Lince

  “There is a wedding reception, Mr Harrison. I’m sure they won’t mind if you pop in if you’re after a late drink.” She pointed to the stairs with a glint in her eye as if she was not telling him the full story.

  “I might just do that, Mrs McCauley. Sure it will be OK?”

  Mrs McCauley, busy doing her never-ending paperwork, just nodded.

  As Dean headed down the stairs, he could hear the guitars and singing getting louder. He opened the door and was confronted by a large hall with wooden floors and a stage at the far end where most of the singing was emanating from.

  He looked around. People were sitting chatting and joining in the celebrations. ‘Liverpool Lou’ was long gone now, and the fisherman’s choir had moved on to a rendition of ‘Oh Shenandoah’, a slow American folk tune which seemed to have been adopted by fishermen throughout the world. The term ‘choir’ was probably a bit of an exaggeration for the six people accompanied by an accordion and a couple of guitars, but the sign at their feet proudly proclaimed The Marske Fisherman’s Choir.

  The room felt familiar to Dean, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. He headed to the bar, joining in a little bit on the chorus. The bar was quite packed, but he managed to catch David’s eye.

  “Another Pippin, sir? I thought you had gone to bed.”

  Dean gave him the thumbs up.

  “So did I, David. One for the road, though. I heard the party so thought I’d have a look. Mrs McCauley said it would be OK.”

  David expertly poured Dean a pint and gave him another slip to sign to his room.

  “Have a good night, sir. Do you know anyone here?” David asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. I’ve not been here before, David.”

  “Well, you never know who you might bump into. Thanks, Mr Harrison.”

  David smiled as if he knew a secret and was dying to tell Dean, but wasn’t allowed.

  Dean took his drink and sat at the back of the room, trying not to get in the way, doing his best to look inconspicuous. It didn’t work. A tall man in a grey suit that was a bit too flarey for the modern day and age sat next to him.

  “Hello, are you having a good time?” The man’s tie was wider at the bottom than his beer glass.

  “Yes, thanks. I’ve just got here really,” Dean replied a bit abruptly. His inconspicuous act obviously needed some work.

  ‘Oh Shenandoah’ finished to a polite round of applause. Then the leader of the choir asked for some hush over the microphone.

  “Sh, sh, sh, sh,” the room obeyed instantly.

  “We all know why we are here tonight. So please be upstanding and raise a glass to the newlyweds, Sam and Rosie.”

  “Sam and Rosie.”

  Everyone stood and raised their glasses as the happy couple entered from behind the stage. Dean went light-headed and slumped back into his chair. His eyes blurred and he gave his head a shake to try and clear it, watching his dad, Sam, take the microphone from the choir leader.

  Sam looked about twenty years old, and Dean’s mum, Rosie, even younger. Dean felt like he had been transported into the family album, which seemed to come out every Sunday after dinner, especially when Dean had a new girlfriend. It’s said a picture paints a thousand words, and Dean’s mum seemed to have a thousand words for every picture to redress the balance. Dean realised that was why he’d recognised this place. It was the backdrop of all the pictures he had endured every Sunday. The room was in black and white then, but it was in full Technicolor right now.

  Dean was still in shock, but he managed to get back to his feet as his dad, with his mother on his arm, started addressing the wedding guests.

  “On behalf of my wife and I…” Sam paused and accepted the mandatory round of applause. “…I would like to thank everyone for coming and hope you all have a great night. We’ll be doing the rounds and hope to speak to you all before the night’s over.”

  He paused again to give his new wife a kiss, which got a spontaneous cheer along with a few northern jibes.

  “Put her down, Sam, the ink’s not dry on your certificate yet.”

  Sam kissed Rosie again, just because he could.

  “OK, I need a drink. Enjoy the Marske Fisherman’s Choir, and please join in. They have done this for free as long as I pick up their bar bill, and the more they sing, the less they’ll drink. I need a second mortgage already before I’ve even got a first one.”

  Sam gave the mic back to the choir leader and took his wife by the hand and headed off to the bar, followed by an army of well-wishers.

  “The next one is ‘Grimsby Lads’, with Mick on lead. Come on, you all know the chorus.”

  Wearing the choir’s customary knitted blue jumper, Mick shuffled forward from the pack and took the mic, starting the next song full of enthusiasm.

  “They sailed in the cold and the grey light of morning…”

  They were off again, with everyone joining in for good measure on the chorus.

  “So are you on the bride’s side or the groom’s side?”

  Dean had forgotten about his new friend who had been sitting quietly, listening to the speech. He looked at the man and smiled before answering.

  “A bit of both really.” He looked over to his future mum and dad, who were getting lots of attention at the bar.

  “Oh, you know them both. Are you from round here?” The man took off his jacket and got more comfortable.

  “It depends what you mean by ‘here’,” said Dean. Was he in Suffolk or Whitby? His brain had given up on the working stuff out stuff.

  “Whitby, of course.”

  “Well, I used to live here a few years back.” Looking at the decor and his mum and dad’s age, it was more like a lot of years forward, but his brain wasn’t in the mood to work all that out, either.

  “What, back in the sixties?”

  Was Dean really back in 1974? Of course he was! He was at his mother and father’s wedding. He’d seen all the pictures and heard all the stories.

  “Sorry, I’ve not introduced myself. Terrance Hawthorn.”

  Dean looked at the man – the teacher who had never thought much of him. Or wouldn’t in the future.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir. My name’s Dean.”

  “No need for ‘sir’, Terry will do. Do you want a beer, Dean?”

  Dean could not remember drinking the beer David had served him, but there was none left in the glass, so he must have sunk it on autopilot. He looked over to the bar, where his mum and dad were talking to guests. Dean didn’t fancy a conversation with them just yet, so replied, “Yes, I would love one, Terry. You do not know how much I need one right now.”

  The choir was on top form, but it was wasted on Dean. He could only stare at his mum and dad. His dad was dead now, and there was so much Dean would have loved to have said to him before the Alzheimer’s kicked in. He never went up north to see his mum anymore, except for family weddings or funerals. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d spoken to her on the phone.

  When I get out of this mess, I am going to see my mam, he thought. She meant so much to him, but even though he’d needed her more and more over the last couple of years, he’d typically seen her less and less. It was bothering Dean. He had just tried jumping off a cliff and ending it all rather than phoning his mum, who would probably have given him a cup of tea and made everything alright again.

  “I got you Crafty Dog Pippin. That’s what your glass said. Is that OK, Dean?”

  Dean would have drunk sand right now. His mind was doing somersaults.

  “Yes, that’s great, Terrance.” Dean took a couple of large swigs of his beer which reduced it by half.

  “It’s Terry, Dean. I don’t really like Terrance, but I prefer it to sir.”

  Dean had once thought that if he called Mr Hawthorn anything but sir, he would get a week’s detention, but his former (or was it future?) teacher looked so young and normal, Dean thought he would comply.

  “OK, Terry. Anyway, are you h
ere for the bride or groom?”

  “A bit of both too. Mainly the groom, though. I used to go fishing with Sam; we used to fish off the harbour wall for whiting. We were best mates as kids.”

  Dean looked over to Sam, his dad.

  “He never said he knew you, Terry.”

  Dean thought about all the times he’d moaned to his dad about Mr Hawthorn giving him a hard time at school. Looking back, he realised his dad would always agree with Mr Hawthorn’s point of view. Dean thought they probably went for a beer together to discuss how to sort him out.

  “So what do you do, Terry? Let me guess – you’ve been to university and you’re going to be a teacher at the school up the road.” If knowledge is power, being in the past when he came from the future certainly gave Dean an advantage.

  “Yes, is it that obvious? Was it my accent? Have I lost the northern twang, or was it the suit?”

  “No, it’s the tie, Terry. You don’t go to Oxford University and then get a job back up north unless you became a teacher.”

  “Oh, very clever. Spot on.” Terry raised his glass, which was more or less still full, to Dean. Dean finished his beer in two more gulps.

  “One more, Terry?”

  Terry nodded, trying to catch up by taking a couple of gulps himself.

  Dean couldn’t face his mum and dad quite yet; he was still gathering information. On the way to the bar, his mind gave him a quick recap: it was 1974; he was at his parents’ wedding; he was talking to a teacher who gave him grief when he was at school. Oh, and he’d just met a couple in the bar and given them a note to tell them to save his life in forty-three years’ time.

  After being served and returning to his seat, Dean handed Terry his glass.

  “Right, Terry, I’d better go and mingle. I’m sure you’ll make an amazing teacher, and remember, no matter how much your students get you down, never give up on them. They will always appreciate it in the end. I promise.”

  Dean clicked his glass against Terry’s then surveyed the room for his next move.

  Chapter 19 – Singing With The Choir

  Dean moved nearer the front of the room, noticing a few aunties and uncles who looked forty years younger. He nodded and smiled at a couple of people he knew without getting the same greetings back. After all, how could they know him? He didn’t exist yet.

  He moved to a seat nearer the choir, who were about to sing their next song. A growing crowd of enthusiastic wannabe choir members had gathered, and Dean joined them, sitting at the end of the table while his mum and dad led the chorus.

  His mother gave him a polite smile. He had not seen her smile like that since he was a kid.

  “OK, this next one is ‘Liverpool Judies’. It’s about a wind that used to blow the sailors back to Liverpool after they’d been trading all round the world, and will be sung by Little Jon. Come on, Little Jon, you’re on.”

  Another blue knitted jumper with a large man inside barged its way to the front and took the mic.

  “From Liverpool to Frisco a rovin’ I went, for to stay in that country was my good intent. But girls and strong whiskey like other damn fools, oh I soon got transported back to Liverpool, singing roll, roll, roll…”

  Everyone joined in the chorus, eyes fixated on Little Jon as hardly any of them knew the verses and they were relying on him to get them to the next bit they knew.

  Dean looked at his dad, who was one of the few singing every word with gusto.

  “Come on, Sam, give me a hand,” called Little Jon. Sam joined Jon singing the rest of the song, and everyone who hadn’t been joining in now did. It felt like the whole room had got smaller as everyone moved two tables forward en masse. Even Dean sang along with the chorus; he didn’t really know this one, but sea shanties are the perfect songs for a drinking session – they always have loads of verses with a chorus at the end of each. Although Dean hadn’t known the song when it started, he more or less knew it by the time it finished.

  “And it’s row, row bullies, row, them Liverpool Judies have got us innn Towwwww.”

  Little Jon held Sam’s hand in the air. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Sam Harrison.” The crowd, who were already cheering, upped the decibel level with a couple of whistles to boot. Sam took a well-rehearsed bow and clapped back at the crowd, and then turned and applauded the choir.

  “OK, that’s it for now, folks. We need to double our bar bill for you, Sam. See you all at the bar; we’ll be back on in twenty minutes. God bless.”

  The Marske Fisherman’s Choir left the stage and headed off to the bar as one, all wearing navy blue knitted jumpers and most sporting fine beards and carrying song sheets to help them remember the words for the next set.

  Dean could see his mum, Rosie, pointing him out to his dad, Sam. They started walking across to him, and Dean took a larger than normal gulp of beer, frantically trying to come up with some kind of back story as to why he was here.

  “We saw you singing. You’re very good,” said Rosie.

  “Erm, thank you, Rosie. It is Rosie, isn’t it?” Dean was doing his best not to drop the M bomb. He’d called this woman ‘Mam’ since forever, so Rosie wasn’t the most natural thing in the world to say, even though she was over twenty years his junior right now.

  “Yes, it’s Rosie, and this is my husband, Sam.”

  “I know,” Dean replied immediately. “Pleased to meet you, Sam.”

  Dean held out his hand; Sam took it in one hand, encased it in the other and squeezed it tight.

  “Another drink?”

  Dean nodded. “Yes please, Sam, that would be great. It’s…”

  His dad stopped him.

  “Crafty Dog Pippin, it says on your glass.”

  Sam winked at Dean and headed off to the bar, leaving him alone with his mum.

  “So what brings you in here? I don’t think Sam or I know you. That’s not to say you’re not welcome – everyone is welcome where we’re from.”

  Dean loved hearing her voice again and was a bit dazed, just staring at her. He received a gaze back as if to say, “I’ve asked you a question and it would be polite if you would answer right now.”

  “Oh sorry, Rosie, I was just passing and I heard the singing. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not. Like I say, everyone is welcome around here. We never turn anyone away, do we, Sam?”

  Sam had returned with two pints, one of which he gave to Dean.

  “There you go, son. So, what’s your name and what the hell are you doing at our wedding?” The same question Rosie had asked a second ago was now delivered in man speak with all the velvety cushioned edges taken off it.

  “Oh, sorry, it’s Dean, and I was just telling Rosie I was walking past and heard the singing. I used to live in Whitby and go fishing when I was a kid, and I remember singing some of these songs in the pub with my dad.”

  “Who’s your dad, then? I might know him if he’s a fisherman; I’ve just had a boat built. What’s your dad’s boat called? Have you got any younger brothers I might know?”

  Dean worked through the questions one by one, thinking about the next question while fumbling through the first.

  “No brothers, and you won’t know my dad. I was born in Whitby, but we moved to Welnetham in Suffolk when I was a kid. But we used to come here on holiday and get someone to take us out fishing all week, so no, he didn’t have a boat.”

  Dean was looking at his mother, who had an uncanny knack of knowing when he was lying. Her lie detector was clearly not turned on, or maybe it wouldn’t develop until she’d been lied to a few times by her son. Either way, she seemed to believe his every word.

  “How come you have a northern accent, then, Dean? You don’t sound like a Suffolk man.”

  “My mother was from North Yorkshire somewhere, so I guess I kept it up from her.” Dean took a big gulp from his glass; his back story was starting to unravel.

  “OK. Anyway, you’re here now, Dean, and we are glad. What do you do for a living?” ask
ed Rosie, trying to get him off the hook.

  “I’m a trader in London for a big trading firm.” Dean thought he would resort to the truth for a while. Even though technically he’d lost his job, at least he would be able to cope with an interrogation from his dad.

  “So you’re a trader from Whitby, who’d have thought? There you go, Sam – you want a name for your boat. How about The Whitby Trader?”

  Sam looked at Rosie and then at Dean.

  “Do you know what, Rosie, that’s better than anything I’ve come up with, and I have been trying for weeks. We launch her in a week, Dean, if you want a run out?”

  Traditionally, women named and launched boats as it was considered unlucky if men did it, and the name Rosie had just suggested was perfect. And on their wedding day, too.

  “The Whitby Trader it is, then. Well done, Rosie, and thank you, Dean.” Sam tapped Dean on the shoulder as he said, “The Whitby Trader,” out loud as if to test the name.

  “The Whitby Trader.” There were some mumblings of agreement from the rest of the table.

  “Can I get you both a drink for your big day?” Dean had resorted to drinking as fast as possible so as to avoid further questions. Sam, who was still testing the new name of his boat, nodded.

  “Just an orange juice for me, Dean,” Rosie added as Dean headed bar-ward.

  “Having a good time, sir?” David asked as Dean ordered the drinks at the bar. “Have you bumped into any old friends?”

  Dean put the three drinks into a carrying triangle.

  “Yes I have, David, and I think you knew I was going to, didn’t you?”

  “Just here to serve, sir. Enjoy your night, it might be your last.”

  David turned and walked away with a tear forming in his eye, which did not go unnoticed. Dean had been having such a good night seeing his mum and dad. He had even enjoyed seeing Terrance Hawthorn, so why did David have to say that? Dean looked at David, who had his head down like a naughty schoolboy who had said too much and dropped his mates in it.

  “OK, here we go. One beer for you, Da…” Dean corrected himself instantly, “Sorry, Sam, and Rosie, orange juice for you.” He handed the drinks over and raised a glass in the way of a small toast. “To Sam and Rosie, I hope everything you wish for in life comes true.”