by David Munro
Meg looked around. “The light is subdued.”
Catherine sniffed the air. “It has a musty smell.”
“The subway has been here for twenty years,” said Mary.
“It must have been a huge project to build stations below ground level,” said Alice.
Jessica stared at the entrance and exit tunnels.
“It should be quicker than the tram,” added Alice.
A rumble of wheels came from within a tunnel, and soon two brown and cream carriages appeared at the platform. Catherine looked at her friends. “We’ll be at Govan in no time.”
After a stop at Merkland Street, the ladies reached their destination. As they left the train, Alice stared at Jessica. “You are as white as a ghost.”
Jessica sighed. “I am claustrophobic.”
“Sigmund Freud is the person to cure you,” said Catherine.
“Who’s he?” said Jessica.
“A Psychoanalyst, I’ve read about his studies.”
“What sort of studies?” asked Jessica.
“On our way home, I’ll explain.”
“Catherine is well-read,” whispered Meg to Mary.
Mary nodded.
Passengers climbed the steep steps and departed Govan Cross station. When she emerged into the daylight, Jessica removed her hat, and took a deep breath. After a brisk walk, the ladies arrived at Govan Wharf, and awaited their transport home. Already, families congregated. Jessica glanced at Catherine, then the groups.
“Glasgow is popular for a Saturday excursion.”
At that moment, a ship came into view, and stopped at the quayside. After arrivals disembarked from a wooden passageway, waiting passengers boarded. Ten minutes later, the Duchess of Argyll left port. Being pleasant, people sat on deck to admire the sea view. A slight breeze did exist, however, welcome on this warm final Saturday of June. After Jessica got up and walked around, Meg stared in her direction. “The sea air will do her good.” She looked at Mary. “Hopefully, Jessica doesn’t suffer from sea-sickness!”
Mary sighed. “It’s bad enough being claustrophobic.”
“At least some colour has returned to her cheeks,” said Alice.
Jessica returned to her four friends, and sat next to Alice. “I’m glad Ardrishaig has no subway.”
“It doesn’t even have a railway station!” said Mary.
Whilst they laughed, a Caledonian Steam Packet employee started to check tickets. A stern expression and uniform represented officialdom.
Jessica whispered to Meg, “he doesn’t appear to enjoy a Saturday shift.”
Meg gave a wry smile.
The ladies duly produced their return tickets, and each one was scrutinised.
“How old is the vessel?” said Alice.
“Eight years, built at Dumbarton. It’s equipped with turbine engines, one of the first to have ’em.” The employee checked other passengers’ tickets.
A nearby group of adults discussed tensions in the Balkans. One woman explained she had received a letter from a relative in Austria. They had maintained that a recent minor conflict between their country and Serbia could escalate and involve countries which border the two.
“In what way?” said an acquaintance.
“Germany is allied to Austria, and Russia to Serbia.”
Alice whispered to her four attentive friends, “I believe Edward Beaumont has been ordered back to his regiment in Edinburgh.”
“Britain is a long distance from the Balkans,” said Mary, “a conflict wouldn’t affect us.”
“Our Royal Family has links with the Tsar,” said Catherine, “Nicholas may seek assistance.”
“The French can assist Russia, they don’t like the Germans,” stated Mary.
“It’s not that long since the Boer Wars ended,” said Meg, “we don’t want any more conflicts.” She sighed.
“Let us change the subject,” said Alice, “when shall we schedule our next meeting for?”
Mary whispered, “discuss disrupting a village activity?”
“Our sewing club?” asked Alice.
As Meg, Jessica and Catherine laughed, the steamer arrived at its first point of call. Several passengers disembarked, and a group of young adults boarded. They sat close to the Ardrishaig ladies, then started to chat. Their topic also related to the Serbian-Austrian situation. The company employee approached them to check their tickets. A young woman asked if the weather would remain calm until Inveraray.
“It should do Miss, to my knowledge, nothing unpleasant is forecast.”
An adult in the group pondered.
Constable Fraser attended to paperwork at his desk, then took several documents to the filing cabinet. As he opened a drawer, Sergeant Buchan entered. “Anything of interest, Sandy?”
“Just after you left, a relative came into the station to collect James.”
Sergeant Buchan removed his trouser bicycle clips. “His mother?”
“His cousin, a young woman.”
“Definitely a relative?” Sergeant Buchan put the clips on his desk.
“Before giving directions to Alice Lawson’s house, I made sure. Also, she had similar features to James, also, an Edinburgh accent.”
Sergeant Buchan nodded his approval.
“She would return James to his parents’ time.”
Sergeant Buchan frowned. “His parents’ time?”
“Probably meant parents in quick time, it must be an Edinburgh expression.”
“Did she mention how the boy became separated?”
“The family had been camping near Loch Fyne, and James wandered off.”
Sergeant Buchan shook his head. “Campers! Adults should keep an eye on the children.”
Constable Fraser nodded.
Sergeant Buchan noticed a package on the reception desk. He picked it up, and looked at his colleague.
“Nancy brought it round.”
“What’s in it?”
“Cakes and a pudding.”
Sergeant Buchan grinned.
“For James.”
“Could do with a cup of tea, Sandy.”
“And a cake, Sergeant?”
“Mustn’t let them go to waste.”
Constable Fraser acknowledged, and went into the back room. Whilst listening for the kettle to whistle, he reflected on what Nancy had said. She believed that in the future, James would reappear.
After putting down the telephone, Olivia returned to the coach house. Entering a door leading to the upstairs floor, she climbed its steep wooden staircase, then took a deep breath. In the coachman’s quarters, Olivia found James sitting on a chair, and staring up at the wall mirror. She smiled. “It is very old.”
James gazed in her direction.
“Gothic, a style from the distant past.”
James stood up, and became unsteady. Olivia rushed towards him, and held his arm. He had a dazed expression.
“Are you okay?”
“I feel dizzy.”
Olivia looked at the chair in front of the mirror.
“I was about to stand on it.”
“Just as well you didn’t!”
James managed a smile.
“Did you want to look at yourself in the mirror?”
James hesitated, then nodded.
Olivia took his hand. “Let us go back to the villa, your mother and father will think you have wandered off.”
Olivia and James walked with caution down the staircase, and after leaving the coach house, Olivia closed the door behind her. Whilst he walked across the courtyard, James looked back.
“The next time you visit, I will show you a secret compartment in the coach house.”
When his great-aunt led James into the living room, Debbie rose from her seat, and approached him. “You look pale, what did you get up to in the coach house?”
Olivia glanced at Debbie. “I found James in one of the upstairs rooms.” She glanced at Charlie. “He must have a curious nature.”
“We are well aware,” said Ch
arlie, smiling at Debbie.
Debbie put a hand on James’s forehead. “You’re warm, how do you feel?”
“Tired, Mum.”
“He’ll sleep all the way to Edinburgh,” said Charlie.
James sneezed.
Debbie looked at Charlie, then James. “Perhaps you’ve caught a cold.”
“He felt dizzy in the coach house,” said Olivia.
“It may be a bug,” said Debbie.
Charlie looked at Olivia. “We had to stop at a lay-by, James felt woozy.”
“I will get a tissue,” said Olivia.
She left the living room, and returned with a paper handkerchief. After she gave it to James, he blew his nose, then put the tissue into his trouser pocket. Debbie looked at her son. “Give the tissue to me.”
As James pulled it out of his pocket, several coloured marbles dropped onto the carpet, and rolled towards Debbie.
She stared. “Where did they come from?”
James hesitated. “I don’t know, Mum.”
Debbie glanced at Olivia. “The coach house?”
Olivia shook her head.
Charlie laughed. “The coach house is a place of magic!”
Debbie looked at Charlie. “Maybe it can conjure up a pools win.”
Whilst Charlie and Olivia laughed, James retrieved the marbles, stared, and examined them.
CHAPTER 6 - A FUTURE RETURN
When his great-aunt passed away in 1999, James inherited her elegant Victorian property overlooking Loch Fyne. He took the decision to leave France, where he lived and worked, and return to Scotland. The new Millennium would herald a new chapter in James’s life.
One afternoon, he went into the property’s traditional coach house to reminisce, recalling his visit as a boy in 1967. However, James also remembered that visit was blighted by giddiness and nausea. He looked around three of the four rooms, and left a particular one till last. In 1896, the owner employed a coachman, and this room would have been a treasured habitat. From the window, a large garden and Loch Fyne were in full view. The coachman’s quarters had forever intrigued James, and he examined several items of crafted furniture. One being the wooden chair he stood on to look at himself in the wall mirror. James glanced at it and smiled.
Although a beautiful property in an idyllic setting, Docharnea had a dark and disturbing past. Members of James’s family had suffered misfortune, trauma and death. Local folk maintained a former coachman haunted the property. After being dismissed, poverty and depression followed, then he took his life. Legend has it, that with his dying breath, the coachman cursed Docharnea. James did not believe in spirits, but a mysterious power did exist within the coach house. This would transport him back in time to avert the tragedies that had beset his family. Following a series of thrilling adventures, James longed for a return to his own timeline.
I opened my eyes, blinked, and stared at the mirror. Both of my legs felt fragile, however, I kept my balance. I looked at my watch, and as in previous time shifts, it had stopped. Casting my gaze around the coachman’s quarters, it appeared different from my previous time travel venture to 1930. The room had been repainted, and items of furniture were missing. Warm bright rays of sunlight shone through the window. After having to endure a chilly 1930’s winter, it was a relief to feel warm again. In February of that year, the weather was severe due to below freezing temperatures and snowdrifts. I went to the window, and surveyed the garden below. Could it be late spring? Certainly, trees were full of leaves, with hedges and bushes in need of a trim. I observed bundles of brown leaves scattered around the garden, and the green lawn resembled an overgrown field! Shaking my head, I put the watch back into my pocket. Whilst walking down the creaky wooden staircase, I stumbled, but grabbed hold of the wooden bannister. Reaching the bottom, I opened the door, then stepped into a courtyard full of weeds. Prior to my travels, the courtyard surface had small grey gravel stones. Now, more green than grey existed! The exterior of the villa looked similar to when I came to live here. Nevertheless, a lick of paint would not go amiss. Everything that could grow had, and at great speed. Traffic noise from the road outside had diminished. Perhaps the council renewed the road surface, or has the combustion engine been upgraded? I walked round the property, and discovered that both back and front entrances were locked. Is the rear entrance key still under the disused water well? I went to the well, lifted a small slab of concrete, and smiled. Picking up the silver key, I approached the door, however, after inserting the key, it wouldn’t open. With my shoulder, I applied pressure, and the door flew open. Upon entering, a musty smell hit me, plus a feeling of emptiness. Typical of a property that had been deserted and required warmth and a purpose. I walked through the downstairs hallway, and observed no change, although, the spider had enjoyed being the solitary occupant. After removing several webs, I went into the main public room, where Mary Carsell-Brown interviewed me for a coachman’s position. On that occasion, bulky furniture and stuffed birds filled the room. At present, the furniture is minimal. If Mary had travelled from her Victorian era, how would she perceive it? Certainly, Mary would have recognised the large dark stone fireplace, which retains its dignity. That interview took place in 1896, however, for me, only a year has passed. In a historical context, I have experienced six timelines and witnessed memorable sights.
I went upstairs to familiarise myself with the remaining rooms. I gazed at my favoured bedroom and gave a sigh of relief. No more sleepless nights in uncomfortable and unfamiliar spartan accommodation. Walking back down the white wooden staircase, the thought of delivered mail struck. I walked into reception, and was confronted by a pile of letters that would fill a postman’s sack! I picked up a bundle, and checked the postmarks. The first was 2011, another being 2013. My goodness, I have arrived in the future! I am not back in my own timeline of 2000. The next letter, 1st April 2014, brought a smile. Then, my mindset changed. Since the Millennium, I’ve missed fourteen years. I looked at another postmark – 23rd May 2014. Sifting through the pile, I concluded that this was the latest date. With a sense of apprehension, I opened a letter marked URGENT. It had been sent by Argyll and Bute Council, referring to unpaid tax. The letter stated that they would restore my water supply if I paid monies due. I studied an attached statement for fourteen years – £28,672.75! Maybe I should have remained in 1930. Since I haven’t stayed here, at least there will be no energy usage. I picked up another letter marked URGENT which, coincidentally, was from my energy supplier. As their representative could not gain entry to read gas and electricity meters, they had been cut off. I went into the hall, and lifted the landline handset. I listened, and smiled – disconnected. My trusty cell phone will have suffered the same fate.
Thoughts shifted from unpaid bills to food. I’ll have to go into Ardrishaig and purchase supplies. Certainly, in this timeline, I can withdraw money from my bank account. Being home, at least I have a wardrobe of clothes, therefore, I won’t have to rely on charity shops. Fashions will have changed in fourteen years, and in what way? I must catch up on lost years. It would have been ideal to switch on the television, radio or computer. And of the computer, how many emails should I have answered? With no power or razor blades, my 1930 beard will have to remain. Then again, it will make me look older, and mask a fourteen-year gap. My goodness, I am now fifty-six!
After a change of clothes, I locked the main door, and walked down my driveway. At the foot, I turned left towards Ardrishaig. Many cars, vans and lorries passed in both directions, looking not too dissimilar from those at the Millennium. Further along, I noticed that a once-empty plot of land now had six houses. Perhaps one day, Dochar’s small hamlet status will be discarded. In 1896, I recall only four properties instead of the current fourteen. Due to progress, not much remains static. It’s fascinating to witness a century of change in a single year.
Several minutes later, I came across an elderly lady attending to plants in her front garden. She looked up, and gave a warm smile. “Hello, out for
an afternoon stroll?” She laid her trowel on the grey concrete dyke.
“Yes, a fine day for one.”
“Let’s hope there’s a proper summer this year, we haven’t had one for some time.”
“When was the last good summer around this way?” Did I miss any?
“Have you been living overseas?”
“Yes, just returned.”
“Where’s your tan?” The woman smiled.
“It wasn’t a warm sunny location.” Here, in the depths of winter.
“We shouldn’t complain about our summers, we no longer have severe winters.”
It was in 1930.
“Do you stay local?”
I looked back, and pointed. “Dochar.”
“Dochar?”
I nodded.
“Years ago, a chap went missing from one of the properties. People say it’s haunted.”
“Which property?”
“Docharnea. As far as I’m concerned, ghosts don’t exist.”
“I agree.” However, time travellers do.
“It’s good to meet a normal person.”
I remained silent.
“Are you headed for the village?”
“Yes, to a bank.”
“Lovely to speak with you.” The woman picked up her trowel.
“Bye.”
“Goodbye.”
I soon reached Ardrishaig and reminisced. Is the retail revolution I experienced in the sixties still in progress? I entered the main street, and observed several closed shops with a ‘To Let’ sign. One is the boutique, which had an astute female sales assistant. I approached, and peeked through the window.
“It’s been closed for years!”
I turned around.
A stocky grey-haired man grinned. “She made her money and scarpered up tae Glasgow.”
“Has the shop remained empty all that time?”
He nodded. “People here now shop in Glasgow, or use the Internet.”
Internet? Shopping culture has indeed changed.
“That’s if they have money tae buy anythin’, with benefits bein’ cut.”
“How is the economic situation around here?”