by David Munro
“Economic situation? It’s a joke!”
What would he make of 1930?
The man shook his head, and walked on.
I continued along the main street, and came across a familiar sight – Macmillan Solicitors. Since I took ownership of Docharnea, don’t I have stories to tell! As I started to walk away, a lady in a stylish dark blue outfit rushed out of the premises, and dropped a document.
“Miss!” I said.
She turned around.
I picked up the document, and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” She smiled, then stared.
Jane Mackay. She dealt with my acquisition of Docharnea.
“Have we met?”
Yes, fourteen years ago. With my beard, she won’t recognise me.
“Jane!” A woman came out of the premises. “Your smart phone.” She handed it over.
Smart phone? The design is sophisticated compared to my cell phone, then again, mine is fourteen years old.
“Oh, thanks.” Jane took the phone, put it into her black leather handbag and then looked at me. “Thanks, again.”
“My pleasure.” I walked on. Her size 12 has become a 16.
I reached the bank, entered and joined a long queue of patient customers. When an older teenager’s phone rang, she took it out of her brown shoulder bag, then answered the call. Since she stood in front of me, I overheard the conversation. An application for a job at Inveraray’s Burgess Hotel had been successful. Excited, she turned to me. “I’ve got it!”
“Congratulations, well done.”
“It’s a receptionist position at the best hotel in Argyll!”
“A private hotel?”
She nodded. “A chain of twelve in Argyll and further afield.”
“What is the company called?”
“The Carsell-White Group.”
“Carsell-White?”
The older teenager nodded. “Named after the original directors. They started with one hotel and expanded. I have it on good authority that a take-over is about to happen with another company, and the estate will increase to thirty.”
“Progress indeed.” She’s researched well.
The teenager beamed.
“Next customer, please,” said a male bank employee.
The successful applicant approached the counter, signed a document and then received cash. I observed today’s date in bold print at the counter – 20 May 2014. When she departed, the bank employee nodded in my direction. I approached the counter.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I would like a current statement, please?”
“Account number, sir?”
After I supplied details, my account appeared on his computer screen. He studied it, then looked at me. “No activity for fourteen years, Mr Carsell-Brown?”
“I have been on my travels.”
“I will need identification.”
“A council tax reminder?”
“That will suffice, sir.” The employee smiled.
I gave the letter to him. Glad I brought the reminders with me. “Now that I’ve returned, I want to settle my debts.”
The employee entered details into his computer, then a printout of my statement appeared. He handed it to me, plus the council tax letter.
“Thanks.”
“Will that be all, sir?”
“I require a new cheque book and wish to draw out cash.”
“Please fill in your details, sir.” He pushed a form towards me.
As I filled it in, the employee left and soon returned with a chequebook. I gave him the form, then I received cash, plus a chequebook. Picking up both, I put them into my jacket pocket.
“Is there anything else, Mr Carsell-Brown?”
“That’s all, for now.”
“Have a good day, sir.”
Leaving the bank, I headed for a newsagent. Until my domestic power is restored, a newspaper will suffice for current events. Next, I had to make urgent calls, and came across the village’s sole telephone box. Soon, cell phones will render them redundant. With my abundance of coins from the newsagent, I will contact the various providers. To breathe fresh air, I kept the door ajar with my size nine. Several speedy calls ensued.
Next, I headed for a familiar place throughout my travels – The Grey Gull Inn. Since water and power won’t be restored until tomorrow, this will become my temporary home.
I waited in the foyer for a few minutes, then picked up one of many brochures from a table. It contained information about tourism throughout Argyll. In 1930, whilst I attended a meeting in Lochgilphead Town Hall, an entrepreneur raised the issue of visitor attraction, which raised eyebrows. He suggested a pro-active approach to promote the scenery, sea links and amenities. Eighty-four years later, it is good to see the marketing of local tourism.
“Good afternoon, sir, how are you today?”
I turned around.
“There are many attractions in the area – sailing, hillwalking and the establishment’s fine beers.”
An ambassador, as well as the receptionist.
“Do you require accommodation, sir?”
“A room for one, maybe two nights.” I laid the brochure on the table.
The receptionist looked through a register book.
“A single room.”
“You’re in luck.” He looked up. “With the Commonwealth Games, it’s a busy time.”
That reminds me, the World Cup will commence next month. “Where is the World Cup being held this year?”
“Brazil.”
“Are Scotland involved?”
He shook his head.
“Pity.”
“Andy Murray may retain his Wimbledon title, though.”
“Andy Murray?”
The receptionist frowned. “Have you been in outer space for the last five years?”
The last fourteen.
“He won Wimbledon last year.”
“Splendid.” I must catch up on the past.
The receptionist handed me a key. “Room 13, on the first floor, sir.”
“Thanks.” I took the key. “Is there a radio or television in the room?”
“Both, sir. Dinner is served between eight and ten o’clock. The bar does snacks and is open till midnight.”
“Terrific.” I recall when it closed two hours earlier.
“Breakfast is seven till nine.”
After a delicious evening meal, I left the dining room, and entered a traditional-style bar. The plain white walls contrasted with dark wooden furniture. A polished floor appeared spotless, as with the bar counter. An intriguing observation – no customer smoking, or ashtrays on tables. With clean air, it’s not in keeping with a bar. Has the Government overtaxed tobacco? I approached the counter and a member of staff stepped forward. “Yes, sir?”
I looked at the shiny brass beer fonts. “A lager, please.”
“Tennents or Stella, sir?”
I pointed to the appropriate font.
“A pint, sir?”
I nodded. It’s been a while.
The bar person poured lager into a glass then laid it on the counter in front of me. It had a healthy froth on top – a good sign.
“£2.50, please, sir.”
I handed over the correct amount.
“Thanks, sir.” He pressed a series of buttons, and deposited the coins into a sophisticated electronic cash register.
When I paid for a drink in my previous timeline, as cash was rung up, the bulky metal till rang. Character, indeed. I sipped my pint – terrific! The best beer I’ve tasted in 118 years. A fellow customer at the bar looked my way. “Are you on holiday, sir?”
“I’ve been overseas and just returned.” I cast my gaze around the vicinity. “Is this a non-smoking bar?”
The man grinned. “How long have you been gone?”
“Quite a while.”
“A smoking ban in public places has been in force for nine years.”
That explains it.
“However,
since the ban, bar trade has fallen.”
“There’s a healthier atmosphere.”
The man nodded.
I hope he’s a football fan. “What is the latest in Scottish football?”
“Which league?”
“The Premier Division.”
“It’s now called the Premiership, and Rangers, Hearts and Hibs are not involved.”
I lifted my pint, and took a swig.
“Hibs were relegated last season.”
I choked, then coughed. Not again! When I left in 2000, they had been promoted back to the top division!
“They reached consecutive Scottish Cup Finals in 2012 and 2013.”
I put my glass on the bar and smiled. “Did they win both finals?” Please say they did.
The man shook his head
“One of them?” Surely.
Once more, he shook his head.
My heart sank. Certain aspects of football remain unchanged. “Which teams did they play against?”
“Celtic and Hearts. Celtic beat them 3-0 and Hearts 5-1.”
My heart sank further.
The man stared. “You look deflated.”
Thank goodness I wasn’t here. “What of Rangers and Hearts current situation?”
“Both went into Administration and received punishments.”
“And the Scottish National team?”
“They are in power at Holyrood.”
I smiled. “The football team?”
The man laughed. “Since 1998, they still haven’t qualified for the latter stages of a tournament.”
Oh, well. “How is the economy?”
He took a sip of his beer. “Improving, considering the Government had to rescue most of the large banks.”
“What happened?”
“They went bust.”
“Bust! How?”
“Lending to people who couldn’t repay loans.”
“Similar to 1929.”
The man grinned. “Were you there?”
I laughed. Yes, just returned.
My fellow customer finished his drink, bade farewell, then left the bar. I picked up mine, and finished it.
“Another lager, sir?” said the bar person.
“Just a half-pint.”
Soon, a glass arrived, and I handed him two coins. He handed me a fifty-pence piece.
“Thanks.” A pint is cheaper than two half-pints!
“On vacation, sir?”
“Just returned.”
“An adventure holiday?”
I nodded. And more.
“My older brother went hot-air ballooning in France.”
“Did he enjoy it?”
The bar person shook his head. “He’s not keen on heights.”
“Why choose ballooning?”
“For the thrill.”
He’ll enjoy time travel. “Could you recommend a local gardener? Since I’ve been away, my garden has gone wild.”
He laughed. “There is a local firm whose premises are near the canal.”
Could it be the same one, which began in 1896?
“Hold on, I’ll get you their details.”
He went into a back room, then returned with a small printed card. After handing it to me, I read it.
“The firm carries out work throughout Argyll, however, their premises still remain in Ardrishaig. You can go onto their website and view what services they provide. If you wish, they can redesign your garden. Plants, flowers plus ornaments, can also be supplied.” The bar person grinned. “For the affluent clients, they have installed garden fountains.”
“Is there a particular reason why the premises remain in the village?” I put the card in my trouser pocket.
“A pledge the original owner made.”
In 1896, young Angus mended his ways. Now a thriving company exists, a meaningful legacy.
“A refill, sir?”
“No, thanks.” I put my glass on the counter.
“Night, sir.”
I left the bar, then went to reception for my room key. With comfortable accommodation, and a couple of beers, I’ll sleep well tonight.
I opened my eyes, and heard birds chirping in my left ear. Where am I? Raising my head, I looked around the room. This is not my hospital digs? I composed myself, and sighed. I’m at the Grey Gull Inn. Phew! I sat up, yawned, and then stretched my arms. Since my time travel exploits began, that’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had. I glanced at the bedside clock on a wooden cabinet – 8.30am. I’ve slept for ten blissful uninterrupted hours. I stared at the en-suite bathroom, how I have missed a long hot bath to relax in and a refreshing shower. Everyday luxuries that I took for granted and can now be enjoyed again. Once more I yawned, then glanced at the bedside clock. Damn! I’ll have to rush or miss a cooked breakfast. I dashed into the bathroom, showered, then got dressed. I dashed downstairs, and upon entering the dining room, observed a woman wearing dark attire removing used cutlery and plates from a table. She turned to face me.
“My apologies, I had my best sleep in a long time.”
She looked at a wall clock.
“I am famished!”
“Be back soon to take your order.” She left with a full tray.
I sat down at a set table, and picked up its menu card. Whilst reading, the waitress returned.
“A full breakfast with coffee, please.”
“Toast, sir?”
I nodded. “Please.”
“Marmalade or butter?”
“Marmalade, please.”
The waitress smiled and left.
I sat back on a comfy chair, and stared out of the dining room window. As the sun shone through, I reflected on recent travels, and the gift I had. However, could I ever go back in time again, and would I want to? Low pay for long laborious hours as a coachman and hospital porter, plus unhealthy living standards – no thanks. Especially, when one coachman task involved cleaning out a stable for two horses. I can still smell it. As for being a porter, my backache from pushing heavy trolleys remains. Then again, I witnessed remarkable sights, and met my past relatives.
“Your breakfast, sir.” The waitress paused. “Sir!”
I looked up.
She smiled. “Not fully awake yet?”
“Just thinking about the past.”
After a delicious breakfast, I paid my accommodation bill, then walked back to the small hamlet of Dochar. Before leaving, the owner said he would contact the garden firm, recommended to me by one of his bar staff.
As I approached Docharnea, vehicles sped along the straight and narrow road. Due to the warm sunny weather, most had their driver’s window down. No doubt an insect or two made a nuisance of themselves. Walking up the driveway, I shook my head. When I took ownership of the property, a blue sky could be seen, however, not any more. I hope the garden firm arrives sooner, rather than later to trim those trees. I opened the door, and stepped into reception. The blush magnolia walls, white ceiling and skirting, still look fresh. I checked the mailbox, good, no postman this morning. To find out if power had been restored, I pressed the nearest light switch, and smiled. Now I can listen to music. When in the Grey Gull bar, I observed a young woman view programmes on her cell phone. I will be traditional and watch in front of a television. To ensure running water, I went into the bathroom and then turned on both chrome taps. After they spluttered, water flowed from each. I am now home.
Sifting through the remaining backlog of mail, I heard the sound of tyres come up the driveway. Moments later two doors closed, and the doorbell rang. I rose from my couch, went into reception, and opened the door. Standing, were two sturdy men dressed in grey sweatshirts and black trousers, each with a hearty grin.
“Good afternoon to you, sir,” said the older man, “we’re here to transform the grounds of your property into respectability.”
I smiled. “It may take both of you some time.”
“Don’t concern yourself, sir, we’ve seen worse than this!”
“How much wil
l it cost?”
“Give us ten minutes, we’ll have a look around the property.”
Both men surveyed the perimeter, and examined prime areas of growth. The older of the two shook his head, and his colleague nodded. After fifteen minutes, they returned with solemn expressions. I stood at the door, fearing the worse.
“A huge job, sir.” The older man sighed. “We’ll need an extra pair of hands.”
“Our great-grandfathers knew each other.”
He stared. “Did your relative stay here?”
“Yes, for a spell, he worked as a coachman.”
Grinning, he shook my hand. “I’m Angus, named after my great-grandfather.”
“Pleased to meet you, Angus. I am also named after my great-grandfather.”
“Then you’re James?”
I nodded.
He glanced at the younger man. “James, this is my son Alex.”
I shook his hand.
He is named after my grandfather.”
I met him in 1912.
“Is the property haunted by a ghost? We hear all sorts of stories.”
“If not, does the price come down?”
Angus laughed. “The cost for cutting, trimming and clearing is £1900, James.” He cast his gaze around the area. “It’ll take three of us three, maybe, four days.”
I nodded. “Fine, when can you start?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Splendid.”
The two gardeners bid me farewell, and got into their white van. As it moved off, the older man waved. When the van left Docharnea, Alex looked at his father. “You estimated the job at £3000!”
Angus glanced at his son. “Our family owe a great debt to that man’s great grandfather. Later, I’ll tell you the story that my father revealed to me.”
I returned to my backlog of mail, and after a while, put them aside. I grew tired of promotional literature for car insurance, domestic radiators and double-glazing. Does a company recoup marketing expenditure, or is it a reason why most go bust? I went into the kitchen, made a cup of coffee, and stood outside the back door. I stared at the coach house – a lick of paint is needed. Fourteen winter gales and heavy rain have taken their toll. I better check that all four rooms within the building are safe and secure. Hopefully, no wasps, birds or small animals have found it desirable. I drank my coffee, lifted the coach house keys off a wall hook, and walked across the courtyard. I went into the old stables, and looked about. As a coachman, I had to hold my nose each time. However, now it is an empty shell, and used for storage. I breathed out, and locked the door. Next, I checked a large room, where the coach could be left overnight, however, it usually lay outside. In those times, the courtyard consisted of grass, mud and weeds. Also, horse dung did not lend to its appeal. I shut the large double-door, and went to a door, which led upstairs. I inserted the key, and turned its black handle. The door did not open, I tried again with force, and it flew open. I’ll ask Angus if he knows a good joiner. The wooden staircase, with its familiar creak, requires a sweep. At the top, both entrances on either side will also have to be tackled. To the right is where I stored fodder for both horses, apart from a spider’s web over the small skylight, the room’s empty. I entered the coachman’s quarters, stopped, and cast my gaze around the room. I stared at a space where my makeshift bed used to be. The six o’clock morning starts still haunt me. I went to the window, and looked out, recalling when no trees existed. Whilst walking away, I glanced at the Gothic mirror. I am not staring into it ever again! Besides, past family trauma has been averted with no damage to the timeline. I went back down the staircase, and locked the door behind me. Looking around the vicinity, I pondered. Even in 1896, and throughout the ages, Docharnea retains its charm.