by David Munro
Ah, it’s a war year, but which one?
“Visitor numbers to the area are down this summer.”
Because of conscription and lack of money, vacations became a novelty.
“How long will your stay be for, sir?”
“A week.” If not less.
He has no luggage. “Please sign the register book.” She dipped a black fountain pen into the reception desk inkwell, then carefully handed it to me.
Whilst signing the book, I looked at today’s date, then laid the pen down. As she removed a brass key from the accommodation board, I noticed all other rooms were available.
“Do you require a deposit?” I took the key.
“Pay when you leave, sir, breakfast is at 7.30.”
That’s early.
“If you wish, it can be served thirty minutes earlier?”
“7.30 is fine.” I observed a newspaper on the reception desk.
“Would you like to read it?”
I nodded. “Please.”
The woman handed it to me. “Do you require an evening meal?”
“Yes, I do.”
“What time would suit?”
“Between six and seven o’clock?”
“6.30?”
I nodded.
“We provide a laundry service.” That’s a strange shirt, there’s no buttons to hold the collar on.
“Splendid.” I’ll have to visit to a local charity shop for clothes, especially a jacket.
“See you later.” The woman smiled.
I walked up a flight of bare wooden stairs to my allocated room. Creaky staircases are not only confined to the coach house. The white emulsion walls had portraits of Loch Fyne, Ardrishaig’s canal and the surrounding countryside. After entering, a sudden gust of wind slammed the door shut. Straight away, I turned round, staring at the door. I then cast my gaze around the spartan room, which comprised a wooden bed, scratched wardrobe and bedside cabinet. No en-suite bathroom this time, only a white ceramic sink with two large brass taps. After my return to the 21st century and modern bathroom amenities, once more, it is back to basics. I unfolded the Scottish Daily Express for 7th July 1916, with its headline, ‘Slaughter on the Somme’ in bold capitals. The article stated that on the first day in July, British casualties amounted to 57,000, and the carnage continues with no end in sight. Lord Kitchener’s force of brave volunteers is being shot to pieces. Apparently, the bombardment of Germany’s front line, before the battle commenced, had little impact. Sitting on my bed, I pondered. I had read history books about this battle, and watched countless documentaries on television. However, being in 1916 reading current news is surreal. Lord Kitchener’s army of volunteers consisted of educated professionals and manual workers, plus sportsmen. Although military training would have been provided, they lacked skills in the art of war. The Somme conflict became one of the bloodiest battles in history, with more than a million casualties from either side. In future years, the term ‘a lost generation’ would describe soldiers who lost their lives during the First World War. Saddened, I put the newspaper aside.
Needing fresh air, I went downstairs to reception and left my key. After an hour of walking, I found a bench and sat down. I have now witnessed changes over three centuries, however, this timeline is distressing. The past two years have taken its toll on locals who fought. I’ve witnessed men and older teenagers with missing limbs, and no doubt, diminished self-respect. They walk dispirited on crutches, or wear a jacket with an empty sleeve. I’ve also seen facial bandages to cover a nasty head disfigurement, and with another two years of frantic fighting left, casualties will rise. A shameful aspect of the war will be failure to interpret ‘shell shock’ as an illness, and because soldiers flee the noise of battle, they are shot for cowardice. 1916 is not a good timeline in which to materialise. I got up, and several minutes later, approached a familiar main street location. Where the modern coffee shop stood in 2014, a quaint tearoom exists. When I entered, a bell rang. Certain characteristics never alter, however, it produced a faint smile. I looked around, even in 1916 the shop is popular, then, two women left their table. As with previous visits back in time, intriguing stares were directed at my unconventional clothes, however, I’ve now become used to them. The waitress with black attire and her hair tied in a bun came across and gave a curious look.
“Do you serve coffee?”
She shook her head. “Sorry, sir.”
“A cup of tea, please.”
After she left, I noticed only elderly customers. With able-bodied men conscripted to fight against Germany, women would fill their shoes in offices and factories. Also, drab brown stained walls and worn discoloured net curtains highlighted the austerity of war. With tables in close proximity, customer’s conversations lacked discretion. A poignant piece of news related to Lady Beaumont’s son and that he had been posted missing in action. Another customer had received a letter from her son serving in France, in which he mentioned being ordered to visit a dentist for the first time.
“Ordered?” said the woman’s companion at the table.
“By his commanding officer.”
“Why?”
“To ensure that George’s teeth would be able to chew food in a proper manner, thus, adding enjoyment rather than discomfort.”
“Mind you, it’s known that an army marches better on a full stomach.” The companion grinned.
“He wants to feel clean again.”
“The trenches will be full of mud and vermin.”
“He has stopped wearing the regimental kilt.”
“Why?”
“Mustard gas burns bare legs.”
“My goodness!” The woman’s companion put a hand to her mouth.
A few minutes later, both women rose, went to the counter and paid for their cups of tea. A slim well-groomed young woman entered, looked around, then spotted the vacant table. She resembled Ann Anderson, however, her aura was that of a person very much alive. A patterned lilac dress, cream hat and jacket also lifted the tearoom’s dull atmosphere. The waitress approached her table, and took an order. “Your day off?” she added.
“My employer is on holiday.”
“Back soon.”
A frail woman with a solemn expression walked in, and sat beside two acquaintances of similar age, then spoke to them. The waitress brought a white cup and saucer to the young woman and left. Lifting her cup, and about to take a sip, she stared at the three women. Customer’s heads turned, and the young woman rushed out. Whilst picking up broken pieces of crockery, the waitress looked my way. “She overheard Lady Beaumont’s son has been killed in action.”
“Is her name Ann Anderson?”
The waitress nodded.
On a dull wet Sunday morning, the funeral of Edward Beaumont took place in Ardrishaig Cemetery. Mourners in sober black attire gathered to honour a local man killed during the Somme offensive. I met Edward in 1896 when he was a boy, and only two decades later, I say farewell. I observed a dignified tearful Lady Beaumont, and Ann Anderson flanked by her two brothers.
Following the funeral, relatives took Edward’s widow, Rosalind, to a waiting black motor vehicle. She, and her infant daughter, Olivia, faced a difficult future. I sighed, this war has a lot to answer for.
I returned to the Grey Gull Inn saddened by what I had witnessed. Being a time traveller, you are aware of past events, but it does not deter grief. After entering the dining room, I sat down at a table set for Sunday lunch. The waitress appeared and I ordered a bowl of Scotch Broth. When it arrived, I stared. 1916 soup bowls are deeper than their future counterparts. With a near full stomach, I sat back, and waited for the main course. Hopefully, it won’t fill the plate. A circular brass wall clock chimed, with the hands showing 12.34. I stared, that’s a strange time? Then, I remembered what had been revealed to me about this fateful day. Ann Anderson returned to the cemetery, and committed suicide at the thirteenth hour. That’s why I’m here! I rose from my chair, and brushed past the approachi
ng waitress. Her head turned. “Your roast beef and potatoes, sir.”
I made haste for the cemetery with quick steps to ensure a speedy arrival. Whilst walking, I went into the pocket of my jacket to check my watch, then took longer strides. That soup has given me a stitch. Upon entering the cemetery, I saw Ann Anderson at Edward’s grave. Whilst approaching, I observed a knife in her hand with the blade poised to slash a bare wrist.
“Don’t do it.” I shouted.
She turned around.
Taking a deep breath, and holding my side, I faced her. “Why waste your life?”
She stared.
I took another deep breath. “Please, don’t.”
Her voice grew raspy. “I, I no longer have a life.”
“What about your parents, and brothers?”
She sniffed.
“They will be heartbroken, as you are. Do you want them to suffer the same fate?”
“No, no, I don’t.” She lowered her head.
I moved closer, and held out my hand. “Give me the knife.”
She looked at me, then the knife in her hand.
“Please.”
Her grip loosened, and she handed me the knife. As I took it, Ann wiped a tear from her eye. “Why are you here?”
“It is a long story.” I placed the knife in my jacket pocket.
“I saw you at Edward’s funeral, you are not local.”
I will be, although not for another century.
Sniffing, Ann lowered the sleeves of her dress to cover both wrists.
“Let us leave this place.”
She nodded.
Reaching the gates, Ann stopped, and faced me. “What is your name?”
“James.”
“Did you know Edward?”
“I met him when he was a boy, and envisaged him become a person of valour.”
“Both of you have a special characteristic.”
“As you have.”
Ann nervously smiled, looked towards the cemetery, and paused. “I may leave my job.”
“What will you do?”
“Join the war effort as a voluntary nurse.” Ann paused. “That would have pleased Edward.”
“Better to preserve life.”
She took my hand, stared, then let go.
“Can I walk you to your parent’s house?”
Ann looked along a gravel path leading to the cemetery. “Here comes my brother.”
As a strapping man with a stern expression walked briskly to us, I turned to Ann.
“Goodbye.”
She looked at me. “I will forever be in your debt.”
Ann met her brother, spoke, and he comforted her. Knowing that my task had been completed, I headed in the opposite direction to Dochar. For discretion, I hope Docharnea is still uninhabited.
Glancing back at the stranger, Roy led his sister from the cemetery. Ann looked at her brother. “He knew Edward.” And reminds me of someone.
I called into the inn to pay what money was owed, then headed for Docharnea. Upon my arrival, and with no one around, approached the coach house. I opened the door, walked upstairs, and stood in front of the mirror. Return me to 2014, I want to resume a normal life.
That evening, Ann sat in her room and read to take her mind off recent events. Eventually, she put down the book, and thought about her encounter with a man called James. Ann recalled a boy two years earlier who had the same name, and sensed a connection. Moments later, she returned to her book.
CHAPTER 9 - AWAKENING
Materialising from 1916, I felt drained of energy. When travelling through time, a side effect is normal, however, the latest trip has taken its toll. Perhaps my body can only withstand a certain amount of travel, but at least I returned to my timeline of 2014.
I switched on the kitchen radio for music relaxation, and thought about what Beth had revealed concerning Abbie. Being a father for the first time is a shock, especially in the manner I found out. I made myself a coffee, sat, and continued to ponder.
A short while later, I heard the postman and went to retrieve my mail. Returning to the kitchen, I opened each letter with apprehension. As suspected, one referred to debt that required urgent action, or I could suffer the consequences. Some diplomacy would be appreciated. Also, check your records energy supplier, with the nights drawing in, I made sure you received payment! I threw it aside, disposed of the junk mail, and reached for my mug of coffee. A song on the radio appeared relevant. Yes, I will now relax, though, Hollywood won’t be my next destination. Smiling, I finished my coffee.
The mild sunny morning encouraged me to go for a walk, and clear my head. I observed many shiny vehicles whose owners had applied elbow grease at the weekend. Further on, the lady at work in her garden turned to face me with her usual warm smile. “Hello, again.”
“Having a garden can be time-consuming.”
She laughed. “This mild weather won’t let me rest.” She laid her trowel on the dyke. “I can’t recall September being as mild.”
“Long may it continue.”
The lady nodded. “It will keep my heating costs down.”
I echo her sentiment.
“The village?”
I shook my head. “Just out for a stroll.”
“I used to see a lot of people out walking, however, the road traffic can be off-putting.” The lady smiled. “As I’m a bit deaf, it doesn’t bother me.”
“Did Abigail Anderson walk much?”
“Oh, yes.”
“On her own?”
“When her daughter visited, they often went for a walk.”
“Recently?”
The lady shook her head. “The last time I saw them together must have been at least five or six years ago.”
“Did Abigail visit her daughter?”
“Not that I’m aware off.”
“What is her daughter’s name?”
“April.”
“Is she married?”
“You’re inquisitive!”
I smiled. “I apologise, its because I’ve been away from here for so long.”
“I understand.”
“See you later.”
“Bye.”
April? That could have been the month she was born. I walked at a slow pace, and passed a property whose garden required a helping hand. Whilst I write my book, maybe I could participate in garden maintenance to earn some cash. After all, my savings will only last for a limited period. I continued, and rather than head straight on to Ardrishaig, turned left along a remote narrow road. I spotted a wooden bench at the roadside, sat down, and began to reflect. A negative consequence of time travel is disappearing without warning, and relationships are severed in a callous manner. If I am the father of Abbie’s daughter, a guilty conscience will ensue. In 1968, a single mother in rural Dochar would raise many an eyebrow. I must find out what became of April. A grey-haired woman and her black and white collie came down a hill onto the road. “Taking a breather,” she shouted.
“Recharging my batteries!” I cried.
The woman approached, laughing.
“It’s a grand day for a walk.”
“September has been a friend to me.” She glanced at collie at her side.
“Do you stay local?”
“With my husband, we’ve a small cottage.”
“Have you lived there long?”
“Next year will be my fortieth anniversary.”
Forty years ago, would she have known Abbie?
The woman looked at her dog. “He’s coming up for fifteen, aren’t you?”
The dog barked.
“Do many people use this road?”
“A few, you’re new to the area?”
“I first came here fourteen years ago, travelled, and have returned for good.”
“Far?”
I nodded. Back to 1896.
“Where do you stay?”
“Dochar.”
“Oh yes, I know it.”
“A fine walk to here.”
“When I first walked these parts, I met a woman with a small child, and they came from Dochar.”
“What was her name?”
“My memory isn’t as sharp as it was.” The woman smiled. “Let me think.” She looked upwards. “Andrews? No, not Andrews.”
“Anderson?”
“That’s it! Abigail, Abigail Anderson, and her daughter was called April.”
“A neighbour of mine mentioned them.”
“Since I last met Abigail, it has been many a year.”
“And her daughter?”
The woman paused. “I’m sure Abigail said she had moved to Edinburgh.”
Edinburgh! “Any particular reason?”
“To study.”
“At what Institution?”
He’s a curious one. “No idea.” The woman looked at her dog, then at me. “Got to go, good to meet you.”
“And you.”
“Bye.”
If April went to study in my home city, could she still be there? I got up, and continued walking for a short while, then turned back for home. Tomorrow will be a prominent day in Scotland’s history with the Referendum taking place and tonight I’ll watch political pundits and experts give their opinions and possible outcome. According to research polls, it will be close, and whatever the margin of victory or defeat, Nationalism in Scotland has grown at a dramatic pace.
I awoke at seven o’clock to my radio alarm going off, then the voice of Alex Salmond. Half awake, I listened to a magnanimous speech conceding defeat in Scotland’s Referendum. I crawled out of bed, made myself respectable and then went downstairs to the kitchen. Whilst preparing breakfast, I listened to post-Referendum discussion on the radio. Nationalist supporters maintained the inevitable had only been postponed, and a second Referendum would secure Scotland’s independence.
Following a light breakfast of coffee and toast, I went back upstairs, and into my office. Sitting down, I switched on the computer and clicked its dial-up connection. Bought new in 2000, it’s now an ancient relic, especially, having noticed current computer design. I overheard customers in the coffee shop discuss various broadband providers. It appears that not only my computer has to get up to speed, also the user! When travelling back in time, acquired knowledge allows you to adapt, whereas ending up in the future brings insecurity. With all previous visits being in the past, I could cope, however, my current predicament frustrates me. My business philosophy states that you adapt to an ever-changing environment, thus, I will now have to practice what I once preached.