by Jason Ayres
Gran’s TV was housed in a large, brown wooden box, with a small, square screen in the centre. It sat precariously on a tiny, wooden stand that barely looked strong enough to hold it.
On a shelf under the stand was an equally old-fashioned top-loading video recorder from the early 1980s.
As the screen only took up about half of the surface space of the box, there was room for a panel on the right-hand side with push buttons on it. After spending some time fruitlessly searching for the remote control, Gran had informed him that there wasn’t one and that the only way to change the channel was to push these buttons.
Since there appeared to be only four channels, this was a fairly simple process but it did involve the hassle of having to get up off the sofa to do it which he had already had to do once after Gran insisted on him “turning the telly over” after Wogan had finished on BBC1.
The picture was appalling. It looked like it was snowing in the scene he was watching. In theory it could have been, it was January after all, apart from the small detail that the scene was taking place in the pub.
As the action switched to a new scene about Ken and Deirdre Barlow getting divorced, he noticed something odd happening to the picture. Ken Barlow’s head suddenly began to disappear out of the top of the screen, scrolling slowly upwards and then reappearing at the bottom of the screen.
Gran glanced up from her knitting and said, “Peter! That picture’s on the blink again. Can you have a fiddle with the vertical hold?”
“How old exactly is this TV, Mrs Grant?” asked Josh politely, not wanting her to think he was being rude about it. Her response indicated that he hadn’t been polite enough.
“There’s nothing wrong with that TV, if that’s what you’re implying. Over twenty years I’ve had that. We were one of the first in the street to get a colour telly, you know. My Pat worked extra shifts at Morris Motors to pay for it.”
Peter got down on the floor, reached around the back of the TV and began to fiddle with the control. Unfortunately, instead of stabilising the picture, Ken Barlow became extremely animated, racing up the screen several times a second.
“No Peter, you’re making it worse. Turn it the other way,” said Gran exasperatedly.
Eventually Peter managed to stabilise the picture but the reception remained poor.
“That picture’s never been the same since they changed over from ATV to Central,” remarked Gran.
“That shouldn’t have made any difference, Gran,” replied Peter. “The signals still come from the transmitter at Beckley. It’s just an old set and we need a new one. Why don’t we go down to Radio Rentals at the weekend? They’ve got a special deal on at the moment. You can get SKY TV free for a year when you buy a new TV and video.”
“What on earth would I want SKY TV for?” asked Gran. “We’ve got four perfectly good TV channels already.”
“You get all the latest movies,” replied Peter. “And they’ve got The Simpsons.”
“We’ve already got a video machine for films,” replied Gran. “We can get any movies we want from The Ritz around the corner.”
“That video machine’s in an even worse state than the telly,” replied Peter. “Remember when it chewed up Ferris Bueller’s Day Off? The shop charged me fifty quid for that.”
“Fifty quid, for a video?” asked Josh. “That sounds a lot.”
“I know,” replied Peter. “You can buy a copy in Our Price for a tenner. They gave me some story about it being made from some special expensive tape that’s just for rental shops but I think that’s rubbish. And they had the cheek to add another 75p on because I didn’t rewind the tape.”
“Well, I don’t really watch these modern movies anyway,” said Gran. “I like the old black and white ones they show on BBC2 in the afternoons. Other than that I’m happy with my soaps. You can’t beat a bit of Emmerdale Farm.”
“It’s not called that anymore,” said Peter, wearily. “How many times have we had this conversation? It’s just called Emmerdale now.”
“Don’t be disrespectful, Peter,” said Gran. “I can’t be expected to remember everything at my age.”
“Sorry. Anyway, SKY or not, we still need a new TV.”
“Well, I don’t see how we’re going to pay for it,” she replied.
“What about the extra money Josh is giving you for rent?”
“Yes, but how long will he be staying? You’ve been a bit vague about that, Mr Gardner, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“At least a couple of months, Mrs Grant,” replied Josh. “But look, you’ve been so kind letting me stay at short notice that I promise, before I leave, I’ll see what I can do about sorting you out a new TV.”
“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that, Mr Gardner,” replied Gran.
“It would be my pleasure,” said Josh. “I’m expecting to come into some money soon, and it’s the least I can do.”
“Do you fancy coming for a pint, Josh?” asked Peter. He couldn’t really afford it, but was finding the conversation increasingly irksome and wanted to ask Josh more questions about his time travels. Even if it was all a fantasy, it was far more interesting than the evening’s TV schedule.
“Good idea,” replied Josh who was equally bored with the conversation.
“I thought you didn’t have any money,” said Gran.
“I haven’t got much,” said Peter. “But I’m sure we can rustle up enough for a couple of pints.”
“Well, don’t you be late, mind,” said Gran. “I’m locking the door at half past ten.”
Half an hour later they were settled in a spit and sawdust pub on the Cowley/Headington border. Away from Gran, over a couple of pints, they were able to talk freely. Peter was making the most of the opportunity to quiz Josh more about how he had ended up in 1992 and what his plans were now he was here.
He remained undecided about the validity of Josh’s claims, but with a lack of anything else to occupy his mind on the long, winter nights, he had decided to go along with it for the time being.
Everything Josh had told him so far had sounded entirely convincing so if he was a conman he was an extremely good one. Right now he was explaining all about his plan to meet his future self at his parents’ wedding.
“So when is this wedding, exactly?” asked Peter.
“Saturday June 20th,” replied Josh. “It’s at St. Mary’s Church in Launton, near Bicester, at 2pm.”
“And are you planning to make contact with your parents beforehand?” asked Peter.
“Absolutely not,” said Josh with conviction. “That could seriously contaminate the timeline. It’s risky enough me being here in 1992, even several miles away in Oxford. Imagine the damage I could do if I actually interacted with them? What if I went and spoke to my mum and she ended up falling in love with me or something? I’ve seen that done in a time travel movie before.”
Peter almost spat his beer out loud, laughing. “Seriously – how old is your mother now – in her early twenties? And you’re what – 55? Do you seriously think someone her age is going to be interested in someone like you?”
“None taken!” said Josh, his rather large ego slightly bruised. “But you’re probably right,” he admitted.
“Even so, I can see what you mean about making contact being risky,” said Peter.
“Exactly. Any interaction, no matter how slight, has the potential to change events. It’s just not worth taking the chance.”
“So what are you going to do for the next five or six months?” asked Peter. “You can’t sit in every night watching soaps with Gran. I thought you’d want to make more of your time in 1992.”
“I haven’t got any money remember? But I will have eventually,” said Josh. “I showed you my notebooks.”
Peter nodded. After he had moved in, Josh had allowed him a brief look at the books, detailing news events, sports results and more. Peter was disappointed it hadn’t been a longer look. A chance to make bit of extra cash from placing a few bets
wouldn’t have gone amiss.
“How long before you’ve got any information you can actually use?” he asked.
“Well, the January book was completely destroyed,” replied Josh. “There are a couple of pages of February and a fair chunk of March left, including all the results from the Cheltenham Festival. After that the remainder are pretty much intact.”
“But Cheltenham’s over two months away,” said Peter. “What are you going to do until then?”
“I was hoping you might be able to help me out a bit,” said Josh. “I’ll see you alright in the long run: you don’t have to worry about that.”
“That’s all very well, but as I’ve explained, I’m a student,” replied Josh. “I’m massively in debt already and if anyone needs helping out, it’s me. I think you’ve only got one option here. You’re going to have to get a job.”
Josh looked at him, aghast. “A job? Doing what?”
“There are all sorts of short-term jobs you can do. Why don’t you sign up with one of the temp agencies, like Manpower? That’s what I did last summer. I had a great time – did everything from baking bread to working on a removal van.”
“There is the small problem of my lack of National Insurance number or any other identification, come to that,” said Josh. “I did bring a fake passport for this time period with me, but…”
“…Let me guess. It burned in the fire?” interrupted Peter.
“Yes.”
“Well, you’re going to have to find some sort of cash-in-hand work, then. It’s a shame you didn’t arrive a month ago. Loads of places take on temporary staff over Christmas.”
“I didn’t get a lot of choice in that,” replied Josh. “Because of the broken tachyometer, it was hard enough even navigating to this particular year.”
Peter drained the last of his beer, and said, “Same again?”
“May as well,” said Josh. “With the way things are going on the financial front, this could be my last night out for a while.”
“Maybe not,” said Peter, catching sight of a crudely written notice on the wall.
Barman/barmaid wanted – three or four nights per week. See Graham at the bar for more details.
“Hey, Josh, take a look at this,” said Peter. “Here’s something you could do!”
“Bar work?” said Josh, looking at the notice. “Bit of a comedown from university Professor, isn’t it?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” said Peter.
“I suppose it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to rough it,” conceded Josh. “Not long ago, I had to do a stint working on a railway line in a universe which hadn’t advanced beyond nineteenth-century technology. That was back-breaking work, I can tell you.”
“There you go, then,” replied Peter. “Bar work should be a doddle by comparison. Look, that’s Graham, the landlord at the bar right now. Why don’t you go up and get the drinks and then you can ask him.”
“You’re not trying to get out of buying your round, are you?” replied Josh. “I know what you students are like. I’m going to be one myself in about thirty years from now.”
“Of course not,” replied Peter, handing him three pound coins. “Here, get two pints, this should cover it.”
“Amazing,” replied Josh, who never stopped marvelling at how cheap beer was in the past.
The landlord was a gruff, thickset man in his late-fifties, wearing a white shirt that looked rather too small for him. The buttons looked about to pop, and despite the pub not being particularly warm, there were sweat patches below his arms.
“Two pints of Morrells Best, please,” said Josh.
“Right you are, squire,” said the landlord, beginning to pour the beer.
The first couple of pints hadn’t been particularly impressive, but Peter had warned him not to expect much. Josh had heard of Morrells Brewery. Apparently it had been very big in the past but it had long since gone defunct by his time.
If the quality of this beer was anything to go by, he wasn’t surprised. It might not just be the beer, it might also be down to the landlord; perhaps he didn’t clean his pipes.
He wondered what Kenneth and Benedict, the two real ale enthusiasts he had met the other day, would have made of it. Not a lot, he imagined, not that they were ever likely to come here. He would be surprised if they ever ventured into backstreet boozers like this.
“I see you’re looking for bar staff,” began Josh, tentatively, as Graham put the second pint on the bar.
“Why, yes, I am as a matter of fact,” replied Graham, in a big, booming voice that reminded Josh of a darts commentator he had seen on TV a few nights ago. “Why, do you know someone who’s looking for a job?”
“As a matter of fact I do,” replied Josh. “Me.”
Graham looked him up and down. “And what does a man your age want with bar work?”
“Does it matter what age I am?” asked Josh.
“To be honest, it does,” replied Graham. “I was hoping for someone a fair bit younger – with blonde hair and bigger tits. It helps to pull in the punters, you see.”
Josh was about to protest at this outrageous comment before remembering that he was living in less enlightened times and Graham hardly seemed like the type of person who was going to appreciate a discussion on political correctness. He left it there and returned to the table where Peter was looking through a discarded copy of the Oxford Mail.
“Any good?” asked Peter.
“No. He wants someone with bigger tits apparently. I didn’t stand a chance.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Graham. He’s a Page 3 sort of man. You can tell from those packs of peanuts he’s got hanging up at the bar with the scantily clad women underneath them. Anyway, forget that, I’ve found something interesting here that you might want to take a look at.”
He handed Josh the paper, open at the article he had been reading.
FAMILY JOY AS SECOND MISSING PERSON RETURNS SAFE AND SOUND.
“Not the most imaginative headline I’ve ever read,” replied Josh.
“It’s the content that’s interesting,” said Peter. “Bearing in mind what you told me about the time bubbles. Well, this is uncannily similar, don’t you think?”
Josh read the rest of the article.
A local family were celebrating today after the safe return of their son, student Jonty Barrington-Smythe, who reappeared safe and sound this morning after being reported missing two weeks before Christmas.
When asked where he had been, Jonty, 21, the son of a prominent London barrister, explained that he had been partying with members of the Bullingdon Club, a sophisticated dining society for Oxford undergraduates and that he must have lost track of time. When questioned as to how he could have lost track of four weeks, Jonty added, “Well, we know how to party in the Bullingdon Club!”
Barrington-Smythe is the second missing person in the past week to reappear after Tracy Ellis, a local mother of two who went missing on Christmas Eve, turned up unharmed on Monday.
“Do you see what I mean?” replied Peter. “This sounds a bit like one of those time bubbles you were talking about – people going missing for a few days and then reappearing.”
“You’re right, it does,” replied Josh. “Except there isn’t a time bubble in Oxford other than the temporary ones that I’ve created while travelling. The only two permanent ones I know about are the two I already mentioned.”
“The one you originally found?” asked Peter.
“Yes, about fifteen miles north of here no one could have come through that. In 1992 it is buried beneath a field where a subway tunnel will eventually be built. The other is in a cave in Cornwall, which is also inaccessible a lot of the time because of the tides. I can’t see how either of these people could have fallen into them and the timings don’t fit anyway.”
“But you also said you couldn’t be completely sure if this was even your original universe, despite looking the same,” argued Peter. “Things could be different h
ere. And what about all the trouble you had when you arrived with your tachyometer. Could that have caused something to happen?”
Peter had a point. Josh had already seen first-hand the consequences problems with the tachyometer could have for people, Amy being a prime example.
“It’s certainly a possibility,” he conceded.
“Then perhaps we ought to look into it,” suggested Peter.
“Maybe we should,” agreed Josh. “It’ll be something to pass the time, seeing as I don’t seem to have much prospect of employment due to my lack of breasts.”
“That’s settled, then,” said Peter, who was seriously getting into all of this. His initial doubts about Josh’s claims were fading day by day. It certainly seemed that his prayers for a more interesting life had been answered.
“Where do you suggest we start?” asked Josh, happy to let Peter take the lead.
“What about this chap, Jonty?” asked Peter. “Perhaps we should track him down and check out his story.”
“Sounds like a plan,” replied Josh, happy to have some sort of purpose at last.
“We’ll start tomorrow,” he added.
Chapter Eleven
“Blimey, this lot can’t be short of a few bob,” remarked Peter.
He and Josh were standing at the entrance to the gravel driveway of an impressive Victorian house on Woodstock Road in Oxford. Set over three floors, with imposing bay windows and small turrets on either side, it reeked of wealth. The Bentley parked on the drive merely served to complete the picture.
“What did you expect, with a name like Jonty Barrington-Smythe?” replied Josh. “It’s hardly Fred Bloggs, is it?”
“I find it a bit intimidating,” said Peter, his enthusiasm deserting him. “There’s something about the rich I find a bit disconcerting. You know, the way they look down at us little people?”
“I think you’re making a bit of an assumption there,” said Josh. “This lad can’t help that he was born into money. He might be a perfectly nice young man.”