by Jason Ayres
“Do you think we ought to follow him, see what he does?” suggested Christina. “We shouldn’t just abandon him. When he realises what’s happened how is he going to get help if he can’t speak English?”
“I guess it can’t do any harm,” said Josh.
The three of them followed him through two painstakingly uneventful hours of him taking photographs of the Radcliffe Camera, Bridge of Sighs and various other landmarks. He remained oblivious to what had happened to him throughout.
As a tourist, in surroundings he wasn’t familiar with, this was quite understandable. It was only after he returned to his hotel, The Randolph, that he ran into trouble.
There was a porter on the front door of the hotel, an elderly gentleman dressed in an impressive red outfit. He greeted the man as he entered but eyed the others suspiciously. Peter in particular did not look like your average Randolph guest, dressed as he was in his Oxford United bobble hat and scarf in preparation for the match.
“Perhaps just I should go in,” suggested Josh, feeling that as the senior member of the party by some years, he was less likely to be challenged by the doorman.
“Agreed,” said Peter. “There’s no way they are going to let me in dressed like this.”
“OK, then,” said Josh, before saying loudly, “Bye, kids. Have a nice time at the match,” and making his way through the door.
“I’m here to meet a work colleague,” he said to the doorman who let him through.
By the time he got to the front desk, he could see the Japanese man in some sort of dispute with the desk clerk.
“Key, key, key!” the Japanese man was shouting to the frustration of the man behind the counter who was trying to explain that they didn’t have it, followed by “1-2-1 1-2-1.” It seemed he knew enough basic words to get by, but clearly not enough to have any sort of proper conversation.
“I’m sorry, sir, but room 121 is already booked out to another guest,” replied the clerk, who had clearly never seen the man before.
Josh watched for some time, as the man frustratingly kept repeating the same few words over and over again. When he heard the desk clerk say something about calling the police, he knew it was time to step in. The man was getting agitated and he knew he couldn’t leave him like this.
He walked up to the desk, got the clerk’s attention and said, “It’s OK, he doesn’t speak any English. He’s a friend of the family who stayed here in Oxford a few years ago and has come back to visit us. He has early-onset Alzheimer’s and sometimes he gets a little confused.”
“Well, you really shouldn’t let him out in public on his own, then,” replied the clerk, sternly.
“Actually, maybe you could help me?” said Josh. “We really need to contact the Japanese Embassy in London. Poor chap’s mislaid his passport. Do you have the number?”
“Of course,” said the clerk, who was happy to help if it defused the situation. “We have a lot of international guests here and keep the contact details of all the embassies.”
He reached beneath the counter and handed Josh a card with the number on it. Meanwhile, the Japanese man who didn’t seem to have registered that Josh was trying to help was still saying “key” over and over again.
“Any chance I could use your phone?” asked Josh.
“It’s for customers only,” replied the clerk. “There’s a phone box on the corner outside.”
“Thank-you, you’ve been very helpful,” replied Josh, slightly annoyed, but not wanting to push things further. Perhaps it was best they got out of the hotel.
“Come with me,” he said to the man, showing him the embassy card which was conveniently printed in both English and Japanese. After he saw it he calmed down a little and finally stopped going on about the key.
Christina and Peter were still waiting outside when Josh emerged with their anonymous Japanese tourist in tow.
“What’s going on?” asked Peter.
“It’s all under control – trust me,” said Josh.
He led the man to the phone box, took the card, stuffed a handful of used change into the slot and dialled. He then handed the receiver and the card to the man and waited.
It didn’t take long for the person on the other end to answer, and within a few seconds, the man was chatting away to someone in his native tongue. Josh felt that it was now safe to leave him.
“Well, good luck,” he said, leaving him in the phone box and walking back to the others.
“Is he going to be alright?” asked Christina.
“He’s on the phone to the Japanese Embassy,” said Josh. “They should sort him out. They’ll have a mystery on their hands, but I doubt if they’ll figure out what’s happened and there’s no reason to think they will trace it back to us. This is job done, I think.”
“This time, but I can’t imagine it will always be this easy,” said Peter. “Anyway, it’s time I was heading off to the match.”
“And I’m going to visit my mum for the weekend,” said Christina. “She’s finally agreed to see me. I will be back in a few days. Term starts this week and I’ve got to get back on my course.”
At a loose end, Josh decided to head home, walking the long way via the Cowley Road. On the way he passed a pub that did evening meals and Sunday lunches. They were advertising for kitchen staff via a crudely handwritten note on the window.
Aware that he was still in financial dire straits, he decided on a whim to enquire within. It turned out that he was exactly what they were looking for – someone casual who was happy to be paid cash in hand with no questions asked.
The rate of pay was appalling, just £2.50 an hour, but he was happy to take it, just to tide him over. Hopefully it would only be for a few weeks. He was going to be working Friday and Saturday nights and Sunday lunchtimes, starting the very next day.
The following day he turned up bright and early for the Sunday lunchtime session which proved to be very popular. Josh spent until well after dark scooping uneaten Brussels sprouts into the bin before washing the congealed gravy off the plates.
In Josh’s century everyone had a dishwasher so this was the first time he had done any proper washing up in years but he just got on with it, seeing it as a form of penance for all the trouble his time-travelling had caused.
A welcome bonus to supplement his meagre wages was that all the staff got a free meal at the end of the session as there was plenty left over so he loaded up on roast beef and Yorkshire pudding before he left.
When he got home he discovered that Gran had plated him up a dinner from her own Sunday roast and, not wanting to appear rude, he forced that down as well, complimenting her on her cooking which was much better than the pub’s. Feeling more stuffed than after a heavy Christmas Day lunch he retired to his room and fell asleep for a few hours.
When he awoke he had a bath and put on some fresh clothes, feeling a little livelier now that his two roast dinners had made their way down his digestive system. He headed downstairs, hoping to have a chat with Peter about his relationship with Rebecca. He had thought about the implications a great deal and felt he had to say something. He didn’t envisage it being an easy conversation.
In the living room, Gran and Peter were laughing at something on the TV. Josh looked at what was happening on the screen and couldn’t immediately see what was so hilarious. Gran and Peter were watching two puppets of a middle-aged couple sitting at a dinner table pushing some peas around on a plate. The whole scene was a monochrome, drab grey in colour.
“What’s this?” asked Josh. “I didn’t think they still showed black and white programmes in 1992.”
“It’s not black and white,” said Peter. “That’s a puppet of John Major. Haven’t you ever heard of Spitting Image? It’s satirical. They’ve made it all grey because they are trying to make out that he’s boring.”
“He is boring,” said Gran, “and useless. Look at what his lot have done to the economy – all these people losing their jobs because of the recession, not
to mention their houses. Criminal it is. Then there’s the inflation. I don’t know how they expect us old folk to survive on the pittance of a pension they pay us.”
“Don’t worry, Gran,” said Peter. “There’s an election this year. Everyone’s saying Labour are going to win so this lot will be out.”
“Yes, well, it’s about time. Then we’ll have that nice Mr Kinnock as Prime Minister. I like him.”
Josh was pretty sure this prediction was wide of the mark. He was pretty sure there had never been a prime minister of that name but, mindful of his policy of not revealing spoilers, he decided to change the subject.
“Do you fancy coming for a pint, Peter? I got paid today.”
“What at this time of night?”
“It’s only a quarter past ten,” replied Josh. “What’s the matter with you? I thought your generation was supposed to be out all night at raves.”
“It’s nothing to do with that,” replied Peter. “The pubs close at half-ten on a Sunday, remember?”
“Ridiculous,” replied Josh, who had grown up in a time when such restrictions on licensing laws had been abolished.
“Well, I’m off to bed now and I’ll be bolting the door so you can’t go out anyway,” said Gran, as the advert break came on. “I’ll leave you boys down here to chat.”
With Gran out of the way, Josh got straight to the point.
“So you went out with Rebecca again last night, then?” he began.
“Yes,” replied Peter, looking extremely happy. “She’s amazing, isn’t she?”
He then proceeded to tell Josh all about their night at the cinema, walking her home, and kissing her goodnight outside her flat. The more he went on, the worse Josh felt and he was in two minds about whether he should say anything at all.
“Well, obviously, I’m very pleased for you, but I am a little worried by all this,” said Josh, when Peter had finished gushing about his newfound love interest.
“What’s to worry about?” asked Peter. “I like her, she likes me. I’ve been waiting a long time for something like this to happen.” As he spoke he recalled his failed attempts at romance with Jenny, Amanda and Christina.
“I understand that, but you must realise if I hadn’t come along when I did and brought you into all of this, you would never have met her.”
“You can’t say that for certain,” replied Peter. “Maybe we were fated to meet and it would have happened some other way.”
“But you didn’t,” said Josh. “I know your history, remember? We’ve talked a lot in the twenty-first century about our lives and you have never once mentioned a Rebecca.”
Josh knew that in his original timeline, Peter had actually ended up marrying Christina. This had been a mistake. They hadn’t been right for each other and it had all later ended in tears when she had run off with another man.
It seemed that Rebecca was a far better choice for him, but that meant that Peter’s life would deviate from its original path and that could have implications for the future.
“Maybe I didn’t meet her in that other timeline, but I have now,” said Peter. “What are you saying, exactly?”
“I’m saying that for the sake of keeping this timeline as close as possible to the original, perhaps this relationship isn’t the best idea.”
“Best for who?” asked Peter, feeling annoyed. “Me or you?”
This wasn’t an easy question to answer. Josh was torn. Peter would very likely have a better life with Rebecca, but if he gave them his blessing was he damaging his chances of getting home?
“The thing is, Peter, if you deviate from your original timeline you may well not end up at the school where you become my teacher, and everything that happened with the other time bubble in 2018 will turn out differently. It could mean that my already slim chances of being rescued will become non-existent.”
“But how can you expect me to try and follow my original timelines when you say you can’t tell me anything about it?!” exploded Peter angrily. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got strong feelings for Rebecca, and you’re just going to have to accept that.”
What could Josh say to that? He could hardly tell him to drop Rebecca, marry Christina, and then get his heart broken a quarter of a century down the line. It wasn’t fair. He was being way too selfish.
“You’re right,” admitted Josh. “I’m sorry. We’ll just have to let things play out and worry about this later.”
“So I have your blessing to carry on seeing Rebecca?”
“Yes,” said Josh reluctantly. He was clearly smitten with her so there was no point saying the opposite, he would just carry on anyway. “Perhaps I could tell you the name of the school you need to get a job at. It’s not that big a spoiler. Then as long as you promise to stick to that it doesn’t matter who you marry.”
“Marry?” asked Peter. “I’ve only just met her.”
“I’m just thinking long-term,” replied Josh.
“OK good. Now I’ve got to think about how to break this to Gran. That could prove a little tricky.”
“Why do you need to break it to Gran?” asked Josh. “She’s been badgering you to get a girlfriend the whole time I’ve been staying here.”
“Because of the colour of her skin,” replied Peter.
“Oh, I forgot how much prejudice there is around in these times. Surely she’s not going to have a problem if Rebecca makes you happy, is she?”
“I hope not. It was my grandfather who was the racist one, really, but Gran used to take everything he said as gospel.”
“The rest of the world is changing,” said Josh, “She needs to as well.”
“I’ll talk to Rebecca about it,” said Peter. “Perhaps I could invite her round for tea.”
Spitting Image had finished, and the next programme was just starting, something called The South Bank Show.
“I’m not watching this,” said Peter. “It’s utterly boring. I’m off to bed.”
“I think I’ll stay up a while,” replied Josh. “I had a sleep when I got in from work and I’m not that tired.”
“Night, then,” said Peter. “And we’re OK with this whole Rebecca thing now, are we?”
“Yes,” replied Josh. What else could he say? He knew he couldn’t stand between Peter and Rebecca and even if he tried it wouldn’t do any good. Experience had taught him that once two people decided they wanted to be together, they wouldn’t allow anyone to stop them.
It was better left alone. He was going to be here for another five months at least and there were more immediate things to worry about. For now, he would concentrate on helping the people who came through the time bubble.
He could worry about his own future later.
Chapter Sixteen
When Kevin Austin set off on the way home from school on Monday 6th March 1972, he could not possibly have imagined that it would take him almost twenty years to get there.
He had walked over Magdalen Bridge deep in conversation with his best friend, Nigel. They had been talking about what had happened in Saturday’s episode of Doctor Who, the second part of an exciting story in which Jon Pertwee was up against the twin threats of The Master and The Sea Devils.
Kevin was a small, dark-haired lad, proudly dressed in the blazer and tie of his school. His black shoes gleamed immaculately and his trousers were crisp and pressed. His mother was proud that he had gained a place at the prestigious school and turned him out smartly every day.
They parted company at the entrance to the botanical gardens. Kevin turned left to cut through Christ Church Meadow to get to Abingdon Road, while Nigel continued on towards Cornmarket Street where he caught his bus to Kidlington. He was the last person to see Kevin alive for the next two decades.
On his way through the park, Kevin liked to stop off and feed the ducks. It wasn’t that he was particularly fond of ducks, more that he didn’t like his crusts. They had been sitting, uneaten, in his lunch box all afternoon and it was important he disposed of them before he
got home or his mother would scold him.
After throwing his crusts from his mother’s home-baked bread to the squawking, hungry creatures, he turned back up the riverbank, not noticing as he passed through the time bubble and twenty years into the future. Just as when the Japanese tourist had passed through, the weather conditions were similar in both time zones, bright and cold, which did not make the change immediately obvious.
He may not have noticed, but the group of four people watching as he blinked into existence in 1992 certainly did.
“That’s Kevin,” said Rebecca. “I recognise him from the newspaper clippings.”
“So what do we do now?” asked Christina. “I know we agreed earlier that we wouldn’t interfere, but look, he’s just a kid.” Kevin was pretty small for his age, much shorter than Christina had been expecting.
“He’ll be OK,” replied Rebecca. “We just need to follow him and make sure he gets home safely. After that, we’ll keep out of the way.”
“We need to,” said Josh. “Once the media get hold of this they’ll be all over it.”
Kevin continued across the park, still unaware that he was in the future. He was wrapped up in his thoughts about what he was going to do when he got home. It had been Monday when he had left 1972 which meant he would be allowed to watch Z Cars on the family’s recently acquired television set, provided he finished his homework first.
Had he been paying attention he might have noticed that all the elm trees in the park had disappeared, struck down by the deadly Dutch elm disease which had wiped them all out while he had been away. It was only when he got to St Aldates he noticed something strange.
The cars looked wrong. Kevin loved cars and longed to be a racing driver when he grew up like his hero, Jackie Stewart. But the cars he was seeing now were unfamiliar. Most of the Ford Cortinas, Morris Minors and other cars that normally trundled up and down the street were gone. A few remained but most had been replaced by unfamiliar models in brighter, shinier colours.