Step Back in Time (16 page)

I sip from George’s
Choose Life
mug and listen to the clock behind the counter tick steadily on.

‘So, what’s the story this time, George?’ I ask as we sit on the wooden chairs once more.

George shrugs. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Jo-Jo.’

I roll my eyes.
Great
.

‘It can’t be like the other times; Harry doesn’t know who I am.
I
don’t know who I am, even, where I live, or what I do.’ I’m panic-stricken for a moment. This is what it must feel like to wake up from a coma and have lost your memory. Except at least you normally wake up in the same decade. And if you’ve been unconscious so long it’s not the same decade when you awake, at least time has moved forward, not back.

‘Just relax, Jo-Jo,’ George says calmly.

‘I know we’re in the eighties, George. But I think I preferred it when you quoted the Beatles, not Frankie Goes to Hollywood.’

George smiles at my attempt at a joke. ‘What do you have there?’ he asks, noticing the football boots lying on the floor beside me.

‘Those! Ah yes, I forgot to tell you last time so much else was going on, but I travelled from the sixties to the seventies with a
Beano
comic too.’ I open up the huge clutch bag that I was passed after the accident and, as I suspected, there’s the
Beano
tucked away inside. ‘Why would I bring it with me again, and why the boots too, this time?’

George examines the comic, and then the football boots. ‘Who gave them to you?’ he asks.

‘You did! The boots, anyway. The comic I picked up off the crossing just before I got hit in 1963.’

‘When did I give you the boots?’

‘Just before you left for the Silver Jubilee street party in your car.’

‘And what happened after?’

‘Harry and I had to walk back because you only had a two-seater sports car – look, don’t you remember any of this?’

George shakes his head. ‘It’s hazy.’

‘I don’t remember anything else because then I got hit by the white car and bam! woke up here in – what year
are
we in, by the way? I’m guessing it’s the eighties because of the horrendous fashions and the big phones.’

‘1985,’ George says, still thinking. ‘So you always get given these items just before you get hit by the car?’

‘Yes, it would appear so.’ But I’m thinking now too. ‘1985, you say? That means there’s a little me running around the place somewhere. I was born in 1983.’

‘Maybe, on another page,’ George reminds me.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The missing page we talked about last time? All these new lives you keep finding yourself in, they’re like pages from different stories, but they’re being bound together right now into one new book. Some of the characters are the same – they just don’t always fit in with the way we want the story to be.’

I look at George for a few seconds, then I shake my head.

‘One,’ I point out, ‘last time you said it was a page of figures I’d lost from an accountancy book, and this time you’re saying it’s a novel. And two, how come you remember telling me that, but you don’t remember giving me the boots?’

‘Ah, my memory isn’t what it used to be,’ George says, rubbing at his forehead.

‘George,’ I growl, ‘you can’t keep doing this!’ I’m about to press him further when the shop door flies open, and in bursts a whirlwind of lace, net skirts, beads and bangles. Topping it all off is a big floppy black bow holding back a mass of blonde curls. And underneath it all is Ellie.

‘There you are, Jo-Jo,’ she pants. ‘You’ll never guess who I just saw walking up the road, only Neil bloody Tennant!’

I stare at her blankly. For two reasons; one, I can’t place the name Neil Tennant. It seems familiar, but nothing is instantly springing to mind, and two, I’m trying desperately to think who Ellie reminds me of.

‘Madonna!’ I suddenly exclaim.

‘Where?’ Ellie says, darting to the window. She pulls a camera from her bag as she does so. ‘She’s not in the country, is she? Bloody hell, I thought the Neil Tennant spot was good.’

‘No, I mean you look like Madonna. Your outfit does.’

Ellie turns away from the window. ‘Oh,’ she says, sounding disappointed. ‘I mean thanks ’n’ all. But getting a shot of Her Greatness would have been terrific to go back into the office with tomorrow morning. Still, Neil Tennant’s not bad, although both the Pet Shop Boys together out on the King’s Road would have been better, but no one ever knows what the other fella looks like, do they?’

Ah, that’s why I knew the name.

‘He’s often in here,’ George says, ‘that Neil Tennant. Nice fella; I think he has a flat along here somewhere.’

But Ellie’s lost interest already. ‘So, do you have anything we can hand in?’ she demands, looking at me. ‘
Any
juicy gossip?’

‘Er…’

‘I thought not. We’ll have to dream something up if we don’t find a story before our deadline.’ She sighs impatiently. ‘What have you been doing all afternoon anyway?’

‘She got hit by a car,’ George says. ‘Give her a break.’

‘What!’ Ellie cries, rushing over. ‘Are you OK? What happened?’

‘It’s nothing. I don’t actually think it hit me anyway. It’s possible I just fainted in the road.’

‘How did you get here, then?’ Ellie asks.

‘A guy called Harry brought me. Didn’t he, George?’

George nods.

‘Ah, OK,’ Ellie says, accepting this. ‘Wait! You don’t mean that bastard Harry Rigby, do you? I just bumped into him outside Peter Jones and he nearly bit my head off, and I don’t mean verbally.’

‘Yes, that was him,’ I say quietly. ‘Why, what’s wrong with Harry? He seemed OK to me.’

‘Jo-Jo McKenzie, have you lost your mind? You
must
have been hit by that car. Harry Rigby is the biggest pain in the ass since that curry house down the road had an epidemic of food poisoning!’

‘Nice analogy,’ I say, screwing up my face. ‘But why have you got a problem with Harry?’

Ellie shakes her head. ‘George, tell her.’

George opens his mouth to speak but Ellie continues. ‘Actually, no, I’ll tell you, otherwise George will only soft-soap it. He has a tendency to see the best in everyone, don’t you, George?’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing, Ellie,’ George says, disapprovingly, as if he’s scolding a small child.

Ellie raises her blonde eyebrows at him. ‘I like to remain sceptical about folk, that’s all. Comes with the territory.’ She raises her camera. ‘That’s why I wouldn’t trust that Harry Rigby as far as his red braces would fire him.’

Of course, Harry is a yuppie! I didn’t realise it before. He’s a ‘young upwardly mobile professional person’ – a very common expression in the eighties.

‘But what’s he done?’ I ask again. ‘You still haven’t told me.’

Ellie glances at George. He nods.

‘Harry owns a music distribution company – you know, the people that send the tapes and discs out to the music stores from the record companies?’

I nod at her. I think I know what she means.

‘Harry decided about a year ago that George here wasn’t worth supplying to. This little shop we’re standing in now wasn’t worthy to sell the crappy music that Harry’s company provides. Isn’t that right, George?’

‘It’s not quite that simple, Ellie —’ George begins, but Ellie hushes him.

‘Yes it is, George. Don’t you go defending him now.’

‘I wasn’t going to. I was simply going to explain the facts for Jo-Jo’s benefit.’

Ellie folds her arms huffily. ‘Go on then. But don’t go easy on the bastard.’

‘Ellie!’ George raises his eyebrows, which I notice are just starting to fleck with the odd grey hair.

‘Well, what would you call him, then? Shifty, no good, son of a —’

‘Enough now,’ George says sternly. ‘Jo-Jo’s only been here five minutes; let her make up her own mind.’

I stare hard at George.
Yes, but Ellie doesn’t know that, does she?

‘Fair dos, George,’ Ellie says, shrugging. ‘I guess she’s new to the area ’n’ all. I should probably let her find her own way.’

So I’m new around here?
 

‘But I have to tell you, working as a journo in the big smoke is a bit different than out in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Ellie, I hardly think Norfolk is the middle of nowhere,’ George says reprovingly.

‘As good as. I come from Liverpool and moving to London was a big enough shock to my system when I did it. God knows how Jo-Jo is coping.’

They both look at me.

‘I’m doing all right,’ is all I can think to reply.

‘Well, I gotta go!’ Ellie suddenly announces. ‘I got a hot date tonight with a dancer.’ She winks at us. ‘And they’re usually very agile!’

‘Indeed,’ George replies. ‘Don’t let us keep you. I’m sure you have lots of preparations to make for your night out.’

‘What preparations?’ Ellie asks, looking concerned. ‘I’m going like this.’

‘Oh,’ George says. He looks at me and pulls a face. ‘I see.’

‘Maybe you should tone down the Madonna stuff just a tad for the date?’ I suggest. ‘Is it your first with him?’

Ellie nods.

‘Definitely, then.’

Ellie looks down at her clothes. ‘Yikes, I really had better go then if I need to magic myself into Lady Di in an hour. See you guys tomorrow. I’ll pick you up on the way as always, Jo-Jo.’

‘Sure.’ I manage a smile, but I still haven’t found out where I live and with whom this time. ‘That’d be great.’

And with the bell tinkling above her head she’s gone.

‘But pick me up from where?’ I ask George now Ellie has left us alone once more. ‘Where do I live in 1985?’

‘You live here, Jo-Jo,’ George says. ‘With me.’

I don’t exactly
live
with George. But I do live in the flat above his shop. Apparently just before the housing boom of the mid-eighties George bought property and now owns a couple of little houses down the road in Chelsea; one he rents out, and the other he lives in himself. So his flat, which he lived in for twenty years, is also rented – by me.

George shows me upstairs and makes me familiar with everything. Which makes a change: usually I have to guess my way around my new surroundings.

‘Will you be OK now?’ he asks when he’s shown me around. ‘Only I have to get back. I have a little dog now – she usually comes to the shop with me, but she’s expecting puppies any day so I’ve left her at home, and my neighbour is keeping an eye on her.’

‘Of course it is,’ I reassure him, ‘I’ll be fine. Compared to some of them, this time seems easy.’ I think for a moment.

‘What is it?’ George asks.

‘It’s easy except for Harry. I don’t like this nasty streak you’re all suggesting he has.’

‘I’m not suggesting anything, Jo-Jo, it was Ellie that said those things, not me.’

‘But what he did to your shop?’

George shrugs. ‘It’s in the past. I cope, and the majority of the big labels still supply to me. Just not the ones Harry handles.’

‘Hmm,’ I say.

‘Hmm, what?’

‘Nothing, just thinking…’

‘Plotting, more like, if I know you. Seriously, Jo-Jo, just leave it. Really, it’s old news now. Ha ha, get it? Old news?’

I don’t. I look at George with a puzzled expression. Then I do get it. ‘Because this time I’m a journalist? Ah yes, very good.’

‘I’ll obviously have to work on my comedic skills,’ George grins. ‘Right, I’m off to see how Dakota is doing. I’ll be back in tomorrow bright and early to see how you’re getting on. You’ll be OK, yes?’

‘Of course. Like I said just now, this is easy compared to the last two times. I’m on my own, no family or flatmate to try and convince I’m from their time. What happened to them?’ I ask, suddenly remembering. ‘The people from the seventies, what happened to Penny and Harry and Stu?’

‘Ah,’ George says mysteriously. ‘I wondered when you’d get around to that. Let’s see… Harry and his mother made up their differences and they continued to live together, until Harry left home and went to university.’

‘How’d he do that?’

‘Harry actually did quite well at school; it was only when he got into the wrong crowd that he started to go off the rails. He went back to college, did A-levels, then went on to do a business degree in Liverpool.’

‘Gosh, he really did change when I left.’

‘Your influence put him back on course again.’

‘It did?’

George nods as if it was never in doubt.

‘Is that why I was there, do you think – for Harry?’

‘Not just Harry. Penny changed too. She formed an alliance with her other neighbours who didn’t want to move out to the new estate. They managed to take on the council and keep their houses, which the council had wanted to sell to a developer who would have knocked them down and built blocks of upmarket flats instead. Funnily enough, Penny ended up forming her own property company, acquiring properties that she could lease at a sum that was competitive with council rents and still make her a profit while providing decent accommodation. She was very successful at it too.’

‘I knew it!’ I exclaim, punching the air. ‘I knew she could do it. Wow, I really am making a difference, George. Maybe this is what my travelling is all about, putting people back on course for a better life. And what about Stu?’ I ask, looking keenly at him.

‘Ah…’

‘Ah what?’ I don’t like George’s tone. His expression has changed too.

‘Sadly, Stu passed away a couple of years after you left.’

‘No!’ I gasp in horror, my hand shooting up to my mouth. ‘Did he try and electrocute himself again?’

‘Many times, I’m afraid. So many that he was institutionalised for his own safety. He passed away inside the hospital.’

I feel my legs wobble, so I put my hand out to the first thing I find to steady myself; it’s the arm of the settee so I sit down on it.

‘Poor Stu! Was that my fault?’

‘Did you tell him to try to electrocute himself again?’

‘No, but I told him that every time I travelled in time it was always the same way as I’d got here in the first place. It’s the zebra crossing for me, isn’t it?’

George sighs. ‘Like I said before, you need to be careful what you say and do, Jo-Jo. You know so much in some respects, and yet so little in others.’

I nod sadly, then suddenly I have a thought, ‘Wait! How do we know he didn’t jump back to his own future again from the hospital? He might have done, he might have —’

‘No,’ George says, stopping me; he holds his hand up in front of my face to supress my sudden rush of optimism. ‘No, he didn’t, Jo-Jo. He died of an overdose. It was the end for him, that day. And I mean
the end
.’

There’s silence in the little flat above George’s shop as we both contemplate what this means.

‘That could happen to me, couldn’t it?’ I say, voicing what I know George is thinking.

‘Not necessarily, every case is different.’

‘What do you mean, “every case”? These people are just like me, George, stuck in times they’re not supposed to be in, desperately wanting to return home again.’

‘You’re not stuck in one time though, are you?’ George points out. ‘You keep moving.’

‘Yes, that’s true I suppose, I do. Why is that, do you think?’

George studies my face for a few seconds, then he sits down next to me on the settee and takes a deep breath.

‘Do you think you have control issues?’ he asks.

‘What?’

‘Control issues. Do you need to feel in control of your life at all times to feel happy?’

Even though I know the answer to this, I try and act ambivalent.

‘Possibly. But who likes to feel out of control? To not know what’s happening next, or who’s going to be doing what and when? That would just make you feel as if you had no foundation in life. Everyone needs a firm base to function from.’

George nods in that knowing way he has.

‘What? What now?’

‘You mentioned once before that your parents travelled a lot when you were younger.’

‘Yes – and so?’

‘Did that make you feel out of control at all? As if you didn’t have that firm base on which to function from?’

I think about this. Yes, it was true; I didn’t always appreciate us moving from country to country all the time. I’d just feel settled in one place, make a friend if I was lucky, and then we’d move again. But I really didn’t see what that had to do with…

I look at George. ‘Are you saying this is why I’m time travelling? That it works like some sort of aversion therapy for a childhood of constant house moves?’

‘I think it might go a bit deeper than that, Jo-Jo,’ George says, re-rolling his jacket sleeve up. ‘But I do think we’re beginning to make some progress down the
why
road at last. Now, I really do have to go and check on Dakota. We’ll continue this next time.’

I feel like George has just ended a session of counselling with me.

‘You have a peaceful evening,’ he says, taking the pair of sunglasses from his pocket and balancing them at a jaunty angle on his nose. He bids me farewell, ‘And I’ll be back in the morning.’ He heads off down the stairs that lead past the shop and out on to the King’s Road. I hear the front door shut behind him, and the engine of a sports car roar as it races off down the road, and I wonder if he still has his little white car from the seventies.

Could this really be why I’m travelling through time? To cleanse myself of some childhood trauma I’m still suffering from because my parents took us travelling around the world when I was growing up? There must be more to it than that. Surely?

I shake my head. ‘I’ll need real therapy to get over all this when I’m finished,’ I say aloud, taking another look around my new home. ‘But for now I’m just going to have to roll with it again. So, just what sort of person am I in this decade? And what will I need to do to move on this time?’

It appears, after a thorough investigation of the flat, that this time I’m a fairly normal young woman of the eighties. Yes, I seem to have many bright, flamboyant – sometimes bordering on weird – clothes filling my wardrobe, but from what I know of the fashion of the time, they’re probably quite tame. There’s lots of shoulder pads in my tops and jackets, a few pairs of leg warmers in my sock drawer, some nasty stonewashed jeans in my wardrobe – some oversized and baggy, and some skintight. But it’s only when I come across the pink puffball skirt that I let out a gasp of horror.

‘No way, Jo-Jo!’ I promise myself. ‘If there’s one thing I can guarantee while I’m here, this version of you definitely won’t be wearing that monstrosity!’

My taste in music seems to be quite varied. On my shelf of cassette tapes I have some pure pop: Duran Duran, Wham, and Madonna – Ellie would be proud – mixed with Rock Gods Bruce Springsteen, U2 and Simple Minds. I’m just about to put one of the cassette tapes into the player in the kitchen when a phone rings somewhere. Now where did I see it? Yes, in the little hallway at the top of the stairs. The little phone ringing merrily on the hall table is red, with push buttons. At least we’ve moved on from the old-fashioned Trimphone that Penny owned in 1977. I watched her dialling on it a number of times, and wondered how anyone had the inclination to actually speak by the time they eventually got through, after turning the dial ninety degrees after each digit.

‘Hello?’ I say hesitantly into the receiver.

‘Jo-Jo!’ the spritely voice sings. ‘It’s me. Make sure your ass is looking good and down at the bottom of your stairs in fifteen minutes sharp! We’ve got a story – I’m picking you up!’

‘But I thought you had a date tonight, Ellie? With a hot dancer?’

‘Sod the dancer! This is an even hotter story, and me and you are gonna get the scoop!’