Step Back in Time (30 page)

‘Why?’ I ask, still looking at the Beatles records in my hand.

‘He insisted that it should always remain as Groovy Records, that he wanted me to run it for as long as I possibly could, and that we should always welcome in anyone who seemed lost and lonely and offer them a cup of tea and a seat for a while and listen to their problems.’

I smile. Of course George would. ‘Am I your problem for today, do you think?’

‘No, not at all,’ Julian says, smiling back. ‘It’s always a pleasure to meet someone who knew my grandad. And just between you and me, I’ve a lot more problems with this shop than a pretty lady turning up on my doorstep wanting a cup of tea.’

‘Really? What?’

‘It’s nothing, really, you don’t want me bothering you with my troubles.’

‘Julian, you have no idea how many times I sat in this very chair and bothered your grandfather with my problems. It’s the least I can do.’

Julian smiles and sits down in the chair next to me. ‘It’s just that Grandad may have left me this shop in his will, but he didn’t leave me the means to keep it going.’

‘But Groovy Records always turned over a profit, although I never could understand how George did it.’

‘That’s the thing, it did when Grandad ran it, but since I’ve been in charge it’s all gone downhill. We had to remain closed for five months when he first died, before I could take over, which didn’t help. But running a record shop isn’t really my thing, you see. I’m only doing it because it’s what Grandad wanted. He seemed to have a magical touch.’

‘Yes, George was a bit like that – charmed, you might call him.’

Julian nods. ‘Anyway, none of this is your concern, Jo-Jo. I’ll work something out.’ He glances at the records I still hold in my hand. ‘Should I play them for you?’ he asks. ‘For old times’ sake? This shop hasn’t heard the Beatles since Grandad passed.’

‘Yes, why not?’ I give them to him. ‘Let’s play them for George.’

Julian carefully loads one of the records on to the old player that has always stood in the corner of the shop and the familiar string introduction to ‘Eleanor Rigby’ begins to play, followed by the haunting vocal describing all the lonely people.

As we sit in the little shop listening to the song play, me on the little wooden chair and Julian perched on the shop counter, we’re both lost for a few minutes in our memories of George.

‘Any the wiser why Grandad left you that particular Beatles record?’ Julian asks at the end of the song.

‘Not really, no,’ I reply, desperately trying to think of some link between the song and everything that’s happened. I repeat the lyrics over again in my head. Where do all the lonely people come from, the Beatles asked. Where do they all belong?

‘I’ll play the next one,’ he says, lifting ‘Eleanor Rigby’ away from the player and replacing it with ‘All You Need Is Love’.

The memorable ‘Love’ intro comes wafting across the shop now, followed by the familiar lyrics.

Why did George leave me these two particular songs? There has to be some meaning to them, knowing George. It’s a clue, something to help me finally find my answer.

The chorus still plays in my head as Julian lifts the second record from the turntable, places it back in its sleeve, then hands them both to me.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,’ he says. ‘I have no idea why Grandad left you these, only that he was very insistent that you have them.’

‘It’s fine,’ I reply, looking down at the records in my hand. ‘I’m sure I’ll figure it out one day.’ I look up at Julian. ‘I’d like to pay my last respects to your grandfather – is there a gravestone?’

‘Yes, Grandad was very specific about his whole funeral, he had the whole thing planned to a tee.’ He smiles. ‘We had to have this whole Beatles theme on the day, their songs, everything, and Grandad was even buried up in Liverpool.’

‘In Liverpool?’ I say in surprise. ‘But George lived his whole life here in London.’

‘He was actually born in Liverpool. My great-grandparents moved here when he was young, to find work I believe. I guess that’s where his love of the Beatles started.’

I think about this. ‘I’d still like to go some time and visit – could you tell me where it is?’

Julian reaches behind the desk for a piece of paper and a pen, then he scribbles something down. ‘Here,’ he says, passing it to me.

‘Thank you.’ I give the paper a quick glance, fold it and put it in my bag. ‘I think perhaps it’s time for me to go now.’

‘But you haven’t had your tea yet,’ Julian says.

I look around the shop at the posters on the walls and the records in the racks.

‘I hope you won’t be offended, Julian, but it just isn’t the same now your grandad isn’t here. It doesn’t feel right, drinking tea in here without him.’

Julian smiles. ‘No offence taken. I know exactly what you mean. Besides, I’m pretty useless at making tea anyway. You’d be better getting coffee down the road at Starbucks.’

‘Julian, you have no idea just how long I’ve been waiting for someone to say those words to me!’ I stand up. ‘Thank you for these,’ I say, holding up the records in the bag, then quite randomly I go over and hug him. ‘It was lovely to meet you. George would be very proud of you, I know he would.’

Julian looks a little surprised at the hug, but pleased at my compliment. ‘I do hope so. My grandad was a very special man.’

‘He was indeed, Julian. He really was, and if I can think of any way to help you with the shop I’ll be in touch, I promise.’

As I leave Julian, the little shop bell tinkles above my head, and somehow I know it won’t be the last time I’ll hear it.

And I don’t head immediately up the road to Starbucks as I originally planned. Surprisingly, as soon as I leave the shop I forget all about my need for coffee. Instead I turn in the opposite direction and start walking towards the nearest railway station. To find a train that’s going to take me to Liverpool and to George.

Once I get to Euston, I manage to get on a fast train up to Liverpool. But my journey still gives me plenty of time to think.

While I was waiting for my train, I used the Wi-Fi at the station to download a Beatles greatest hits album to my iPhone. So while I’ve been travelling, I’ve listened to the same two Beatles songs that George gave me, along with a few others, pretty much on repeat all the way up to Liverpool. But still nothing is any clearer.

The only things I’ve been able to pull from ‘Eleanor Rigby’ that have any meaning for me is that there’s an Eleanor, of course – and Ellie was with me all the way through my time travelling. There’s a Father McKenzie mentioned, which is my surname, and Eleanor’s surname, Rigby, is also Harry’s name, and he was with me constantly too.

I think about Harry and wonder what he’s doing now. I haven’t had time to try and find out anything about him in the few hours I’ve been back because I’ve been so busy trying to work out this mystery. I thought about calling him when I was first on the train, but I placed the business card he’d given me back in the original 2013 in the pocket of my work suit and I’m certainly not wearing that now that I seem to have morphed into this new version of me, so I have no way of contacting him. But I wonder where he is right now, and more importantly if I’ll ever see him again.

And the thought of never seeing Harry again is, I have to admit, a scary one.

But first things first, I must get to Liverpool, pay my respects to George, and see if the city of his and the Beatles birth might solve my time travel mystery for me once and for all.

The cemetery George is buried in is out in Woolton, a suburb of Liverpool, so as soon as my train arrives at Lime Street station I immediately head over to the taxi rank.

I’m a little surprised that the taxi driver knows the cemetery as soon as I mention its name. That’s odd, I think, perhaps it’s a popular church for funerals and weddings in the area? After a short journey the taxi pulls up outside a large church with a number of cars and people already milling about outside. Then I see a bride and groom climbing into a big black car a few yards down the road in front of us, and I realise there must be a wedding going on.

‘Busy today,’ I comment to the driver as I climb out.

‘Yes, it always is,’ he says. ‘I come here almost every day.’

Strange, I think again.
Every day?

‘Can you wait for me?’ I ask him. ‘I won’t be long.’

‘Didn’t think you would be,’ he says, already opening a newspaper on top of his steering wheel. ‘Yeah, love, I’ll be right here.’

I close the cab door and look up at St Peter’s Church in front of me; it’s built in a red-brown brick, which makes a striking contrast against the bright blue of the sky on this sunny Saturday afternoon.

The wedding guests have mostly filtered away now, so I walk quietly round the back of the church clutching the sunflowers I’ve brought with me.

In the graveyard I walk carefully past all the new headstones until I find George’s, then I pause in front of it to read the inscription.

I stand and stare at the gravestone, a deep sense of sadness suddenly engulfing me. Poor George. At least he’d just reached that magical eighty, though, before he passed away in February.

Wait, February? That can’t be right. I was still here in February 2013. It was in the summer that I visited George in his shop with his accounts. The weather had been so beautiful that day, and the shops on the King’s Road full of outfits ready for people’s summer holidays. I’d stopped and looked at some of them, and that’s what had nearly made me late.
George was still alive in the summer!
I saw him. I spoke to him. He made me a cup of tea. How could this say he died in February?

I think about George, and how he always knew so much about what was going on with me. I always got the feeling he knew more but wouldn’t say. Then there were those occasions he did seem to know about the future, even though he shouldn’t have done.

Was George a time traveller, too? But George hadn’t had that look about him that the others had; he wasn’t struggling with everything that was going on. Even Billy, who’d been happy to be where he was, wasn’t like George. George was always calm and serene, always knew the right thing to say, always seemed at peace with everything and everyone. He’d looked after me when I’d been in need, always been there for me when I needed guidance. He was like… I pause. No, I don’t believe in things like that. But I didn’t believe in time travel before, either. Was the George that I knew a ghost? Or even… I look round at the graveyard and see a huge stone angel on top of one of the gravestones… My guardian angel?

‘No! No…’ I protest, dropping to my knees. ‘You were
real
, George, I know you were.’

‘Are you all right, young lady?’ a soft voice asks. ‘Loss can be a very frustrating time, as well as a sad one.’

I turn to find an elderly vicar looking down at me with concern.

‘Yes, I’m fine. It’s just come as a shock, that’s all. I had no idea he’d died until this morning.’

The vicar nods knowingly, then he looks at me with new interest. ‘You wouldn’t be Jo-Jo would you, by any chance?’

‘Yes, yes I am. But why?’

‘Ah…’ He smiles. ‘He moves in mysterious ways, that’s for sure,’ he mutters almost under his breath. ‘Wait right here, young lady, I have something for you.’

The vicar hurries back towards the church while I’m left on my knees in front of the grave wondering what’s going on now. He returns quickly.

‘This was left for you,’ he says, thrusting a white envelope in my direction. ‘It was delivered after George’s funeral with the express instruction that it was to be given to a young lady of your name who would visit his grave on this day.’

I look at the envelope. It does indeed have my name on the front in an ornate black script.

‘Should I open it now?’ I ask, standing up to take the letter from him.

‘That, my dear, is up to you,’ the vicar says gently. ‘Do you feel up to it?’

I look down at the envelope again; I know the letter is from George before I even open it because the two ‘O’s in my name have been doodled into two sunflowers. ‘I’ll wait, if you don’t mind,’ I say, looking up at him. ‘I think it will be kind of personal and, as I said before, this has all been quite distressing enough today already.’

‘Of course,’ the vicar agrees, nodding. ‘Death can be so sudden, and such a shock for us all to deal with. But I can reassure you it’s not the end.’ He glances at the gravestone. ‘George will be up there somewhere, enjoying himself, playing his Beatles songs. I assume he was a fan?’ He inclines his head towards the stone again.

‘Yes, yes he was. A big one.’

‘Understandable that he wanted to be buried here, then,’ the vicar says, smiling knowingly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you not know? There’s a common folktale that suggests that one of the headstones here was the one that inspired the song “Eleanor Rigby”.’

My heart, which skipped a few beats when I read the inscription on George’s gravestone a few moments ago, and then again when I got his letter, now almost stops beating altogether at the mention of another Beatles link. ‘There is? Where?’

‘Just around there,’ he says, pointing. ‘It’s with the older headstones. You’ll find it easily enough if you want to take a look. There’s usually someone taking a photo or two around that area.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, reaching for his hand and shaking it vigorously. ‘And thank you, George.’ I lay my sunflowers up against his headstone. ‘I don’t quite know yet how you were there with me all the time, George,’ I whisper to him. ‘But I’m so glad you were.’

I jump to my feet again, thank the mystified-looking vicar once more, then hurry to the older part of the graveyard, where, just as the vicar had said there might be, a middle-aged couple are taking photos of a gravestone.

As I get closer they move aside to make room for me.

‘Your turn now,’ the man, clearly American, says smiling. ‘We’ve got our photos.’

I look at the gravestone. The first part reads:

The next part then lists his wife and daughter as being buried there too, and then there it is:

I read the names on the grave again. Is this it? This means nothing to me. How is this going to help?

‘Are you a bit disappointed?’ the man asks. ‘We are, aren’t we, Molly? We expected something a bit more.’

‘Yeah, “Eleanor Rigby” is one of my favourite Beatles songs. You’d think they’d do something a bit better than this.’

‘I don’t really think the gravestone was erected for the song,’ I say, humouring them. ‘The song might have been inspired by the name, perhaps? I think there’s a few theories actually.’

‘Ah…’ they say, nodding and looking at the stone again. ‘You could be right.’

‘To be honest, I’m looking forward to seeing the statue more anyway,’ Molly says.

‘There’s an Eleanor Rigby statue?’ I ask. ‘Where?’

‘Somewhere in the centre of town, we’re not exactly sure where, are we, Desmond? We were gonna go find it tomorrow after our Beatles Magical Mystery bus tour and I’ve read this wonderfully quaint little English tale about it.’

‘What’s that?’ I ask, more out of politeness than interest. My mind is already working out how I’m going to find this statue.

‘Apparently when the statue was erected, they buried five things underneath it to represent different facets of life.’

‘I didn’t know this,’ Desmond says, looking at Molly with interest.

‘You’re not the only one who knows how to use that computer of yours, Desmond,’ Molly laughs, looking up at him smugly.

‘What sort of things?’ I ask.

‘To represent fun and humour it was a
Beano
comic – that’s a British thing, right?’ she asks.

‘Yeah…’ I say, my spine suddenly beginning to tingle. ‘What else was there?’

‘For leisure a pair of soccer boots – football, you’d call it.’

‘Go on,’ I encourage her.

‘For luck, a four-leaf clover; for spirituality, a Bible, and for love… this part is so romantic,’ she says in delight, clasping her hands together.

‘Come on, don’t leave us in suspense, what is it, woman?’ Desmond demands.

‘Yes,’ I ask quietly, hardly believing my ears. ‘What is it, Molly?’

‘Sonnets of love.’

‘That’s cool,’ Desmond says, nodding. ‘Do you think it could be true?’ he asks, looking at me.

‘I really don’t know,’ I answer honestly. ‘I didn’t even know the statue existed until Molly said. But something I’ve learnt recently is: you should always believe anything is possible. I’m really sorry, but I have to go now,’ I apologise as I dash away from the gravestone, ‘But enjoy your time in Liverpool!’

I jump back into my cab.

‘Do you know where the Eleanor Rigby statue is?’ I ask my taxi driver as he calmly refolds his newspaper.

‘Of course I do, love. Stanley Street, right?’

‘If that’s where it is then that’s where we’re going next on this magical mystery tour.’

I smile to myself. They’ve even got me doing it now.

As we travel along in the taxi I open up my bag and take out George’s letter. I know I’ve got to read it, but I’m a bit afraid of what it might say. Getting old records from someone you loved and cared about is one thing, but a personal letter, that’s something else. After a few moments of staring at the envelope, I rip it open. Inside there are two pages of white paper covered in the same ornate black handwriting, and the date at the top of the first page suggests George must have written it just before he died: