Authors: Jacqui Henderson
What about us?
What about us?
by
Jacqui Henderson
The
story contained within this book is fictional. Names and characters are the
product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is coincidental.
Text
copyright © 2013 Jacqui Henderson
All
Rights Reserved
Cover
by Tiller
Part one: Grace
Part two: Jack
Part three: Jack
Part four: Grace
Paris. Sunday 11
th
August 1912
Of all the places and times that we visited, this was one of
my favourites. This was also my favourite breakfast cafe. We came here so
often, although always at the same time, on the same day, in the same year and
I knew if there was any chance of him finding me, he would start looking for me
here. I’d gambled everything on this fact and I could be patient. Here was
where I was going to wait for as long as it took. I had to believe that he
would come back for me; all he needed was to find the right time, so to show my
belief in him I was going to wait.
The sky, as always, was that deep endless blue, the sort you
could disappear into. The coffee, strong and aromatic, was as always served in
delicate bone china cups with saucers. The croissants were warm, and crumbled
at the lightest touch, leaving your fingertips slightly greasy, but in a nice
buttery way. The people of Paris, that is those who had not gone away for the summer,
were not yet awake, so there was a quiet, almost heavy and sleepy air hovering
over the city. On the edge of the pavement sat Lulu, the sleek tabby and white
cafe cat, washing herself thoroughly with that languid grace all cats seem to
be born with.
Jack had told me that this was ‘La Belle Époque’, a beautiful
time to be alive. He said it meant more than just the good times. He said it
summed up the spirit of the age; the discoveries, the smells, the colours, the
clothes and everything else that you could possibly imagine. There was such a
buoyant expectation of a bright future, you could almost taste it in the air
and we agreed that there was nowhere better to enjoy it than Paris.
I knew of course, that just as at half past ten the clouds
would gather overhead, so too would come the terrible storm in 1914 and there
was nothing that could be done to change it. Everything would be irrevocably
changed, for better or for worse. But who was I to judge? I mean, what did I
know, really?
I heard a noise behind me. I wanted to ignore it, knowing it
was wrong. After all, I knew these hours between nine and eleven so well. There
was a slight cough and the scraping of metal chair feet on the stone pavement.
I knew it wasn’t Jack; he would have crept up behind me, put his hands over my
eyes and kissed the back of my neck. So wrong for the era, but he would have
done it anyway. I kept watching Lulu, not moving, not acknowledging, just
waiting; holding my breath and hoping this unwanted intrusion would go away.
A deep voice, the sort that is often described as strong yet
kind, announced the arrival of its owner. It also announced much more; this
person knew me and that couldn’t be good.
“There are times Grace, when I enjoy my job. Mornings like
this are one of them. What do you recommend I order?”
I didn’t look at him, I just continued to stare straight ahead,
as tears began to prickle in my eyes. I didn’t want him to know this, so I
answered carefully, trying to inject some confidence into my voice.
“The coffee is excellent and if you are paying, then a glass
of Armagnac would go down well. Or if you prefer something less mellow, the Calvados
is also good.”
I sensed him smile as he replied. “Getting me drunk won’t help
matters you know.”
I shrugged; he couldn’t blame me for trying. I forced myself
to turn my head to look across at him and found that I was staring into watery
blue eyes and was surprised to discover that he was older than I had thought
from the sound of his voice. His head was covered with a shock of thick white
hair and his hand shook slightly as it rested on the table. Of course he was
dressed correctly for the period, so like me, he did not look out of place.
“Where is Jack? What have you done to him?” I asked quietly.
He held my gaze without blinking. “We have done nothing to
him. He is living in his own time Grace, as surely you know he must.” he
gently answered, looking away only to attract the waiter’s attention.
“Why must I know that?” I replied, sounding even to myself,
like a petulant child.
“Because Grace, for one reason, the rules have been broken and
for another, because he involved you. And that was very wrong of him.”
He turned to face me again, having ordered more coffee for me,
some for himself and a baguette with cheese; all in fluent French, naturally.
“I wanted to be involved; you can’t blame him for that.” I
said defiantly.
It was true; I had wanted to be involved, involved with him
and his life. In fact, my choice had been and still was, to be involved in
every conceivable and wonderful way possible.
“It’s not that simple Grace.” he said, frowning.
“You sound like the father I never knew and probably like all
fathers do when they are talking to a child. But I’m not a child.” I said
rather heatedly, causing the waiter to look back at us over his shoulder.
“No, not a child, I agree, but you are in many ways childlike;
unknowing and naive. I don’t mean to be rude or condescending, but it is true.
There is so much you don’t understand. But he understood everything, yet still,
he involved you.”
I flinched at his words; they stung, leaving me with nothing
to say, so we sat in silence for a while. The waiter came back and poured the
hot black liquid into the little cups and replaced my untouched basket of
croissants with fresh, warm and usually unignorable yumminess.
Once again, his voice broke into my sullen thoughts. “Tell me
everything Grace, help me to understand.”
“Will it help?” I asked, looking across at him, wondering if I
could trust him.
“It won’t hurt matters. As things stand, there’s not a lot
that could make things worse for him.”
He spoke with what seemed to be a very honest voice. It was
also in a strange way vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“So will you tell me?” he asked, softly.
He was right. In some ways I was like a child; there was so
much that I didn’t understand. I didn’t know him and I didn’t know what power
he might have over our lives and I wasn’t at all sure if I should trust him or
try and run away. While I thought about what my options might realistically
be, I broke up a croissant, letting the pieces fall back into the basket. The
thick white linen napkin was soon covered in tiny golden flakes, but no flash
of inspiration came to me.
I sighed. I was out of my depth, as I’d been from the moment
Jack had come cannonballing into my life. But when he was with me, I never
felt I was drowning. He always made me feel that we would somehow be ok, but
he wasn’t there. He’d gone, through no fault of his own, but the result was
the same. For the first time since our journey began, I felt completely alone,
desperately unsure and afraid.
“Grace...?”
That voice... there was something about the way he spoke that
triggered something in me. I looked across the table into the watery blue eyes.
They weren’t cold and I could see deep concern in them, concern for me. I
hadn’t been expecting that.
“Ok...” I said slowly, “I suppose it would be a waste of my
time trying to escape.”
He nodded. “Time is a funny thing, as you are coming to
realise and I know that you have locked the coordinates onto here and now. Here
is where you will continue to return to, as shall I. So we have all the time
in the world for this discussion...”
He spoke softly and there was no threat in his voice. There
was after all, no need to threaten me, all he had to do was let the hugeness of
that last sentence hang in the pause.
He lifted the small cup and sipped the coffee slowly, clearly
enjoying the aroma and flavour before picking the conversation up again. “Or
of course, I may be wrong. Perhaps you will go to some other place or time.”
He shrugged, but both of us knew that I wouldn’t. Being
anywhere or any time other than here wasn’t an option for me.
“You could outrun me easily and if you choose to get up and
walk away I won’t follow you. But then I won’t be able to help you and you
won’t be able to help him.”
It was my turn to nod. While there was so much I didn’t know,
I did believe that he was telling the truth. Before I told him anything, there
was something I wanted to know and figured it would do no harm to ask.
“Will I see him again?”
“No.” was his quiet reply.
“Then why should I tell you?”
“Because, I suppose, you could think of me as the judge and
the jury and this as your hour to defend yourself. More importantly, to defend
his actions... if you choose to of course. There is a lot of confusion
surrounding his decisions and we wish only to understand.”
“Oh...” was the only response I could think of. “If he is
guilty of something, what will his sentence be?” I asked slowly.
“His sentence is already underway. As I said, time is a funny
thing. Although it is in the future, it is also now. But rest assured, we do
not execute those who transgress our rules, nor do we have forced labour or
penal colonies, so do not worry. It is the future that we speak of, but for
you that future has not happened. Sorry, of course for you it will not
happen.”
His correction made me even sadder.
“So you will understand that I cannot be more specific. However,
you can still help him and you can help me decide what should happen to you.”
“Oh...” I said again, wondering what his options might be and
if I would like any of them. I let the last crumbs fall from my fingers and
held my hands in mid-air, wondering where to start. What should I share with
the judge and the jury, as he had so charmingly described himself?
“You could start at the beginning.” he suggested, smiling
sadly. “I am old fashioned as well as old and we have time, after all.”
I had no idea what he had to be sad about.
“Where did you meet?” he asked.
That was easy; the very thought brought a huge grin to my
face.
two
How could I forget that day? It
was early evening, Friday the 5
th
of May 2000 and chilly. I was
walking home, having finished work and I’d just been to pay Mum’s bill at the
off-licence, as I always did at the end of the week. She drank much more than
was good for her and more than she could afford to, so when I collected my
money I paid her bill. I couldn’t stop her from drinking and I’d spent too
much of my life hiding bottles, watering the contents down, pleading with her
and even screaming at her, until one day I realised it had to be her choice; it
could never be mine. I knew she loved me in her own way, but not enough to put
the bottle away.
Anyway, as usual I crossed the
High Street and turned into Malvern Gardens, the short cut to the estate. Home
was on the eighteenth floor of a tower block, as it had been ever since I could
remember.
The view from my bedroom window
was the best thing about it. I could see for miles across London and a lot of
my life had been spent imagining and inventing stories for all the little lives
going on below in those tiny houses and blocks of flats that dotted the
twisting, turning streets and in the toy cars and trains that were always
spread out for me to play with.
