Step Back in Time (15 page)

‘Are you sure about this?’ Harry asks as we dash along the King’s Road towards George’s shop. ‘Will he really lend us records to play this afternoon?’

‘Of course he will.’ At least, I hope he will, I think, as I hurry along next to Harry, who has the most enormous great lolloping strides. How I miss having a mobile phone at times like this!

When it became clear that Harry and Stu’s band were not going to be able to provide the entertainment for the Jubilee celebration, I racked my brains and came up with the idea of us raiding George’s shop – with his permission! – and playing pop music on record players.

Penny is putting the word out on the neighbourhood grapevine and hopefully, with some good will from our friends and neighbours, when Harry and I return we will have enough players for music to be heard up and down the street all afternoon.

The traffic’s been horrendous trying to get here. Half the streets of London seem to be closed off for the Jubilee parade, and all buses are taking alternative routes. We tried to get the tube, but the stations were packed with tourists waving union jacks and brimming over with Silver Jubilee spirit.

‘But won’t he be closed for the parade?’ Harry says, turning around to speak to me as I try and keep up with him.

‘Yes, I think he will, but he lives above the shop so hopefully he should be up there watching the celebrations on TV.’

That word
hopefully
again. I seem to be
living
on hope these days.

Somehow I don’t think George will be one of the crowd surging down the Mall to Buckingham Palace to see the Queen on the balcony today. I wouldn’t think it’s his thing. But then, how well do I actually know this George? I suddenly wonder as my mind begins to race. And did they even do the whole balcony thing in 1977? Or did the people all just stand politely on the parade route waving flags at the Queen as she passed sedately by in her carriage?

Suddenly I’m filled with a pang of longing for my own life, and the year 2012. It only seems like yesterday since I watched the Queen celebrate her Diamond Jubilee. I wonder if anyone realises today just how long she will reign over our country for, and all the changes her family will see in that time.

‘You better hope so,’ Harry says, still talking about George, ‘or you’ll be the one singing as entertainment!’

‘No, I don’t do singing,’ I pant breathlessly, finally catching up with him. ‘Well, maybe the odd bit of karaoke,’ I say, thinking of 1963.

‘What’s karaoke?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough. Here we are, then.’

As we suspected, the shop is indeed closed for the bank holiday. So we bang hard on the door and shout up at the window above.

‘George! George, we need your help.’

After a minute or so, George appears at the window. ‘Jo-Jo, Harry, what can I do for you?’

‘Can we borrow some records, George?’ I plead, looking up at him desperately. ‘It’s an emergency. Of sorts.’

George comes downstairs and lets us into his shop, and is more than happy for us to borrow some music for the afternoon.

‘On one condition,’ he says. ‘That I get to come to the party.’

‘But how are we going to get all this stuff back over there?’ Harry asks as we stand back looking at the boxes of albums and singles we’ve chosen between the three of us as suitable party songs. ‘We can’t take it on the tube or the bus, there’s too much to carry.’

‘I have a car,’ George says, to my relief. ‘But unfortunately it’s a sports car, so it only has two seats, and one of those will need to be filled with boxes because the boot is going to be overflowing as well.’

Look’s like it’s public transport for us again then.
 

‘Don’t worry, George, that’s great. We’ll help you load it all into the car, then Harry and I will get the bus back.’

We help George pack his little white Triumph Spitfire with all the music and give him directions to our street in Lambeth.

‘I’ll see you two back at your house, then,’ George says. ‘I almost forgot, Jo-Jo, you’ll be needing these.’ He reaches into the passenger footwell of the car and passes me a pair of children’s football boots.

‘What would I be needing these for?’ I ask, holding the boots up by their laces in front of my face. ‘I’ve no time for a kick-about today!’

‘They’re for Sean, silly. The other night at our evening class your mum mentioned he was missing a pair, and I noticed these in a second-hand shop down the road. I think you’ll find they’re his size.’

I look at the boots again. And then I look suspiciously at George. ‘You go to the same evening classes as Penny?’

George nods casually and jumps into the driver’s seat of his car without opening the door. He starts up the engine.

‘I’ll see you guys in a bit!’ he calls as he pulls out from the kerb and moves off down the street.

‘But how did you know his size!’ I call after him, the boots still dangling from my fingers. ‘How did he know his size?’ I ask a bemused Harry who is standing by my side.

Harry shrugs. ‘Dunno. Come on, though, we’ve no time to be worrying about that now – we’ve a party to get to!’

I’m still thinking about George and the boots as we walk, well march, along.

How did he know Sean’s size? Penny wouldn’t have mentioned that casually in a conversation about her son’s boots going missing at school. And more to the point, how come George was taking evening classes at all, especially ones with Penny?

‘Come on, Jo-Jo,’ Harry urges from the other side of the zebra crossing as I hesitate outside the World’s End pub. ‘Stop daydreaming or you’ll never get back!’

I look at him and shake my head. Yes, he’s right. I have to make this party work or Penny might not realise how successful she can be if she tries. Without thinking about it, I step blindly out on to the crossing.

It’s in the split second I hear the shriek of a car’s tyres, and I see the same white sports car hurtling towards me, that I realise I won’t be eating any of the Jubilee jelly that Penny’s made, or singing any celebration songs this afternoon with the others… as it all goes cold once more.

Slowly I open one eye. There’s the sky, that’s one thing that never changes, and as always it’s bright blue. As I open the other eye and watch the white clouds float slowly by for a few seconds, I realise that, as always, I feel warm too. And now the all-too-familiar stranger’s face bending over me, with the usual look of great concern in their eyes, appears in my line of vision. When they see me open
my
eyes the concern changes to relief.

‘She’s alive!’ this one calls. ‘Her eyes are open.’

‘Thank the Lord for that,’ another voice says.

I look up at them both. They don’t look too weird this time. The man is wearing jeans, maybe a little on the tight side, though, and at the angle I’m viewing them, a tad short too. The young woman who stands next to him has on ankle-length suede pixie boots, and a short skirt full of ruffles.

Hmm… I’ve seen a skirt like that somewhere before. But now is not the time to be thinking about fashion.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I say, sitting up.

‘Be careful, you hit that car pretty hard!’ the man says. ‘Like something from
Dempsey and Makepeace
you were, rolling off that bonnet. Bloody hit-and-run drivers.’

‘Never mind TV detectives. Has anyone called the real police?’ the girl asks. ‘I think there’s a phone box down the road.’

So I can’t be back in 2013, or at least four people would have pulled iPhones from their pocket, dialled 999, then probably Tweeted photos of my accident by now!

‘I have a phone,’ a calm voice says from the back of the usual mob that’s assembled to see whether I live or die on the zebra crossing.

Through the sea of legs I spy a pair of black leather shoes, so shiny the sun is virtually glinting off them as they walk towards me. My eyes follow the shoes up a charcoal-grey trouser leg, to a white shirt, a red tie, and a face that looks remarkably like Harry’s.

‘Harry! You’re here,’ I say with relief.

Harry looks down at me in surprise.

‘I’m sorry, young lady, do I know you?’ he asks, lifting a huge monstrosity of a phone from his pocket. He pulls the aerial of the phone up and prepares to make his call. The phone looks more like one of those huge two-way radios you see cops in US TV shows using.

‘No, stop, I don’t need the police calling, or an ambulance or anything. I’m fine, really.’ I look up at Harry again. Does he not know me this time? Actually, I hardly recognise him either. He’s wearing a sharp charcoal-grey suit and his hair is slicked back with gel. He’s much older this time, too. I hazard a guess at thirty, maybe?

‘If you’re sure,’ he says, his dark brow furrowing. He puts his phone back in his jacket pocket, which is a ridiculous place to keep something so big, and holds his hand out. ‘Let me help you up, though.’

I take his hand and look him in the eyes as I become level with him, but there’s still not a flicker of recognition, and I’m quite disappointed.

Harry lets go of my hand immediately.

‘Here, I believe these are yours too,’ he says, passing me up a pair of football boots. Why have these come with me again, just like the
Beano
did last time? ‘So if you’re OK,’ Harry continues, as I still stare at the boots hanging in my hand, ‘I’ll be on my way.’ He pulls a black Filofax from his other jacket pocket and begins to walk towards the pavement.

‘We’re in the eighties!’ I suddenly exclaim.

Harry stops and looks up at the sky. ‘It is pretty warm today, yes. I’m not sure it’s quite eighty degrees though.’ He gives me a terse nod, and turns away again to examine the pages of his Filofax.

‘Is George still in the record shop down the road?’ I call to him. The others are beginning to move away now, to continue with their own business, and I’m aware I’m holding up the traffic by standing in the middle of the zebra crossing. So I wave my hand up at the waiting cars by way of apology, and follow Harry to the pavement.

‘What?’ he snaps.

‘George. Do you know if he owns the record shop down the road – Groovy Records, it used to be called.’

Harry thinks about this for a moment.

‘I used to spend a lot of time in that shop when I was younger,’ he says, sounding a little wistful. ‘But I have no idea if it’s still there now.’

‘I’m sure it will be – George’s been in that same shop for fifty years.’

Harry’s eyes narrow a little as he studies me. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? That would make George about seventy at least and the last time I saw him he couldn’t have been more than forty-something.’

‘Yes,’ I say hastily, ‘I must have got a little confused there. Maybe it
was
the accident…’ And then I do something I never do. I feign weakness in front of a man to get what I want, and I rock a little from side to side.

‘Hey, careful!’ He holds out his hand to steady me. ‘Look, would you like me to walk you there? I think I remember roughly where it is.’

‘Would you?’ I continue, still in eyelash-fluttering mode. ‘That would be very kind.’

‘Of course,’ Harry says in a matter-of-fact way, as though rescuing damsels in distress is part of his everyday life. ‘What sort of gentleman would I be if I didn’t?’

Together we walk slowly towards George’s shop.

‘So, you’re sure you’re all right after your accident?’ Harry asks after a few moments of silence. ‘No injuries whatsoever?’

‘Yes, perfectly all right. I don’t think the car can have hit me that hard.’

‘Do you think?’ Harry asks in a mocking voice.

‘You know what I mean. Maybe I just fainted or something when I saw it coming so close, and it didn’t actually touch me?’

‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ he says. But he doesn’t look very convinced. ‘I didn’t actually see the accident. I’d just come out of a shop when I saw all the commotion in the middle of the road, so I wandered over to see if I could be of assistance.’

‘Ah, I see. Thanks.’

‘Not a problem,’ Harry says, not looking at me.

‘So why did you stop going to George’s shop all those years ago?’ I ask, forgetting that Harry and I don’t know each other at all this time. The trouble is he seems so familiar to me now, and I feel so comfortable with him, even though he looks so different again. Twice before Harry was wearing a suit when we first met, but he does seem much more formal this time.

‘Is it any of your business?’ Harry replies abruptly.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

As we continue walking together in silence, Harry uneasily adjusts his red tie, and places it back down on his shirt in exactly the same place it was resting before.

‘I’m the one who should apologise,’ he says at last in a stiff voice. ‘I snapped at you, and for that I’m sorry.’

‘That’s OK, I’m just a bit too nosey for my own good sometimes.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ he agrees. ‘Here, is this the place?’

I look up at the shop we’ve paused outside, and yes, it’s Groovy Records. It never seems to change that much: except for the window displays and the music on sale inside, the shop always looks as if it’s just jumped from one time zone to another. A bit like me I guess – the heart of us both remains the same whatever year we’re in, it’s just external influences that change the way we appear to others.

Talking of which, I take a look at my reflection in the window.
Oh my days, what do I look like?
I’m wearing a turquoise green jumpsuit with huge shoulder pads, purple wool leg warmers, and, like the woman at the crossing, tiny ankle-length pixie boots. But where hers were black leather, mine are purple suede. And my hair – it’s just so
big
! It’s cut in a long bob to my shoulders, but it’s blow-dried to within an inch of its life to enable it to permanently flick back at the sides.

‘Bloody hell, I look like Krystle Carrington,’ I exclaim. I had a flatmate once who was obsessed with the TV show
Dynasty
, and watched all the re-runs on one of the cable channels constantly. Actually, he was obsessed with
everything
eighties and I was glad when he moved out to live with his boyfriend – Wham, Bananarama and Culture Club on repeat twenty-four hours a day was not good for my mental health.

There’s a chuckle next to me.

‘Sorry,’ Harry says, trying not to smirk. ‘But I think I’d know if I was standing next to Linda Evans right now. And you,’ he says, looking down at my jumpsuit, ‘are definitely not her.’

‘Are you coming in?’ I ask tersely. I’m not warming to this version of Harry much. I’m trying to, really I am. It’s Harry, and I’ve got used to him being around me over the last couple of decades and I kind of like it now. But this version of him… he’s beginning to be quite irritating.

Harry hesitates and looks up at the shop front. ‘I guess it couldn’t hurt.’

I push open the door and, as always, the bell rings above my head.

‘George, are you there?’ I call.

‘Well, hello again, Jo-Jo,’ George says, appearing from the back of the shop. ‘I wondered when you’d be back. And you’ve brought a friend, this time.’

George is wearing a loose-fitting pale grey suit, and a baby pink T-shirt. He has the sleeves of the jacket rolled up to his elbows so you can see the lining, and a pair of sunglasses protrudes casually from his top pocket. On his feet are strange white cotton slip-on shoes with hessian fabric soles. Are those what they call espadrilles? I wonder, trying not to laugh at this
Miami Vice
-inspired vision that stands before me.

I know all about the American TV programme
Miami Vice
from my flatmate’s obsession. He used to wear something similar to what George is in now when he went to his eighties theme nights. He thought he looked just like Don Johnson, one of the lead actors in that show, which I guess he did a bit, until he got his moped and put on his bright pink crash helmet, then the effect was somewhat lost.

‘Good afternoon, George,’ Harry says uneasily from behind me. ‘It’s – it’s good to see you again.’

‘Well, well, if it isn’t Harry Rigby,’ George says, without a hint of awkwardness. ‘I didn’t think I’d see you in here again. How have you been?’

‘I’m well thank you, George, and yourself?’

‘Never better. So what brings you back?’

Harry looks at me. ‘Just giving this lady directions. She wasn’t sure where your shop was. Perhaps you should make her one of your infamous cups of tea though, she had a bit of a shock earlier.’

‘I’ll do just that. Will you stay for one too?’ George asks hopefully.

‘I won’t, no. But thank you,’ Harry adds when George looks disappointed. ‘Perhaps another time – I have some urgent appointments to get to.’ He goes to leave the shop but pauses for a moment and picks up a record. ‘
Sergeant Pepper
?’ he asks, looking back at George. ‘An original?’

‘Hardly! Do you know how much one of those things is worth these days?’

‘Always worth a shot.’ Harry smiles briefly at George.

‘Indeed,’ George agrees.

Harry turns to me. ‘Goodbye, it was nice meeting you.’

‘Yes, likewise, I hope we meet again.’

Harry looks surprised at this. ‘Perhaps we shall. You never know.’ He inclines his head towards George. ‘It was good to see you again.’

George nods and watches as Harry leaves the shop, closing the door behind him.

‘I’m back again!’ I announce, without formalities this time. ‘Why am I, George? And why doesn’t Harry know me this time? It’s weird.’

‘Tea,’ George simply says. ‘We need tea.’