What about us? (8 page)

“It’s a feast!” I cried in
disbelief.

“We’ll need it.” he announced
cheerfully, as he loaded a plate and handed it to me.  “Today, we are going to
do the coast walk.”

He piled some food onto a plate
for himself and then sat on the bed beside me.  We munched in silence, letting
the moment pass, the one where I should have asked what on earth had just
happened and by asking, forcing him to make up a story when I already knew that
he didn’t want to lie to me.  When we’d had seconds or possibly thirds, because
there wasn’t much of anything left on the trolley, I carefully poured the tea
and then got back into bed feeling happy.

“I left because I wanted to get
you a birthday present.” he said quietly, handing me a square wooden box.

I looked at it for ages.  It
was highly polished and beautifully made, not like any of the cheap stuff I’d
grown up with and on the lid was a hand painted picture of trees, with a snow
topped mountain in the background.

“Open it.” he whispered.

I slowly unfastened the small
clasp and lifted the lid.  Inside was some kind of mechanism, hidden by a
beautifully patterned brass disc with hundreds of tiny holes in it, held in
place by a bar with tiny wheels.  It started to turn on its own and as I looked
up at him a little mystified, it began to play music.  The tune was the one
he’d hummed the previous night, when we danced on the starlit beach.  My eyes
filled up again and big tears splashed down onto my hands, but I also had the
hugest smile on my face.

“Thank you.” was all I could
say.

He carefully took it away from
me and put it on the trolley.  Then he pulled me up off the bed and held me
tight as we danced again to ‘our song’.  Later, he told me it was an Edwardian
song called ‘Honey I miss you, I miss you all the time’.

I wouldn’t have thought it
possible, but that day we walked even more than we had the day before.  We left
the town and followed the path up and up.  Most of the time we could see the
sea, but sometimes it was cut off from our view and we contented ourselves with
the green rolling countryside and the groups of trees, some already in their
splendid yellow and orange autumn glory. 

We walked for miles, then climbed
up to the Cap and looked down onto the sea, which was wilder than when we’d
stood on the harbour wall, back in Lyme Regis.  It was mesmerising, watching
the grey and white waves swirl and suck at the shingle beach far below us. 
Jack had to pull me away, but he didn’t laugh at me.

It was then that he began to
tell me things; small snippets of his life.  It was a bit like having the pieces
of a jigsaw, but with no picture to guide me.

I learnt that not only was
there no rain where he lived, there was no sea, no trees and no grass.  I didn’t
get a sense of any weather at all in fact from the way he spoke.  That was why
he loved being outside so much; being close to nature made him happy and the
way he talked about it made it sound almost spiritual.  I’d never seen much of
either the countryside or the sea, but I always knew it was there waiting for
me, if I only I would take the bus or the train and go and find it.  But I got
the distinct idea that for him it wasn’t.

He told me about not knowing
his parents.  Not in sad way, but in a curious way and was surprised that I had
absolutely no interest in finding my father and little interest in finding any
other members of my family, even though I could if I wanted to.  It was like he
couldn’t, but I wasn’t sure why.  He didn’t say that he’d been adopted and
there was no talk of any other family.  Neither did I get the sense that he’d
been brought up in a home, as several of the kids at school had; usually while
they were waiting to be fostered.

School had been a happy time
for him.  He’d always loved learning, but again there didn’t seem to be anyone
else involved.  He didn’t talk about teachers, friends, bullies; no one.  He’d
travelled a lot, I already knew that, but again he always seemed to be alone.  It
was all very strange for me.  I mean, I choose not to allow people to get close
to me, but they are still there, regardless of whether I want them there or
not.

History had always been his
passion, but not political history; social history.  He wanted to understand
how ordinary people had lived through their times.  I shrugged, saying that
ordinary people probably hadn’t changed that much over the years and as always just
tried to get by as best they could, even when things they couldn’t control
seemed to be against them.  He didn’t laugh at me, but told me that I was more
right than I could possibly know, which pleased me.  It was also clear that
he’d had the whole education thing; he’d been all the way through university,
while I’d barely made it to the end of secondary school.

The day passed so quickly.  We
walked, we talked and occasionally we sat for a while on the grass or on a
bench when we found one.  Almost before I knew it and certainly before I was
ready, we were back in town and the daylight was beginning to fade.  I must
have looked sad.

“What’s wrong?” he asked,
looking concerned.

“My day is nearly over.  I’m
not ready for it to be over yet...” I said glumly, feeling a little like a
spoilt child, or at least how I imagined a spoilt child would feel.

“The day perhaps, but we have
the whole of the evening and the night still ahead of us.  Hours and hours just
for us.” he reminded me, then took my hands and kissed me, right there in the
street.

We didn’t go and wash or
anything, we went straight back to the pub.  We even sat in the same booth, but
this time we ordered a different meal.  I had lasagne and he had a thick fish
stew, which I didn’t fancy the look or the smell of.  He was quiet during the
meal.  It wasn’t uncomfortable, but I could see by the way his eyebrows were
moving that he was deep in thought and I didn’t want to distract him.  He often
looked at me and smiled, so I knew he wasn’t unhappy.

Once we’d finished eating, he
seemed to be in a hurry to leave, so we didn’t have pudding or sit for ages
unable to move.  We just paid the bill and then walked out into the soft night
air.  We headed straight for the harbour wall and I hoped that the sea had
calmed down a bit from earlier on.  You see, I can’t swim and I didn’t know if
he could.  We hadn’t gone all the way along it when he turned to me, his voice
urgent and excited.

“Grace, when you said you could
love me, did you mean it? Could you love me enough to trust me? To give up
everything you’ve ever known, to just take my hand and step off this world, if
it was the only way we could be together? Think carefully Grace.  Could you?”

What a question! Could I? I
looked at his face, stared deep into his eyes and saw love there; love for me. 
Then I looked at the black, swirling water.  Did he mean for us to end it all, in
the hope that there was something on the other side? I knew that to go on
without him would be the hardest thing I’d ever done, especially after that
weekend.  But to die and afterwards perhaps have nothing at all, no time even
to miss him, or remember him, hoping that one day he might come back...

I gulped and looked back at him. 
He didn’t look like someone who wanted to die.  He looked so full of life; it
lit him up from the inside.  But could I trust him enough to believe that he
was talking about living together, not dying together? I thought very carefully. 
I mean, what did I really know about this man called Jack?

I thought about all the strange
things I’d seen since meeting him and all the very odd things he’d said, as
well as all the things he hadn’t.  I was also sure that I knew enough about him
to know that he wasn’t talking about a suicide pact and that whatever it was he
had in mind was tied to all the things I didn’t know and all the things he
hadn’t explained.  Therefore his question was simply about love and trust;
something I did know about.  I knew a lot about it because of him; so really,
it was the easiest question in the world to answer.

“Yes Jack, I could.  As long as
you were there with me, I think I could do anything.”

He looked at me for a long moment. 
Then he nodded slowly and smiled.

“And I believe that with you at
my side, I too could do anything.” he said.

I didn’t need to answer and I
didn’t get the chance to.  He kissed me on the forehead, then moved away
slightly and fiddled with his watch.

“Take my hand...” he whispered.

I understood that it had to be
my choice all the way and I wrapped both my hands around one of his, curling
them tightly around his fingers, wondering what was going to happen next.  I
think I may also have stopped breathing.

I know
you
do it all the
time, but you must remember your first time, when you were surrounded by that
fine mist full of thousands of twinkling stars that are just out of reach.  Everything
suddenly seems so far away, as though in a dream, but you’re wide awake at the
same time.  All your senses are hyper and screaming, because it’s so
wrong
...
yet so lovely.

Anyway, the whooshing noise was
deafening and everything swirled around me really slowly, yet there was the
sensation of moving faster than I’d ever done before, while at the same time
standing still.  Perhaps the whole thing took less than a second, or perhaps it
took minutes, there was no way of telling.  The mist evaporated as quickly as
it had arrived and I realised that we were in a room.

Jack led me to a sofa, still
holding my hands.  There was a coal fire in the grate and thick curtains over a
large window.  The room was warm, almost too warm and
it was full of things; ornaments, knick–knacks, pictures,
small tables and plants in china pots and it smelt of some rich cloying perfume
that was a little stale.  There were chairs of all sizes, all in different
patterns and they all seemed slightly overstuffed.

The light was wrong too.  Then
I realised that the wall lamps had flames in them and the ones on the tables
flickered too and had no wires.  There was no telly in the corner, or any sign
of a stereo.  My eyes took all of this in so quickly.  I could see and
recognise these things, but I also knew that it was all wrong... everything was
wrong.

“Oh Jack, oh Jack...”

I think that’s all I was
capable of saying, over and over again.  I could see everything, but I
understood nothing.

He pulled up a chair and sat in
front of me, still holding my hand, giving me time to get my breath back and
allowing my brain time to slow down.

“Ready?” he asked gently.

I nodded.

“I come from the future,” he
said slowly, watching me carefully.  “From the thirtieth century.  I don’t
belong in your time, that’s why I’ve never been able to stay around for long. 
I’ve only ever been visiting, if you like.”

“Oh...” was all my dim-witted
mind could come up with, but he smiled and didn’t make me feel stupid.

“My job is to observe and collect
history as it happens, so perhaps that makes me a bit like a journalist.  We do
this so that we can understand ourselves better and learn from our past
mistakes.”

I still wasn’t able to say
anything.  I just nodded, to let him know that I was trying to follow what he
was telling me.  He was clearly relieved that I wasn’t about to have a panic
attack and went on slowly, choosing his words carefully.

“Dreadful things are happening
in my time, the consequences of which have pushed us to the brink of extinction. 
We have to understand how we arrived at this situation, in order to try and
make our future better.  Just like you explained about your relationship with
your mother, we also have to make choices and we are trying to make better ones
by using as much information as we can to guide us.”

“That sort of makes sense...”

The voice was a little hoarse,
but it was definitely mine.

“Why don’t you just read it,
like we have to?” I asked.

“Because the information will
always be tainted by the writer’s viewpoint.  Generally speaking, history is
written once it’s already history and no longer a current event.  The writer’s
view is not what we need.  We need the facts, not someone else’s ideas and
conclusions.”

As he spoke he became quite animated. 
His face seemed lit from within and I realised that this was his passion.

“Give me a for instance
please.” I asked.

“Guy Fawkes.” he said, quickly
supplying me with one.  “Was he a terrorist or a religious freedom fighter?
What did he think and what did the common man think? Those are the views that
help us understand why what happened, happened and then what happened next.  
It’s not unusual for those in power to react in some way, sometimes brutally
and sometimes they take up the cause themselves.  Basically they do what they
perceive they must in order to maintain control.  But one way or another, the
ordinary person is behind what those in power do.”

I looked at him.  It sounded
plausible, but to be honest I’d never given it a great deal of thought before.

“And what if you disagree with
what happens next?” I asked.  “Do you try and change things?”