I smile at him; he’s actually quite sweet.
‘And I’m guessing it wasn’t the best chat-up line you’ve ever heard?’ he continues, grimacing, as he looks up at me again.
‘No,’ I say, omitting to mention it’s been a long time since I’ve heard any sort of a chat-up line, let alone a bad one, so he really shouldn’t be asking my opinion. ‘Perhaps you’d do better just being yourself.’
‘Myself?’ he says as if he’s considering this. ‘I’m never too sure who that is. Are you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Our personalities seem to come from so many diverse places. From different experiences we have in life, and people we meet, which means it’s often hard to define ourselves as just one person.’
I wasn’t quite expecting
that
answer! ‘Yes, I suppose you could be right,’ I manage.
‘It’s usually when we confine ourselves to just one aspect of our life that we become regimented and rigid in our ways.’
‘Have you been talking to George?’ I ask, suddenly realising where all this is heading again. ‘Has he sent you after me?’
Harry looks surprised. ‘No, I just came to bring you your phone.’
‘Good. Well, thank you for doing that, but I really have to be going now.’
‘I’ve arsed up again, haven’t I?’
‘No, no, really, it’s fine. But I have another appointment I have to get to.’ I tap the pocket of my suit where I tucked his card a few minutes ago. ‘Look, I have your card now, so maybe I’ll give you a call some time.’
‘Great,’ Harry says. ‘I’d like that. I hope I’ll see you soon, Jo-Jo.’
The constant onslaught of London traffic suddenly ceases and, very unusually for the King’s Road at this time of day, there appear to be no cars, buses or taxis in either direction. So I step confidently out on to the black and white stripes of the crossing.
It’s when I’m about halfway across, and I decide to look back to see if Harry is still there, that I first notice it out of the corner of my eye. It’s as I fully turn to face the white sports car that’s careering towards me, that everything suddenly turns cold…
As I open my eyes the first thing I see is sky, blue sky with wispy white clouds floating by. Then I become aware of faces in my line of vision too. For a few moments I think they’re part of the clouds. Then I realise they’re not, they’re real faces attached to real bodies, which are peering down at me. And it’s then I also notice that although I feel incredibly warm right now, I’m lying down on something hard and cold. So I sit bolt upright.
‘Whoah, steady on there, gal,’ a man’s voice says next to me. ‘You’d best wait until the ambulance gets here.’
‘What ambulance?’ I ask, looking at the ground below and seeing black and white stripes. I appear to be sitting on a zebra crossing.
‘The ambulance that’s coming to take you to hospital,’ a woman with a bright pink patent leather handbag says. ‘You’ve been hit by a car, lovey, and you’d best lie down.’
I look up at her face. Her make-up is very bold: black, thick, heavy eyeliner and the palest of lipsticks. I shake my head. ‘But I’m fine,’ I insist. ‘Let me stand up.’ I struggle to my feet and a few hands are thrust out to help me. ‘Really, I’m fine. Look…’ I demonstrate this by brushing my clothes down and moving my limbs around. That’s odd. I don’t remember putting on a bright red figure-hugging pencil skirt today; I thought I was in my grey suit earlier? ‘See, absolutely fine. Not a scratch on me.’
‘Jo-Jo, are you OK?’ I hear a male voice ask as it arrives beside my concerned entourage. ‘I just heard what happened.’
I look across and recognise Harry from George’s shop.
‘Yeah, I’m fine, thanks,’ I tell him, grateful to see a familiar face. ‘I keep trying to tell everyone,’ I insist, ‘but they won’t listen.’
‘How can you be fine?’ Pink-handbag woman asks. ‘You were hit by a car – I saw it with my own eyes, I did.’
‘Well, I am. I don’t know how, but it can’t have been that bad or I wouldn’t be standing here, now would I?’
‘I suppose…’ the woman admits slowly, looking me up and down. ‘But the way you bounced off that bonnet, it was like something from
The Avengers
, so it was. Honor Blackman couldn’t have done it any better herself.’
I stare hard at her. What on earth is she talking about? Who’s Honor Blackman? I don’t think I’m the one in need of help…
‘I’ve read about this,’ Harry says confidently. ‘Apparently some people just go soft when the body goes into shock. Like a self-defence mechanism. Perhaps you saw the car coming and automatically went into soft-mode.’
I stare at him now.
Soft-mode?
I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life. I’m about to tell him so, when he winks.
‘She’s probably in shock, too,’ he continues. ‘I think the best thing we can do is take her somewhere for a sit down and a cup of tea.’
There are murmurs of approval at the tea suggestion.
‘I’ll take her to George’s shop – it’s just back there,’ he says, pointing. ‘Groovy Records, it’s called.’
‘Oh, the new place,’ one of the older men in my entourage says. ‘A record store – how long does he think that will last down here?’
‘My daughter goes in there a lot,’ another woman pipes up. ‘She says the owner is lovely and very helpful. Lets her put the records aside when she can’t afford them. Then she pays a bit on tick when she can until she’s paid enough to take the record home. I think that’s lovely in this day and age.’
The others nod their approval, and Harry puts his arm through mine, and I notice then as I see my sleeve that I’m also wearing a black wool coat with big black buttons. ‘I’ll take it from here then, folks,’ Harry says with assurance, guiding me away. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be fine with George and me.’
The crowd finally stands back and I’m allowed to leave the zebra crossing, letting the traffic begin flowing freely across it again.
As I allow Harry to guide me back along the King’s Road, I notice that the long queue of cars that have backed up along the street appear to be vintage vehicles. Great, not only have I created a scene on a zebra crossing in the middle of central London, I’ve held up a car rally too.
‘Are you OK?’ Harry asks as we walk back along the road, me still with my arm through his. ‘You must have had quite a shock.’
‘Yes, I still feel a bit woozy – some of the things people back there were saying didn’t really make sense. But I seem to be in one piece, physically.’
Harry pauses for a moment to look at me. ‘You do look a little pale, but George will soon sort you out with a cup of tea.’
‘You were serious about the tea?’ I ask in surprise. ‘I thought that was just a ruse to get me away.’
‘It was, partly. But I’ve never seen a problem George couldn’t sort with a cuppa.’
As we arrive back at the shop, I’m struck by the exterior. It looks different, somehow. Newer. Fresher. Like it’s just had a lick of paint. I shake my head. Perhaps I’m more affected than I realise.
‘George?’ Harry calls as we enter the shop and the bell rings above us. ‘Are you there?’
‘Right here.’ A man appears from the back of the shop wearing a black turtleneck sweater, grey drainpipe trousers and a grey single-breasted jacket. ‘What’s up, Harry? Whoa, Jo-Jo! What happened to you?’
I look at the man standing in front of me.
He does look familiar. He almost looks a little bit like
…
No, it can’t be! It just can’t.
I glance over to where I sat a little while ago drinking tea with George, and to my relief I see the wooden seat is still there. ‘Can I… can I just sit down,’ I manage to stutter. ‘I feel a little light-headed.’
‘Sure,’ the man says, as Harry helps me over to the seat. ‘I’ll stick the kettle on. Just serve this customer, Harry, will you?’ he adds, gesturing to a man brandishing a record at the cash desk. ‘I’ll be back in a mo.’
As he disappears out to the back of the shop, I try to run my hands through my hair in exasperation – and find that for some reason I’ve so much hairspray in it that I can’t. I settle for rubbing at my forehead instead.
What is going on here? How come that man who answers to George looks so much like a younger version of my George and sounds exactly like him? And why am I wearing this ridiculously tight skirt – I don’t
even own
a red skirt, for heavens sake!
I look up now at the walls surrounding me. Where have all the posters gone that I looked at a few minutes ago? They’ve all been replaced with glass-framed black and white photos of the Beatles, Elvis Presley – and is that Cliff Richard grinning down at me? In fact the whole shop looks different, the only thing that remains the same is the bell above the door, the vase of sunflowers on the counter next to the till, and the old wooden mantle clock ticking away behind it. But even that doesn’t look so old any more.
‘Are you OK?’ Harry asks as the customer, happy with his purchase, leaves the shop. ‘You still look awfully pale. I know that’s the fashion make-up-wise right now, but I’ve a feeling that’s your actual colour.’
For the first time I notice Harry’s clothes. That wasn’t what he was wearing a few minutes ago when we met here in the shop, was it? I try to remember. No, he was wearing a single-breasted, dark charcoal suit with a white shirt. He’s still wearing a grey suit, but it’s pale grey with no lapel or collar, now. He has it buttoned right up too, so all I can see is a tight white shirt peeping out of the top, with a thin black tie. He reminds me of someone… I know I’ve seen that look somewhere before. I glance at the wall opposite and see a picture of the Beatles.
‘You’re dressed exactly like they are!’ I exclaim, pointing at the photo.
Harry looks at the picture. ‘Why, thank you, yes I was trying to model my look on them. My suit isn’t quite the quality of theirs, or even the price. But I’m glad you like it.’
‘But a few minutes ago you were wearing something different, weren’t you?’ I ask aghast, staring at his clothes.
‘Nope, don’t think so,’ Harry says. He bends down to look at me. ‘Maybe you’ve had more of a bump to your head than you think? Follow my finger.’ He moves a finger from side to side in front of my face.
‘Harry, leave the poor girl alone,’ George Mark II comes out from the back of the shop carrying two china cups balancing on saucers. ‘I’ve made you some too, Harry,’ he says, sitting down on the chair next to me and handing me my tea. ‘Can you go and collect it?’
Harry sighs good naturedly, and departs to fetch his own tea.
I look at this doppelganger George. ‘How come you look so young?’ I ask, staring at him.
He laughs. ‘Must be all the tea I drink. Take a sip of yours, Jo-Jo, I’ve made it extra sweet. It will help with the shock.’
I lift my cup and drink the hot tea while I continue to watch him. He’s right, it is extremely sweet.
Harry returns with his own cup and saucer. What has happened to the mugs we were using earlier that George has always used before?
I look up at the two of them. ‘What’s going on here? Where’s the joke?’ I ask.
‘What do you mean?’ Harry asks.
‘I mean, how come
you’re
dressed all funny?’ I demand, pointing my finger at him. ‘And why does
this
George looks like he does?’ I swivel round in my chair and thrust my face into George’s. ‘Is it some sort of television trickery? Have you had prosthetic make-up? Where’s the hidden camera? This isn’t live, is it?’ I twist my head around trying to spot hidden cameras and tiny microphones dotted around the shop.
‘You couldn’t hide one of those huge TV cameras in here!’ Harry laughs. ‘Massive great things on wheels, aren’t they?’
Another customer, a woman this time, enters the shop. She’s wearing a bright green coat, black gloves and hat, and she carries a black patent handbag that matches her very pointy court shoes. ‘Would you mind again, Harry?’ George asks, nodding in her direction.
Harry sighs. ‘Anyone would think I worked here!’
‘I’d employ you if I could,’ George says, grinning at him. ‘I wouldn’t be able to pay you as much as that music company you supposedly work for. But then you wouldn’t need the sharp suit, so you’d save money there, I suppose.’ He winks at me.
Harry, laughing, goes over to assist the woman.
Young George sits down next to me. ‘It’s happened again, hasn’t it?’ he whispers, not looking directly at me.
‘What has?’ I ask, turning towards him. I still can’t get over how young he looks. This George is actually quite handsome.
‘You got hit by the car, didn’t you? I didn’t think it would happen so soon.’
‘What are you talking about? You didn’t think
what
would happen?’
‘What year are we in?’ George asks, turning to face me.
‘2013,’ I reply with confidence. ‘I didn’t get hit so badly I can’t remember that!’
George nods knowingly. ‘When I tell you something in a moment, Jo-Jo, I want you to keep very calm. You mustn’t shriek or scream or draw attention to yourself.’
‘What are you talking about, why would I do that?’
‘Remember, Jo-Jo, you must keep calm.’
‘And Carry On, Drink Tea, Eat Chocolate or something else hilarious they haven’t thought of yet to put on a tea towel or a mug?’ I ask, rolling my eyes.
George shakes his head, clearly not understanding my attempt at a joke. ‘No, just keep very calm.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Jo-Jo, you’re not in 2013 any more.’
I want to laugh. George might as well have said: ‘Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas any more.’
‘I’m not?’ I ask slowly, indulging him. This is getting weirder by the second. Why is George talking in riddles? It’s getting more and more like some strange game show. What do I need to do, work out the clues and then I’ll win a prize when the TV cameras are revealed and the smarmy host jumps out from behind a screen? God, I hope it’s a holiday. I could do with a change of scene!
‘No, Jo-Jo, you’re not. You’re in
1963
.’
‘Yep,’ I say, grinning at him. ‘And?’
‘And that’s it. At this very moment you’re sitting in my record shop in the King’s Road, London, in November 1963.’
I eye George, disbelieving. He’s mad!
‘Here,’ he says, reaching behind the shop counter for a newspaper, ‘look.’
And I do. And the date at the top of
The Times
newspaper is, just as George has said,
November 1963
.
‘What!’ I shout, jumping to my feet. ‘How can this be?’ Harry and his customer glance round at me for a moment before returning to their record discussion.
‘Calm, Jo-Jo,’ George reminds me, tugging on my arm to get me to sit down again. ‘Remain calm. You really must.’
‘But what do you mean, telling me I’m in 1963,’ I hiss. ‘Are you mad? Have I been drugged? Am I hallucinating?’
‘No, not any of those,’ George says quietly. ‘And
I’m
not mad, either.’
‘Am I, then?’ I ask in a strangled voice. ‘Is this what this is, the start of insanity, or a mental breakdown? I know I’ve been working hard recently, but —’
‘Jo-Jo…’ George places a reassuring hand on my arm. He looks to where Harry is still trying to persuade the customer into choosing an album by Bob Dylan instead of her preferred Frank Sinatra. He lowers his voice even further. ‘You’re not going mad, you’ve just travelled back in time.’
I open my eyes wide. ‘Oh well, that makes it all right then! What do you mean, I’ve travelled in time? How can I have? Don’t be so ridiculous.’
‘Like I said, I’ve seen it happen before. You’re not the first, you know. It must have been when you got hit on the crossing – you probably hit a time portal.’
‘A
what
? Whatever do you mean, time portal? You only get those in sci-fi films and TV shows and I know for sure I’m not in
Dr Who
.’
‘Dr what?’ George asks, puzzled.
‘Not Dr what, Dr
Who
. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of that? I thought it began in the sixties?’
‘I’ve seen adverts for that. It’s a new TV show,’ Harry joins in, as he and his customer make their way over to the till with both albums, which Harry seems to have persuaded her into buying. ‘Starts next week.’ He rings up her purchases on an old mechanical till with the prices popping up in a little window. ‘I didn’t know you were into sci-fi, Jo-Jo?’