‘I’m not,’ I say flatly. I glare at George now. ‘Especially when it involves me.’
‘Look, I can’t say too much now,’ George whispers, watching Harry finish up with the lady at the till. ‘But you’ll be absolutely fine, Jo-Jo, trust me. I’ve got a feeling we can work it out if you keep calm, and let it be.’
‘Keep calm. Let it be? But —’
George shushes me with his hand as Harry comes over to us again.
‘I think Jo-Jo is still feeling a little confused after her accident,’ George says to him. ‘Perhaps when you take her back to work you should keep a close eye on her, Harry.’
‘Do you think she should be going back to work?’ Harry asks. ‘I could always let them know what happened when I go back in and she could take the afternoon off.’
‘No, I think keeping everything just the same as usual will help jog Jo-Jo’s slightly fuzzy memory and allow her to return to normal life much faster,’ George says knowingly.
I’m about to open my mouth to protest that they’re making decisions about me as though I’m not here and, more importantly, what do they mean, taking me back to work. I know where my own office is, for goodness’ sake! And if I want to take the afternoon off I can do that quite easily without having to ask anyone’s permission. Then I realise that if what George is saying is true, then I most probably don’t know where I work and nor can I just take time off any more.
Suddenly I feel very cold, and very, very scared.
But how can this be true? Time travel simply isn’t possible – it’s just a fantasy. Something made up by writers and sci-fi geeks who desperately want to believe in something that can’t be done. This is just complete and utter nonsense. I’m about to tell them both so, when George turns his head away from Harry and winks at me.
‘You’ll be fine, Jo-Jo,’ he says in that same calm, reassuring voice. ‘Trust me. Go with Harry. Let it Be, and everything will work out just fine. I promise you.’
‘So here we are,’ Harry says, as we arrive outside a large building in Manchester Square. ‘Time to face the music again.’
It had been the strangest journey across London with Harry. When we walked back down the King’s Road the cars moving slowly along the street all appeared to be classic vehicles, the type my father would frequently stop to admire if we were out somewhere. And when we got on the tube, it was like we’d stepped into an old black and white TV show; the clothes the people were wearing looked very peculiar – retro, I guess you’d call them, all the men in smart suits, either cheap or expensive, all the women in warm coats with knee-length pencil-skirted or pleated suits, most of them wearing swept-up beehives or headbands and flicky hairdos and gloves, looking like photographs I’ve seen of Jackie Kennedy. What no one was wearing was casual clothes. A lot of the men wore hats, bowlers and – what did they call them? Fedoras! A few less smartphones were being tapped on – no, cancel that. There weren’t any phones at all.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Harry kept asking me as I stared around me in complete bewilderment during our journey. How could something so familiar, that I use on a daily basis, suddenly become so unsettling? I’d travelled these tube lines hundreds of times before, but I’d never experienced a journey like this.
‘Uhuh,’ I answered. Or sometimes I’d just nod. What was happening here? Had I really gone back in time fifty years to 1963 like George had said? No, that just wasn’t possible. But how could I explain what was happening around me right now – the people, the cars, the shop windows we’d passed all appearing to be selling retro goods? There was that word again – retro. Maybe this wasn’t retro; maybe these were current up-to-date goods, clothes and cars I was seeing in front of me. Maybe I really was the one who was from another time, not them.
Now, as Harry and I stand outside the building that we both apparently work in, I begin to panic. If George is right and by some weird twist I have managed to travel back in time, how am I going to cope? I don’t know anything about the sixties, about how you behave or what you do. I was born in 1983. What do I know, of… of mini skirts and beehive hairdos? I look down at my legs. But I’m not wearing a mini skirt, am I? I’m wearing this incredibly tight red thing that comes down to my knees. It may be tight, but thank goodness I’ve not got my legs out on show. Actually I hadn’t seen any of the super short skirts so synonymous with the sixties since I’d arrived. Was I too early for the mini skirt to even have been invented? Exactly my point – I knew nothing about this era!
‘Sure you’re OK to go back?’ Harry asks, looking me up and down. ‘Only I’ve never known you to be this quiet before – and you’re shaking.’
He’s right. My knees are virtually knocking together in fright at what awaits me through those big glass doors. He reaches out his hands and rests them gently on my arms. I think for a split second he’s going to hug me. But he just looks down into my eyes.
‘You don’t have to go in, you know?’
Harry’s touch is strangely comforting, and I feel my legs steady. ‘Yes… I’m sure I’ll be fine.’
What choice do I have? I have nowhere else to go.
‘Good.’ Harry smiles at me, and then, as if he’s only just realised where his hands are, he whips them away from my body and stuffs them back in to his pockets, his cheeks flushing a little. ‘Right, no time like the present then, let’s get you back to work.’
As we enter the building together I notice a plaque on the wall outside that reads
EMI House
, and I find myself in a large reception area filled with a magnificent desk, and behind that an impressive swivel chair. Opposite this are two red velvet chaise longues, and an enormous aspidistra plant in a wonderful brass pot. As I try to follow Harry on through the reception area and through some more glass doors, he turns around.
‘Where are you going? Hadn’t you better stay here and see what you’ve missed while you’ve been away? I’ll let them know upstairs what’s happened in case there’s any trouble about you being away from your desk for so long – we’re both late back from our lunch hours. But I’m sure a slight misdemeanour with an Austin-Healey will count as as good an excuse as any to take a long lunch break.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that.’ I swivel round to look at the large desk. So, I must be the receptionist here. ‘And thank you,’ I say, turning back to look at Harry. ‘For bringing me back and… everything, today.’
‘No problem,’ Harry says. ‘I’ll pop down later if I can get away and check on you.’ He pauses for a moment as if he’s considering something. ‘A gang of us were thinking of going out tonight, to catch a few bands at a local club, if you think you might feel up to it?’
‘Er…’ Oh dear, what am I supposed to say? I don’t know my relationship status in the sixties. I glance down at my left hand; I don’t see any rings, so assume all is well.
‘You can bring that kooky flatmate of yours if you like?’ Harry suggests, as if this might swing it.
I have a flatmate?
‘Yes, OK then, that sounds… groovy,’ I say, hoping this might be the right lingo to use.
Harry winces at my terminology, but he looks pleased. ‘Yeah, I’m sure it will be that, and hopefully much more. So I’ll catch you after work to arrange details? Better be getting back myself. See you later.’
‘Yes.’ I give a casual wave, then hastily drop my hand again as he hurries off. ‘You do that.’
What the hell was groovy all about, Jo-Jo?
I ask myself as I cringe at my choice of word. But I haven’t got time to worry about that because people are beginning to find their way into the reception area, and my phone is already ringing on the desk.
Luckily the people who stop by reception in the next few minutes all have appointments, so I ask them to wait on the chaise longues while I try and figure out how I contact the office of the person they’re waiting to see. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see a list of names on a clipboard followed by office extension numbers. Now, how do I work the phone? Oh God, where is the phone?
I stare around me but I can’t see anything that will put me in touch with any of the many offices that I’m sure must be in this huge building. I begin to move papers and files around on the desk frantically in the hope that it will magically reveal itself to me.
‘Maybe you should use the headset?’ one of my ‘appointments’ suggests helpfully. It’s the well-spoken man in the suit – a Mr Epstein, who came in asking for a Mr Maxwell. ‘First day, is it?’ he asks, smiling.
I nod gratefully, and look around for a headset.
‘We all have to start somewhere.’ He gets up and comes over to the desk while I grope about looking under more papers and books for a pair of headphones now. Jeez, they could be anywhere, I think, looking for something akin to the white set I plug into my iPhone. ‘Would these be they?’ he asks, holding up a huge hideous grey headset with a small microphone attached.
‘Yes, I guess they would be. Thank you so much,’ I say as I place them on my head.
Now what happens if I press this button here?
I wonder, looking at a console of buttons, switches, and numbers in front of me.
‘Yes?’ a voice booms in my ear.
‘Mr Maxwell?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Yes?’
‘This is…’
What’s my name, what’s my name? Ah, it’s still Jo-Jo, calm down, that much hasn’t changed.
‘This is Jo-Jo on reception. I have a Mr Epstein waiting to see you.’
‘He’s waiting?’ the voice booms again. ‘How long has he been waiting? I told you to inform me the minute he arrived, girl! I’ll be down to meet him in a moment.’
The line goes dead and he’s gone.
‘Mr Maxwell will be with you shortly,’ I announce in my best secretarial voice.
‘That’s absolutely fine,’ Mr Epstein says, smiling at me again. ‘You’re doing a great job. Nothing like throwing you in at the deep end, eh?’
You have no idea! Now for the next appointment…
I successfully match up an extremely glamorous woman wearing a red and black suit with matching pillar-box hat and veil with her appointment in accounts. And sit back and take a deep breath for a few seconds.
Suddenly, a large, red-looking man in an ill-fitting grey suit bursts through the interior glass doors. What little hair he still retains is grey to match the suit, and he appears quite out of breath at what I expect is a fairly short journey from his office.
‘Brian!’ he bellows jovially at my office helper. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m good thank you, Walter, and yourself?’
‘Excellent, excellent. I’m so sorry if this incompetent girl kept you waiting.’ He glares at me.
‘Not at all, Walter. She was utterly charming company.’
Walter eyes me as though he finds this hard to believe. ‘Well, do come through to my office – my personal secretary will look after you now.’
They disappear through the double swing doors.
‘Arse,’ comments Mimi, the woman in red.
‘Is he?’ I enquire politely, while trying to fathom out what I’m supposed to be doing next. Lights and buttons are beginning to flash on the console in front of me like an electronic game of Battleships, and I’m afraid that if I don’t do something with them, the ship we’re in might explode in a few moments and sink without a trace.
‘Walter Maxwell is, yes. Can’t bear him myself. But Brian is lovely.’
I nod, and flick one of the switches under a lit-up red button. ‘Yes, he seems like a nice guy.’
‘Very influential guy.’
‘Really?’ I ask Mimi, but quickly realise I’m also now talking to someone on the telephone as they begin babbling into my headphones, so I hurriedly flick the switch back over.
Mimi looks surprised. ‘You
are
new to this, aren’t you? Good afternoon, Allan!’
Allan from accounts escorts Mimi through the double doors. Now I come to think of it, that man’s name does seem a tad familiar… Wait, it couldn’t be the same Brian Epstein, could it? The Brian Epstein who was manager of the Beatles for so many years, and even called the fifth Beatle by some?
But I’m distracted by this thought by all these damn lights that keep flashing at me. It’s like being in the cockpit of an aeroplane when you don’t know how to fly. So I slip my headphones off again. I look back towards the doors everyone keeps disappearing through to see if I can still see anyone, but all I hear is ‘Psst!’ and a young girl’s head suddenly pokes around the door. ‘Yo, Jo-Jo, I haven’t got long – if old bossy britches upstairs catches me away from me desk I’ll be for the high jump.’
She looks either side of her again, and then allows the rest of her petite body to appear around the door.
‘Ellie!’ I exclaim, suddenly recognising the figure standing in front of me now wearing a lime green shift dress.
‘Don’t shout me name, you daft banana, or they’ll all know I’m down here.’
‘But – but what are you doing here? And – and look at your hair!’
‘Do you like it?’ Ellie asks, patting at her platinum blonde hair piled up in a huge beehive on top of her little head. ‘I had it done in me lunch break at that salon down the road. Cost me an arm and a leg, mind, but I really think it’s worth it.’
‘It… it looks fab.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ Ellie admires herself in the glass of the door. ‘Anyways, what am I doing here? I’ll tell you what I’m doing here, Jo-Jo, I’ve got some goss for you!’
‘Goss?’
‘Yeah, and I mean real good juicy goss this time, not like that nonsense about Dave and Cynthia from accounts. Apparently it was her husband’s baby after all and —’
‘Ellie, you said you didn’t have long?’ I interrupt. My Ellie is just like this, always easily distracted, and always full of the latest gossip.
‘Sorry, right. Well, I was typing up this letter for ’im upstairs and he says it’s to go around to all the staff at the end of the day before they leave. How I’m supposed to get it out to everyone, I don’t know. What does he think I am, some sort of whirlwind? Does he know how many floors and offices there are in this building?’
‘Ellie, the letter?’ I prompt.
‘Oh yeah. Well, you’ll never guess what was in it…’ She looks at me expectantly.
‘No, I won’t. Perhaps you’d better just tell me to save time.’
Ellie looks a little disappointed. ‘I suppose. Well…’ She sidles over to my desk. ‘It’s only a competition to meet the bloody Beatles!’
‘And?’
Ellie looks at me as though I’ve just turned down the offer of a million pounds. ‘Did you hear what I just said. I said it’s a competition to —’
‘Meet the Beatles, yes, I got that. How?’
‘Apparently the bigwigs are going to choose an employee of the month, and they get to go to a fancy pants reception where the Beatles are receiving some plaque or other.’
‘I take it you are referring to the cocktail party and luncheon on the eighteenth, Ellie, where the Beatles are to be presented with silver discs?’ A tall, elegant lady in a beige skirt suit and white frilly blouse now stands behind Ellie with her arms folded.
Ellie jumps in her pink platform boots.
‘Yes, of course, Miss Fields. Sorry, I was just —’
‘I know what you were just doing, Ellie – gossiping as usual. Now along with you, back to your desk upstairs. You’ve plenty of time to talk with Jo-Jo later when the two of you get home.’
So Ellie is my flatmate? Actually the thought of that is quite comforting.
‘Yes, Miss Fields,’ Ellie says, turning towards the door. ‘Although I don’t know what time that’ll be after I get all these bloomin’ letters out to everyone,’ she grumbles to herself.
‘What did you say then?’ Miss Fields asks. ‘Something you’d like to share?’
Ellie turns back towards us. ‘I said I don’t know what time I’ll get home after I’ve delivered all these competition letters today. Does him upstairs have any idea how many people there are working here? How am I expected to make sure they all get a letter before home time?’
The joys of email, I think, as I watch Miss Fields cast a stern eye over Ellie. If only they knew what was to come…
‘That is for you to work out, Eleanor. Sir Joseph will be expecting it of you and you know how he hates to be let down.’