I can feel warmth again, so I open my eyes to see the sun shining down from a bright blue sky, with fluffy white clouds floating gently across it.
Breaking my lovely view is a sea of faces hovering above me, looking with concern at my prostrate body lying strewn over the zebra crossing once more.
I turn my head to the side; there’s an extremely high, platform-soled boot placed right next to my face. Turning it to the other side I see a pair of flared tartan trousers.
I sit bolt upright.
‘Careful, love,’ a woman wearing a floaty kaftan-style dress says with concern. ‘You’ve had a bit of an accident.’
‘Yes, no sudden movements.’
I turn to the man who’s now speaking. He’s wearing flared trousers too, only they’re denim this time. He has on a tight yellow shirt with a long collar. And his hair is long and scruffy with big sideburns extending down both cheeks.
‘I’m fine,’ I mumble, trying to stand up. ‘Really, see?’ I jiggle my limbs around a bit on the ground, and as I do so it sounds like I’m a one-man percussion band. I look down at my wrists and they’re covered in bangles and beads.
‘I don’t know how you can be,’ the woman says again. ‘The way you bounced off that car, it was like something from
The Professionals
.’
‘Have you seen that?’ another woman joins in now. ‘It’s great, isn’t it? That Martin Shaw is
gorgeous
.’
‘Yes,’ the kaftan woman coos. ‘He can screech to a halt and slide over his bonnet towards me any day.’
‘Ahem!’ I clear my throat. ‘If you can just help me up, I’m on my way to the record shop.’
‘You mean George’s place?’ the man asks.
‘Yes.’
‘He’s shut early today – I’ve just come from there.’
‘Why?’ I demand. ‘Why would he shut early?’
‘I don’t know, the sign just says personal reasons. I was over there just now trying to buy an Abba album for my wife’s birthday.’
‘A – Abba? But they’re not around yet, are they?’
The assembled crowd look at each other suspiciously. ‘You sure you’re all right, love?’ the man asks, bending down to take a closer look at me. ‘Maybe we should call that ambulance after all.’
‘No, no don’t do that,’ I insist. ‘Really, I’m fine. Just give me a minute.’
Oh lord – this isn’t the sixties, is it?
I suddenly realise. The clothes, the things they’re talking about, it’s more like the —
‘Jo-Jo! What the bloody hell happened to you?’ A small figure pushes its way through the crowd and I see a familiar face at last – Ellie.
Except this Ellie isn’t wearing the striped dress I last saw her in. Neither has she got her long blonde hair all piled up in a beehive on top of her head.
No, this much younger-looking Ellie is wearing tartan from head to toe, and her long hair is arranged in soft curls around her face. She’s taller than I remember, too. Possibly because she’s balancing precariously on top of some enormous silver platform-soled boots.
‘Car accident, apparently.’ I shrug. ‘But I’m fine. Help me up, Ellie.’
Ellie holds out her hand and tries to pull me up, but she doesn’t have very good balance in her skyscraper boots, and nearly topples over on top of me herself.
There are loud guffaws and sniggers from the pavement; I look towards them to see a small crowd of scruffy-looking yobs standing around on the side of the road. They’re wearing an assortment of jeans, leather trousers and T-shirts, all of which seem to be torn or ripped in some way.
‘Ah, you can just bugger off,’ Ellie shouts at them, ‘if you can’t do better than laugh and jeer when you see a lady in distress.’
‘You ain’t no lady, Ellie Williams,’ one of the boys with shocking green spikes all over his head shouts back. ‘I’ve seen ya behind the bike sheds when we was at school.’
Ellie snarls at him, then she holds her hand out to me again. ‘Come on, Jo-Jo,’ she says. ‘Let’s get out of here, if you’re sure you’re OK?’
‘Yes, really, I’m fine.’ I take her hand and haul myself to my feet. ‘Thank you,’ I say to the other people as they stand back to let us past. ‘I’ll be fine now my friend is here.’
As we cross over to the pavement, the gang smirk at us. Ellie juts out her chin and ignores them, but I can’t help taking a quick glance at their outfits. They really are quite intricate, not simply scruffy, as I’d assumed on first sight. Chains and leather bind the rips in their clothes, and a number of them have Union Jacks as added embellishment to their outfits; some of the flags are plain, and some have pictures of the Queen. I could almost be back in our jubilant summer of 2012 with this much patriotism about. I think for a brief moment. But then I notice the Queen’s face is blotted out on the prints, and I suddenly realise they’re not royalists at all, but punks, and of course this isn’t 2012, but is very definitely the seventies.
It has to be; it all makes sense now – the punks, the platforms, the flared trousers. I’m just about to ask Ellie what year we’re in, when one of the punks steps forward.
‘Are you OK, Jo-Jo?’ he asks in a much gentler voice than I would have expected.
His voice sounds familiar, but I don’t see anyone I recognise. Then he speaks again.
‘Only I was waiting outside a shop when you got hit by the car and I saw the whole thing. It looked pretty bad.’
It’s Harry again! But not Harry in any guise I’d know him in. The Harry I’ve met before has always been suited and booted, both in the future
and
in the past. But this Harry is a fully-fledged seventies punk rocker, with pierced ears, a mostly shaved head and a blue Mohican on top of his head that any parrot would be proud of. And he’s much younger.
‘H – Harry?’ I stutter. ‘Is that
you
?’
‘Ooh Harry, is that you-oo?’ the others mock, looking at Harry with derision.
‘Of course it’s me,’ he whispers, pretending to adjust the collar of his battered leather jacket. ‘What do you think to the hair? Me mum’ll go up the wall when she sees it. But I think it’s far out.’
I stare at the bright blue comb on top of his head. ‘It’s… different.’
‘You don’t like it, do you?’ He folds his arms. ‘I knew you wouldn’t.’
I glance at myself in the shop window opposite. Apart from looking incredibly young, I’m wearing navy flared cotton trousers, a white smock top and sandals, and I have a truly vast quantity of beads and bangles hanging all over my arms. My long hair hangs loosely around my shoulders, save for two thin braids which are pulled tightly back to the side of my head.
‘I’m a hippy!’ I exclaim, voicing my thoughts aloud.
‘Exactly,’ Harry agrees. ‘Which is precisely why you don’t appreciate this new look of mine.’
‘Come on, Harry,’ one of the other lads shouts now. ‘We’ve stuff to do. Leave the flower power reject and her wee tartan friend alone.’
Ellie makes an angry move towards them, but I put my hand out to her. ‘Just leave it, Ellie.’
‘I’d better go,’ Harry says. ‘I’ll see you both later.’
‘Yeah,’ Ellie smirks. ‘We’ll be hearing your mam all the way down the street when she sees your hair like that.’
Harry fires a scornful look in her direction then heads back to his pals.
‘Come on,’ Ellie says, linking her arm through mine. ‘I think we’ve had enough fun on the King’s Road for one day. Let’s go home.’
I look briefly in the direction of George’s shop, wondering if, even though he’s closed, he might be in there stocktaking or something. But what excuse could I possibly find to remove myself from Ellie’s grasp and head over there? Besides, if I don’t go with Ellie now I won’t know what I’m doing, or where I’m going in this decade, will I? And desperate as I am to see George again and find out what’s going on this time, he won’t be able to speak to me with Ellie there. No, I’ll have to wait until I’m alone again.
We catch a bus to Lambeth, not Fulham, this time. While I sit quietly staring out of the window at the passing London scenery, desperately trying to think about what’s going on now, Ellie babbles about the Bay City Rollers and their latest song. That explains the tartan then, I think, glancing across at her while she’s off in her Les McKeown dream world. The Bay City Rollers were a Scottish glam-rock band from the seventies, and their lead singer, Les McKeown, was a teenage pin-up back then. I happen to know all this because we used to look after his accounts at the firm when I was a junior, and some of the older ladies in the office would come over all of a fluster when he popped into the office occasionally.
I think about the office and wonder what’s going on there while I’m away, if everything’s functioning successfully without me. I’ve never left it alone for more than a day since I’ve been in charge. The place will surely fall apart – won’t it?
Oh, why didn’t I go back home to 2013 when I was hit by the car again? Why have I moved on into the seventies? I wish I could have caught up with George before we left the King’s Road. He’s the only one who seems to know anything about what’s happening to me. All I know is I’ve time travelled again, and into a new decade. But, incredibly, Ellie and Harry are with me again, albeit in very different guises. Yes, I definitely need to speak to George as soon as I possibly can to find out just what’s going on. But until then I’ll just have to follow Ellie’s lead in this new world I find myself in.
‘Righty-ho, then,’ Ellie says as we alight from the bus, walk down a long street of Victorian terraced houses, then stop outside one with a blue painted door. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she says, pulling a face. ‘For the meeting.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, wondering what ‘the meeting’ is.
‘I wonder what me mam’ll have me signed up to this time. I’ve only just finished making miles of bunting and if I never see another red, white or blue triangle it will be too soon!’
Bunting? What might we be celebrating?
‘The Jubilee!’ I exclaim. ‘The Queen’s Silver Jubilee. It’s 1977, isn’t it?’
Ellie looks at me oddly. ‘You sure you didn’t bang your head on that crossing? Maybe you’d better lie down for a while when you get inside.’
‘Yes, perhaps I’ll do that.’
‘See ya later then,’ she calls, and I watch as she skips across the road and disappears into a similar-looking house to this one, but with a green door.
‘Right then,’ I say, turning towards my own blue door. ‘I wonder what awaits me behind you?’
Gingerly I push open the blue door and step inside the house.
‘Jo-Jo, is that you?’ I hear my name called from a room at the bottom of a messy hallway.
‘Yes, it is,’ I reply carefully. I make my way down the narrow hall, skilfully avoiding stepping on the pieces of Lego and half-naked Barbie dolls that lie in my path.
The door at the end of the hall is partly ajar, so I push it a little further open and find a woman sitting at a kitchen table bottle-feeding a baby.
‘There you are, sweetie,’ the woman, who I’m guessing is in her mid-forties, says, smiling at me. ‘Could you be an absolute angel and pick the twins up from school for me today? Bonnie hasn’t settled all afternoon and I’m exhausted.’
She certainly looks tired. Beneath her mop of bleached blonde hair, there are big dark circles underneath her brown eyes. She heaves the large baby on to her shoulder, and tries to wind her.
‘Yes – yes of course.’
‘You all right, Jo?’ she asks, looking at me with concern. ‘You look a little pale.’
‘Yes, I’m fine. I had a slight accident this afternoon, that’s all. But I wasn’t hurt, so nothing to worry about.’
‘Nothing to worry about?’ The woman leaps up out of her chair with the baby still on her shoulder and comes rushing over. She puts her hand on my forehead. ‘You’re my daughter, I’ll decide if you’re hurt or not!’
Whoah, just hold on a moment! This woman is claiming to be my mother? This is just too weird. I may be feeling a bit woozy from my latest jump through time, but I know this woman standing in front of me isn’t my mother. Besides, I wasn’t even born until 1983! Calm down, Jo-Jo, this is the 1977 Jo-Jo’s mum, of course it is.
‘Really, M – Mum,’ I mumble, backing away from her hand, ‘I’m just fine.’
She stares into my eyes, narrowing her own at the same time. ‘No, you’re not, there’s something different about you; a mother can tell these things.’
I turn my face away. ‘I’m fine, really.’
She sighs. ‘You’ve not been the same since you turned sixteen. I think it’s working in that weird shop you’ve got yourself involved in.’
A shop? How bad can that be? Let’s hope it’s not some salacious sex shop, or an early version of Ann Summers.
‘I
like
the shop,’ I venture. ‘It’s fun working there.’
Please don’t let it be something incredibly dull like a supermarket, or grotesque like a butchers.
‘Hmm,’ my new mother huffs. ‘What good is a shop selling all this hippy nonsense? It’ll be another passing fad like all this computer stuff will probably turn out to be.’ She gestures towards the table where there’s a magazine lying open, and on the page there’s a photo of a man with a beard, demonstrating a large, cumbersome computer.
I go over to the table and pick up the magazine. ‘That’s Steve Jobs,’ I smile. ‘Wow, look at the size of that Mac!’
‘What are you talking about, Jo-Jo? The man isn’t wearing a mac; he’s wearing a shirt and tie. I just read that article. And how do
you
know his name?’
‘I just saw it on the page,’ I say hurriedly. I fold over the front cover of the magazine. ‘
BusinessWeek
?’ I look at my mother in surprise; she doesn’t look the sort of person who reads
BusinessWeek
as a rule.
‘I just picked it up at the hairdresser’s,’ she says casually, taking the baby off her shoulder; it looks suspiciously up at me from her arms. ‘They were busy and didn’t have anything else to flick through.’
‘Ah, OK.’
She glances up at a clock on the kitchen wall. ‘The twins, Jo-Jo! Quick, or you’ll be late! I’ll try and get Bonnie settled while you’re gone.’
The mere mention of the word late jolts me into action. ‘Don’t worry, I’m on it!’
I turn and head back down the hall, hesitating for a moment on the front doorstep. In theory I could escape now and go and see George, it’s the perfect moment, but I can’t exactly leave two kids standing all alone outside a school, can I? And will he even be open? No, my need to see George is going to have to wait again.
I look down the street figuring I’ll just ask someone where the local primary school is, but luckily I don’t have to, as I step out on to the pavement and see a steady stream of mums, buggies and prams all heading in one direction. So I follow them.
While I walk I eavesdrop on some of their conversations. They’re much like any group of mothers I’ve ever heard as they flock to collect their young from school, except instead of chatting about what was being discussed on
Loose Women
at lunchtime today, they’re talking about the guests on a programme called
Pebble Mill at One
, and whereas a group of 2013 mothers might be debating the pros and cons of their latest smartphone, these mums are discussing the latest in hair styling – the merits of a Braun electric curling iron against their favoured Carmen Rollers.
Eventually we all arrive outside some school gates, so I stand with the other mothers, waiting for my charges to come pouring through the gates with their fellow pupils, desperate to escape their day’s schooling. My mother said ‘the twins’; I don’t know whether to expect twin girls, boys, or one of each, so I just have to hope they recognise me first.
While I have a few minutes, I think about what’s happening to me this time.
It’s pretty clear I’ve time travelled again, to the seventies. And it happened when a car hit me on the exact same zebra crossing on the King’s Road where it occurred the first time. There must be a link there of sorts, right outside that World’s End pub. The World’s End… I wonder if that’s relevant? It’s quite an apt name, considering. And then there’s Harry and Ellie again. They’re here with me, which is quite comforting in one way, but weird in another, because they’ve changed personas again, as I have. And we’re all so young this time, teenagers, which is incredibly odd. I want to work it out, to know why. I don’t like unanswered questions and unsolved puzzles. They unsettle me, almost more than the actual time travelling itself.
I really, really need to see George.
‘All right, Jo-Jo?’ a young woman standing next to me remarks. ‘You’re deep in thought this afternoon.’
‘Not really,’ I reply. ‘Just waiting for the twins.’
‘How’s your mum doing?’ the woman, who is wearing the most hideously patterned purple blouse and orange flared trousers continues. ‘She still holding out?’
‘Yes… I think so.’
Here we go again; I have no idea what I’m supposed to reply
.
‘She’s a brave one, is Penny. That’s all I can say. Single mum. Four kids. You’d think she’d snap the council’s hand off, being offered a brand new home out in the country.’
‘But she’s not snapping their hand off?’ I ask in surprise.
‘No, you’re right, she’s not. She’s got her pride, that one. And good on her for sticking to it. More than I’d do in her position, but they don’t wanna knock down the shithole I’m livin’ in, more’s the pity!’
Just then the familiar sound of a school bell rings, and suddenly doors burst open and children rush euphorically out on to the playground and through the school gate.
I look helplessly at the children swarming around us now. Twins… there must be some twins here somewhere, I think, looking all around me at the schoolbags being swung in the air, and the newly painted pictures being thrust proudly under mothers’ noses. Suddenly I feel tugging at my top. I look down to see a young girl of about ten standing quietly next me.
‘Hi,’ I say, presuming this must be one of the twins. ‘Good day at school?’
‘Yeah, not bad, Sean’s just coming – he forgot his PE kit and went back for it.’
So there’s a girl and a boy, I know that much now.
‘Good, good.’
Turning her head side to side, she looks up at me suspiciously, and her long chocolate brown plaits move up and down her shoulders. ‘You look different.’
‘Do I?’
Here we go
…
‘What have you done to your hair? I know, you’ve got it braided up at the sides. Did Ellie do that for you?’
‘Erm, yeah.’
She screws up her face. ‘I want a friend like Ellie! The girls here are so dull and she wears such great clothes.’
I think of Ellie in all her tartan today.
‘And she listens to great music too.’
I smile even more now. The Bay City Rollers make great music?
‘You’ll find your own way when it’s your time,’ I say, surprising myself by sounding so wise. ‘You’ll have your own clothes and your own music in the eighties. You won’t need to borrow someone else’s taste.’
‘I don’t know about taste, but I think someone’s borrowed me PE kit,’ a young boy, looking exactly like the girl but with a messy mop of brown wavy hair, says now. ‘I can’t find it anywhere.’
Ah, this must be Sean then
…
‘Mum will kill you if you’ve lost that!’ the girl says. ‘Your new football boots were in that kit.’
‘Shut up, Sally,’ Sean says, giving her a shove. ‘Just cos you’re Miss Perfect.’
‘I ain’t!’ Sally pushes Sean now too. ‘I’m just not stupid enough to lose my PE kit like you all the time.’
‘OK, OK!’ I say putting my hands out to hold them apart. ‘That’s enough. Let’s get you two home.’
We set off in the direction I’ve just come from while Sally and Sean continue their bickering behind me as we walk.
‘Can we get sweets, Jo-Jo?’ Sally asks as we pass a little corner shop at the top of the road.
‘Yeah, please, Jo-Jo,’ Sean joins in. ‘You said the other day we could have some if we were good when Mum went out, but then you rushed off and never got us any.’
Did I?
I look inside the large cotton patchwork bag I’ve been carrying across my body for the first time since I’ve arrived here in the seventies, to see if I’ve got any money on me, and I’m surprised to find, in amongst the odd bits of make-up and a comb, a small rolled-up magazine, or is it a newspaper? It feels more like that type of paper as I pull it from my bag.
‘Why have you got a copy of the
Beano
?’ Sean asks, looking at it in my hand. ‘It’s an old one too, by the looks of that front cover.’
‘I… I’m not sure.’ I look at the comic; it must be the one I picked up on the zebra crossing before the car hit me. But how could that be here with me now? Did it come with me like Walter Maxwell’s photo did with him?
‘Can I have it?’ Sean asks, reaching for the comic. ‘It might be old but I bet Dennis the Menace is still the same.’
‘No!’ I snatch it away from him. ‘I mean,’ I say a little more gently, ‘I’m just looking after it for someone, so you can’t.’ Quickly I shove the comic back in my bag and retrieve my purse. ‘Let’s get you some sweets now. Luckily for you both, I have a
little
bit of money on me.’
We finally leave the sweetshop after Sally and Sean have spent a great deal of time and deliberation choosing their confectionery. Sean has a Marathon – which looks very much like a Snickers bar to me – and Sally has a packet of Spangles, some sort of brightly coloured fruit-flavoured sweets.
It’s quite interesting just how many of the sweets from the seventies I recognised in the shop. Their packaging may have evolved a little differently by the time they reach 2013, but children and adults here are enjoying the same delicious contents in 1977 as they will be in the future.
Sally and Sean clatter and crash their way back into the house when we arrive home, immediately abandoning their schoolbags on the hall floor in favour of their sweets.
‘I’m in here, kids,’ Penny calls.
We all go through another door into a living room this time, and I feel as if I’ve stepped on to the set of a seventies TV sitcom. One of the four walls is papered in a bright, bold wallpaper, patterned with big swirly orange and brown circles. The other three are plain, but are still painted a vibrant orange. Nearly all the furniture is brown, except for an olive green beanbag sitting in front of a large, boxy TV, which is currently showing some type of children’s TV programme, with a Humpty Dumpty, a teddy bear and some dolls sitting in various different shaped windows.
‘Mum, are you watching
Play School
again?’ Sean asks as he jumps on to the settee.
‘Bonnie likes it and it gets her off to sleep,’ she says. ‘She’s only just gone off.’
‘What’s on today?’ Sally asks, settling down next to him. ‘Is it
Take Hart
? Do you think my picture might be shown on the gallery today, Mum? Do you?’
Sean laughs. ‘What, that mess of dried lentils you sent in? I hardly think so. You’d have been better sending it to that cookery woman Mum likes.’
‘Delia Smith,’ Penny says. ‘Yes, it might be, Sally, you never know.’
‘Well, I wanna watch
The Red Hand Gang
,’ Sean says. ‘That’s definitely on today.’
‘More American rubbish.’ Penny shakes her head. ‘So much of it on our TV these days.’ She sighs. ‘But if it keeps you quiet…’
I watch them all arguing over the television, and I’m taken forward to a time in my own past, when my own sisters and I will be doing something similar. Except we’ll be arguing over whether to watch Ant and Dec in
Byker Grove
on the BBC or David Jason voicing
Danger Mouse
on ITV.
‘What are you doing?’ Sally demands as Sean leaps off the sofa in the direction of the television.
‘
Jamie and the Magic Torch
is on!’ Sean says, pressing a button on the TV, then settling back down on to the sofa, channel changed.
‘You’re such a baby,’ Sally teases.
‘It’s just to pass the time until something better comes on.’
At least they don’t have a remote control to fight over yet! I think.
‘Are you OK, love?’ Penny asks, watching me as I stand in the doorway. ‘You’re very quiet.’
‘I’m fine. Do you guys want anything?’ I ask, looking at the children now completely engrossed in the TV. ‘I’m just going to get myself a drink from the kitchen.’
‘Don’t you be waiting on them hand and foot, Jo-Jo,’ Penny says dismissively, ‘they’ll get something when they’re ready.’
‘Right, so it’s OK if I head up to my room then?’ I ask, hoping I actually have my own room.