A Stitch in Time (21 page)

Sarah woke early on Saturday morning with the smell of lemon in her nostrils. The alarm clock, inches from her nose on the side table, said 5.45. Déjà vu. Had it only been a week previously that she’d stood at her sink and then stepped into a ruined cornfield? At least her life hadn’t been in ruins then. Sarah had been in love, and confident that she’d be with John for the rest of her life. Now … like the cornfield, it was in pieces; destroyed.

Even her dreams tormented her. The lemon that John had been cutting on that fateful day made an appearance, just before she woke. As John inserted the knife, a red fountain had spurted instead of lemon juice. The lemon had cried out in Sarah’s voice,
If you cut me, do I
not bleed?
Then the lemon turned into a heart and a hand shot out, curling talon-like fingers around it. The heart, still pumping, bulged out between the fingers,
Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum
. Josephina laughed manically, squeezing it tighter, bringing it close to her mouth, and then, with her perfect white incisors, ripped it open.

John had tried to ring again a few times then he’d resorted to texting her the day after she’d spoken to him.

I don’t understand why you are being so cruel, Sarah. What was the point in phoning asking a few stupid questions and then, saying there’s no us? And the new job – are you sure you want to do this, Sarah? This one is quite a biggy. You have already saved your nine and more, so aren’t obligated at all to take a ‘passing the time’. Yet another corruption. It actually means that a Stitch has backed out and passed time to someone else. My mother often used to take jobs that others had passed to her
 …
she did around ten missions in total, but then she was
the
best ever Stitch in my opinion.

Anyway, this one could save thousands
 …
I have no idea why, they won’t reveal anything, so you’re back to square one if you take it. A ballpark date – somewhere in the 1920s, and London again. There is disapproval about our relationship; ‘they’ weren’t happy when we were together, but now they know it’s over, they’re worried that you don’t really care and are just taking it on because you’re desperate to escape
 …
you’re not are you? I hate to admit it but I think they were right about you after all, especially after your call last night. You obviously don’t love me enough, but I don’t blame you; it was just all too much for you. Please be careful, Sarah, and don’t do anything stupid. Love, John xx

She didn’t love him enough! That was flaming rich when he had the bitch of the year mopping his fevered brow, and probably attending to other parts of his body as well! And he told a barefaced lie about having not seen her even though she was in his shop! She couldn’t believe he had the gall to say that he thought they were right about her after all. And that line about the powers that be thinking she didn’t care
really
got up her nose. Yes, she wanted to escape, that was true, but she still bloody cared! Why the hell did they think she’d accepted the crazy job in the first place? She could have been another Norman, buried her head in the sands of time and stuck two fingers up to 1940, 1913, and 1874, but she hadn’t. It wasn’t in her. She loved the idea that the past was alive and interlinked, held together by a thread of humanity.

Right from being a kid, she’d loved history – really interacted with the stories she learned in class and things her parents had told her. Sarah tried to imagine the smell, sights, sounds, and to ‘walk in the shoes’ of people in the past. It had always felt so important to know what had happened; she couldn’t really put her finger on why, it just felt … necessary; a requirement to her being a ‘whole’ person somehow. John’s explanation had really fitted with what she had felt for years.

Sarah had replied:

John. I am not even going to comment on the bit about not loving you enough. There’s no point. I’m tired of thinking about the whole sorry mess. I am taking the job because I care, and the medievally sleeved spindly ones can stick that up their arses, if they have arses. And the doing something stupid? I did that when I allowed you into my life. I am desperate, but for another adventure; it’s got under my skin. Sarah.

After she’d pressed ‘send message’, she realised that John might be a bit puzzled about the ‘medievally sleeved spindly ones’ reference. He’d work it out though, from the arses bit. She felt a bit childish saying that she’d been stupid letting him into her life. It wasn’t true, but the way Josephina had smiled at her in John’s shop the other day burned white hot into her memory. And the way he’d lied to her so easily on the phone made her feel sick to the stomach. Besides, if he really cared as much as he said he did, why hadn’t he come round and seen her face-to-face?

John had replied later, just to say that everything was set for this morning and he wished her luck.

Luck could tag along if it liked, but Sarah wasn’t banking on it. Two cups of tea later, up, dressed, and once more ready to step into the breach, she felt resigned and ready for anything. No longer a time-travelling virgin, she was so much more prepared and knew more or less what to expect. Well, that is what she told herself. It made her feel confident, in control. She had actively chosen to do this. How difficult could it be?
OK, that’s enough chest beating, Sarah, you’ll end up in the jungle.

Sarah wondered about the wisdom of that second cup of tea and trotted upstairs to the loo. Sitting there staring into space, she wondered what London in the 1920s would bring. I could pop back and see Rose; that would be a laugh. Sarah smiled and blinked her right eye rapidly. Damned bit of fluff or something. She tried to pick it out, blinked again, but no, it was still there. Ah, got it.

Wiping the object on the back of her left hand, she saw that it was an eyelash. An eyelash that appeared to be moving, spreading, changing shape … what the fuck? Her right hand smacked the thing, hard, tried to dislodge it, but it wouldn’t budge; it just kept growing until she could see a scene taking shape. The back of her hand had become a tiny cinema screen. A street, presumably London, 1920s’ cars, people, buses, a busy workday …

Sarah finished on the loo and began pulling up her knickers with her right hand, still staring open-mouthed at the back of her left.

The next minute she was standing on the steps of a large, grand, brown-and-white brick building, and a middle-aged couple stood nearby, looking at her aghast. Lowering her eyes, Sarah realised they were looking at her knickers. She’d managed to pull them up over her ‘necessaries’ but the black, longish dress she now appeared to be wearing had been hitched up under her armpits in the struggle to do so. There she was, slap bang in the middle of the busy London thoroughfare she’d seen on the ‘cinema’ screen, showing her knickers to the world!

‘Look away, Edwin, she’s obviously one o’ them street walkers.’ The woman of the couple looked at Sarah and wagged her finger. ‘We only stopped you to ask the time. You looked nice, respectable! But you never can tell these days, women cutting their hair and wearing trousers, and them “Flappers”,’ the woman said, tutting and shaking her head. She pulled at Edwin’s sleeve, who didn’t appear to want to look away, still having his eyes fixed firmly on Sarah’s crotch.

‘Oh my God, I’m sorry!’ Sarah cried, pulling her dress down, her face crimson. She noticed a few knots of people had stopped in the street and were nodding and pointing over at her. She half-expected Danny Jakes and his crew to show up any minute, guffawing and yelling: ‘You hoping to get lucky tonight, Miss?’

‘Now she’s taking the Lord’s name in vain! Come on, Edwin, let’s get away from her.’ The woman had to practically drag Edwin away; he had a glazed look in his eye and a stupid smile on his face. Panicking, Sarah looked up the steps. At the top, high above some double doors, balustrades and grand arches, the words
St Mary’s Hospital
had been carved into stone. That name rang a very faint bell, but her main concern was to escape all the prying eyes and pointing fingers. So, having no better idea, Sarah ran up the steps and inside.

The long, Victorian, arched corridors seemed even busier than the street outside. Porters pushed, doctors rushed, and cleaners mopped. One of the cleaners, a small squat woman in her fifties, grabbed Sarah’s arm as she stood gawking. ‘Oy, Sarah. Chef was looking for you earlier, said if you didn’t turn up soon, you’d be out on yer ear,’ the woman said, wrinkling her nose as if she had a bad smell under it.

Sarah raised her eyebrows. So this hospital was where she worked? That revelation hardly filled her with joy. Hospitals in her time were not the healthiest environments in which to work, so a 1920s’ hospital could be potentially lethal. She wondered if she could actually catch something, or would she be immune, coming from another time? Ha! That would serve John right if she caught some horrible disease and died. Sarah rolled her eyes.
Yep, but you’d be dead; bit of a snag with that revenge plot, love.

‘No need to roll yer eyes at me, I’m just passin’ the message on,’ the cleaner said, wrinkling her nose again. Sarah realised there was a bad smell, and yes … it was coming from the bucket. Ugh, she put her hand to her own nose.

‘Stinks, don’t it?’ The woman said flashing a row of yellow teeth. ‘Been doin’ the toilets just now.’

Jeez Louise, this was a hospital, didn’t they know about germs?
They must have done; this was sometime in the 1920s, and Pasteur proved germ theory in 1861. ‘Hadn’t you better get clean water for these floors then if you’ve been doin’ the toilets?’ Sarah noted her 1913 accent had returned.

The woman wound her neck back as if Sarah had slapped her. ‘I am in a minute, just mind your own and get to the bloody kitchen if you want yer job. I won’t bother tipping you off next time,’ she grumbled, picked up the bucket and stumped away, the mop head swinging from side to side over her shoulder.

Sarah shrugged, turned and made her way towards a door bearing a sign ‘Strictly Staff’. Opening it and stepping through, she immediately caught the smell of food wafting on an updraft from some steps to her left. Oh goody, the kitchen … again. Sarah hoped that Chef would turn out to be a bit nicer than Cook. She wouldn’t hold her breath though. She was apparently late, and that wouldn’t get her off on the right foot.

She walked down the steps and at last had a chance to get a better look at what she was wearing. Because of her embarrassing arrival she’d not really taken it in. Hmm, an ankle-length black dress and neat, black lace-up flat shoes. Patting her hair she found it to be cut in a long bob and, pressing her lips together, decided she must be wearing a touch of lipstick. No jewellery or earrings, but then that would have to do with working in a kitchen, she guessed.

On the next flight down, a wheezy whistle could be heard, accompanied by the slow slap of feet on concrete steps. Sarah stopped, and a few seconds later a man appeared, carrying across his shoulder half a pig and a string of sausages. She had to flatten herself against the wall on the stairs to let the butcher squeeze past. He was a typical old-fashioned butcher, complete with bloody blue-and-white striped apron and ruddy cheeks.

‘Hello, lass,’ he wheezed. ‘Chef’s on the warpath for you.’ Hoisting the carcass higher and puffing out his cheeks, he set off again on his slow steady ascent.

‘Yes, thanks, I know,’ she called after him. It seemed as if the whole complement of staff knew she was late; Chef must be quite a presence. Sarah was beginning to get an anxiety rash. She stopped and looked behind her. Was that an indication that she should save the butcher? No, she didn’t feel it somehow; it was just an anxiety rash. She scratched her neck as she walked down the last few steps.

As to her mission, she still had no clue. Her attire produced no real giveaways about the date. The woman who she’d managed to upset outside had mentioned Flappers. Sarah knew they were in vogue between about 1926 and 1928, and these young women had caused a stir when they had decided to wear daring, calf- and just-below-the-knee-length dresses. They had cut their hair into short bobs and smoked cigarettes. Their views on sexual practices were very risqué for the time, and some behaved promiscuously, even by today’s standards. Sarah smiled when she thought of the tabloid press howling down ladette culture as if it were new. The Flappers were the first ladettes over eighty years ago.

‘Oh, it’s nice to see you smiling,’ a tall gangly man remarked, stepping out of what looked to be a store cupboard opposite the foot of the stairs. ‘You’d better wipe it off before you go in there. Chef is short-handed what with Maggie being off having the baby,
and
the butcher only just having brought the chickens.’ He folded his arms and peered through round spectacles perched on a ski-jump nose.

‘Yes, sorry, the er … train was late.’ Sarah smiled hopefully.

‘Train? You only live a mile away, what were you doing on the train?’ Gangly man narrowed his eyes.

Down the corridor, a door burst open and smashed back against the wall. A tubby man, in a chef’s hat and grubby whites, stood in the doorway, his cheeks sucking in and out, puffing like an old bull.

‘There you are, madam! Get in here and pluck those chickens if you still want a job at the end of the day!’

Sarah looked at him, rubbed her eyes and looked again. Nope, her eyes weren’t deceiving her. The chef appeared to be Gary Keynsham. What the hell was her brain playing at now? She couldn’t stand Gary, so if he was the one she had to save, shouldn’t he be someone she liked?

‘What you gawpin’ at?’ he said, almost apoplectic with rage. ‘I’ll give you five seconds and then—’

‘I’m coming, Chef, sorry, Chef!’ Sarah said, hurrying past him into the kitchen.

There looked to be about eight kitchen staff of various ranks. The ones of higher rank were shouting at the rest – the rest were running about like headless chickens. That observation led her to glance further across the room. On the table by a window overlooking a courtyard were six chickens. Sarah glanced at them and gulped. Her extent of chicken preparation hitherto had been taking the cellophane off, sometimes taking giblets out and then whacking it in the oven.