A Stitch in Time (5 page)

‘John!’ Sarah put a trembling hand to her mouth. ‘I thought you didn’t travel, just sewed.’

John raised his eyebrows and folded his arms. ‘Travel, sewed? I drive trains and I’ve never picked up a needle in my life, what the ’eck are yer on about?’

‘Well, at least she knows yer name, lad; there must be some improvement inside ’er noddle,’ Albert said, chuckling.

‘But, you
are
John … I don’t understand,’ Sarah said, feeling the need to sit down again. He was identical to the John from the future, was even called John, but why? Was that a sign? Was he the one she had to save?

John’s face softened. ‘Never mind, duck, you’ll get your noddle sorted soon. I’m on nights tomorrow, but on Saturday, we can perhaps go to t’ pictures. That might cheer you up a bit.’

‘You’ll be lucky, son; she’s never bothered with you before, why should now be different?’ Albert said, sitting down heavily in the chair that Violet had vacated.

‘Oh, shurrup, Dad. She seemed ’appy enough to see me just now,’ John said, sitting at the kitchen table.

Sarah smiled inanely. Both men looked at her as if she were an exhibit in the curious creatures section of the museum. Violet pottered about mixing flour, yeast and water in a brown earthenware bowl. ‘Stop gawpin’ at her, you two. She’ll not feel right till she’s been through t’ sheets if you ask me,’ she said, adding water from a jug.

‘Through t’ sheets! It’s a bit early for bed in’t it?’ John asked.

‘Not now yer daft ha’porth, tonight. Look, make yersen busy and bring some more coal up from t’ cellar,’ Violet said, glancing at Sarah who had now taken off her shoes and was rubbing the underside of her feet vigorously.

‘You alright, love?’ Violet asked.

‘Yes, it’s just me feet; they’re really itchy all of a su—’ Sarah stopped, as a line from John’s letter smacked her between the eyes.
When you have found the person you are supposed to save, you may get a sign. It could be itchy feet
 …
It had to be John then! Her feet hadn’t itched when she’d met Albert and Violet.

John clattered down the cellar steps with the coal scuttle and Sarah wondered what she would have to do to save him. Should she follow him down the cellar? This whole thing could be nothing to do with the Blitz; it could just be that he slips on a bit of coal and breaks his neck. If she went down with him, she could make sure he didn’t.

Sarah half-rose from her chair and then sank back down again. That would be really unlikely. The 12th of December, hundreds die all around from bombs and fire, while John slips on a bit of coal.
Get real, Sarah.
She had a sneaking suspicion that she would be pants at this time-travelling rescue malarkey. She sighed, listening to the coal being shovelled below, and then her ears tuned in to the conversation in the room.

‘So do they pay you for these birds, then?’ Violet was asking Albert.

‘Nay, lass. It’s an ’onour to let me pigeons do vital war work. God knows I’d be fighting if I were allowed. Instead I ’ave to make do with t’ ’ome Guard. It’s not the same as being a soldier, Vi.’

Violet stopped kneading the bread and gave Albert a hard stare. ‘Well, I wish my Billy were alive and in t’ ’ome Guard. He were a soldier and a fat lot of good that did him!’

Albert shuffled in his seat and mumbled something unintelligible. Then his sharp eyes alighted back on Sarah’s. ‘You like me pigeons don’t you, love?’ he asked, returning to the subject at hand.

Sarah nodded; it seemed safest.

‘Just think if one of ’em wins a medal for going behind enemy lines, getting vital information and saving folk.’ He beamed at them both. ‘That would be a grand day alright.’

Sarah realised he must be one of the many pigeon fanciers who had given their birds to the armed forces to carry messages during the war. She remembered that many pigeons did in fact carry vital information, and if they survived enemy fire, managed to save lives, or bring crucial information about the positioning of the enemy. They were dropped in containers by parachute and hopefully fell into the hands of the allies and the resistance. A message was attached and then the pigeon would be released back to Britain, or sometimes to mobile lofts on ships.

Sarah suddenly blurted without thinking, ‘Oh yes, I think there were about 250,000 used in total. And they did get medals, but not until about 1943 …’

Violet and Albert just gave her withering looks and carried on chatting. They obviously thought she was still suffering from her ‘funny turn’.

Sarah breathed a sigh of relief that they hadn’t made more of her odd outburst, but then immediately broke into a fit of the giggles. Little wiggles of laughter bubbled up from her tummy, escaping in high-pitched tones, reverberating manically around Violet’s kitchen.

She felt very peculiar. There was absolutely nothing she found amusing. In fact, she felt mad panic as the giggles became sudden bursts of laughter exploding from her mouth like the ratta-tatta-tat of a machine gun.

Violet and Albert stopped and stared, frowning at her attempts to quieten her mirth. Sarah clasped first one hand, and then the other, tightly over her mouth and tried to hold her breath. Her face flushed and her eyes felt as if they’d pop out of her head under the pressure of restrained laughter. Her brain tried to process the total lack of control of her emotions.
Oh God, yes!
This must be the warning giggles at letting knowledge of the future slip!

‘I told you she wasn’t right in the ’ead, Vi. I reckon we need to send for t’ doctor. Look at ’er, she’s like a raving lunatic!’ Albert pointed at Sarah, whilst backing towards the door.

Violet ran to Sarah’s side and shook her shoulders roughly. ‘What’s a matter, Sarah, talk to me, girl!’

That did the trick and immediately Sarah felt the laughter disappear. She took her hands away from her mouth, let out a breath and inhaled another, while trying to regulate the panic coursing around her body like an electric current.

John, whistling ‘We’ll Meet Again’
,
came up from the cellar and walked in to a stunned silence. The tune died on his lips as he looked at the three of them. ‘What’s up wi’ you lot?’

Sarah shook her head and flushed crimson, Violet shrugged and sat down as if her legs had turned to string, and Albert stood by the door. ‘Come on, John,’ he said, ‘we best leave the lasses alone. Vi’s got bread to make and Sarah’s … well, I’m not sure what she’s got to do. Anyroad, we’ll be late for our Marples meetin’.’

‘We ’aven’t got to be there until half-seven, Dad, and it’s only quarter past six.’ John looked completely bemused.

They batted an argument back and forth about leaving too early, but Sarah had stopped listening at the mention of Marples.

The Marples Hotel on the 12th of December 1940 had taken a direct hit. Completely demolished, seventy people in the hotel had lost their lives; it would be the worst single tragedy of that terrible night. Crazily, it was to have been research homework for 9CM that morning.

A flash of clarity, and the first clear plan so far, did a little dance of triumph in Sarah’s battered brain. That must be it. This is what she was here for! She had to stop John. Under no circumstances must he, or Albert for that matter, go anywhere near the place. In fact, she needed to make sure everyone stayed put. They all needed to get to the shelters in time for seven o’clock when the air-raid sirens would go.

She swallowed hard and walked over to John. She guessed that Albert wouldn’t listen to anything she had to say after just witnessing her acting like a woman possessed. No, John had to be the one to convince, and she put her plan into action.

‘Why don’t we go to the pictures tonight, John?’ she said, putting her hand on John’s arm.

He took a step back and blinked at her owlishly. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

‘Eh, pictures? You pick yer times, alright,’ Albert said, shaking his head. ‘No, I told you, we’ve got a very important meeting with t’ pigeon man from RAF Lindholme.’

John found his voice. ‘Well, me and Sarah could go t’ pictures and you could go to meet t’ pigeon man, Dad.’

‘Oh, charmin’! ’ow am I supposed to struggle all the way up to Fitzalan Square with two baskets of bloody pigeons?’

John straightened his tie and coughed. ‘Well, couldn’t we meet him tomorrow, Dad?’

Albert looked ready to blow up. ‘No, we bloody well couldn’t. We ’ave no telephone, remember. How would we tell t’ bloke, eh? Send a soddin’ homin’ pigeon?’

‘Albert’s right, Sarah, he needs to take them pigeons and he can’t do it alone. And to be frank, I don’t think you should be going anywhere tonight. Yer still not right, not by a long chalk,’ Violet chipped in, returning to her bread and turning it out on to a floured board.

An uncomfortable silence descended, broken only by the thump, thump, thump of Violet pummelling the bread around the board. Sarah glanced out of the window and saw that the full bombers’ moon had risen above the outbuildings. And though the fire now burned brightly, a chill crept along her spine and tightened icy fingers around her heart.

John looked down at Sarah still holding his arm, shrugged and smiled sheepishly. ‘Think we better leave it till Saturday, then.’ She looked into his lovely eyes.
If I don’t do something drastic, you’ll never see Saturday
 …
never see the morning.

Sarah looked at Violet. ‘Can me and John talk private, like? I’ve summat to tell ’im and then ’im and Albert can go to t’ meetin’.’

Violet stopped pummelling. ‘Well, I’m not movin’ from ’ere, not with this bread half-done. There’s only t’ parlour, cellar, or outside.’ Violet pursed her lips and pointed a floured finger. ‘There’s upstairs, but I’m not ’avin you take a man in yer bedroom, even if you ’ave gone funny.’

Sarah tried to suppress a smirk and led John towards what she presumed was the door to the parlour. Violet’s sense of morality took the biscuit; she was thirty-four for goodness sake, not fourteen.

‘And don’t take all night,’ Albert said, pointing to the teapot and raising his eyebrows at Violet. She nodded. ‘Me and Vi are ’avin’ another cuppa, and then I want to be off.’

‘Alright, Dad, don’t fuss,’ John said as he followed Sarah into the parlour.

John flicked on the light and moved Sarah to one side as he adjusted the blackout curtains. It was a small, cheerful room, but plain to see that it was only used occasionally. The items of furniture and ornaments were obviously Violet’s treasured possessions.

A green leather sofa and two wing-back chairs, all sporting antimacassars, were carefully placed around a red-and-yellow Persian-type rug. A walnut radio, or wireless as it was known then, was highly polished and had pride of place on a shelf along the back wall. The mantelshelf held a selection of china figurines and an Art Deco Bakelite clock sat in the centre. Two china dogs guarded either side of the fireplace. The fire, Sarah noticed, was unlit, which accounted for the near-freezing temperature in the room.

She also noticed that John looked a bit uncomfortable, avoiding her eyes and hugging himself against the cold. ‘I’ll turn this lamp on, John. Turn t’ big light off, and come and sit by me on t’ settee; it’ll be a bit cosier.’

John looked even more uncomfortable but turned the light off. Perhaps he thought she had turned into a loose woman! Sarah suppressed another smirk.

He sat as far away from her as was humanly possible on a two-seater sofa, leaned forward, blew into his hands and then rubbed them vigorously on his legs.

‘Why don’t you move up further to me, John? It’ll be warmer and I won’t bite you.’ Sarah chuckled. Her boldness surprised her. She would never normally have talked like this to a man she hardly knew. This situation wasn’t normal, though. It called for abnormal behaviour and she could safely say she had that in spades.
It’s just like playing a part, Sarah, just like acting really. Do whatever’s necessary.

‘Huh, you’ve changed yer tune. Last time I tried to hold yer hand I got a slap around t’ chops!’ John said, glaring at her.

‘I slapped you for trying to hold my hand?’

‘Aye, but I expect you’ve forgot that, like everythin’ else.’

Sarah sighed and nodded. ‘I ’ave, John, yes. I’m sorry I did that. I won’t slap you now, though.’ She reached over and took his hand.

He gawped at her and flushed red. Even in the low lamplight, his face looked hot enough to grill beef burgers. Sarah noted that, though embarrassed, he didn’t take his hand from hers.

Taking encouragement from this, she inched closer.

‘So why aren’t you taken, you know, married? In fact, why are we both not married?’

John traced the side of her face tenderly. ‘Ee, Sarah, love … you really don’t remember ’owt?’

Sarah took a few seconds to answer; she was too busy gazing into his eyes and enjoying the gentle touch of his fingers. ‘What? Err … no, I don’t, why don’t you tell me?’

John moved a bit closer and stroked her hand. ‘Right, I’ll tell you. I got jilted and you got jilted. Me and thee ’ad alus liked each other, but we were just mates, like. We’d been courtin’ these other two chuffs for about five year. Ivy was yer best friend, and Bob was mine. I’d proposed to Ivy, and she’d said yes. Bob had proposed to you and you’d accepted. And then guess what ’appened about a three year ago?’

‘They did the dirty on us and buggered off together?’ Sarah said.

‘Yes, you do remember, then?’

‘No, it’s just t’ bloody story of my life.’ Sarah couldn’t believe it. Dumped in both past and future dimensions.
Doesn’t do a whole lot for my ego. I should write a book: On the Shelf in 1940 and 2013 – the tragic tale of Sarah, the most dumped woman in history.

‘Story of yer life? When were you jilted before?’ John broke in on her self-pity party.

‘Eh, oh don’t mind me, I’m muddled … so anyway, how did I come to slap you?’

‘It were about six months later. We’d gone t’ pictures and I put my arm round you. You let me, then I went to ’old yer ’and, but I got walloped. Then you stormed out.’

The clock chimed 6.30. Sarah’s heart rate went into overdrive; she was running out of time. She had to act fast now to make sure John would support her, no matter what Albert said.