A Stitch in Time (6 page)

‘Well, I’ve changed my mind now, John,’ she whispered, moving closer still and resting her head on his shoulder. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to kiss me. Promise I won’t slap you.’ She tilted her face up to his.

John, who looked as if he had been given a million pounds, was about to say something, but then just kissed her instead. It was a quick gentle peck on the cheek and then he sat back, clearing his throat nervously.

‘Is that the best you can do?’ Sarah murmured, putting his arm around her and her hand on his knee.

‘By ’eck, that bump on yer ’ead must be making you forward, lass.’

Sarah laughed. ‘Yes, it must be.’ She leaned over and brushed her lips across his.

John needed no more encouragement and drew her tightly to him, kissing her hungrily. Sarah felt her libido go from nought to a hundred in less than ten seconds. His kisses were just as delicious as the rest of him, and she tingled all over as he ran his hand over her back and down her thigh. It had been over eighteen months since a man had so much as winked at her.

She could feel his heart thumping in his chest; as her own excitement grew, and before she knew what she was doing, she placed his hand on her breast. He stopped kissing her and looked into her eyes. ‘God, Sarah, what are you doing?’

‘Why, don’t you like it?’ she panted.

‘Course I bloody like it, I just don’t know if I can control myself … My dad and Violet are in t’ other room …’

‘Don’t worry about it, just kiss me again.’ Sarah unbuttoned the top buttons of her dress, pulled his mouth on to hers, and pressed her hips against him.

John moaned, slipped his hand inside her dress and then the light snapped on.

‘What the ’ell’s going on in ’ere, then!’ Albert barked from the doorway.

Sarah and John sprang apart and jumped up. Sarah turned her back and buttoned up her dress.

‘Well, do you ’ear me?’

John straightened his tie, said nothing and looked at the floor. Sarah thought he looked like a naughty schoolboy rather than a man in his thirties.

‘In Violet’s house an’ all; bloody disgustin’. Come on you, we’ve a meeting to be at!’ Albert turned to leave.

Sarah felt anger at Albert’s words vying with panic at the thought of John leaving. Combining the two emotions to good effect she said, ‘What’s disgustin’ about it? We’re both single and we really like each other. And for your information, we’re all going to the shelter, not to a meeting!’

John looked at her, puzzled, and Albert harrumphed and stomped out. Sarah followed hot on his heels, in time to see Albert push past Violet and grab his coat and hat from a chair. Violet, who was just putting a panshion pot of bread to rise by the fire, yelled, ‘Oy, you nearly made me drop this! What’s going on?’

‘You’d better ask yer nutty niece! She’s just been half-undressed in there with our John, now she’s on about shelters and there’s not even been a siren yet!’ Albert snapped, slipping on his coat.

Sarah folded her arms and fixed him with a steely glare. ‘Half-undressed is pushing it a bit, Albert, and there will be sirens … very soon.’

‘How the ’ell do you know that? You a witch, now?’ Albert asked, ramming his hat on his head.

‘No, it’s just a feeling I’ve got. Besides, it’s a bombers’ moon.’

Albert gave her a withering look and made for the back door.

Sarah turned to John behind her and grabbed his hand. ‘Please, John, you ’ave to trust me on this. Stop yer dad leavin’ before it’s too late!’

John pushed his hands through his hair. ‘Dad, perhaps we ought to wait a bit if Sarah’s ’ad a feelin’.’

‘Ha! She’s certainly ’ad a feelin’ from what I saw in t’ parlour.’

‘Stop being coarse, Albert!’ Violet said, planting her legs and putting her hands on her hips. ‘Now, Sarah, what’s this about shelters?’

‘We have to get to t’ shelters before t’ sirens go. ’av we got an Anderson shelter nearby?’

‘No. Have you even forgotten that? We use t’ cellar.’

Sarah remembered that many families didn’t have space for an Anderson shelter and felt safer in their cellars than going to a public shelter. That was good news regarding the time; it must be going up for 6.45. No need to leave the house. But were cellars safe? What if the house took a direct hit, they’d be trapped in the rubble.

‘You comin’ or what?’ Albert asked, standing in the open doorway.

John looked at Sarah and she shook her head, no. He shrugged. ‘Can’t we just give it a bit longer, Dad?’

‘No, we bloody well—’

‘Violet, will we be safe in t’ cellar?’ Sarah said, cutting Albert off in mid-rant.

‘I expect we’ll be as safe as anywhere. Tom Butler reinforced it with steel sheetin’ a few months ago and we ’ave a tunnel all t’ way through this row of houses.’

‘Oh, I see. Is the tunnel so that we could escape better if we did get flattened?’ Sarah asked, stalling for time.

‘No, it’s to make sure that we ’ave a more direct route to the loony bin for you, yer daft mare,’ Albert said from the corner of his mouth.

‘Please, Dad, stop being so nasty. Sarah’s really worried,’ John said, putting his arm around Sarah.

‘Albert, close t’ door, yer lettin’ all t’ warm air out,’ Violet said.

Sarah looked at Albert. He showed no signs of relenting and dug his hands into his pockets. If she could just get him to stay until seven o’clock, the sirens would sound and she’d have saved John, and Albert, too.

‘Please, Albert; just come down t’ cellar for ten minutes. You won’t be late for yer meetin’ then, and you will have helped me to ’ave peace of mind,’ Sarah said, crossing her fingers behind her back.

‘What do you think, Vi? What do you want to do?’ Albert asked, stepping back in.

‘I want you to close that bloody door for a start, and I suppose we’ll do as Sarah wants. She’s not ’erself … not ’erself at all.’

Ten minutes later they were settled in the freezing cellar wrapped in an assortment of blankets. Albert sat on an upturned bucket, looking like he’d lost ten pounds and found sixpence. Sarah and John were huddled close on a bench, and Violet, in an old chair, was holding some green yarn up to the single light bulb, trying to cast stitches on a knitting needle.

‘Why the ’ell you insisted that I stay ’ere instead of going down ’ome to Aggie I don’t know,’ Albert moaned.

‘Because you’d probably sneak off to that meeting, Albert, and our Sarah reckons it’s safer in ’ere.’ Violet sighed.

John pulled Sarah closer and kissed the top of her head. He didn’t bat an eyelid at the disapproving glower he got from Albert. A few seconds later Albert sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. ‘This is daft. I’m o—’

He was cut off by the banshee wail of the siren signalling an air raid. He closed his mouth and sat down again. Sarah closed her eyes and tried not to cry. In her mind she could see the awful fate of so many poor people that night. She squeezed John’s hand and took deep breaths. Violet put down her knitting and began to climb the cellar steps.

Sarah opened her eyes. ‘Where are you going, Auntie Violet!’

Violet threw back over her shoulder, ‘I’m off to change me vest. If I’m going to be killed, I want to make sure I’m clean.’

Sarah snuggled closer to John’s shoulder and squeezed his hand. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so safe, warm and completely in love. In fact, she didn’t think she’d ever been in love quite like this. ‘I think the bombs have stopped falling now, John,’ she murmured.

CRASH, CRUMP, SQUEEEE!
‘Whoa, pull forward, Justin! You’ve only bloody reversed into three wheelie bins!’

Sarah’s heart sank. The bombs must have started again … but what was that about wheelie bins? They weren’t around in the 1940s … She felt herself rising from great depths. She opened her eyes to find that she wasn’t in the cellar, that John’s shoulder was a pillow, and that she was squeezing the paw of her old teddy, not John’s hand. Realisation hit; she was in her bed at home and the row outside was a bin lorry.

Sarah felt terrible. Her head throbbed, her stomach bobbed on waves of nausea and the light shining through a gap in the bedroom curtains fired white-hot metal rods into her eyes. This was the mother of all hangovers. She placed a pillow over her eyes and tried to get a grip on what was happening.

How could she have a hangover? She’d not touched a drop since the night she’d first met John. Thoughts of John left a huge hole in her heart. What the hell was happening to her? How could she feel this strongly about someone who was alive in 1940? She hoped to God that she’d done enough to save him – save them all. And why on earth was she back in her own bed now? Shouldn’t she be outside her classroom at school, instead?
Stop thinking, Sarah; clear your mind, have a shower and make a cup of tea, otherwise you’ll ‘go a bit funny’ as Albert would say
 …

Sarah swallowed hard as she realised she’d never see the miserable old git, or Violet, ever again. Incredibly, she felt like she’d lost friends, good friends. But what about John? The Sarah of the past obviously loved him. That would explain her own feelings just before the row of the wheelie bins had rudely awakened her. She hoped that Sarah and John were safe and had been happy together.

But it was all so confusing. When she had looked in the mirror in 1940 she had seen her own face looking back … so had the Sarah of the past looked exactly like her? John, here in the present, should be able to shed light on it all. That’s if he ever pops up again, she told herself. Slowly, she put her feet to the floor and shuffled into the bathroom.

Slightly more shipshape after the shower, Sarah pulled on an old green sweater and jeans. Unable to face the noise of the hairdryer, she combed her hair through and left it to its own devices. The full-length mirror told her that it had seen her looking better, but that there had been one or two days after her husband left when she’d looked even worse.

Sarah sniffed a couple of times and frowned.
Bacon? Don’t tell me my senses are mucked up now because of this time-travelling lark?
She opened the curtains and shielded her eyes from the glare. Betty Grenville, her neighbour, pulled her bin back up her path and waved cheerily. Sarah waved back. Betty was mouthing something and pointing at the window, gesturing that Sarah should open it.

‘You don’t look well, love; you off work?’ she shouted up to Sarah.

Sarah’s ears begged for mercy. The volume of Betty’s voice could give a pneumatic drill a run for its money.

‘Err … I’m not great, Betty, I think I may have a day off, yes.’

‘Well, look after yourself, duck. Anything I can do, just pop round!’

Sarah smiled, nodded, mouthed
thank you
and closed the window before her brain started to haemorrhage.

A worrying thought presented itself as she walked downstairs. Today was bin day. Bin day was Thursday; she’d popped over to 1940 on Tuesday, so what had happened to Wednesday? Also, she’d better phone school and think of a reason for skipping school today. Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, she sniffed again. Definitely bacon; bacon and coffee?

She walked into the kitchen and grabbed hold of a chair to steady herself.

‘’Bout time, sleepy head! Now sit down there; just got the eggs to finish, hope you like fried,’ John said, pointing a spatula at her.

Sarah sat down and watched him for a few seconds. Her pulse raced and her heart mimicked a tumble dryer. Why was she so pleased to see him? Her brain seemed to have shut up shop and headed for the coast.

‘Drink this, you’ll feel better,’ John said, setting a glass of orange juice down in front of her. Then, placing a cool hand on her forehead, he asked, ‘Bit quiet this morning, aren’t we?’

‘Bit quiet?’ Sarah removed his hand and folded her arms. ‘Why on earth do you think that is, I wonder? I’ve just come back from the Blitz of 1940, feel like I’ve been run over by a truck, and appear to have lost a day of my life. And to cap it all, I get up to find you uninvited in MY house cooking bloody bacon! So, sorry if I disappoint; shall I do a few cartwheels and sing a rousing chorus from
Oliver
?’

John laughed out loud, picked up the frying pan and slipped eggs on to a plate. ‘Well, it is one of my favourite musicals,’ he said, and began whistling ‘Oom-Pah-Pah’.

In spite of herself, Sarah wanted to smile, but took a sip of orange juice to stop herself. There was no way she wanted John to think he was off the hook. And she needed to get any romantic notion about him
right
out of her head. The fluffy lovesick feeling that she’d had upon waking was just an aberration, an overhang from the Sarah in the past – a result of the emotional situation she’d left behind in 1940.

This
John had much explaining to do, and she needed a clear head in order to find answers. Sarah just wished that he didn’t look so damned attractive this morning.
I could try to superimpose the head of the insufferable Gary Keynsham on John’s shoulders. At least then I could focus on the task at hand
.

As John poured coffee, Sarah noticed her own appearance and flushed as red as the crimson coffee mugs. Not only had she shoved on the oldest sweater known to man, but she’d neglected to put a bra on first! The sweater was threadbare in places and she could clearly see the outline of her breasts and, even more embarrassingly, her nipples. Coupled with her damp, roughly combed hair and her hung-over visage, bare of make-up, Sarah had never felt so unattractive and exposed.

She folded her arms tightly across her chest and sighed. Still, at least it would be easier to avoid any complications between the two of them. There was no way he’d fancy her looking like this. And that’s exactly what she wanted.

‘Now,
bon appétit
, my dear.’ John smiled and, with a flourish, placed the bacon and eggs in front of her. It did look very appetising. Sarah remembered that she hadn’t eaten anything apart from a small bowl of cereal and very old cheese on toast on Tuesday. Her tummy growled and bubbled in indignation and she realised she was ravenous. The trouble was, she’d have to unfold her arms in order to eat it. That would not be a good idea, given the nipple situation.

‘Come on, dig in,’ John said, through a mouthful of bacon. Even with bacon fat dribbling down his chin he would still win the hearts of her vegetarian friends. She tried the Gary Keynsham trick, but to no avail. Gary’s head materialised in her imagination for a nano-second, but then, with a flash of his tombstone teeth, disappeared into the ether. Instead, looking back at her was a near-perfect face, at the moment wearing dark stubble on its strong chin, a sexy smile and a pair of sea-green eyes crinkling at the corners.

She looked at the table and shook her head. ‘I’m not that hungry,’ she said. ‘Besides, I can’t just start chucking bacon and eggs down my neck without some answers, John. My mind is in turmoil.’

John pointed his fork at her. ‘You must be hungry after all you’ve been through. Just try and have a few mouthfuls, and drink your juice. I’ll answer all your questions while we eat.’

For the next few seconds or so, John watched as Sarah tried to eat one-handed. With her left arm still clamped tightly across her chest, she attempted to cut the bacon with her fork and ended up catapulting one half of the crispy rasher into John’s coffee.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ He frowned, picking the soggy morsel of bacon out and throwing it in the sink.

‘It’s your fault for making the bacon too crispy.’

‘Oh, I see, nothing to do with you eating as if your left arm was in a sling, then?’

‘I’m not,’ Sarah said leaning forward on the table, her arms folded.

‘No, not now, but you’re obviously hiding something. Look, you still have your arms folded across your … oh I see!’ he said, grinning widely.

‘What do you mean?’ She looked away, her face aflame.

‘If you’re trying to cover your modesty, don’t bother. I clocked that you were looking, shall we say, a bit perky, as soon as you came into the kitchen.’ He laughed, and took a huge bite out of his toast.

Sarah opened her mouth and closed it again. She couldn’t see the point of trying to make something up. She pushed her chair back and flounced out.

Reappearing a few minutes later, wearing a touch of make-up, a bra and a blue checked shirt, her hair in a ponytail, she sat down and proceeded to demolish her breakfast.

‘Not hungry then?’ John smirked.

‘I lied, obviously. Now, put some more toast on, and tell me what the hell happened to Wednesday, why I feel like I’ve a hangover, why I didn’t go back to my classroom but instead woke up in bed, and why the person I saved … I suppose I did save him?’ She looked at John anxiously.

He nodded.

‘Good. What was I saying? Ah, yes … and why he looked
exactly
like you.’

As John busied himself with the toast, he told her that she’d slept for an entire day as, because of the whole traumatic experience, and it being her first time as a Stitch, she’d been pulled out of the past and put into a deep sleep. She wouldn’t have coped being sent straight back to deal with 9CM. The hangover was a result of the trauma and being brought back through time so rapidly.

‘It’s a bit like having the bends, you know like divers get when they come up from the sea bed too quickly. Nitrogen bubbles get in the blood or something,’ John said, pouring more coffee.

‘What, so I’ve got nitrogen bubbles in my blood?’

‘No, but you have got this weird hangover due to the pressure of time on your body; you feel giddy, dizzy, sick and stuff. You’re feeling better already though, am I right?’

‘Yes, you are, but what worries me is what happened to school yesterday? They’ll be wondering what’s happened to me, not ringing in sick,
and
just disappearing in the middle of a lesson on Tuesday!’

‘I fixed that, don’t worry,’ John said, waving the recently popped toast in the air to cool it down. ‘I rang, said you were feeling under stress due to an awful migraine and “women’s problems”; you had an embarrassing leakage and just ran home. I said you’ll probably be in tomorrow, though. Your head of department is setting the work for the kids.’

Sarah stood up so fast she thought her head would explode. ‘What! You told my school that I had … I had …’ She couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud.

‘Yep, your period was majorly heavy, and you had to go home and change. What’s so bad about that? I knew someone wh—’

‘I don’t care who you knew. How dare you! How dare you do that? I’ll never be able to live that down, never!’

Sarah ran out into the living room and threw herself on the sofa, hiding her face with a cushion. Humiliation didn’t begin to cover what she was feeling.
God, that’s it then. My whole world has just crashed and burned
. She heard John come in and walk over.

‘Sarah? Why are you getting so upset? I could hardly tell them the truth, could I?’ He tried to pull the cushion from her vice-like grip.

‘No, but you could have made something up less cringingly humiliating! Just go away!’ The anger in her voice, though muffled, came through the cushion loud and clear.

John didn’t reply and a few seconds later she heard the front door open and then close.

Damn him! Had he buggered off without answering the rest of her questions?
Hurling the cushion across the room she leapt up and ran to the window. A quick glance left and right revealed nothing but an empty street.
Probably popped into another dimension; easier to get to his stupid market garden!

Sarah marched into the hall and there was John, leaning with his back against the door, arms folded, head on one side, a cheeky smile playing over his lips and a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

‘Suppose you think you’re funny, eh?’ she said, torn between wanting to slap him and kiss him. Kiss him? For God’s sake, what was she thinking?
Must be bloody sex starved after all this time.

‘Yes, I do. I hoped I could make you laugh too, lift the atmosphere a bit,’ he said.

‘It will take more than a little prank to make me laugh today. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take to be honest.’ Sarah felt tears pricking her eyes.

She turned quickly and walked back to the kitchen. There was no way he would see her cry. Picking up the frying pan, she squirted detergent and ran hot water into the sink.

‘Leave that, Sarah. Why don’t we take our coffee out into the garden?’ John said, putting his hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s a lovely day … and judging by the knots I can feel in your shoulder, I think you need to relax.’

She shrugged off his hand. ‘I need to do this.’

‘Why don’t you put it in the dishwasher?’ John asked, walking over to open the back door.

‘Because I always wash pans by hand and because I WANT TO, ALRIGHT!’

John raised his eyebrows, shrugged and went into the garden.

Sarah stopped scrubbing and stared at the bubbles in the sink. She exhaled and, with that breath, most of her anger drained away, leaving her wrung out like the cloth in her hand. What exactly had made her so furious? Was it the humiliation John had caused by his stupid bloody phone call to school? Was it the whole extraordinary and emotional experience she’d just had in 1940? Was it the fact that when she’d gone upstairs to change, her hands had busily applied make-up even though her brain expressly forbade it?