A Stitch in Time (7 page)

She pulled two clean mugs from the cupboard, sloshed more coffee into them and gave a heavy sigh.
All of the above, Sarah
 …
all of the above.

The sun dappled through the leaves of the old silver birch and on to John’s shoulders, giving his white T-shirt a Dalmatian effect. Sarah’s large and unruly garden was a burst of colour at this time of year. She mowed the lawn, but the riot of flowers and mature shrubs were the evidence of a previous owner’s labours.

‘What a lovely garden you have!’ John said, watching her walk down the path, trying not to spill the coffee.

‘Not my doing, I just tidy round. No idea about gardens really.’ She nodded towards a bench under the rose-covered pergola. ‘Do you want to sit down over there?’

Side by side they sipped coffee, while John prattled on about gardening and his love of nature. Sarah half-listened, but mostly enjoyed the soothing sound of his voice, the warm sun on her skin and the heady scent of roses permeating the air.

‘So, do you want to see photo evidence of your neat stitching?’

‘Mm? What?’ she said, only vaguely aware that he’d asked her something.

‘You’re miles away, aren’t you? Do you want to see a photo of John and Sarah?’

Puzzled, she watched as he stood up and pulled a wallet from his jeans’ pocket. Flipping it open he extracted an old black-and-white snap and handed it to her. The photo depicted a laughing couple on their wedding day. The man was tall, sandy haired and moustachioed; the woman was short, raven haired and radiant. The usual gathering of friends and relatives surrounded the couple on the steps of the church; Albert and Violet were at the forefront.

Sarah looked up at John. ‘You said it was a photo of John and Sarah? That’s Albert and Violet, but I’ve never seen the couple before.’

He sat back down next to her. ‘No, but it
is
them. They really were called John and Sarah. And, in order for you to achieve your aim of saving John and stitching up the hole in time,’ he patted her knee, ‘which I might add, you did brilliantly – you saw yourself as Sarah and John as me.’

She shook her head. ‘But why? I don’t understand.’

‘Well, if you had looked in the mirror and seen a total stranger looking back, you may have quite possibly gone to pieces.’

Sarah studied the photo. ‘Ah yes … yes, I can see that, but why did I see John as you?’

He smiled awkwardly, scratched his nose and coughed.

‘Well?’

John shot off the bench towards a clump of grass at the edge of the lawn. He knelt down and poked at it. She wandered over and peered at the grass, and then at John, noticing that his face was very red. He looked seriously embarrassed. ‘What are you doing?’

He cleared his throat and looked intently at the clump of grass. ‘I think this may be couch grass. You’ll need to get rid of that. It can be very invasive.’

‘Really? I think you are being very
evasive
, John. Why are you so embarrassed all of a sudden?’

John stood up and looked towards the house. ‘Well, I’m worried about what your reaction will be if I tell you why I was John.’

Sarah stepped round to face him. ‘Try me.’

‘Well, John had to be someone you were, err … familiar with, so you could feel comfortable,’ John mumbled, his green eyes dancing away from hers.

‘Familiar with? I hardly know you.’

‘Yes, well I’m who you wanted to see, apparently. When Stitches are on a mission, the theory is that their brains often conjure up images of friends or loved ones; you know, to help minimise stress?’

Sarah frowned. ‘But there are loads of people I know better than you, and …’

‘OK, Sarah, listen.’ John took her hand and led her back to the bench. He sat down, pulling her beside him. ‘Look, it was because you had to employ, let’s say, delicate tactics to keep John from going out to that meeting. You needed to really feel something for the guy, in order to bring yourself to do … what you did.’

Sarah was mortified. How could her brain be so stupid? Now John knew how she felt. Hang on, how did she feel? When she’d woken this morning, she’d felt in love with the John in the past, but that was just woven in with the experience. OK, admittedly she was attracted to
this
John, sitting gawping at her on the bench – who wouldn’t be – but love? No way! And how arrogant was he to think that?

‘Well, this time that theory is wrong, John!’ She stood up. ‘It’s obvious that I cared for the other John because Sarah in the past did. You must just have been on my mind due to all the trauma of time travel and everything and my brain popped you out on to the other John. Now, I think I’m going back to bed for a bit, so it’s time you left.’ Sarah walked briskly down the path and into the house.

On his way out of the front door John turned to her. ‘Look, I know you’re angry for lots of good reasons, but please take my card,’ he held out his hand, ‘and call me if you need to ask questions or if ever you’re worried about …’

She pushed his hand away. ‘I won’t need it, thanks. Bye!’ Sarah closed the door on him and with her back against it, shut her eyes and slid down to the floor.

After gathering her composure, a few minutes later she dragged herself up and into the kitchen. On the table propped against her empty plate was a business card. Picking it up she read:

So, looks like he did his time-stopping trick again, then. Nipped round me in the hall and then out again. Sighing, she turned the card over.

Prime Minister, blimey! She hoped he’d be a good one. Sarah stared at John’s empty coffee cup and traced her fingers around the rim. She decided she’d had enough adventures for one lifetime. Nevertheless, she put the card in her pocket and took comfort from its presence as she cleared away the breakfast dishes.

‘Dad, what are you doing here?’ John asked, making his way through the tall rows of runner beans towards a kneeling figure weeding a patch of earth.

‘Charming,’ Harry Needler said, standing to a stretch. ‘“Pop over and see me anytime, Dad; I’ll be glad of your help, Dad,” he says. Now he wants to know what I’m doing here.’

John laughed, embraced his father, and then held him at arm’s length. ‘Let’s have a look at you then,’ he said, taking in his dad’s twinkly eyes and scant grey hair. ‘If anything, you seem to be growing younger lately; have you got a portrait in the attic that’s grey and wrinkled?’

Harry pretended to spar with his son, thumbing his nose and dancing lightly on his feet over the damp earth. ‘That’s a backhanded compliment if ever I heard one. I’ll have you know I’m only sixty-two, so why should I be grey and wrinkly, eh, eh? Come on, pud ’em up!’

‘I’d rather have a cuppa. Come on, I have a flask and a spare cup in the greenhouse.’ John chuckled, dodging his dad’s half-hearted jabs.

‘Gawd, you’re no fun. Is there a portrait in your attic that is young and carefree?’

With feet on a bucket and a mouth full of biscuit, Harry looked appreciatively around his son’s well-stocked greenhouse. ‘So what’s that plant there, then?’ He pointed his mug at a spindly plant snaking along the high trellis.

‘That’s a rare chilli plant; I grow a few for specialist restaurants. That end of the business is doing quite well.’ John smiled and drained his mug. ‘So, why are you here really? You never just “pop” by to help with the weeding and ask about rare plants.’

Harry raised his eyebrows and assumed a look of cherubic innocence. ‘It
has
been six months, John. I thought I’d take a break from my travels and see how you are.’

John said nothing but shook his head, folded his arms and waited.

‘OK, I wanted to see how the business was going,’ Harry said, taking another biscuit from the packet.

‘It’s going OK. People still need to eat even during a recession, but you could have picked up a phone to ask that, Dad.’

Harry sighed and dipped his biscuit. ‘Not the market-gardening business; I meant
the
business.’

‘Needling? Just as always … Why, what’s going on?’

Harry avoided his son’s eyes, just held out his mug and nodded at the flask. While John busied himself pouring tea, Harry cleared his throat and said, ‘I’ve been asked to have a word … They dropped me an email yesterday. There’s concern about this latest one … this Sarah.’

‘Bloody cheek! Why?’ John asked. This time he was the one avoiding eye contact.

‘I think you know why. She obviously likes you and it is thought that the feeling’s mutual.’

John turned his back and picked up a pack of flower pots. He unpacked them one at a time, setting them carefully along a bench. ‘Of course I like her; it would be impossible to work with someone I didn’t in my line of work.’

‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. It was you who she chose to see to help her through the trip to the Blitz … That should have given you a red light. But you going round cooking her breakfast and sitting under her rose arbour didn’t exactly give her the “stay away” signal. It has to stop, John … Think of the consequences.’

John whipped round to face his father. ‘Give me a break! I just told you I like her, but that’s all! I’ve only known her five minutes. God, isn’t it enough that I do this crazy stuff without the puppet masters sending you to grill me?’ he snapped, his face aflame and his eyes flashing.

A sad little smile replaced the sunny disposition on Harry’s face and he stood up and set his cup down. ‘Fancy a pint, lad? I saw a nice little boozer on my way up here, only about ten minutes away.’ Harry slipped his jacket on and walked towards the door.

John frowned and dusted his hands clean. ‘Right, so we can have a nice little chat and you can grill me some more about my feelings for Sarah, I suppose?’

‘No. I
would
like a little chat with my only son, but as for finding out about your feelings … you’ve already told me everything I need to know.’

Sarah felt as if she were wading through treacle the next morning as she walked heavy-legged through the school gates. Her heart rate went from a waltz to a quickstep and the voice responsible for maintaining her pride and dignity screamed ‘Don’t go in there!’ But every atom of her rational being propelled her forward.
You have to go in there sometime, just get on with it.

The first hurdle was to get past reception without being collared by Gillian, the ‘I put my make-up on with a trowel’ receptionist, who took calls about staff absence. Sarah knew she was a terrible gossip and would have already spread Sarah’s ‘condition’ around the whole office of secretaries. What niggled her most was that the whole embarrassing debacle hadn’t even happened; it was just a figment of John’s warped imagination. Still, Sarah had purposely come in earlier than normal. Hopefully, she’d avoid having to speak to many people.

A quick glance on passing revealed not Gillian, but Jenny, sitting on reception. Phew, Gillian must be away herself or …

‘Oh, you’re in then. Alright now, Sarah?’ Gillian popped out of the office door to Sarah’s left. She wore a fake mask of concern, and an unquenchable desire for more juicy morsels of gossip flickered in her heavily mascaraed eyes.

‘Yes, thanks, Gillian,’ Sarah muttered, intending to stride through the doors to the staffroom corridor.

Gillian put her hand on Sarah’s arm and looked around conspiratorially. ‘Don’t worry, love, your secret’s safe with me. Your “friend” explained everything. It must be lovely to have someone like him to look after you.’

Sarah nodded and stepped forward, but Gillian leaned in again. ‘I think it might be the menopause you know. My sister started about your age, fortyish, and it was the same for her.’

Menopause! Fortyish? The bitch! Gillian knew that Sarah was just 34, because a few of them had been out for a drink to celebrate her birthday. Sarah was about to let rip with a few choice words, but then decided to keep quiet. If she started, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to stop. Stepping forward, she pushed past Gillian and flung open the door.

‘Well, really!’ Gillian gasped.

In the sparsely populated staffroom, Sarah shuffled through the mountain of paperwork in her pigeonhole. Two days away and the pile rivalled the one she’d have to pick up from the mat at home later. Half were glossy ads for history DVDs and textbooks, the other half were from various members of staff reminding her about meetings, break duty, and detentions.

‘Hey, Sarah!’

Sarah lifted her head. Oh joy, Gary Keynsham; did that man ever do anything else apart from hang round here like a bad smell?

He sidled up to her, flashing a smile at the lovely Jodie who’d just entered.

‘Did you forget to pass that message on to Danny the other day? He didn’t show up at break and—’

‘No, sorry, I had one or two things on my mind, Gary.’

‘Well, no matter, I caught him last night and—’

‘So why bother me with it now?’ she asked, walking to the door.

‘My goodness, you’re snappy this morning; must be the time of the month, eh?’ He winked at Jodie and folded his arms.

Sarah whirled round, her eyes flashing. Had that nasty bitch Gillian been spreading it round the staff, too? Gary pulled a face and stepped backwards. He looked very wary and treated her to his biggest smile. ‘Hey, it’s just a joke, hon, no need to get angry.’

‘Just a joke, eh? Making a joke about the personal workings of the female body is just a joke? How would you like it if I said, “bit snappy today, Gary, must be because you couldn’t get an erection last night”?’

Gary flushed and his voice scaled up a few octaves. ‘What do you mean? I have no problems there.’

‘No? Well I have no problems with my “time of the month” either, hon. Just think before you open your big sexist trap in future!’

From the corner of her eye, Sarah saw Gary’s big sexist trap gape open as he watched her exit the staffroom like a woman possessed. She took great pleasure from the look on his face as he caught Jodie smothering a giggle.

Sarah unlocked the door to her classroom. She shuddered when going over what she’d said. The personal workings of the female body, what was she thinking? That sounded practically Victorian. She’d called him sexist too, but it served him right; he was, and he was long overdue a slap down.

Setting her bag on the desk she drew out her planner. Flicking to lesson one, to her extreme delight she saw that it was in fact a free lesson and not Year 9. She must have got the weeks mixed up. Thank you, God! Some good news at last. And lesson two was … oh, good, Year 10. They were her favourite group and they were about to start a topic on why the homesteaders moved to the American West in the 1860s. Great stuff.

Sarah snapped the planner shut and then her legs turned to mush. She sat on the desk. Palpitations raced through her heart, her whole body trembled like an aspen leaf and her hands grew clammy. Homesteaders in the American West? Damn, didn’t John say she’d have to save a homesteader? There was no way she was ready to jaunt off on another adventure yet. She needed a rest and time to get used to the idea.

The door opened and Robert, her head of department, popped his head round. The young, dynamic leader of history was normally chatty and full of some new idea he’d like to share with her, but today he seemed reluctant to even make eye contact.

‘Good to see you back. Need anything?’ he asked, already inching the door closed. Sarah realised he didn’t know what to say to her. She felt her anger surfacing again – John had a lot to answer for.

‘Hey there, Robert, yes I’m much better now, thanks. I would like a word with you about Danny Jakes, though. I think we need to think of a few strategies for managing his behaviour.’

‘OK, can we do it Monday? Shouldn’t bother yourself with it today, not with your err … problem. Have a nice rest at the weekend.’ Rob smiled sympathetically, as if she had some incurable disease, and then ducked out.

Sarah put her head in her hands and gave a heavy sigh. God, how embarrassing! As if her life wasn’t stressful and depressing enough, now it was going round that she was in the menopause and couldn’t handle dealing with unruly kids. Well, to be honest the latter was the truth at the moment.
OK, Sarah, snap out of the self-pity mode. You’ll need your wits about you if you’re suddenly catapulted into nineteenth-century America!

It’d just be her luck to find herself on the back of a runaway horse. That’s how her life felt at the moment – as if she were galloping towards a ravine and she’d lost control of the reins.
Sarah sighed, jumped off the desk and began to set up a PowerPoint presentation for lesson two.

‘OK, then, Year 10, what do you think that is?’ Sarah pointed at the projected slide depicting a tiny sod-built construction half-buried into a hillside. The endless plains of Nebraska rolled away as far as the eye could see on one side, and on the other, a bedraggled family posed for the camera. A man proudly held the rein of a bony horse and a woman and three children gazed woodenly into the distance. The smallest child clasped a pumpkin almost as big as himself.

‘Is it a toilet, Miss?’ Jamie Albright asked hopefully.

‘A toilet!’ Kirsty Grimshaw snorted. ‘Duh! Of course not, you idiot, it’s too big
and
it’s got a chimney sticking out of it. It is a chimney, isn’t it, Miss?’

‘It is a chimney, Kirsty, yes, but please don’t be rude to Jamie. Remember the rule: class-discussion is for everyone. Everyone should be made to feel as though they have important contributions to make.’

‘So the whole family lived in that shack thingy, then?’ Kirsty asked in disbelief.

‘Indeed they did, Kirsty, and that shack thingy was called a sod dugout, and those people there are called homesteaders, or farmers.’

‘Sod? Isn’t that swearing, though?’ Jenny Holdsworth giggled. One or two others joined her.

‘It’s mild swearing yes, but sod is also another name for earth. If you look closely you can see the grass sticking out of the sod bricks that they cut from the earth. They let them bake hard in the sun and then built this house.’

‘Why didn’t they use ordinary bricks or wood?’ Billy Cardale asked.

‘Does anyone know the answer to Billy’s question? Look at the kind of environment they lived in. What seems to be missing?’ Sarah looked round the class and could almost hear the cogs turning in their curious minds.

As she was about to tell them the answer, Harriet Summers, who was a bright, enthusiastic, but shy girl, suddenly blurted, ‘Trees! They didn’t have many of them so they didn’t have wood. They didn’t have bricks ’cos they moved west from the east and couldn’t carry heavy stuff like that overland on their wagons. Sometimes, they had to dump their prized possessions on the journey, if the horses were too weak to pull the weight. People got lots of horrible diseases on the journey, too, and lots died. There was terrible lack of water, Miss, and droughts killed crops, people and animals off, left, right and centre.’ Harriet stopped abruptly as if realising where she was. She put her hand to her mouth and went very red.

Jeremy Greer, one of the least attentive of the class, started to slow hand clap Harriet, until Sarah silenced him with her best contemptuous glare. She turned back to Harriet, and gave her a wide smile. ‘My goodness, Harriet, you seem to know quite a bit about this subject already.’

‘That’s nowt, Miss. See what she’s done for independent research,’ Harriet’s friend, Stacey Lombrook said, nudging Harriet encouragingly. ‘Go on, show her.’

Harriet shuffled in her seat and shook her head, no.

Sarah had set them homework to find something out about the homesteaders. They would be a little bit prepared for the new subject and more confident as a result. ‘What did you find, Harriet, a book on the homesteaders?’ Sarah asked.

‘No, she made a model, didn’t you, Harry?’ Stacey said.

Harriet sighed. ‘I was going to show you it at break time, Miss. Everyone else will think it’s lame.’

‘Lame? They won’t, and if they do, then they are lame themselves, Harriet,’ Sarah said, shooting a warning glance at Jeremy.

Harriet pulled a carrier bag out from under the table and placed it carefully in front of her. Reaching in, she gingerly drew out a model made of lollipop sticks, matchsticks and rubber bands. Sarah walked over and carefully picked it up and held it for all to see. She had to swallow hard as she realised the hours that must have gone into the light construction in her hand.

This is why she’d gone into teaching in the first place, to inspire a love of history, learning and to make a difference to the hopes and aspirations of her students. She cleared her throat. ‘Does anyone know what this brilliant model of Harriet’s is?’

‘Looks like a windmill to me.’ Kirsty shrugged and studied her nails. She was obviously disgruntled at the praise Sarah was giving to Harriet.

‘Nearly, but not quite, Kirsty. It’s a wind pump. Harriet, would you like to tell the class what wind pumps were used for?’

‘Not really, but I will. They have sails like a windmill, as you can see. The wind blew them round and they drove a pump which pumped water from deep underground. They could then use the water to feed the crops and animals.’ She looked at Sarah. ‘If you wind that matchstick up tight with that rubber band and let go, it should spin the sails, Miss.’

Sarah handed the wind pump back to Harriet. ‘You do it, Harriet; I don’t want to break it.’ Harriet came to the front of the class and balanced the model on the front desk. She wound up the matchstick and released it. The sails whizzed round once and everyone clapped. It was genuine applause this time and everyone started asking Harriet questions about it. Sarah was amazed at the transformation of the shy girl who never normally spoke out in class. She even handled a facetious question from Jeremy.

‘So these wind pumps, yeah, they must have been, like, thousands of ’em in one field?’

‘No, there would only be one or two. They didn’t need lots, and anyway they were expensive,’ Harriet said, looking at Sarah for confirmation. Sarah nodded.

‘So, one 30cm pump would bring enough water for, like, a whole field?’ Jeremy asked, with a twinkle in his eye.

‘Oh, ha ha, very funny, Jeremy. No, the pump I made is
not
to scale
obviously;
they were about 5.5 metres high.’ Harriet smiled, shaking her head.

Sarah whistled a happy tune and picked two ready meals from the chilled cabinet in Sainsbury’s. Hmm, chicken madras or beef stew and dumplings? Well, it’s Friday night so it has to be curry – curry on Friday, it’s the law.

On the way to the checkout she thanked her lucky stars again. The lesson on homesteaders had been one of
the
best she could ever remember and, most importantly, she’d not been transported back to the Old West. The rest of the day had been uneventful and much better than she could have hoped for.

Sarah had decided to cut down on her drinking, but on nearing the wine aisle, was pulled like a magnet to a shelf of half-price Californian zinfandel.
Oh well, can’t ignore such a good offer.
She shrugged, placed two bottles in her basket and set off for the checkout again, but the checkout she had her eye on seemed to get further and further away. The more she walked, the further away it got.

Sarah halted, aware of a leaden feeling dragging her feet to the floor, as if she were wearing concrete boots. Looking down, she could see the supermarket floor disintegrating, breaking up and swirling around, as if made of gas. Misty tendrils drifted over her shoes until her feet were totally immersed in it. And then she began to sink.

Sarah tried to open her mouth to scream but an unseen pressure sealed it shut. She tried to open her hand and let go of her basket, raise her hand to the other customers in an attempt to attract their attention from their two-for-one offers and Friday night curry, but her hands remained immoveable – tightly clasped. The customers were slowly lost from view as she descended. She looked up. Sarah could see the bright lights and hear the noise and bustle of the supermarket, but after a few seconds the noises faded and the light grew smaller, until it was no bigger than a manhole cover.