GO BACK IN TIME with Ringo11: story of the century!!
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SEVENTY-THIRD INSTALMENT You exchange your singlet for one of Stuart?s shirts. It fits surprisingly well, and you remember having read somewhere that Astrid and Stu would later swap clothes a lot. Stu and John provide blankets and you attempt to make a nest on the floor. You huddle down in the little room with the other three, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep. The combined body warmth of four people soon stops your shivering and the exhaustion of an exciting day overcomes the hardness of the floor and the worry you have about Paul, eventually allowing you to drift off into a restless sleep. When you awake there is light sneaking in through a tatty blind on a grubby window. Your back and side ache terribly and you don?t seem to be able to move your neck much either. It takes you some time to realise where you are, who you are with and how you got there, and as the information resurfaces in your mind it brings with it a sinking feeling. You try and move slightly. From somewhere near your shoulder comes a quiet grunt. You look down on tousled dark brown hair. Paul awakes slowly and you watch as he gradually becomes aware of the pain in his ankle. He doesn?t remember you?re there until you put a hand on his shoulder. He looks up at you and smiles. ?I don?t feel too great,? he says, stating the obvious. ?You?? You smile and shake your head. ?I think we?d better get going though,? you point out. You and Paul carefully extract yourselves from the pile of blankets still containing John and Jenny and, creeping out of the room ,shut the door gently behind you. You make your way back through the suburbs to Paul?s house in such a daze that when you arrive you barely remember having made the journey. You can?t have slept very deeply last night. Paul suggests you try and creep in without disturbing his father. As neither of you has any idea what the time might be, you agree that that?s a good idea. When you get inside the house you realise it must be later in the morning that you thought because it seems that James Snr. Has gone to work already. The house is empty. The first thing you do is sit Paul down and examine his ankle. The swelling has gone down and he seems to have regained most of the movement, though he winces while you gently rotate his foot. ?Oh, don?t be such a wimp,? you tell him and he smiles at you. ?How about a bath? I can still taste smoke and we?re both covered in black.? You make him go first and you head upstairs to find yourself a change of clothes. You pick out something warm and decide to be modern and wear jeans. You leave some clothes for him outside the bathroom door. Once you are both clean and have had something to eat and several cups of tea each, you hear a knock on the door. Paul, who has regained the colour in his cheeks and the ability to walk, sneaks to the window just in case. ?It?s George,? he says as he opens the door. ?Hullo, what ?appened to you lot then?? George asks as he enters. You see he has brought a newspaper with him open to a page in the middle somewhere. He hands it to Paul, who looks at it and hands it to you. You see a medium sized article headed ?Fire of unknown cause in empty house.? ?It says they thought it might have been a cigarette lit by squatters but they can?t tell. They found a boarded window had been broken open from the inside but the fire destroyed any other trace of ?the intruders?,? you read to the boys. ?What makes you think this was us, George?? ?I?ve just spoken to John on the phone. He?s on his way over now.? As he said this you hear another, louder knock on the door and George lets John in. ?We made the paper,? he says simply. SEVENTY-FOURTH INSTALMENT You chat for a while, telling the whole story to an eagerly listening George, and discover that Jenny never wants to see John again, and that John actually can?t quite remember whether he?d had a smoke or not. It doesn?t matter, you all agree, because the newspaper clearly states that no one knows what started the fire of even whether there really was evidence of anyone in the house. Eventually you decide that it is not time to face the parents quite yet, so Paul writes a note for his father and you escape the house before he is likely to come home. You end up at John?s place and he organises some more food for everyone before you all head to his room. His guitar is leaning against the wall and George picks it up and begins to strum. John joins in on harmonica, you tap out a beat against the head of the bed and Paul grins and leaps in with a howling scream to start you off in a brilliant rendition of Some Other Guy. You spend the next few hours jamming and having fun, the excitement of the previous day seemingly having been put behind you by silent unanimous decision. In the end, though, tiredness gets the best of you and Paul, and you head back to his place, full of apprehension as to what will happen when his father wants to know where you both were the night before. When you arrive the front door is unlocked. Jim is in the living room listening to the radio. He looks up and smiles as you come in. ?Dinner?s on in a bit. You might want to have a little kip first though.? He can obviously tell how tired you are, but puzzlingly doesn?t seem to want to know why. Neither of you is going to argue with this and you head up to Paul?s room. You nearly fall down on the narrow bed, side by side, and stare at the ceiling for a few minutes. It doesn?t take long before both you and Paul have sunk into a deep sleep, fully clothed, in the tiny room above the front door at 20 Forthlin Road. ENDING You blink. Your eyes adjust to the screen and the words of a post on the Paul McCartney message board swim back into focus. But you could have sworn that just a moment ago you? You are aware of how hot you are, and realise you have a woollen vest on that you certainly never bought. It?s very old fashioned, and may have been hand knitted. You sniff it. It smells nice. Not perfumed, but it has a lovely natural smell about it. A smell you know and love. His smell. You stick your finger into the coin pocket of your jeans. There?s something in there that isn?t a guitar pick. You manage to pull out the large coin. It?s an English half crown, dated 1947. You look at your watch. Half past six, as far as you can tell. You look out the window and decide it?s definitely not half past six. So it was real. One of your family members enters the room. ?Where did you get that vest? It?s old looking.? ?Oh! um...the op shop. Three dollars.? ?That was a good find. It?s in great condition, doesn?t look like it?s had much more than a few months of use.? ?Um? yeah,? you can?t really manage much more of a reply. ?Bye then, I?m off to the shops.? ??kay.? It?s over. Will you ever see him again? Apart from in pictures that is. And will anyone believe you? or maybe you just won?t tell anyone. It?ll be your secret. ?You?ll never guess what happened to me?
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Hi! I can't believe that it is over after so many adventures! (and installments!) Well done - it was really great! Good to know what you've been up to recently and what you're doing now too. So much time has passed since I first started reading this! Don't disappear - keep in touch! Jules
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Didn't see this topic before and I just read the very first installment: what a nice idea! Going back in time to when The Beatles were just starting! Really great idea! It wasn't until I decided to print the story out (it was written very well and I was 'in' the story within no time!!!) that I noticed this topic has about 55 pages...! My goodness! Is there anyway to print this story as one...? Or do I have to print all 55 pages and pick out the post I want to read? Any chance on a pdf or something...?
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I'm thinking of publishing through Cafe Press. Questions is, do I go through and properly punctuate the first chapters and attempt to make it all consistent or do I leave it as it is? By the way, I started writing a sequel, but I'm not sure how far I'll ever get with it as it's much more difficult to work out. Let me know whether you want the edited version or the raw version published and I'll check out my options.
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Er... what's Cafe Press...? I don't mind getting the raw version, specially since that'll be easier, hence quicker, to do...?
But don't let that stop you from making an edited version later on.
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BUMP
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Oh my god
I haven't been on here in months, but I've come back and it's finished! I wasn't expecting that
Gutted.. Good though
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bump
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Ringo11:
Hi Ringo11
Great to see you here! Hope you are well. Let us know what you're doing with this fabulous story
Really I think I'll read it again
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I think it's about time I left a comment on here after all these years... I first discovered this story when I was about 14 or 15 and it wasn't anywhere near completion back then... I'm 23 this year and am pleasantly surprised to see the story still exists and has been completed! I just had to print it out! I finished reading it the other day with tears in me eyes... can't believe it's all over
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Go back in time to 1973...
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I'm lost. Again. The smell of diesel, the fading afternoon light and the cobbled street trigger a sense of de ja vu, but it's hard to put my finger on it. Where am I, and when have I been here before? A bus rattles past and it suddenly dawns on me. I have been here before--ages before--in a different time and a different life. Liverpool. But this can't be 1959 again, I know enough history to recognise more modern cars, a more modern bus shelter. Stunned, I stand in the street and gape for what feels like ages. Trying to remember what I did last time, trying to figure out what to do now. Finally I pull myself together. I'm older and wiser than I was back then; I've travelled; I've learned how to use a semi-colon. Surely I can look after myself this time! Ok, plan. First, find out when I am. Liverpool I can handle--I've been here before in 2006 (does that count as "before"?) and I know I can read a map and work out a bus timetable. Money. Finding a place to stay could be way more difficult this time. If I'm right and this is later than 1959, The Beatles are probably long gone from this neck of the woods. The thought of it is making me feel both worried and prematurely hungry. Am I going to end up a homeless person, starving on the streets? No. Must stay optimistic. So many questions! A thought occurs to me: if I go back to Allerton will there still be anyone there who recognises me? My thoughts are interrupted when a bus screeches to a halt right in front of me and opens its doors. The driver peers at me inquisitively and I realise he's wondering if I'm going to hurry up and get on. I shake my head and he seems annoyed. The doors hiss closed and the bus pulls away with a roar. What I hadn't noticed was that the back doors had opened and let some people off, but now as the disembarkers disperse I happen to catch the glinting eye of one last passenger before he makes to turn away.
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I think I need to start on page 1 and read this thread!
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Nancy R:
I think I need to start on page 1 and read this thread!
Happy travels
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Flearah:
I finished reading it the other day with tears in me eyes... can't believe it's all over
Nothing's over till it's over
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He doesn't turn away. His eyes lock with mine and we stand staring for a long, confused second. Suddenly a look of uncertain recognition crosses his face and he approaches with a friendly smile. "Hi there, don't I know you from somewhere?" he asks. The irony does not escape me of how often he's been asked the same. Stunned, I try to muster a not-crazy-person answer. I fail. "Paul," is all I can manage. For a moment he just stares, the practiced smile mostly still in place. I can see there's a spark of recognition, but he's seen so many people since. Everyone knows Paul McCartney. Gathering my wits, I help him out. "It's been a long, long time," I manage. "1959. Remember the fire?" "Oh my god," he says, the smile replaced with something like shock. "It's you!" I nod. My turn to smile. Another long pause while we take each other in for the first time in thirteen years. I've seen plenty of him, of course. Seen him married, divorced, married again. Seen images of tour after tour, read the regular email newsletter. Listened to his voice, newly polished sawdust, on Giles Martin's Pepper. But we haven't seen one another for over a decade. Everything has happened and yet... There's no mistaking what year it is now. A quick bit of mental arithmetic tells me 1973. He looks just the part, of course. His dark hair swept back from his face, long in the back. Not unlike the first time we met, in fact. "Visiting an aunt?" I ask, knowing he occasionally rode... rides the bus in his home town when visiting family. An attempt at lightheartedness. He snaps out of it with a barely-reconisable double-take. "Yeah, just popped up from London for the day. What brings you here then?" he enquires, as though it's natural to just bump into someone who vanished into thin air when you were only 17. I decide to go for the honest approach. "I have no idea." The initial shock over, I once again realise what a predicament I'm in. This may be my only chance to survive--there's no telling when or how I might get back to 2017, if ever. I have no way to find work or a home. Pressure. He gives me a quizzical look. "You visiting family around here or...?" "No, not exactly. I just... I'm really not sure what I'm doing. Aimless travel I guess. Getting away from it all--you know how it is," I reply, trying for a smile but managing only a weak wobble of the mouth. "Oh," he says, clearly not having a clue what I'm talking about. "Well, want to travel with us for a bit then? If you don't have other plans, that is." "Sure," I say, relief flooding through me while I try to appear to have made a flippant, spur-of-the-moment decision. Us. Linda. Wings. 1973.
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Linda, Wings, 1973. The weather is mild, even at a bus stop in Liverpool. I'm starting to form a picture of what's going on. It's not Africa, so we're earlier in the year. It's not... hell. What a geek. Never mind exactly what month we're in! Backwards traveller I may be, but this is the time to live in the moment. "Pub first though," he says with a grin, in his grittiest Scouse. He takes off, marching down the road in his wide lapel check suit. I march after him, trying my best to keep up. How does he always have so much energy? Skuttling along, I finally manage to make it back to his side. "You've met some of me folks," he says, "so come'n meet some more." After about a block and a half he suddenly swerves into a doorway. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust. "Half?" he asks, making a beeline for the bar. Two lagers and lime and two lagers and lime, I think to myself. "Pint of bitter, thanks," I reply, putting all thoughts of a tiger out of my mind. I don't suppose they have any nice, new-world, hoppy IPA. He whirls round and I get a cheeky wink before he continues to the bar and gets the pints in. He hands me a room-temperature pint glass, the kind with the bump. "Never had you for a girly drinker," he says, demolishing the first inch of his own pint. He nods over to a table and we go and sit down. Looking around, I find myself in a typical English pub (not the theme pub kind, the real kind), with plastic table tops and worn, patterned carpet. The carpet must have soaked up the majority of crimes, since the smell of stale beer subtly pervades the familiar tang of stale cigarette smoke. To make amends for this, Paul lights a fresh one. It's been so long since I saw anybody smoking indoors that I do a double take. Oh yeah. 1973. I try to suppress an involuntary cough by taking another sip of my beer. Warm, flat, creamy, malty, lovely bitter. I find it easy to suck in an inch-worth of my own. Nothing really beats a hand-pulled bitter on a crisp afternoon. He looks over, apparently amused at my enjoyment. I catch his eye and catch another cheeky wink. "Ginny'll be here in a minute. You've met the old man," he says. Right on time, an older lady in dark aqua blue coat and old fashioned hat comes in. The light from the briefly open doorway ruins my pub-vision for a second. "Gin! Grab yerself a half luv," instructs Paul. She heads to the bar and comes back with a dark little beer. Milk stout, I guess from my limited Coro' Street-related experience of old lady drinking. She seems to enjoy it, anyway. Some brief, coded exchanges pass me by as the lad and his aunt greet each other in the local parlance. "Have you met my friend?" he asks, indicating me while I suppress a blush. "She's foreign." "Pleased to meet you," I mumble in my best foreign. I receive a polite smile in return, and Aunty Gin returns to her half of milk stout. We sit in silence for a few minutes, revelling in the beer-o'clock still of the afternoon. I always knew I'd eventually find my place in the world. Suddenly the bright rectangle appears again where the door is. I squint in that direction, to no avail. The door swings closed and the rectangle of purple fades from my vision. In its place stands an older man, his spectacles with a thick rim on top and not much rim around the bottom sit high on his slim nose. I instantly recognise the glint in his eye. "You!" he exclaims with genuine surprise. "Hi Mr McCartney," I reply with a warm smile. If it weren't for the kind acceptance of this man for a young, vagrant stranger in his home nearly fifteen years ago, I don't know where I'd be today. Who am I kidding? I don't know where I am today anyway!