Tracey Meredith. Middle Grade to Young Adult stories : FINDING RICHARD

Joel shook his head. "No, no, no," he moaned. "That was nineteen thirty-nine, that was over seventy years ago!"
"What, mate?" said Richard. "There's something wrong with your maths. That was just last year. It's nineteen forty now."
Joel is lost in Bristol during the Blitz. Is he dreaming, or has the world gone mad? The people here seem to think it's 1940 and Hitler is trying to invade. Will Joel make it back home? Or will his new friend, Richard, get him killed looking for shrapnel on bomb sites, or dodging explosions during an air raid? Joel just wants to get out of the place and find out what on Earth is going on. But even if he does, will it be an experience Richard will let him forget?
A time travel adventure, with a dollop of the paranormal *Infrequent, mild swearing appears in this story*

Finding

Richard

(Excerpt)

Tracey Meredith

Published by Tracey Meredith at

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Chapter 1

A Train

The smoke-laden smell of steam hit Joel full in the nostrils, catching in the back of his throat and making him cough. It was quite unexpected, steam at Nailsea station. He was sure there were only supposed to be diesels here. But, there it was, a great, green, panting monster, sweating and hissing in the early morning winter sunshine, the scent of its coal furnace pervading everything.

Joel looked up and down the platform. No one else was here. Even the driver seemed to have disappeared. Cautiously, Joel walked over to the engine. He could just make out the glow of the fire, and feel the heat prickle his forehead. He looked up at the driver’s seat and noted, neatly stacked, a box of eggs and a packet of pork sausages. Joel smiled. Breakfast, he supposed. He'd read about that. Bacon and eggs cooked on a hot shovel. He always thought it would be a little on the gritty side, what with all the bits of soot and coal that must stick to the metal blade.

Briefly, he thought of getting up into the cab. There was no one around to stop him. He had his hand on the rail when Captain Sensible tapped him on the shoulder, and reminded Joel what might go wrong if he messed about where he shouldn't. No, his parents wouldn't be very impressed if he was brought home by the police, having accidentally started the engine, and then crashed it into the back of a passenger train, or something.

He turned and sauntered down the platform. The green train was followed by a number of brown and cream carriages, all empty like the driver’s cab. They looked rather smart, he thought—as though they had just been painted.

Joel looked at his watch. His train was overdue. Presumably, it was waiting somewhere for this one to move out. Joel felt a little annoyed. Treat though it was to see the great machine on this winter's morning, it would have been nice to know he was going to be late as a result. There might have been a warning. Joel sighed. There probably had been and he'd forgotten it. Or hadn’t noticed it.

He grasped the brass handle of the middle carriage. Well, he thought, if the driver wasn’t in his cab yet, there was little chance of the train going anywhere in the immediate future. It wouldn’t do any harm to have a walk through it while he was waiting. He couldn't do much damage, just walking through the carriages.

He opened the door and stepped into the dark interior. The benches seemed to have been recently upholstered, in a dark green that echoed the colour of the engine. The woodwork had been lovingly restored, decades worth of dirt and graffiti removed and replaced with a high polish. Joel drew in a deep breath through his nose. Yes, he thought, this was the smell all carriages succumbed to eventually. No cleaning or re-varnishing could ever remove it. It was an odour you got nowhere else.

He opened a window, letting it down fully with the leather strap. He leaned out and looked along the platform. There was no sign of anyone. Not even a bird was flitting about.

Joel grunted, as he pulled on the leather strap to put the window back up. He was going to be very late at this rate. So much for that early start. He could have had an extra half hour in bed. But then, he wouldn’t have met this wonderful creature, would he? Even so, an extra half hour was an extra half hour, and he'd had such a rubbish night's sleep as well. He always did when he knew he had to be up early. He never trusted his radio to wake him.

He thrust his hands into his jacket pockets, plucking the corner of his train ticket with his thumb, and strolled along the corridor towards the engine. His feet were noiseless on the new carpet. Nice, he thought, looking down at it. Very smart.

His stomach rumbled. He hadn’t had breakfast. He’d anticipated a cooked breakfast in Bristol later that morning, and so hadn’t bothered with his usual cereal. He should have had that slice of toast to keep him going, after all. He had foolishly persuaded himself he would enjoy breakfast more if he was really hungry.

He yawned as he approached the guards van. Not so much as a sweet wrapper littered the floor. It was clean swept, almost to the point of being polished. He inspected the carpet, as another yawn escaped him. Was the flooring new? He rubbed his fingers over it. It felt very soft, with no hint of grime. New then, he decided. Joel could only think that this beautifully restored creature was yet to be pressed into service, and was on its way to some privately owned line, to become the star attraction for railway tourists. He made a mental note to have a look for the train’s name when he got off, and search the internet for some information about it. He’d quite like to ride it properly when it reached its new home.

He wondered how long its pristine state would last. How many boots and shoes bringing in mud? How many sandwiches or sausage rolls dropping their crumbs and fillings onto that lovely new carpet? How many slopped cups of coffee or spilt cola? There would be at least two or three bits of chewing gum stuck to the floor somewhere, pretty soon.

Joel entered the guards van, sat in the guard’s chair and leaned his head back against the wall. He suddenly felt extraordinarily tired. He should definitely have had breakfast before he came out this morning. One slice of toast wouldn't have spoiled his appetite. He yawned again. The gentle hum in the van belied the noise of the great engine at the front. It was quite soothing here. He shut his eyes and listened.

His shoulders relaxed.

His head fell forward.

He fell asleep.

Chapter 2

A Journey

Joel awoke with a jolt, a sudden panic rising as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. A moving train. Moving train! He was still on the steam train! He rushed to the window. He was already in the countryside, and the train was going far too fast for him to jump off.

Joel swore to himself. He would have to wait until the train stopped. He just had to hope that the next station wasn't too far away. He had heard of these steam engines going virtually non-stop to the Devon and Dorset coast. What if this one did?

He shut his eyes, and tried to remember which way the train had been pointing at the station. It had been preventing his own train from entering, so it must have been going to Bristol. It must stop at Bristol, surely.

He felt a temporary sense of relief. If he could disembark at Bristol, he'd be none the worse off. Unless― and the thought made his stomach roll― it bypassed Bristol altogether, and went straight to Birmingham or London, or somewhere like that. He groaned. He'd just have to keep his fingers crossed, and hope there were passengers in Bristol waiting to be picked up.

He opened the window slightly, to let some air in. The smell of smoke and coal hit him on a gritty draught that made him blink rapidly. Well, he thought, there was nothing to be done about it. He would have to wait, and hope that he was right about Bristol.

He opened the window more fully, and leaned out so that he could see up the track as the train sped on. He hoped to see something familiar in the landscape, something that would give him a clue where they were, but, at the moment, he could be anywhere.

He should, he supposed, go and find the guard— if there was a guard— and explain what had happened. But what if the guard wanted him to pay the fare to the next stop? Joel had ridden on steam trains in the holidays, and he knew they weren't cheap. Would he be able to afford the fare? He had some money on him, but it was intended for Christmas presents, and after all, he reasoned, he had already paid his fare to Bristol, albeit with another railway company. He didn't want to have to pay it twice.

He wondered if he would be able to slip off unnoticed at the next station, and get onto a train back to Nailsea. Or, if this train was going to Bristol, get off unhindered, as he'd originally planned, and do his shopping. But what if it didn't stop at Bristol? What if it went off on some strange route, to Manchester, or even Scotland, and he couldn't get off until the end? He felt a little panicky again. What if it wasn't picking up any passengers at all, but going straight to its new home?

Houses began to pass by.

Houses were good. Houses meant towns and cities. Houses meant maybe a railway station. Joel's heart started pounding with excitement. Maybe they were going to stop in a minute. Maybe this wasn't going to turn into a very bad day.

He looked carefully at the houses. They didn't look familiar, and that worried him. He could be anywhere. But, his common sense told him, you never really look at the houses on the way to Bristol. You're usually reading a comic or listening to your music player. This could be anywhere, including Bristol.

The train rattled on, slowing down as the landscape turned from rural to urban. Joel watched. He couldn't remember this bit at all. Among the terraced houses backing on to the railway, partially demolished buildings reached dramatically upwards, the tattered remains of curtains still at the windows, flapping in the breeze. Presumably new structures would be going up shortly. Joel wondered what they might be intending to build here. Some outrageously expensive flats, probably.

The train slowed down to a crawl. Joel pushed his head further out of the window, choking on the dust and the smoke. His eyes began to water. As he wiped the tears away, his heart gave a leap. Yes! It looked like they were approaching a platform. At last he would be able to work out where he was. He pulled the window right down so that he could get at the door handle. He might have to jump off very quickly if he was going in the wrong direction.

Jolting and squeaking, the train arrived at the platform. Joel looked for the station's name. The sign had broken and hung diagonally from one post. It was blackened and pitted, but clearly said Parson Street.

"Yes!" hissed Joel. Parson Street, Bedminster, then Temple Meads. He was on the right track.

Relief gave way to puzzlement. Hold on, he thought. Why would this train stop at Parson Street? Parson Street was a very local line. Steam trains like this one normally only stopped at mainline stations. He shrugged his shoulders, unable to think of a reason, and looked beyond the platform.

The developers were at work here, too. Quite a few buildings had no roofs. Piles of bricks lay between some houses. Joel was surprised to see children climbing on some of the piles. "What?" he muttered. Surely these areas should be fenced off. The Health and Safety people were going to have a field day if they found out someone was being this careless.

The train jerked, nearly tipping Joel out of the window. He steadied himself with one hand. No one appeared to have got out. As the train moved off, Joel surveyed the local landscape again. It was very odd. Here, only a few of the buildings looked like they were in the process of being demolished, while a lot of them had more minor damage, including broken windows— as though they'd been targeted by vandals. He didn't remember this many houses being in such disrepair last time he came through here. Had something gone on? Had there been a riot or something? Or didn't anyone want to live in this part of Bristol any more?

Bedminster arrived. It looked no better than Parson Street. The station looked like someone had started demolishing it and then changed their mind. Joel's brows knitted in bewilderment. Maybe there was some huge regeneration project in progress, like there was in Hotwells and the city centre. He'd have to ask his dad when he saw him tonight. His dad worked in Bristol. His dad might know what was going on.

It was not far to Temple Meads now. Joel looked up and down the platform. There was no one about. Joel knew Bristol well enough to realise he was within easy walking distance of the city centre. The deserted platform would enable him to get off the train, without any awkward questions being asked.

His mind was made up in a second. He reached out, opened the door and jumped onto the platform. Looking straight ahead, he walked quickly to the exit, determined to take no notice of any voice that might try to call him back. None did.

On to Bedminster Parade, over Redcliffe Hill, cut through Welsh Back to Baldwin Street and... and... He stopped. He had no idea where he was.

Chapter 3

Richard

Joel looked about him. The houses around here were battered. Many had their windows boarded or taped up. Parts of the roof or some of the wall were missing on a few. A whole chimney stack lay in the road. No one seemed in the slightest bit bothered by it. Here and there, people were sweeping up and moving bricks in a casual manner, as though they were moving compost to their garden. Joel frowned. It couldn't be a regeneration project, then, he reasoned. The people would have been moved out first, surely. Wouldn't they? They certainly wouldn't be expected to remove demolition debris themselves— using wheelbarrows. And some of the damaged houses seemed to be still occupied, with make-shift repairs, a lot of which looked rather dangerous to Joel.

But if it was not a regeneration project, what else could explain this mess? Joel gazed about him, a frown fixed on his face. He couldn't remember seeing anything on the news about this. Maybe there had been a gas explosion or something. He shook his head. A gas explosion wouldn't have done this kind of damage, would it? It looked more like several explosions had happened, some bigger than others. A chain reaction then? Maybe one gas explosion had led to another. He shook his head again. No, that didn't sound sensible— he didn't believe there weren't fail-safes in place to stop that sort of thing happening.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone slowly approaching him. Joel turned his head. It was a dark haired boy, probably a little older than himself. Joel had to stop himself laughing. What a state, he thought.

On top of a pair of grey, knee length shorts, the boy wore an open necked, greying shirt and a grey, hand knitted jumper. A woollen scarf of several colours hung casually over his shoulders. His face was dirty, and his knees were cut and bloodied. Loose grey socks hung in folds around his ankles, above laced shoes that were scuffed and muddy.

Joel suppressed a smirk. He wouldn't be seen dead dressed like that. And shorts? At this time of year?

The boy appeared to have reached a similar opinion of Joel. He nodded to him, perusing him up and down, before saying, "You with the circus or something?"

"What?" responded Joel, his pensive look changing to one of surprise. "Circus? No."

The boy reached out and fingered the blue material of Joel's fleece jacket. "What's it made of?" he asked

"It's a fleece," said Joel, pulling the material out of the boy's fingers.

The boy looked closely at the jacket and shook his head. "That ain't wool," he declared.

"No," said Joel, "it ain't― isn't. It's made from― er― like a plastic."

The boy pulled a face that implied Joel was talking nonsense. "Plastic?" he repeated, as if it was a foreign word. "Some swanky new stuff, is it?" He felt the material again, much to Joel's annoyance. "You're not from round here, then?" the boy surmised, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jumper.

Joel shook his head, bemused. "No, Nailsea," he said— not that it was any of the boy's business.

"Ahh," said the boy, as if this bit of information explained everything. "What's your name, then?" he asked.

"Well... Joel," replied Joel, surprised at the question.

The boy pulled a face. "Hmm. Joel. Very nice, I'm sure." He held out his hand. "Richard," he said.

Joel glanced down at the hand, a look of confusion evident on his face.

"My name is Richard," explained Richard. He nodded towards his hand. "You're supposed to shake it," he added.

"Oh, yes! Sorry," muttered Joel, pulling his hands out of his pockets and taking the grubby one offered him.

Richard peered at him. "Hey, you're not a spy, are you?" he demanded.

Joel's mouth dropped open in surprise. "A spy? For whom?" he almost laughed.

"Well, I don't know. The Bosch, maybe," responded Richard. "You're behaving a bit odd, like someone who doesn't know our ways― our British ways― might." He uttered the word British with every ounce of patriotism he possessed. He peered again into Joel's face, as if it might reveal something, and then sniffed and gave his nose another wipe on his sleeve. "You don't look German," the boy muttered.

"German?" repeated Joel, beginning to fear the boy was a little mad. "Why...?" Joel shook his head. "I was trying to get to the Parade, only it seems to have changed a bit," he said, nodding at the surrounding debris.

Richard snorted. "Yeah, you could say that. They haven't let up for the last few nights. Most of the city centre's been hit, so I hope you haven't popped up here to do a bit of shopping, 'cos there's not much in the way of shops open."

Joel looked at him, aghast. "Sorry," he said, "when you say that the city centre's been hit...?"

"Bombed. Yeah, that's right." snarled Richard.

"But there wasn't anything on the news," said Joel in amazement. "I'd have heard about it."

Richard laughed. "My dad says they're not reporting it in case it affects morale."

"Morale!" exclaimed Joel, looking at the ruins that punctuated the terraces.

"Though," pondered the boy, "I'd have thought you'd have heard the bombs going off, even in Nailsea."

Joel shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "Do they know who did it?"

"Of course we know who did it, don't we? Herr bloody Hitler!"

"Hitler?" repeated Joel. Then he laughed.

"What's so funny?" growled the boy.

"Sorry. For a moment I thought you said Hitler." The boy glowered at him. "Well, Hitler," continued Joel. "He's been dead for— what? Seventy years? Or do you subscribe to the view that he faked his death and escaped to South America? And he's now conducting a campaign of terror against the British Isles at the grand old age of... of..." Joel tried to calculate. "Very old," he said at last.

Richard stepped back, a look of bewilderment on his face. "You're nuts," he announced. "Have you escaped from somewhere?"

Joel stared at the boy, thought of continuing the conversation, and then decided matters were starting to get a bit silly. Joel shrugged his shoulders. Clearly this boy was some kind of local eccentric. Or perhaps, it suddenly occurred to him, Richard had sustained some kind of head injury or― what did they call it? Concussion? And was confusing the past with the present.

He decided he'd already wasted enough time. "So," he said, trying to change the subject, "which way to the Parade, then?"

Richard pushed his hands into his pockets and gave him a steady look. "Okay," he said eventually, "I'd better make sure you get safely on your way. Follow me."

The boy turned abruptly and scrambled over a small pile of bricks. Joel hurried after him. "There," said the boy, after a short walk conducted in silence. Joel looked up and down Bedminster Parade. He recognised none of it. He could feel himself starting to panic.

He turned to Richard. "Which way is Asda?" he asked.

"Asda? What's that?"

"The ruddy supermarket!" Joel almost shouted, beginning to lose patience with this strange boy.

"Don't start yelling at me!" said the boy, shoving Joel on the shoulder. "It's not my fault you're totally nuts." He stopped pushing Joel and looked closely at him.

Joel's face was pale and sweaty. His confusion was now apparent to Richard. "You all right, mate?" Richard asked, his voice full of concern. "Only you don't look too well. Are you sure you didn't get caught in a blast or something?"

Joel shook his head. "It's wrong," he said. "It's just... all wrong." He paused. What was he doing here? Why didn't he just go home? Or get back on a train to Bristol and escape this annoying, possibly deranged boy.

"Yes," he exclaimed. "Home. I'm going home. Or to Bristol. Whichever comes first." He turned back towards the station.

"Where are you going?" Richard yelled after him.

"Home!" shot back Joel, now dispensing with any idea of Christmas shopping. Home and get some breakfast, and then decide what to do. That sounded a splendid idea.

"You can't get back that way!" shouted Richard, running after him. He grabbed Joel's shoulder. "Mate! Joel! There's no trains running. They've not been running that way for days!"

Joel shrugged him off. "Of course they are!" he snapped. "I just got off one."

Richard looked surprised. "What? I didn't see it come in. When was that?"

"About quarter of an hour ago," said Joel, waving him away. He stomped off on his way. He could see the platform now. He'd just wait for the first train back, and get himself home. There would be something on the news to explain all this. Maybe there had been an explosion of idiot gas― that would explain the behaviour of this Richard guy. He'd just wait for the next train and then― He stopped suddenly.

The platform was covered in debris, including a rail and part of a sleeper. There was a hole where the railway track used to be, and a bent rail to the side of it.

Joel stood and stared, his mouth open. He was aware that Richard was standing beside him. "When...? When...?" barked Joel.

"About a week ago," said Richard. "All this―" he waved his hands about him "―all this was about a week ago."

"A week ago," whispered Joel. Maybe he'd got off at another station. But there wasn't another station. Not in Bedminster. He stared at Richard. "No, it can't have been," he said, looking at the ruin around him. "I got off here, about a quarter of an hour ago. And this—" He waved his hands at the broken buildings. "—it would have been on the news," he insisted.

"I told you," said Richard, "they're keeping it quiet."

"Quiet!" Joel almost screamed. "How do you keep something like this quiet? This is Bristol, for goodness sake!"

Richard shrugged. "Well, everywhere else is getting bombed. I expect everyone's too concerned about what's happening where they are, to worry about what's happening here. I mean, the folks in London― they must be quite relieved that someone else is getting it."

"What? London's been bombed as well? What the Hell is going on?"

"It's war mate. That's what's going on." Richard looked at him as though Joel should know that.

"War? With who? When? There was nothing on the news, or in Dad's paper. I'd have heard about it, wouldn't I? Mum would have said something. There would have been some kind of warning, wouldn't there?"

"There was, mate, remember? Mister Chamberlain telling Hitler to get out of Poland? No response, this country is now at war with Germany? You've had since September last year to get use to the idea."

Joel shook his head. "No, no, no," he moaned. "That was nineteen thirty-nine, that was seventy years ago!"

"What, mate?" said Richard. "There's something wrong with your maths. That was just last year. It's nineteen forty now."

Chapter 4

Lost

There was a silence. Richard put his hand on Joel's shoulder, peering into his face, willing him to accept this fact.

Joel stared back at him. "You're mad!" he snapped, and started back up the street towards the Parade. Richard followed him, almost jogging to keep up. Joel looked at his watch. It was just past 8:30. He halted and stared at the watch. He tapped the glass. It had stopped. Joel swore under his breath. Was anything going to go right today?

Joel looked at the sun, or where he guessed the sun to be. It appeared to be still quite early in the morning― therefore he had a few hours of daylight. How far away was Nailsea? About ten miles or less? He could walk that, surely. All he had to do was work out which direction to go and he'd be home for tea. If he walked to the town centre as he'd originally planned, then back out onto Coronation Road, cut across to Brunel Way, and then down to Long Ashton, it wouldn't take long to walk from there. Maybe he could pick up a footpath home, if the light was still good.

"I'm going to walk home," he told Richard. "It's not that far. I can get home before it gets dark."

Richard looked at him sympathetically. "Are you sure about that?" he asked. "I mean, well, I don't want to seem rude, but I don't think you're quite right. I think you might have got a bang on the head or something. You sound like you might have got that amnesia thing― you know, when you don't know who you are, or what's happened." Richard had his hand on Joel's arm now. "Maybe," he suggested, "I should get you seen by a medic, or something."

Joel shrugged his arm away. "There's nothing wrong with me!" he snapped. "I know exactly who I am. And it's you who insists it's nineteen forty!"

"All right, all right, have it your own way," said Richard, backing off. "I'm just a bit worried about you, that's all. I wouldn't like to find out later that you'd been found dead in a ditch, and it was me who let you go off on your own."

Joel scowled. "I'll be perfectly all right," he growled. "I know what I'm doing and where I'm going. Thank you, and goodbye!"

He turned onto the Parade and walked on as fast as he could without actually running, while furtively looking for some sign of the Asda store he knew had been somewhere along here. He knew where it ought to be, but there was no trace of it― not even an abandoned shopping trolley. He stood at the place where he thought the supermarket had been last time he was here. He walked around the buildings that were there now, willing it to be somewhere among them, but there was nothing. How could it just disappear? It was enormous. And what about the car park? How could he just lose them? He shook his head. Maybe he had got it wrong. Maybe it wasn't quite where he thought it was. After half an hour of searching, he gave up looking. "Home, then," he decided.

He found the Parade again and a signpost directing him to Redcliffe. Sure that he was at least pointing in the right direction, Joel marched on until, with a sigh of relief, he reached the river. At least something was where it should be.

If it hadn't been for the river, though, Joel wouldn't have known where he was. Explosions had hit here in numbers. Piles of rubble and huge pieces of twisted metal lay unattended. What kind of madmen would do this, wondered Joel. What cause was worth this kind of destruction? People must have been killed, surely? As he wondered whether the SS Great Britain had survived, a shout interrupted his thoughts.

"Oi! You!"

It was a man's voice. "Yeah, you! What do you think you're doing? Can't you read?"

Now Joel noticed the No Entry and STOP signs littering the entrance to the road.

"Well?" asked the man as he approached Joel, obviously expecting an answer.

Joel stared at him. The man was wearing a dark uniform, topped by a metal helmet, on which was painted the letter W. Joel had seen the same sort of thing in the television episodes of Dad's Army. This man was apparently pretending to be an Air Raid Warden.

"No!" groaned Joel. "This is getting sillier."

"No?" repeated the man, frowning. He looked Joel up and down and snorted. "You with the circus or something?"

Joel made no reply.

"Well, you can't come down here," the man continued. "There's unexploded ordnance. You understand?" Joel stared at him, not knowing if this was serious or some elaborate hoax. "Do you speak English?" said the man, in a loud, slow voice.

Joel nodded. The man snorted again. "Bloody foreigners!" he told Joel. "I don't know why we let you stay, with things the way they are. Now, get away! Go on! Well? What are you waiting for?" The man flapped his hands at Joel, as if shooing him away.

"Er, he's with me, Mister Palmer," said a voice behind Joel.

Joel turned to find Richard there. "What...?" began Joel, but Richard signalled him to be quiet.

"I think he's had an accident or something, Mr Palmer. He seems a bit... confused. I'll take him home with me and get the medic out to him, okay?"

Mr Palmer stared at Richard, a vague look of recognition on his face. "I know you, don't I?" said the man. "Aren't you Bob Dyte's boy?"

"That's right," confirmed Richard. "Up on John Street, like you. I'm taking him there now." He tugged at Joel's arm.

Mr Palmer contemplated Joel. "Hmm," said the man. "He looks like he might be shell shocked, you know. I saw it in the last war. They have no idea who or where they are. Yes, take him home. Get a good cup of sweet tea down him. That'll sort him out."

Richard nodded and pulled the reluctant Joel away. He glanced at him with concern. Joel did seem to be in a state of shock, more so now than when Richard first met him. "Can't get home that way, then," he said to Joel, in what he hoped was a calm and soothing voice. "Perhaps we should take Mr Palmer's advice, and get a cup of sweet tea down you."

Joel gave the vaguest of nods and allowed Richard to lead him away. Where in the world was he? Or more to the point, when? Joel glanced back at Mr Palmer and his Warden's hat. He must have borrowed the helmet from a theatrical group or something. Or maybe the bombing had been so bad, the authorities had got volunteers to guard the dangerous areas. Yes, something like that. It made a lot more sense than it being nineteen forty, that was for sure!

Chapter 5

John Street

It was a fair trek to Richard's home, a small terraced house in the narrowest of cobbled streets.

"Your mum's looking for you!" called a woman from the step of her house. "She thinks you've gone off playing on those bomb sites. You haven't, have you?"

Richard shook his head. "Not me, Mrs Wilkins," he told her as he reached his door.

"Humph," snorted Mrs Wilkins, evidently not believing the boy. She nodded toward her own door and forced a wry smile. "Our Eddy's just got his papers," she told Richard.

"Oh!" said Richard, with obvious interest. "When does he go?"

"Just after New Year. Fifth or sixth?" She glared at the sky. "Though, at the rate it's going here, he'll probably be safer in the army!"

Joel looked around the narrow street, with its cobbled surfaces and small, run down houses. There was obviously not a lot of money here. None of the doors were painted, and were a grimy, black colour, from years of exposure to the weather and smoke.

Richard opened one of the doors. "Coming?" he said. Joel noticed that, despite the discolouring of the door itself, the door knob was polished to a shine. Inside, the house appeared spotless, if a little shabby and gloomy. It smelled of cabbage.

"Through here," instructed Richard. "Mum?" he called. "Mum? Are you there?"

Joel followed Richard into a dark kitchen, which was warm from the heat of a cast iron range. The kettle was just coming to the boil.

"Mum?" Richard addressed the back of a greying, once fair haired woman, who was in the middle of scrubbing clothes on a wooden board. She looked over her shoulder at her son.

"And where have you been, Richard Dyte? There's errands to be run and you're off out playing on those bomb sites. No, don't bother lying to me. I know where you've been. I can tell by the state of your knees."

Joel and Richard looked automatically at Richard's knees. They were quite recently badly grazed and cut, though already scabbing over. Mrs Dyte caught sight of Joel, and turned round to look at him.

"Who are you?" she asked

"Oh, Mum, this is Joel," Richard intervened. "I found him, er... wandering about. He could do with a cuppa. Mr Palmer reckons he needs a cup of sweet tea― for the shock."

"Shock?" repeated Mrs Dyte.

Richard explained in a low voice which, for some reason, he didn't think Joel could hear. "We think he might have got a bit of whatsit― you know, when the bombs send them daft."

"Oh?" said Mrs Dyte, looking so hard at Joel she made him feel guilty, even though he hadn't done anything. "And where are you from? Where's your family?" she asked him.

"He's from Nailsea," Richard informed her.

"Can't he speak for himself?" asked Mrs Dyte.

"Well, he can, but he speaks gobbledegook."

"What? Foreign?" said Mrs Dyte, her forehead wrinkling in a frown.

"No, Mum. I mean he doesn't make any sense."

Mrs Dyte looked Joel up and down. "What's that he's wearing? He looks― "

"I'm not from the circus," countered Joel.

This interruption nonplussed Mrs Dyte for a moment. "Well, I've never seen anyone dressed like that before, not even on the docks. And surely you're not old enough for long trousers. Have your family got money, or are they just odd?" Clearly Mrs Dyte thought the two things much the same.

"Not particularly," replied Joel. "This is normal where I come from."

Mrs Dyte raised her eyebrows and glanced at Richard. "And you've got family in Bristol, then?" she continued.

"No," replied Joel. He was tiring of all the questions and starting to get a headache. He longed to sit down.

"Then what are you doing here?" asked Mrs Dyte, folding her arms across her chest.

"Christmas shopping."

"Chris...? Don't you have shops in Nailsea?"

"Some, but there are more in Bristol. At least, there were the last time I came here. Apparently, there aren't many at all, now."

"Hmm." Mrs Dyte glanced back at Richard. Clearly, she was forming the same opinion that her son had formed― that Joel was a little odd. "Well, the kettle's boiled. I'll make you that tea, shall I?" She nodded towards the table, and Richard indicated to Joel that he should sit down.

As Joel pulled the heavy chair out, Mrs Dyte reached up to a shelf above the range and took down a large brown tea pot. She banged it on the table in front of the boys, before taking a battered, black, square tin off the dresser. She looked at the contents of the tin, muttering, "Well, I hope you like your tea weak Joe. There's not that much in here and we've already had this week's ration."

Joel didn't know what to say to this. Evidently, tea was in short supply in this household, but Joel rather suspected Mrs Dyte would be offended if he said no to the drink.

"What about the sugar, Mum?" said Richard. "Are we all right for sugar? I think it's that that he needs more. And Mum?"

"Yes, Richard?"

"His name's Joel, not Joe."

Mrs Dyte frowned as she took the lid off the teapot and dropped a small teaspoon of tea leaves into the pot, before she picked up the kettle and added the water. "You'll need to let that stand a bit longer," she told them, "if you want some flavour."

"Okay. Thanks Mum. Mum, where's the sugar?"

"Where it usually is, Richard Dyte. Just one level teaspoon, mind. We're running a bit low on that too, and you know your dad's got a sweet tooth."

"Okay, Mum," Richard said. "You can have my sugar," he informed Joel. "I don't mind it without, and Mr Palmer did say to give you a sweet tea."

Mrs Dyte looked at her son and then at Joel, before shaking her head and leaving the room.

Richard turned to Joel. "How are you feeling now?" he asked. Joel shrugged. He wanted to get out of here. If he could just get to the edge of the city, he felt sure he could find his way home. He had walked from Long Ashton to Nailsea before, and it hadn't taken him as long as he thought it would. Bristol to Long Ashton wouldn't be that much further, surely? But how to find his way through this chaos when he was― well, he had no idea where he was or where he should go. He felt confused and worried, and was edging steadily to the verge of panic. He had to get out of here, get home and find out what on earth was going on. He still couldn't believe that all of this destruction had happened without news of it reaching other parts of the country.

Richard stood up so suddenly, he made Joel start. "Sorry," said Richard. "Just getting some cups." He went to the dresser and came back with a couple of chipped tea cups and a small bag of sugar. Glancing across at Joel, he picked the pot up and poured out two cups of tea. As he put the pot down, he muttered an oath under his breath. "Sorry," he said to Joel. "I forgot to use the tea strainer."

"It's all right," muttered Joel. "It doesn't matter."

Richard finished adding the milk and pushed a cup across to Joel. The tea was a pallid looking concoction, with black bits that were the tea leaves bobbing about on the surface.

Joel gazed at it, wondering if it would taste as bad as it looked. He didn't really like tea. He never drank it at home.

"Go on," said Richard. "Drink it. It'll put you right."

Joel picked up the cup. Well, it would do no harm. And it was only a small amount, so if it did taste foul, it wouldn't be for long. Besides, these people obviously didn't have a lot. It would be churlish of him to refuse what they had offered him, even if it was only a cup of tea.

He put the cup to his lips and drank. The tea was really too hot and, with the two spoonfuls of sugar Richard had put in it, dreadfully sweet. It tasted only of sugar― probably, Joel guessed, because there weren't enough leaves in the tea pot to make it taste of tea.

He reached the bottom of the cup, where the remnants of the sugar lay in a discoloured, soggy mass, making the final mouthful so sweet it caused him to cough.

"Steady!" exclaimed Richard. Joel put the cup down and sighed deeply. "Better?" queried Richard.

Joel shrugged. "I just want to go home," he mumbled. "It's just too― too― weird here." He gazed around the shabby but spotless kitchen. It was full of old-fashioned furniture and was dominated by the old-fashioned, blacked kitchen range. Nobody did their cooking on one of those any more. He looked up at Richard and said, "It feels like I've gone back in time. This―" He waved at the room. "―it's just like it's nineteen forty or something."

Richard looked perplexed. "But I told you― it is nineteen forty, Joel. What year do you think it is?"

"When I set out? Two thousand and fifteen." Joel sat back in his chair. "Yeah, that's right. Two thousand and fifteen. Yes, I know you think I'm mad. And maybe you're right. It's an explanation, isn't it? I mean madness is more feasible than time travel, isn't it? Though which of us is mad, I'm not sure." He gave Richard a sceptical look.

"Two thousand and fifteen? That's, er..." Richard counted on his fingers. "...seventy odd years away. I'll be in my eighties!"

They were interrupted by Mrs Dyte. "I need to clean the kitchen," she told them. "If you two have finished your tea, you can go out and let me get on."

She looked over at Joel, frowned and put her hand on his forehead. "Hmm," she murmured. "A bit clammy. Have you had anything to eat today?"

"Er, no," said Joel, suddenly remembering he hadn't had breakfast. "I was planning to have breakfast in Bristol― you know, where all those restaurants and cafés are on the quayside, near the Watershed?"

Mrs Dyte cocked a quizzical eye. "Breakfast out?" she said. "Why couldn't you have breakfast at home?"

"Well." Joel paused. He could feel his face reddening. "I wanted to make a day of it, make it a bit of a treat. Well, Christmas shopping is such a chore, isn't it? So, I thought, breakfast, maybe sat outside if it isn't too cold..." He petered out and glanced at Richard and his mother. They were both staring at him as though he was mad.

"See, I told you he talks gobbledegook," commented Richard.

Mrs Dyte sighed and took down a loaf of bread from a shelf. She carved off two slices and handed one each to the boys. "No butter," she said, putting the bread back on the shelf. "Not until Monday. Now, both of you. Out you go. You can eat it outside."

They hovered near the front door, eating their food. Mrs Wilkins had gone, leaving her front step glistening wet, but scrupulously clean.

Joel bit into his crust. It was hard going― like eating Extreme Wholemeal, he thought to himself. He gazed at the bread. What was that? It looked like... sawdust? He was just about to ask Richard, when the boy, who had been watching him, confirmed his suspicions.

"Yeah, it's sawdust all right. He says it's bran, but Davey Wilkins reckons he saw him putting a bag of sawdust in. Mum's trying not to believe it, but I think she suspects it isn't bran. I take it you don't have that problem in Nailsea." Joel shook his head. "No, I didn't think so. I suppose you get your flour straight from the farm and make your own bread, huh?"

Joel laughed and nearly choked on his bread. "Course we don't make our own," he said when he had recovered. "We get it from the supermarket― except on a Saturday, when Mum buys it from the local baker."

"Oh. But no sawdust?"

"No, no sawdust." Joel struggled to chew his food. It was hard work, softening it enough to swallow it. But he was very hungry now, and this was better than nothing.

"What's a supermarket?" asked Richard.

"You're joking!" said Joel, through a mouth full of bread.

"Joking?" repeated Richard. "No, honestly! What's a supermarket? That's the second time you've said it today."

Joel stopped chewing, and thought for a moment. "It's kind of like a big shop that sells everything under one roof, type of thing."

"What? Everything?"

"Pretty much so. Some sell more of everything than others. You know—clothes and stuff, as well."

"Arr," said Richard, shoving the last of his bread into his mouth. "Mutht be ooge," he ventured, his mouth still full.

"Huge? Yes, I suppose some of them are." He frowned at Richard. "Come on. You're having a laugh. You must have been to a supermarket."

Richard shook his head, chewing hard now and unable to speak. With a final effort, he got the last of the bread down. " 'Orrible!" he exclaimed. "But it's all there is, so we've got to be grateful, I suppose. Well, Joel, what are we going to do with you? No offence meant, but I can't help feeling that you're just a little bit crazy. I'm thinking, though, that you're right, and maybe we ought to get you home. You'll feel better in your own house, with your own people."

Joel stopped chewing to listen. He nodded slowly as Richard continued. "So, I'm thinking, if we head back to Bedminster, where I found you, you could get to Long Ashton from there. That's on the way to Nailsea, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes," said Joel. He felt a tremendous sense of relief.

"The only thing is, I'd be a bit worried about you walking there. I mean, you're not well, are you? Even you must see that. I was thinking— maybe we could try and get you a lift. I mean, someone must be driving something to Nailsea, or near enough to it. Or is on his way back from delivering to the city."

Joel thought this over. "How about making a sign," he suggested, "Just with Nailsea on it, and I can hold it up while I'm walking. Then someone might offer me a lift."

"Mmm," mused Richard, rubbing his chin. "It might work."

"Well, what's the alternative? Stopping everybody who's going in the right direction?"

"Ah. Yes. Well, I doubt there will be that many. A lot of the roads might be impassable. I mean, you saw the state of Bedminster. But maybe, once we got you out of the main bit of the city, the roads'll be clearer." He scratched his head in thought. "And I'm not sure we've got anything in the house we can draw on for a sign. Irene might have some pencils we can use, but what to write on?" He rubbed his chin again and then said, "You can write, can't you?"

"Yes, of course I can," said Joel indignantly.

"Just making sure," said Richard, blushing a little. "No, I don't think we've got anything to make a sign with," he concluded. "We'll just have to flag down any likely vehicles, I suppose."

"Well," said Joel, finishing the last of his bread and brushing his hands off on his trousers, "if we're going to do this, we'll have to get going. I don't much fancy walking home in the dark."

"Yeah," agreed Richard. "The morning's gone already. We had best be going, then. Come on, before Mum comes looking for me. She has a horrible habit of finding me jobs."