A Step Back in Time

I told Max that I wasn’t feeling good, and asked if he would mind very much if I went home when I poked my head around the door of what was once again Max’s office. It was no longer a bedchamber, where my husband, many centuries before, had been committing adultery not with a woman, as I had half expected, but a man—and a man well known at court, too. I knew that William Palmer was a new boy on the block, so to speak, and a favorite of Henry the King as well as my husband Henry. Well, his particular favorite, it seemed.

I didn’t know what I expected when I peered into Max’s office, but there seemed to be a sudden shifting in my vision, as if they’d quickly drawn apart. But when I looked again the two of them were sitting quite properly, Max at his desk and Claire in what was usually my chair, searching through documents that looked so yellow and old, even ancient, I was surprised that they didn’t crumble to dust in their fingers. Claire, the belt that she wore masquerading as a skirt and showing all of her legs, was handling them very carefully, almost reverently, I thought.

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously, but thought that perhaps it was the effect of my going back in time so recently and the nature of what I had seen that had made me see something that wasn’t there. And really, I didn’t think that Max would act in such an unprofessional way in his own offices. After all, there was a time and a place for everything.

All the same, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy as I watched the two of them sitting so companionably together; so happily, it seemed. It should be me, I thought. Me and Max. I am his super-efficient personal assistant, not Claire. I wanted to stamp my feet and pout like a child, but with some sort of super human strength I managed to restrain myself.

Max stood up and walked towards me, his expression concerned. He laid a hand on my shoulder. “Of course, Hannah, have the afternoon and see how you feel tomorrow. I hope you haven’t caught Sarah’s shingles—you do live with her—and, well, Hannah….” He hesitated before speaking again. “Maybe you need to see a doctor? Um…or speak to somebody, a counsellor?”

Claire, frowning, looked taken aback.

“No,” I shook my head. “Sarah only said the other day that she’s not contagious any more. I don’t think it’s that. I just feel really tired, and I’ve got a sore throat and headache. I’ll be fine for tomorrow. And, no, I don’t think I need a doctor, or a counsellor. What makes you think that, Max?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You seem troubled lately. Forget it, Hannah, I’m sorry.” He sat down again, and I noticed that he was blushing. The “I’m so great” Max Reynolds blushing? Well, that was a turn up for the books.

“Are you still coming to Mum’s tonight?” asked Claire suspiciously.

I nodded my head. “I hope so. If I still feel off it later, though, I’ll text you.”

I drove home, my hands still shaky on the wheel. It seemed that all this going backwards and forwards in time was taking its toll. Tears came into my eyes again, obscuring my vision. Frantically I blinked them away, trying to concentrate on the road and wondering where it would all end.

Sarah, I thought. I need to speak to Sarah.

Thinking about what she had confided to me the other day—her shocking confession, so to speak, about her own experiences of going back in time—I knew without a doubt that she was the only person who would understand what I was going through.”

She was in the sitting room when I arrived home, curled up on the settee reading a book. Even though she’d been ill, she still looked well groomed, very neatly dressed, and her hair was styled in its usual gleaming bob. She jumped up when she saw me, and looking at my face seemed to know everything. After helping me with my coat, she led me to an armchair and gently sat me down. Oh, how good it was to be home.

She then disappeared into the kitchen, where very soon I heard the kettle bubbling to the boil and the clink of mugs and spoons. After handing me a large mug of hot coffee—laced with whiskey, I thought, as I sniffed at the steaming brew—she sat down again and said, “Hey, okay, Hannah, what’s happened?”

As I filled her in on my latest time travel experience, I felt as though I was telling her about an episode in a soap opera that was watched by millions on the telly, like Coronation Street or Eastenders. I supposed in this case it could be called Medieval Avenue or Henry’s Way, for he certainly did seem to have had his own way most of the time. Her eyes widened when I told her about my meeting with King Henry, and widened even further when I described the very brief experience I’d had when seeing my husband, Henry Stafford, in a very compromising position with a male musician from King Henry’s court.

She blew carefully on her drink and took a tentative sip, saying, “Hey, maybe it’s time for you to see someone, Hannah. A counsellor?”

I looked at her in disbelief. “That’s exactly what Max said earlier. But I’m not sure….”

“Hey, I went to a woman who did past life regression,” she told me.

“What’s the point of that? Don’t you, just as I do, go back spontaneously? Why would we need anybody to do it for us?”

“Hey, it helped me to talk to somebody who was aware of this type of thing. I felt at one point that I was going mad.”

I smiled at her. “Yes, I feel that way too. And I long to see Gregory, even though I know that maybe he doesn’t even exist.” I glanced at her as I spoke, and then said quietly, “Do you know something, Sarah? Gregory looks just like Max.”

“Hey, Max?” she said, startled. “Our Max? Max Reynolds?”

I nodded. “Yeah, and I get confused between them sometimes, and....” I couldn’t help giggling, with nerves I supposed. “I’m in love with Gregory, so it sort of feels as if I’m in love with Max too. When I’m not, of course. It’s really weird.”

“Hey, that must be really strange,” she replied thoughtfully, sipping from her mug. “Hmm, you’ll have to try to detach yourself, Hannah.” She looked straight at me. “I didn’t really think you had much time for Max, though.”

“Well…,” I stammered, “I like him as a boss. But he’s….” My voice trailed away, and for once I was lost for words, so instead of speaking I took a huge gulp of coffee, almost choking on the hot brew.

“Hey, Hannah, have you been a bit jealous since Claire came along looking like one of Max’s Barbies?”

I didn’t want to say it—I didn’t want anybody to even know it. But I nodded and said, “Yes, unfortunately I have.”

“Hey, just you wait and see,” Sarah said. “Max will end up with a girl that doesn’t resemble a Barbie at all—and that could well be you.”

“Oh God no,” I replied, laughing manically. “I’m not that jealous.” There was a short silence between us, which I filled by saying, “I’m grateful to have you to talk to, Sarah. Apart from the lady who did past life regression, did you have anybody else to confide in?”

Sarah shook her head, just a tiny bit too quickly for my liking, as she said, “Hey, no—nobody at all.” Abruptly, she stood up and went to the sideboard, where she fumbled around in one of the drawers and then sat back down again, handing me a small yellow business card with the name Sonia Fewer, Counsellor and Past Life Specialist, printed across it in spiky black letters.

“Hey, just in case?” she said.

I nodded and thanked her, and then told her what Claire and Max had said to me earlier; that I hadn’t been in the office all morning, and that they were wondering where I was. It seemed as if my physical presence had gone from this time and was in the other world, and that didn’t usually happen.

Sarah shrugged and said, “Hey, you’re right, that is unusual. I’m not sure why it happens. Were you with Gregory at that time?”

“Yes, for some of it. But then I met Henry, the king.”

“Hey, perhaps subconsciously you want to actually stay there with Gregory because you’re in love with him. Love is powerful, Hannah, really powerful.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. Yes, I want to stay with Gregory, but I certainly haven’t any desire to stay back there with the king. I don’t trust him. He was really nice to my mother, Margaret Pole, when he turned up at Warblington Manor unannounced, but look at what he eventually did to her.”

Sarah smiled wryly and said, “Hey, yeah, he was an evil one, was that Henry. Whatever, though, I think being in love with Gregory has a huge bearing on whether or not you take your physical body with you or leave it here.”

I felt so much better; my headache and sore throat had miraculously disappeared as if I’d never been ill at all. Maybe it was the whiskey that Sarah had put in my coffee, or perhaps just the fact that I’d had somebody to talk to who understood. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it was good to be well and, glancing at my watch—a very disappointing 1,250 steps today—I saw with relief that I had plenty of time before I was due for tea at Mum and Dad’s.

I stood up and peered from the window. The day had brightened considerably and the rain had stopped, and although there were dirty swollen clouds floating up there amongst the blue, I still wanted to get out of the house. “Do you fancy a walk, Sarah?” I asked. “I thought maybe I might have a trip out to Warblington Cemetery again. I’ll drive—”

“Hey, Hannah, that’s perhaps not a good idea. You might find yourself going back again. And, no, thanks, I’m still not totally okay. I think I’ll stay here and get back to my book. And, anyway, Neil might be calling round later.”

Shrugging on my coat, I said, “Okay, say hi to Neil.” Then I shook my head. “No, I’ve already been back twice today; I don’t think it will happen again.”

“Hey, no worries, Hannah. I’ve enjoyed our chat, but be careful, okay?”

“I will. I’m going to Mum and Dad’s for tea, so won’t be back until later.”

She nodded and I turned to leave, but there was just one last issue that I wanted to resolve before I did. I turned back. “Sarah?” She looked up from her book, a questioning look on her face. “I didn’t like to ask before, and you’ve never volunteered the information, but I have to know.” I took a deep breath. “Who were you when you went back?”

Sarah stared at me for what seemed an eternity, but eventually said, with no hey to precede it this time—it wasn’t really needed. “Elizabeth the First, Queen of England.”

***

I walked briskly amongst the gravestones in Warblington Cemetery. I hadn’t gone to the ruin yet, and I wasn’t sure if I was going to today. As Sarah had said, I was running the risk of going back, and I didn’t really think I could cope with it again today, especially as I was seeing Mum and Dad soon—and Claire, the all-knowing, all seeing sister, and also my little brother, Ryan. Even so, my mind was still spinning with the information that Sarah had given me.

Elizabeth the First, Queen of England, Henry’s daughter with Anne Boleyn—wow! Imagine living her life. My life as Ursula Pole seemed quite mediocre compared to that. But of course, Elizabeth didn’t have the trauma of pregnancies and births as poor Ursula had. And that must never be forgotten.

I found it intriguing that Ursula’s eldest daughter, Dorothy, was a very influential lady at Elizabeth’s court at the time of Ursula’s death at the grand old age of sixty-six. After so many childbirths, I had been totally gob smacked to read that Ursula had lived to such a ripe old age, life expectancy not being anything near as long as it was today. There were so many deaths during childbirth in those times. She was certainly one brave woman. Hey—as Sarah would say—thank you, Dorothy, for being the link between mine and Sarah’s past life experiences, and you’re definitely not the weakest link. Haha, how funny was I?

Being so totally wrapped up in my thoughts, I failed to notice that the grey clouds from earlier had turned heavy and black and, swollen as cow’s udders waiting to be milked, looked fit to burst, which suddenly they did. As the first drops fell, I ran quickly into the old cemetery of St. Thomas à Becket and took shelter beneath the wide spreading branches of the ancient yew tree.

Even though rain drummed through the branches and slid like little teardrops down the bright green leaves, I remained warm and dry, as if I was in my own little house, my own den, just like the grass dens that Claire and I used to make at the park when we were little girls. The salty smell of the sea was all around, clean and invigorating. I put my gloved hands deep into the pockets of my coat and, pulling my hood over my head, just stood there waiting for the rain to stop.

Glancing around, I noticed that I was surrounded by very old leaning gravestones, some black as coal like rotting teeth in a peasant’s mouth, just like Mrs. Dawes the midwife. I wandered from one to the other, still managing to keep dry beneath the branches of the tree, the span was so wide. Most of the stones were hard to read, the wording being faded, and on some of them almost gone completely. But one stood out from among the rest, having fairly legible writing on it if I peered really closely.

My heart skipped a beat as I saw the name of Walsh clearly etched in capital letters on its surface. On brushing away the ivy and furry moss that had grown all over it, I saw that the stone was heart shaped. Frantically I pulled away more and more of the plant, my nails breaking as I tried to dislodge it from the roots that clung stubbornly like little white worms deep into the earth. My hands became streaked with dust and dirt as I rubbed at the stone’s grimy surface, until as if by magic the following words were revealed to me:

WALSH

Beneath this stone lies the mortal remains of

Eliza Walsh

Aged 32 years at the time of her death

Most beloved wife of Isaac Walsh and

Most cherished mother of Gregory and Alice

May the Angels guide her home

Thinking that my heart would burst with grief for Eliza, who surely must be Gregory’s mother, but reassured that Gregory had existed and that I, as Ursula Pole, had loved him truly and deeply, I sank to my knees and there in the dusty, sweet smelling rain soaked earth put my hands to my face and wept.