A Step Back in Time

Max gave me a cheery wave from the open window of his silver Mondeo as he drove expertly from the parking lot after work that evening. I noticed that a swathe of long blonde hair cascaded over the passenger seat, but however much I craned my neck, I couldn’t be sure that it was the same girl that he had been wining and dining last week, or the week before.

Sarah and I called it, jokingly of course, and certainly not to his face, “The Barbie Doll Syndrome.” That was his type, I supposed—impossibly long legs, long blonde hair, tanned skin, tiny tight outfits. Sarah and I were keeping our fingers crossed that Max didn’t suddenly turn into Barbie’s boyfriend, Ken. Now that would be a disaster.

Remembering that I’d said I’d go to the cemetery after work to get vibes from the stones of the ruin of Warblington Manor, and hopefully to shed some light on the weird dreams that I’d been having, I pulled out of the parking lot in my pride and joy, Daphne the red Mini, and made my way through Havant town center. People in a rush to get home from work scurried along the pavements, school kids dawdled, their rucksacks hanging untidily from their backs, and little children cried, red faced, and dragged their feet even as they clung to the comfort of mummy or daddy.

I drove past Streets Ironmongers, where I remembered going with my grandmother, or Nan, when I was a little girl. She had loved that place. It was all closed up and derelict now, which made me feel really nostalgic. I smiled to myself as I remembered us being together, me and Nan, our shoes tapping on the wooden floors amidst the stifling smell of paint and airy, choking sawdust. I remembered sifting through smooth shiny nails and screws, and being fascinated by thick, shiny green hose pipe and the delicate leaves of plants, their roots buried in rich dark soil.

My Nan had been such a tiny woman, barely reaching my shoulder when I was a teenager, that it was difficult to believe that she had given birth to ten children. My mum, Marjorie, was one of ten! So really, was it so shocking that Ursula’s offspring had reached the unbelievable number of fourteen?

Mulling this over, my head spinning, I drove slowly by the Bear public house and Empire Court, a block of flats that had been built on the old footprint of the Empire Cinema, where my mum and dad had met many years before. I shook my head as I remembered Dad’s words when I had asked what he had first noticed about Mum, “I liked your mum’s backside in her tight black skirt.”

Smiling to myself, I sped past the turn off to Southleigh Road and Warblington School. Even at this time, school kids were still milling about outside the one stop shop at the bottom of the road as I drove past and on to Warblington Cemetery.

Even though it wasn’t dark yet, the orange glow of streetlights lit up Church Lane as I parked in the small parking lot in front of St Thomas à Becket Church. The church, squatting low in the approaching gloom like a steepled hand, was surrounded by old mildew encrusted gravestones that leaned wearily, and a massive yew tree, its branches whispering in the breeze as they brushed against the church’s ancient stones. I wrinkled my nose at the stench of muddy sea from nearby Langstone, or “Langstone on the Mud,” as people call it.

As I got out of the car a sudden cold gust of wind made me shiver, and I hunched down into the warmth of my coat, put my gloved hands into my pockets, and walked with purpose back down the lane. As I hurried by I glanced down Pook Lane, which I had been told was haunted by ghosts and ghoulies, and walked away from the cemetery, to where, hopefully, I would be nearer to the ruins of Warblington Manor.

I could see it as I approached—a turret pointing up into the sky, a sky which was now neither light nor dark but something in between, an inky blue with wispy skeins of clouds being pushed around as if by an invisible hand in the strengthening wind. I could see the imprint of thousands of tiny stars preparing to shine, and the moon waiting on the horizon.

The first thing I noticed as I got closer to the ruins was that the gate, a sturdy looking wooden affair, was open, wide open. I’d never seen it that way before, and hesitated momentarily. But then I thought, Private land or not, I’m going in; this is important, before walking quickly through and along a smooth tarmacked path. Beyond the ruin I could see a rather more modern manor house surrounded by large colorful gardens, with a couple of mud splattered SUVs parked outside.

A shallow depression in the moist earth, which I assume had once been the moat, surrounded the turret, through which I tiptoed carefully, trying not to get my boots dirty, as the mud, still sticky and squelchy, had not quite dried from the winter. Close to the ruin now, I gazed up at the imposing structure of red brick and stone, the top of which seemed to disappear into the clouds, it was so high. I could see tiny slits of windows, and I almost expected Rapunzel to appear and hang down her golden hair so I may climb it like a stair. I smiled to myself as I thought how easy it would be for one of Max’s girlfriends to help with that.

Dusk was beginning to fall and the sky arched above me, twinkling now with stars and the moon, which hung motionless like a silver globe. Pulling off my gloves, I placed my hands on the cold stones of the turret and closed my eyes. I counted down slowly from ten to one. Nothing happened. Furtively I glanced around, hoping that nobody was watching me, that nobody was peering from the tiny windows of the nearby manor house and wondering who I was and what I was doing there. I was very conscious that I shouldn’t be there, that I was on private land and that the owners had every right to ask me to leave if they wanted to.

A light flicked on in one of the downstairs rooms, a rosy welcoming glow shining through the window. I caught a glimpse of a large squashy sofa and a fluffy orange rug in front of a fireplace big enough to sit in. I pressed my cold hands into the stone again and closed my eyes, taking deep even breaths as I did so.

My heart thumped hard against my ribs as I became aware suddenly of a change in the air, from a slight chill to balmy, and the stones of the ruin felt warm beneath my palms. Birds chirped and squawked, and soft green leaves appeared on the trees. I smiled as I took another deep breath and inhaled what was now a stifling summer’s day. Then I heard the sound of heavy marching boots.

“No,” shrieked a voice, a female voice. “No, you can’t do this! No, no, no…!”

Quick as a flash I turned around to see my mother, Margaret Pole—older now than the last time I’d seen her, her face etched with wrinkles—being forcibly dragged from the shadowy doorway of Warblington Manor by several burly men dressed in uniform. Somehow the ruin had disappeared and the intact structure, the old manor house, stood there in all its glory.

She writhed and struggled in their strong grip, her dainty slippers dragging along the path, their pretty decorative stones falling off and shining like silver droplets on the ground. But they held on tightly with their massive hands, and I could imagine that even through the thick folds of her gown bruises would bloom that night on her shoulders and her arms.

“It’s under the orders of the king, my lady,” one of the men informed her. He was broad chested and stocky, his arms and legs solid and thick. A straggly beard sprouted from a chin that jutted like stone, and his eyes, light blue and hard, stared at her, uncaring.

“The king?” she questioned, panic struck. “Henry? My Henry?” She glanced sideways at the man, her nostrils flaring with either anger or terror. I’d never seen that expression on her face before.

“Yes, my lady,” he replied reverently. “King Henry the Eighth of England.” He bowed his head slightly as he said the king’s name, still holding on tightly to my mother.

The other men nodded their heads and echoed his words as they carried on dragging her towards a black carriage, emblazoned with the king’s arms that stood waiting at the huge gates beyond the moat. Two shiny black horses, spattered with mud and sweating in the hot sunshine, pawed the ground impatiently with their dangerous hooves.

Still struggling in their grasp, my mother said breathlessly, “I need to speak with him. Tell the king I need to speak with him. Henry will listen, he is my kin. I am all alone here today. My husband is not within, and my sons are away.” As if grasping for straws, she said with a whimper, “My daughter, Ursula, will come for me, but she is busy. The children—she has so many children.”

It was a warm day here in the 1500s, the sky a bright blue with no clouds, and I squinted against the sun, my mother and the soldiers a red blur, as I thought, Should I show myself? If I do, will she be able see me?

With my arms outstretched, I began to step towards her, my mother, who, distraught at such barbarism, had slid to the ground onto her poor arthritic knees and was openly crying, glassy tears falling down her face. Impervious to her pleas, the soldiers continued to drag her towards the carriage, her beautiful gown shredding on the rough ground, blood now seeping from cuts and scratches on her spindly legs.

I called to her over and over again, “Mother, Mother,” but she didn’t seem to hear, nor did she see me as I approached her and the bunch of foul soldiers. “Get away from her!” I shouted at them. “Get away!” But they seemed not to see me and carried on with their terrible work, pushing her roughly into the carriage like a sack of potatoes and slamming the door. The carriage rattled away, lurching from side to side like a drunk. Helplessly I watched it go, my hands clasped to my breast to still the hurried beating of my heart. I was so afraid that I would never see her again.

I turned at the sound of a voice, and with such gladness saw Gregory and promptly threw myself into his arms. “Oh, darling,” I said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

He didn’t reply but just stared at me, taking in all my features, so it seemed—my eyes, my lips, his bright green gaze resting on my mouth for what seemed an eternity. Then his sumptuous lips came down on mine and we kissed passionately, clinging tightly together like vines.

Not wanting to, but common-sense taking hold and remembering the plight of my mother, I pulled away, breathless, and whispered urgently, “Oh dear one, you must help me. You must help my mother; the soldiers have taken her on the orders of the king.”

His answer surprised me. “Hannah?” He grabbed my shoulders in his hands. “What are you saying? Are you delirious? What soldiers? What on earth are you talking about?”

The whole world seemed to tilt on its axis and I spun around and around like the spinning top that I’d played with as a little girl, until everything was a blur. Gradually the earth began to slow and I became aware that the heat had gone, that the sun no longer blazed from a clear blue sky, and that it was cold and dusky here in my time. Here in my little corner of the world.

Then the earth slowed further and further until it was still, and I was able to look at the man whose strong arms encircled me, and I saw with a growing disbelief that it wasn’t Gregory as I had thought. It was Max, my boss Max Reynolds, and he was staring at me open mouthed as if I’d lost my mind.

***

“Yes, I know, Claire,” I said. “Mum told me that you’re working part time in a baker’s shop. Smith & Vosper, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, in Havant town center. You know, just by—”

“Yes, I know where it is—next door to Woolworths—”

“I didn’t really want to go back to legal work, Hannah,” she butted in lamely. “I’m enjoying the baker’s, doing something different.”

“It’s only for a few months,” I told her. “Just until Sarah’s better. Otherwise we’ll have to advertise, and it’s a pain, you know. Anyway, whatever, Max asked me to have a word with you. ’Ask your little sister,’ he said. ‘We know that she’s a super-efficient legal secretary.’ But never mind.”

There was a slight pause before she said, “Well, if I did—and I said if…,” she pointed out. “It could only be part time. I want to carry on working at the baker’s.”

I grinned to myself. I knew I could get around her eventually, especially if I bulled her up and told her how good she was. We were struggling in the office though, as Sarah had suddenly gone off sick with shingles, and might be absent from work for at least a couple of months. We needed all the help we could get.

“Part time is great,” I told her. “Come in and see Max, have a chat with him.”

“Hmm,” she replied. “I’m not sure about working with Max; he’s a bit up himself, isn’t he?”

I laughed loudly and imagined Claire pulling her mobile away from her ear and looking at it in disgust. “You don’t have to worry about that, Claire, I work for Max. You’d be working for Stuart, and he’s a good guy, although Max is okay too, really.”

“An acquired taste,” she said disdainfully.

Laughing to myself, I clicked off my mobile and laid it beside me on the desk. We’d arranged for her to call in to see Max and Stuart the very next day. I was sure she would take the job. It would be good to work with Claire. I’d missed her while she’d been working as a legal secretary in London, and to have her here even part time would be a great help. I’d been struggling the past week with Sarah’s workload as well as mine, and it was really getting to me. Also, it didn’t help that things had been a bit strained between me and Max since our strange encounter in Warblington Cemetery the week before.

I didn’t understand the kiss that we had shared, and I was sure that Max was totally regretting it, as he had pulled away immediately, and ever since had been distant from me, hostile even. I knew that I had a lot of explaining to do for what I had said to him about Margaret Pole, the soldiers, and the king, but I wasn’t sure where to start. Knowing Max, he would laugh if I told him about the strange dreams that I was having, the dreams that seemed so real.

I suppose that the only explanation I could give him for the kiss was that I mistook him for Gregory Walsh; they looked so much alike. But having to tell Max that I thought he was a man that I’d encountered hundreds of years back in time would, no doubt, also be met with ridicule.

Anyway, if I’d known that it was Max and not Gregory that I was with, the kiss would never have happened. I had no feelings whatsoever for Max in that way and, although it had been very enjoyable, I was absolutely sure that I’d only liked it so much because I’d thought it was Gregory that I was kissing and not Max. Yes, that was definitely the case. Most definitely. Wasn’t it?

Also, I had yet to find out what Max had been doing in the cemetery that evening. What had he been up to? I made up my mind then and there that next time I had a chance to speak to him alone, I would ask the question.

Anyway, since then nothing had happened, nothing at all. No trips back in time, and I was desperate to find out what had happened to my mother—well, I mean Ursula Pole’s mother—after being taken away by that pack of ruthless soldiers. I dreaded that if it happened again, if I ever did go back again, it would be to witness her execution, and from what I had read on Wikipedia it had been a terribly gruesome sight.

Also, I wanted to see Gregory—I longed to see Gregory. I longed for the smell of him, the sweet citrusy scent of his skin, the feel of his stubbly beard against my cheek, and the beat of his heart against mine. I felt that I was in love with him. But how could I be in love with a man who had lived centuries before, and was now nothing but dust?

I had googled Gregory Walsh, frantically googled him, hoping and praying that something would come up on the screen of my computer, but had found nothing. There was no information about him at all, and as each day went by, I was conscious of the fact that he was living somewhere back in time, living and breathing through each and every day without me.

That is, I thought with a sickening jolt, If he ever lived at all, and wasn’t just a figment of my imagination! I reassured myself with the fact that I couldn’t be imagining Margaret or Ursula; that they had lived, that they had been real, as had Henry, my husband. I’d read all about them on Wikipedia. Maybe there was no information about Gregory because he had lived as just an ordinary man, that he wasn’t royal or related to royalty as Margaret and Ursula were.

Coming out of my reverie, I heard the tread of footsteps coming across the tiled entrance way floor, and suspected that it was Max coming to check up on me, checking that I was getting on with my work, and he probably wanted to know what Claire had said about covering for Sarah. Well, I had news for him on that score. Good news as well; and maybe it would be the ideal time to talk to him properly about what had happened that evening in the cemetery.

I gazed at my computer screen, at the document laid out before me—another will, but that’s what came from working in probate. This time it was the last will and testament for a Mr. Michael Strothers, who was leaving everything to his daughter, Michaela—his house, his car, all his money, everything. Lucky Michaela!

I glanced at the door, wondering when Max was actually going to make an appearance, as it seemed ages since I’d heard footfalls in the hallway. But all was quiet and all was still. I frowned as I noticed that the light was fading, and glancing at my Fitbit—still with very few steps on it—saw that it was only four o’clock in the afternoon. But the small paved area, so bright yellow with daffodils just a few minutes earlier, was dusky now and shadowy, the flowers shining in the gloom like a child’s night light. I realized that I would have to switch on the office lights if I wanted to see what I was doing, which was very strange for this time of day in April.

All of a sudden the office door, which had been so firmly closed, screeched open, making me jump. To my total surprise it wasn’t Max that came rushing towards me in a panic, but my mother, Margaret Pole. She looked tired and drawn, the skin beneath her eyes a puffy pale blue, and her hair, normally pulled back briskly or covered in a sumptuous hood, was soft and relaxed, with tiny wispy tendrils framed her face. She looked strange, diminished almost without the height of the hood, without the tiny peaked house on top of her head.

“Ursula,” she said. “Oh Ursula, let me help you, my dear one.”

My heart beating as hard as a drum, I stood up and noticed straight away a faint irritating needling pain in the small of my back. My heart thumping heavily like a drum, I held out my hands to my mother, who grabbed them like a lifeline. Then, to my utmost dismay, I felt water sliding slowly down my soft inner thighs and pooling around my bare feet, like a thick gluey scab on what had suddenly become old bumpy floorboards.

Putting my hands gently on the writhing bump that had so recently been Hannah Palmer’s somewhat flatter stomach, I realized with a heavy heart that my pregnancy was coming to an end, that I was in labor, and that today I, Ursula Pole, would give birth to my first child, a son, who would be named Henry after his father, and also after the king.