A Window into Time (Novella) Read Free

down.”
    “I know. Jules, do you want to talk about it?”
    “No. It’s in my head, Uncle Gordon. It’s never going to go away. Talking won’t help.”
    “I get it. You must be starving. Let’s get some brunch.”
    I hate
brunch;
you have either a late breakfast or an early lunch.
Brunch
means you’re missing a meal. It means you haven’t planned your day properly. Mum never did that. She always made sure meals came at the right time.
    “Can we go down to the pub for a pizza?” I asked.
    “ ’Fraid not.”
    “Why? Has it changed landlords?” The landlord of the village pub is Italian. He makes The Best pizzas.
    Uncle Gordon rolled one of his own cigarettes; he says he uses spinach leaves instead of tobacco. “Naa. Just a bit of a problem with my slate. I’ve not got much of the old folding stuff right now, see.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    He lit the cigarette. “Don’t be. There’s some frozen oven chips, and I’ve got some eggs.”
    “That’s fine.”
    So breakfast was egg and chips. The eggs were from the hens he keeps in a big coop he built on the front lawn. It’s a bit crude, made from wood posts that don’t match. He’s always getting letters from the parish council about “appearances” and “aesthetics of the village.” “Bunch of twats,” Uncle Gordon calls them. “Retired men with way too much time on their hands. It’s people like them who started the Nazi party, you know.”
    That’s not really true; I checked on the Internet. But Uncle Gordon stands up for himself. I like that. I want to be like him when I grow up, standing up to Scrap Owen and Mods Haffla. But with a proper job in science, inventing something that helps people everywhere, not just some consumerist gadget.
    Uncle Gordon finally got through to Dad at the honeymoon hotel just after they arrived.
    “Oh Christ, son, I’m so sorry,” Dad said when Uncle Gordon handed me the phone. “How are you?”
    “I’m with Uncle Gordon.”
    “I know that but…are you okay?”
    People always ask that when something serious happens. I think they see characters on TV doing it and believe they have to do the same. What does it matter to someone else how I feel? (Unless they’re trying to hurt me, in which case it makes them happy.) And what good does knowing make? It’s not like they can do anything to change it. Especially when I was in Lincolnshire and they were in the Maldives.
    “I’ll be all right. The police told me it was instant. Mum didn’t suffer. They said that was good.”
    “Okay, son, you hang tight there, okay? Remember, it’s smart to be strong. You’re my boy, and I’ll come home soon, and we’ll get through this together, okay? You won’t be alone. Promise. I’ll get tickets on the first plane out of here.”
    I heard her. Rachel. Faint and in the background. She said: “Really? Dave, we just got here.”
    “Shut it,” Dad said to her. I could tell he was turned away from the phone.
    “Thanks, Dad.”
    “I’ll find out about flights right away. You can rely on me, son.”
    Uncle Gordon brought the wrong socks. Before we left our house, he’d shoved some of my clothes into the bag I used when I went to visit Dad—one of those small ones that just fit in the overhead lockers in airplanes.
    He saw me sitting on the edge of the sofa bed we’d unfolded to give me somewhere to sleep that night. I was holding up the socks, two pairs.
    “How are you getting on there, man?” he asked, his voice all soft and full of concern.
    “You brought Tuesday and Friday,” I told him.
    “What’s that?”
    I held up the socks. I always have the socks that have the days of the week written on them. Mum knew I like them, so she bought them from Marks & Spencer specially; with the day on them, there’s no getting them messed up, or having odd socks. “Tuesday,” I said, shaking the Tuesday pair for emphasis. “Tomorrow’s Monday.”
    “Oh, man, I don’t think Monday’s going to mind.”
    “I