I don’t make a habit of eavesdropping, well only in my capacity as a writer. Often you can’t help overhearing people on their mobile phones, in the street, on the bus, in the toile…toilet?
Usually in the Ladies only banal conversations emanate from inside cubicles.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a wee George before we go, Mummy’s going to have a wee, are you sure you don’t… Daisy are you washing your hands properly, Daisy are you still there, wait till Mummy’s finished, don’t go out… Daisy, DAISEEE?’
I know from films and TV thrillers that men have endless dramatic conversations at the urinals, threatening, exchanging important information, dealing drugs or even assassinating each other.
The other day at our local busy sports centre the Ladies had a more interesting conversation to overhear.
Surely she’s not taking her phone into the cubicle, she’s actually carrying on talking while she’s going and I can hear the other person clearly, must be on speaker.
I felt almost guilty intruding on their conversation, but I was in my cubicle first, I didn’t ask her to move in next door.
‘Oh my god Bella, are you sure, whyever would you think that?’
‘He was late home that night.’
‘Was it his darts night?’
‘Till 3am! Creeping in but woke me up anyway. I asked where he’d been and he told me not to worry and go back to sleep. As if I could, especially when I could hear him putting the washing machine on.’
‘But that still doesn’t mean he had anything to do with it.’
‘Oh what shall I do, ring that number they gave out on the news?’
‘Bella, you can’t seriously think Dave could be involved, they would have needed a chainsaw.’
‘He’s got a chainsaw.’
‘Oh, well that’s probably because he is a tree surgeon. Don’t do anything yet, you don’t actually know anything.’
I didn’t dare flush the toilet, I did not want her to know anyone was listening in to what could be an incriminating conversation. Nor did I want to miss a word.
‘Bella, have you told anyone else yet?’
‘No, of course not, I just had to tell someone, do you think I’m crazy?’
‘Yes er no… is there anything you have not told me about Dave?’
‘No, well there was that one time I got a weird phone call from his ex.’
‘As she was still alive that’s reassuring. Where are you now?’
‘Walking the dog in the park.’
‘And where’s Dave?’
‘He was asleep when I left.’
‘Not the park where they found the body parts!’
‘No, that’s still taped off and police everywhere.’
‘I suppose you could call that number anonymously… and don’t go home.’
The toilet flushed and the door banged, I did not hear any more, didn’t dare creep out till she was gone. But what should I do. Back out in reception and the café it was so busy there was no way of guessing who had been in the Ladies. How could I phone the police and say someone called Dave who lived with Bella might be the murderer?
I ignored the large envelope, some charity begging letter, it was us that needed charity. It soon disappeared beneath lunch boxes and homework books. Our tiny kitchen was always cluttered. I opened the back door and the children rushed upstairs to open all the bedroom windows. They knew the drill, at least this unseasonably warm September made it easier to air the house out from the smell of damp and mould.
It was five o’clock already, we had stopped at the swings to get some fresh air before being cooped up for the evening. Time to get on with dinner. I checked their homework books and started clearing space to cook. The colourful envelope had written in large letters across the top, DO NOT throw away, contains important information for the addressee. Definitely rubbish. I put it aside to read the more important looking letter in a white envelope from a solicitor?
I ripped it open, what on earth could it… notice our tenancy would not be renewed… my mouth went dry, I leaned against the narrow work top. We had assumed we would renew our tenancy again next month. That wasn’t the only bad news today, the announcement that the Wilko chain of stores could not be saved had been the only topic of conversation at work that morning. Hope was no longer an option for we staff.
When Mark walked through the door I could not read the expression on his face.
‘Do you want the good news or the bad news first.’
‘Bad’ I replied automatically.
‘Derek has had a heart attack.’
‘Oh that’s a shock, is he dead?’
‘Not quite, intensive care.’
I was relieved on two counts, the bad news wasn’t ours and at least Derek was not dead.
‘So what is the good news?’
‘I’m taking over his job, supervisor at last.’
‘Oh great’ I tried to sound enthusiastic, Mark’s good news cancelled out by me losing my job and of course The Letter. I grabbed it off the counter top, knocking the junk mail envelope to the floor. Dream House in big letters on the back, probably full of raffle tickets I could not afford to buy…
‘Cheer up Chelle, I heard about Wilkos, we knew it was coming, my pay rise will help till you find something else.’
I held out the dreaded white envelope but at that moment the children came rushing down the stairs and the door bell began ringing frantically.
‘I’ll go, if that’s Maggie I need the money she owes me, but I don’t need her coming in for a chat.’
I opened the door to be confronted by a young man and woman dressed very smartly.
‘Good evening, Mrs Michelle Gallager?’
‘Erm yes…’
‘We have some very good news for you.’
‘I’m sorry, I have my own beliefs and I’m trying to cook dinner.’
‘No, no we’re not bringing you news of eternal life, something much better. You have won your dream home. Did you get our letter today?’
‘Mark, Mark, bring that letter from the kitchen.’
They waved identity cards in front of me, but I was not going to let them in, this was obviously some kind of scam or trick, perhaps we were being filmed for reality TV.
It was not a scam, not as far as we could tell. Mark and I sat up after the children were in bed tapping on the iPad, checking the charity running the competition and the solicitor assigned to us. I go in for lots of competitions; I once won a family ticket to a third rate theme park and another time a year’s supply of washing powder that gave our youngest a rash. I didn’t recall the dream house, the second prize was a holiday to Bognor Regis, maybe that’s what had drawn me in. Apparently I had neglected to tick the no publicity box, but they were holding off on that for a week until we had decided what to do. What was there to decide, the house looked fabulous and right on the seashore.
‘…and we can sell it and buy our own sensible dream house where we want to live.’
I tuned back in to what Mark was saying.
‘Sell… no it’s our chance to have a new life.’
‘Chelle, we still have to eat and pay the bills and there’s my job. We’ve never been north of Watford and we know nothing about Northumberland.’
‘Room for relatives to stay, fresh air and scenery and the children can have a dog and I can get a job in a seaside café, it will be one long holiday…’
On Sunday we travelled up in a mini bus with ‘our team’ to visit the house. They looked shattered by the time we got there, excited children munching through happy meals at motorway services and talking non stop on the long drive ‘Will it have a drawbridge… and horses and a helicopter pad?’
It was a dream house, exotic looking at the front with picture windows upstairs and downstairs at the back, looking over the sea on a lovely evening. The children rushed round screaming with delight, slipping on polished floors and turning taps on in the various bathrooms. The team seemed eager to get away.
‘Now we will leave you alone for a week, it’s fully furnished as you see, bed linen and everything provided and a week’s worth of food. Don’t rush into any decisions, but we will be back next Sunday with the film crew.’
Mark and I stood on the balcony of the master bedroom looking at the stars. We could hear the children still chattering, faintly as their bedrooms were at the other end of the house.
‘I am so glad we haven’t told anybody yet Mark. Let’s enjoy this week, who cares if the children are missing school.’
‘We’ll have to watch them on that open staircase and that information brochure says to watch out for rip tides.’
The next day the sun shone on the sea and we went exploring. Glorious sand dunes and rolling heath, no sign of civilisation. I loved it.
‘Mummy, when can we go to the shops?’
‘We don’t need anything yet.’
‘But I want to go to the pet shop, you said we could have a puppy.’
‘…and you said I could have a pony.’
On Tuesday we realised there was no Broadband. On Wednesday it started raining, by Thursday most of the food had run out, our team obviously did not know how much food a family eats and we still had not found the shops. On Friday there was a power cut and the cinema sized television did not work. At least on Saturday the sun came out and we found a field of sheep and walked along the shore till we came to a fence that said Ministry of Defence Keep Out.
‘Daddy, can we go home now?’ said our youngest that evening.
On Sunday we waited anxiously for the charity team to return.
The sun was going down and my stress levels were going up. It was time to all gather, decide where we were going to perform this evening. I didn’t get any peace during the day either, had they never heard of Me Time? It was a constant ‘Let’s go down the quay’ or ‘Ah there you are, what are you having for lunch? Come on, you don’t want to eat alone…’
There was no chance to grab another bite to eat before the performance. With such a large cast you would imagine my absence would go unnoticed, no such luck. They were all chattering now, so loud I had a headache, but I couldn’t hide for long.
‘Come on, it’s a lovely clear evening, time you got in place, stick with Jet and see if you can get it right this time, we’ve got a big audience.’
I sighed, was I the only starling who couldn’t get the hang of murmurations? How I wished I was a robin, singing sweetly by myself in the apple tree, king of my own territory, friend of gardeners. What was it about starlings, always having to stick together. Even worse than the mumuration was roosting; flapping and squawking, deciding where to settle for the night, then ending up in the same old tree we always went to.
I thought longingly of the garden, robin hopping around as the gardener topped up the bird bath for him, a last bit of digging in the new bed before the light failed. Pausing, staying motionless as her favourite bird hopped closer, grabbing gratefully at the worm in the newly turned soil. Dewy eyed as she marvelled at his stick thin legs, the sheen of the downy red feathers on his chest and the strong melody issuing forth from his tiny beak when he retuned to the apple bough.
Why did I have to be reincarnated as a starling and not a robin? There’s my wife telling all her friends I have come back as her robin. Be just my luck that ‘her robin’ is that awful Derek down the road, who died the week before me in that mishap with his lawn mower…
What if I had stayed? I felt guilty just having that thought after what I have put my family through. I feel no guilt about my brief stay in 2099, that was beyond my control and I would never have chosen to leave my home and family to venture into the unknown future.
As I sat down for another attempt at writing my official report I felt a surprising emotional pull to those few weeks in that very different world. The memories were coming back to me more vividly as the weeks passed and the initial shock and trauma began to wear off. The quiet life in our ‘safe house’, a magnificent country mansion, was making my real life in a 2023 London suburb ever more remote.
The clear skies, wonderfully fresh air and sheer abundance of nature were what many urbanites dream of, though probably not the primitive, dangerous life of The Hunters in 2099. I couldn’t help yearning a little for the comforting scent of roasting spits and the simple life they led, completely at one with their environment, the only life they knew.
I wanted to explain this in my report, I had not typed a single word yet. By 2099 London and presumably the rest of planet Earth, had returned to nature and yet it was not as it should be. Human interference in every part of life for more than a century had resulted in nature recreating itself into a form that terrified the Bunker People, who cowered in the remains of subterranean London.
My status as the mythical Lauren of London meant that I was protected from the dangers that lay outside The Hunter’s large camp. I had persuaded them once to let me go out with the women, children and old men gathering wild fruits. That wasn’t sexist, there were women hunters as well, the tough ones, though every woman was pretty tough. I surmised that anyone with a family predisposition to poor health had not survived the catastrophic breakdown of society. Truly survival of the fittest, these hunters had survived against the odds, plunged back into a prehistoric life without the generations of folk lore to guide them.
The computer screen remained blank and I could hear my boys fighting just outside the library window, I wondered where their father was. I hadn’t got my old life back yet, but after much negotiating my family had been allowed to come and stay here during the school holidays. My poor husband was subject to counselling and scrutiny, sworn to secrecy and his phone confiscated, but the last thing he wanted was to talk to the press after they had treated him as a murder suspect when I was missing. The staff here had persuaded him to listen properly to what I had to say, but he was not totally convinced. He promised to support me if I wanted to admit I was a part of some terrible hoax.
Our sons believed me. When you are five and seven everything in the world is new and amazing. For youngsters obsessed with dinosaurs and fantasy in films and books, it was easy to believe their mother had been transported to the future and back again. They were mainly interested in the strange creatures that grazed and hunted over the grasslands and woods that had spread out from natural parklands and gardens. Amazing creatures have always inhabited the earth and even in our own time if you met an elephant for the first time you would be terrified. Now add in the selective breeding that had gone on for centuries and the more recent legal and illegal tampering with DNA; even a non-scientist like me could guess what had gone wrong when infrastructure broke down and animals made a bid for freedom from farms, zoos, safari parks and laboratories.
The hunters could not understand this evolution, they just knew what to hunt for food and which creatures to escape from and scare off with their burning torches and thunderous drums.
My sons suddenly came rushing up to the desk.
‘Mummy, Mummy tell us about the wild cat again and the giant bison and the huge ram that ran you all over and why did you have to go and lose your phone so you couldn’t take any pictures?’
‘A tabby cat bigger than a lion, with teeth like a sabre toothed tiger attacked me. The hunter on a strong stallion rescued me and we galloped safely away, but I dropped my handbag…’
That was as close as I could get to describing the most terrifying moment of my life, I did not want to give them nightmares, but during the day they lapped up the stories.
‘And what happened when you were picking fruit?’
‘We all stayed close together, the hunters on horseback circled around us all the time with their flaming torches and loud drums, the fierce camp guard dogs warned them as soon as they caught a scent of dangerous animals, even before they came into sight. The dogs started barking in a frenzy and suddenly a ram bigger than a bull came charging towards us. He was not interested in attacking people, he had just seen another ram trying to round up his sheep, like we saw on that farm visit, but these sheep were as big as cows.’
‘What did the ram look like Mummy?’
‘He had curling horns as large as roller coasters and he wanted to attack the other ram, we just happened to be in the way. We crowded together, the fruit gatherers knew what to do and pulled me with them down into a dip, hiding in a prickly thicket. The hunters circled us out of the way and the ram thundered past, trampling a dog and knocking a hunter off his horse.’
‘Was the hunter okay?’
‘Yes’ I lied, shuddering at the memory.
‘Why didn’t they kill the ram?’
‘The spears they had found in the ruins of the Tower of London would never penetrate his mega thick fleece.’
I wasn’t sure where the hunters got their weapons from, passed down from their fathers they said, so this seemed a likely explanation. As I looked at the mixture of fear and delight on the boys faces I was so thankful I had survived to come back to them. No, I would not have wanted to stay.
Lies, all lies. Secrets and Lies? No, if I had any secrets I wouldn’t have needed to make up all those lies to sound more interesting on Facebook and WordPress. Today I looked back at the first post on my new blog, Millennium Me.
‘Born as the new millennium started I owe it to the world, to history, to set the design for Twenty First Century Woman. Now in 2016 I know the world is at my feet.’
Okay, so I was born in 1978, nobody could tell from my avatar. It had started as a joke on Facebook where everyone was presenting their oh so fabulous or exciting lives. How do we know any of it is true?
I clicked onto my second blog post.
‘When I left school I vowed never to sit at a desk again. The jungle would be my office, orangutans my colleagues, the desert my holiday breaks.’
My desk job was only meant to last a few months till I had enough money to start my adventures, but every time I thought of leaving I would get one of those persistent colds I’m a martyr to.
2018 and my blog was really taking off.
‘Who would have believed I would celebrate my eighteenth birthday on top of Mount Kilimanjaro, especially after losing my right leg to bone cancer.’
I spent my fortieth birthday quietly, my knee was playing up again so I went to Toby Carvery with Joan from the office, she was glad to have a break from looking after her mother.
2019, romance was in the air and I had more followers than ever.
‘February 14th 2019 – When Your Parents Disapprove of Your Lover.
We were married in a tribal ceremony; just because it was not a recognised marriage in Britain or the catholic church, who cares. We were made for each other, for life, me and my Zulu Warrior.’
2020 and the world wide pandemic found me isolated in KwaZulu Land, truly isolated…
‘I can hardly bear to write that the love of my life has been brutally murdered by an Xhosa warrior.’
I spent all the various lockdowns working from home, one of the handy things about an office job. I had to kill off the Zulu warrior as I have never been further south than the Isle of Wight and I don’t know a lot about Zulus. I was also beginning to get quite a few South African followers and they might have started to get suspicious.
In 2021 I trekked north across the African continent.
‘I spent my twenty first birthday with a Bedouin tribe, never imagining I would find love again. But it was not to be. I was not prepared to share him with his other three wives and I set my goal for the oceans.’
In 2021 I decided after all that lock down business that I needed a holiday, explore some of my own country before venturing abroad. I would have been more adventurous, but I thought taking Joan to Scotland on a coach trip would do her good after the death of her mother.
‘My first blog post for 2022 finds me out on the ocean wide and the oceans are wider than I ever dreamed. Despite having just completed ten rounds of chemotherapy after the return of my cancer, I was determined to take up my place on the round the world yacht race using only seventeenth century navigation techniques. Luckily the other three crew members are experienced.’
The Poole to Cherbourg trip did me a world of good. I loved the open seas and I wasn’t seasick at all during the four and a half hour trip. A chap even chatted me up, but there wasn’t time for a shipboard romance as I had to keep an eye on Joan with her dodgy hip.
In 2023 I have been pondering whether I should wind up this blog. I am beginning to run out of ideas, Liedeas I call them. Revealing that I had just realised I was a Lesbian, or perhaps bisexual had not been a good idea. I received some nasty comments from certain extreme religious groups and also from the LGBTQIA+ community. I think I may have got some of the initials wrong, or at least the right initials, but not necessarily in the right order.
Perhaps I should go out with a bang, reveal the lies, how I fooled all of you…
Cummings led a very nervous Doctor Chowdry down the long corridor to what the boss liked to call the cabinet room. Used often for important but select gatherings, today’s could prove to be the most important meeting ever held there. A few royals, several iconic television commentators, a few scientists, two highly respected journalists and a young documentary maker. No world leaders or government ministers, but that was for the best if they were to have a serious discussion.
Doctor Chowdry himself had no idea who the men and women were, but seated round the long table, the men in suits and the ladies in professional attire, they looked impressive. The man from 2099 should feel he was being taken seriously.
The doctor was overwhelmed as he entered the room, he had his wish to meet important people, but his mouth felt so dry he wondered if he would be able to utter a word. In the bunker, since his father had died, he was top dog, but now he felt himself shrink. One older man stood up and walked over to him.
‘How very good to meet you at last. I hope Mr. Cumings has been taking good care of you and your stay here has been comfortable. Now we have many questions to ask you, as you would expect, but our only aim is to help you; if what you tell us is true. Now Mr. Cummings will first brief us on his investigations, so please sit down.’
‘Uh, hmm, well medically speaking, if we had all been better prepared, Doctor Chowdry and Miss Belinda Biggins would have been put immediately into isolation. As travellers from the future they would have no immunity to our colds, flu’, Covid etc… you get the picture. No one from the bunker has access to immunisation, but medical tests show these two people have immunity to a lot of diseases. Chowdry himself states that his people do get ill, most recover, a few don’t. Perhaps we can assume that survivors of the apparently horrific years of the middle of the Twenty First century are just that, survival of the fittest. DNA tests so far reveal no genetic defects that could make them susceptible to certain cancers or diseases.’
‘Can we get to the nitty gritty Cummings, two young people in good health, who speak English, what proof have you got they come from the future? Have they shown you the time machine?’
‘They have not had the chance, we brought them straight here for their own safety, but I can tell you that forensic examination of the Ladies toilets at the London Wetherspoon where Mrs Lauren Smith disappeared and where Mrs Smith, Miss Billings and the doctor claim to have appeared eighteen days later, revealed nothing unusual at all, let alone a time portal.’
Agitated, Doctor Chowdry stood up to defend himself.
‘As none of you understand what a portal is, how can you be so certain. Of course it does not have a physical construction you would understand, it can’t be seen or detected if it is not in your time at that moment. My paternal grandfather constructed it when that building was empty and derelict, but before London was destroyed. Like other underground constructions it survived to become part of our bunker. Nobody in the bunker came across it accidentally like poor Mrs Smith on her side, though twice we have had people go missing; we assumed they had stayed outside past the sirens and come to a nasty end, or foolishly decided to join the Hunters. How my grandfather designed it I have no idea, he only told me the secret when he was dying, he had never even told my father. He told me enough to work out how to go through it, but not how to get back again.’
‘How very convenient’ muttered a woman at the other end of the table.
‘I don’t need or want to go back; I am here to warn people to save themselves, what sort of future do you want for your grandchildren?’
The man who had first spoken to him stood up. ‘People have been arguing about time travel for a very long time, can one change the future, if we manage to save civilisation would you still exist?’
‘Who knows, yes if my grandparents still met and my parents still met in happier times…’
The journalist leaned forward ‘What year was your grandfather born?’
‘2004’
‘So all we have to do is find him and DNA would prove you were his grandson.’
‘Obviously we have thought of that’ retorted Cummings, ‘but there are a lot of Chowdrys around, especially if you include spelling variations. He would only be nineteen at the moment, Doctor Chowdry knew him as a doctor, a grandfather. But in our time he is not a doctor and couldn’t have invented his time portal already, because the building is not yet derelict. Now, we have narrowed down our list to Londoners born with that name in 2004, but our doctor here doesn’t know for sure where he was born and when he ended up living in London.‘
A young woman spoke for the first time. ‘Just supposing time travel was true, everything we have been told is true, is it ethical to introduce a teenager to his grandson? Would it change his future, did he invent a time machine because he met someone from the future? If he heard all we have learned would he decide on a different career, science, politics try to save the world?’
‘Yes, yes I must meet him’ shouted Chowdry. ‘He was such an intelligent man, he would understand me and I could help him.’
‘So he is old enough right now to see the problems of the world that gradually will lead to total disaster, but he obviously did no more than anyone else about it, could not understand the full implications. Does that mean he will never meet you?’
Cummings stood and gripped the table ‘Not in the present future, but if we introduce them perhaps it will never happen… old grandson and young grandfather, we must find him, they must meet…’
When Findlay Cummings cycled up the long driveway of the country mansion on his latest visit to interview Doctor Chowdry, he was astonished to see the usually restrained doctor up an old oak tree. Circling round the trunk in great excitement was the head gardener’s loveable ten month old Labrador. Grabbing hold of his collar wasn’t as easy as Fin expected, the dog thought it was part of the game, while the doctor appeared in fear of his life.
‘Have you got a gun? Fetch help, I think I’m going to fall.’
‘No, no, it’s okay, Ptolemy is just a big old softy.’
Despite loving dogs Findlay was still glad to see Ptolemy’s owner hove into view, he did not want to have to explain to the boss that their precious visitor from the future had broken his neck falling out of a tree.
A sharp whistle from the head gardener and the dog retreated; Ptolemy knew who the pack leader was.
The gardener marched off, not wishing to get involved with the strange guests and visitors to the normally peaceful mansion, but Findlay raced after him to ask if he had a ladder.
‘Thanks Mr. Cummings, that’s the last time I venture outside’ said Doctor Chowdry, as the woman who seemed to be responsible for medical checks bathed a few cuts and scratches.
‘I presumed it was the first time you had ever climbed a tree and I remembered, from when I used to play with my big brothers in the woods, that climbing down is often harder than climbing up. But honestly there is no danger in the grounds.’
‘All animals are dangerous, especially ones with teeth and I have read in the newspapers that dogs kill people.’
‘Oh em, well not often and not that sort of dog.’
‘And cows.’
‘What?’
‘Your cows kill people.’
‘No, they just wander round fields eating grass…’
‘Come with me to the library and I will show you my reading and studies, why I haven’t had time to do more interviews, go exploring outside. I wanted to gather evidence to explain my theories, to myself as much as to world leaders.’
The normally sedate and dusty library was full of newspapers and scientific magazines, in piles on the floor and spread over tables with cuttings and photos snipped out. Children killed by dogs, walkers trampled by cows…
Initially the doctor had been entranced by the wonderful old books, but then he became obsessed with fresh writing. Brought up in the bunker with only a few old books and tatty documents it was paradise for him to see freshly printed paper and glossy magazines. Intelligent articles on science and medicine were an antidote to the mindless prattle of Belinda Billington and Lauren Smith and the various persons looking after or guarding Belinda and himself.
‘Look Mr. Cummings, your citizens don’t need to be scientists, play with DNA to create new breeds. Bully dogs bred from the toughest specimens and what happened when they roamed wild? And this, introducing strange animals, calling it rewilding… your people don’t know what they are doing, if they saw the real wild lands …’
‘But plenty of countries have all sorts of wild animals, people have always co-existed…’
‘But when man started interfering with nature, changing DNA; safe in the laboratories perhaps, but when infrastructure breaks down, when all the beasts escape, mixing breeding, evolving…’
‘Okay, I understand your theories, but how did cities fall apart as you say they will?’
‘Look at today’s paper, Artificial Intelligence.
It is not me making things up. I am just beginning to understand how it all started to go wrong and we must tell everyone.’
Happy Birthday – according to Facebook it is your birthday today, or at least lots of people seem to be having birthdays so it could be yours. I have already sent birthday greetings to three people, one an old school friend, two quite new Facebook friends who I have never met in real life.
At least twice I have received a birthday message from someone who wrote ‘Facebook keeps telling me to wish you a happy birthday so I suppose I had better.’ This led me to ponder what comments we might put on the Facebook birthday line…
‘I don’t know who the hell you are, but Happy Birthday.’
‘I have absolutely no recollection of becoming your Facebook friend, but what the heck, happy birthday and have a wonderful day and year and life….’
‘If you keep stalking me on Facebook I shall be contacting my solicitor.’
There is still hope for our government and the country itself as long as citizens like Count Binface are putting themselves forward as candidates for parliament.
Do you ever get that déjà vu feeling when watching the news? I’m sure most of us do. When hearing a holiday maker in Greece recounting her escape experience from the terrible fires it sounded very familiar. After a boat trip they were landed on a beach to make their way back to the hotel and wait for information to see if they needed to be evacuated, but as the boat left they looked up to see people fleeing from the hotel as it was engulfed in flames. The sea was the only means of escape. Hmm, that’s the story I wrote two years ago…
Do you ever get the wrong image when listening to the news on the radio…
‘Flights are still landing on roads’ .. what? OH Rhodes!
Handy hints for prospective holiday makers on the news
‘Contact your holiday company to check if you will still be able go ahead with your holiday plans to the wild fire area. Some holiday companies are sending empty flights to evacuate holiday makers…’
How was your day today. Have you any holiday plans?
‘Doctor Chowdry, can you sign this to say you agree to this interview being filmed?’
‘With that tiny thing you call a phone, however many things does it do?’
‘If you claim to be from the future, surely you are acquainted with far more advanced technology than this?’
‘No, no, that’s what I have been trying to tell everyone for the past two months, all gone, everything that you take for granted gone. Where does the power come from for your phone, it’s not plugged in like your kettle and toaster and all those strange things in the kitchen.’
‘Battery… well obviously I plug it in to charge the battery.’
‘Mr Cummings, you seem like a fairly intelligent chap; how would your society work if the power disappeared completely?’
‘Um well, I cycle to work and do a great BBQ…’
‘And do you work in a building, does it have electricity, computers?’
‘Okay, point taken, the best thing you can do is to explain to me and the important people who are going to see this interview, what on earth happened between now and 2099.’
Doctor Chowdry does not wish to reveal his given names. Interviewed by Findlay Cummings, HM’s private office, Saturday 22nd July 2023.
‘Can you tell me your age and describe where you were living in 2099?’
‘In the same place I have lived all my thirty five years, in a large bunker beneath what was London. What I am going to tell you is incomplete, passed down to me by my parents and others by word of mouth. When communication, as you Mr. Cummings know it, has been destroyed, it is hard to know what happened to the city, my country, let alone the rest of the world. But as no one has come to find us except The Hunters, we can presume a world wide civilisation no longer exists.
You are all in a panic about the future, without doing much about it. Is artificial intelligence going to take over, is climate change going to destroy the planet, will wars ever stop? Artificial Intelligence will take over for a while, until the power cuts out, by which time AI has ensured that wars continue. Programmed to send missiles to destroy cities and power hubs it kept seeking out new targets. The planet, Gaia, will be fine, it can look after itself, always has, while humans swarm around in panic like the ants and rats that live in our bunker.
A perfect storm of events occurred. In a city flattened by war or natural disaster and you already have plenty of those, people can’t access clean water or food or medical help. If the whole world was like that, who would send help? Are you getting the picture now?’
‘Yes, yes, but we wouldn’t have let it get like that…’
‘Well apparently you did. Add to that the fires and floods that you already have with regularity, bringing lost food production, we can presume lives were lost in the billions.’
‘But how did your people survive?’
‘My grandparents and others thought it a temporary measure, a wartime situation, shelter in the many underground networks, stock up on food and essentials to tide them over. It evolved into living underground, only creeping out to try and salvage what they could. Nature took over, quicker than they expected. You might think that sounds good, but for us nature is dangerous, certainly the way it developed. As nature encroached so did the animals and following them were the hunters.’
‘I thought no one had survived, how could they, but Lauren Smith has told us about the hunters…’
‘I have seen your so called ‘survival programmes’ and news about wars. Soldiers, mountaineers, people who love trekking around in the wild, those who hunted for fun, criminals as well perhaps; anybody who was tough, used to surviving out in the open, could handle a gun. Those people retreated to the wildest parts, shot animals for food, found abandoned farms, rode abandoned horses, they became the hunters. They were not bothered that they couldn’t read a book, go to the theatre, watch the news on television. Many of these tough ones would still have succumbed to natural disasters, but we know there are networks of hunters across our land. They bring us meat in return for medical help, such as we can offer.’
‘Are you a medical doctor?’
‘I don’t think I would get a job with your NHS. My grandfather was a doctor, a surgeon and I have his precious books, but not the means to carry out most of the procedures. I think of myself more as a scientist, preserving what has been passed down to me, trying my best to gain new knowledge.’
‘I will find medical people who will be very interested to talk to you. But I also want to know why you think nature is so dangerous, with war over why haven’t you moved outside, started growing food?’
‘Talking of food, it’s lunchtime and I’m tired and hungry, perhaps we will talk off record while we eat.’
Belinda Billings was now enjoying her new life in 2023, though initially it had been a shock, slipping in seconds from their 2099 bunker into a city full of people, more people within touching distance than she had ever seen in her life. Luckily they had Lauren of London to guide them as they were crushed and buffeted along. Some kind of official guided them into a building where they were ushered to a table as if they had been expected and given a revolting warm brown drink. It soon became obvious they had not been expected when they were questioned. Belinda began to fear they had been taken prisoner by soldiers from the Salvation Army. What happened after that had become a blur.
All that mattered now was that she and Doctor Chowdry were going to live forever with Lauren of London in a beautiful house, huge beyond Belinda’s wildest imaginings. She could not understand why they had been told the past was so dreadful; here she didn’t have to work, could stay outside all day with no wild animals and walk around vast green spaces that were called ‘the grounds’. This was deemed to be good for Belinda’s health and she took full advantage, exploring the many paths every day, though she was still nervous of going too far and getting lost. Out in the summer sunshine every day she was now browner than Doctor Chowdry, who spent too much time in the library.
Belinda was not sure exactly what went on at this place. They had various visitors who were very interested in talking to Belinda, which she loved; back in the bunker nobody took much notice of what she had to say. She wondered what everyone back in the bunker was thinking now; she had been right about the prophecy that Lauren of London would come from the past to take them back. It must have been strange for the observers at the bunker to see them step through the portal and disappear.
She paused to examine some new blooms, there were flowers everywhere, so many colours and heady scents.
‘Belinda, Belinda, oh there you are.’
‘What are these flowers called Lauren?’
‘Roses, very romantic flowers, but mind the thorns.’
‘I could wander round here all morning.’
‘You have been wandering around all morning, I came to call you for lunch, we have a new guest apparently.’
‘You look sad Lauren.’
‘I am sad, I haven’t seen my family for two months, I want to go back to my own house.’
‘Is it like the house here?’
‘No, no, it’s so small it would fit into the dining room.’
‘So why do you want to go back?’
‘Because it’s where I belong, not in 2099, not here, but in my own home. I’m lonely without my husband and children.’
‘But you could stay here forever with me, then you wouldn’t be lonely.’
Belinda saw Lauren’s sad smile and despite the glorious sun on her face she felt a chill run down her spine. Deep down she knew something was wrong. Doctor Chowdry certainly was not happy, even though it had been his dream to travel through time. He muttered constantly about talking properly to important people instead of being imprisoned in a fool’s paradise.
No, no, Belinda was not going to think about things she did not understand, she wanted to just enjoy walking through the gardens with Lauren.
‘What are those buzzy things called?’
‘Bees, very clever and vital for pollinating flowers.’
‘What does pollinating mean?’
‘I’m not sure, we can look it up, but I do know this long border is heaven for bees… don’t pick the flowers, we’re already in trouble with the head gardener… Oh my goodness, is that Him?’
‘The head gardener?’
‘No, no Him, the one who rescued us and let us stay in this wonderful place… he is supposed to be anonymous, oh dear I wonder if we should curtsy?’
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 