I’m back home with new pictures and new blogs …sometime… In the meantime here are a few snaps celebrating the fun of train travel and trying to capture amazing buildings that my parents and grandparents would not have seen on their commute to the office in London.
Citrus?
Two Dimensional?
How would you like a balcony here?
Would you like to live or work in any of these buildings? Perhaps you do!
Everyone can reminisce, unless they have total amnesia or do we need someone we can reminisce with? Often the other person does not remember the event or recalls it totally differently, but shared memories are fun. Shared memories also have an expiry date unless they have been written down. As the eldest sibling I am now the only one who remembers The Twickenham Years. My brother and sister were toddler and a six month old baby when our parents bought their first house.
My six and a half years in the rented top of the Victorian terrace where I was born were happy, but then I was blissfully unaware of what else was going on. By the time my brother was born my mother had lost three babies and both her parents. When my sister was born Mum nearly died and all I remember was the Black Magic chocolate orange cream. When she came out of hospital after the ‘eight pints of blood’ that were to become family legend, her best friend brought round a box of chocolates and I had the orange cream. I had told my teacher that Mummy was in hospital with a bad back.
An internet search reveals the row of houses looks much the same as I remember, snapping pictures from the computer screen gives the pictures a suitably nostalgic hazy appearance. Now turned back into the elegant large homes they were originally I was surprised how easy it was to pinpoint information about our old home via ‘Mouseprice’. In a surreal moment back in 1990 we took the children to look at my place of birth and the night before I had a psychic feeling there would be a For Sale board up – and there was. I took the number of the estate agents and rang them up to ask the price, which was a quarter of a million, astonishing at the time. No chance of us buying it! When I say my parents moved out to buy their own home it was not in this area, there was nothing they could afford. How much might it be worth now?
Welcome to 295 St Margarets Road, Twickenham, a charming and spacious terraced type home with 4 bed in the TW1 1PN area. This lovely residence, which comes with the freedom and stability of a freehold ownership, and sits comfortably in tax band .
This classic property was built before 1900 and has a reported internal area of 178.0 internal square metres in a neighborhood known for its allure and prestige. This home stands out for its value and character – with a market valuation of £1,042,000 and a rental potential of £3,209 per month, and a 5 year CAGR of 12%, it represents not just a residence but a worthwhile investment in a sought-after area.
You can discover more about this property by reading the Mouseprice attributes tables in the next section, or if you are the owner and would like to update this property, for example if you’ve built an extension, you can do so at the top of this page.
Meanwhile, back to the past.
A dreadful old lady ( Mum’s words ) lived on the ground floor with a kitchen a scullery and no bathroom. The rental agreement was that she could come upstairs once a week to use our bath. She used to come up with a pack of Omo, a brand of washing powder claimed to make clothes whiter than white. Our bathroom was scary with the hot water provided by a monstrous noisy boiler looming over the end of the bath. It was called a geyser. It would be many years before I realised geysers were real geothermal features hotter, more dangerous and even older than ours.
In the kitchen a more modern and elegant Ascot heater over the sink provided the hot water. After hand washing clothes and boiling nappies Mum would lean out of the kitchen window to hang them on a pulley washing line attached to a post at the end of the back garden far below. The garden was part of the old lady’s rental and we never set foot in it.
I have a vivid memory of staring out of the living room window on a sunny day desperate to be outside, but in fairness to my parents they were constantly taking me out for fresh air and exercise, down by the River Thames and to various nice parks nearby. Later Mum would look back and wonder how she managed to push the pram with two children and me on my tricycle and get across the main road to Marble Hill Park. Indoors there was fun to be had as Dad made me a rocking horse which sat in the bay window. It did not look like a horse, but was a smaller version of park rocking horses with a proper rocking mechanism and I really felt like the Lone Ranger.
At some stage my parents acquired an old ‘jalopy’ which I thought was its make, not its nickname. Small and black it needed to be cranked up with the metal handle inserted in the front of the engine. In this we were able to go on outings to Kew Gardens and Richmond Park. One time I was convinced I had stroked the nose of a deer with huge antlers. When I told my parents and aunt and uncle they did not believe me and I am beginning to wonder myself…
The jalopy lived in a garage in someone’s garden in a house across the main road we lived on. Dad drove it into London to his office and on summer evenings when he came home Mum would see me across the road to run and meet him. As The Woodentops were my favourite puppets on Watch With Mother, one time I ran to him calling ‘Hello Daddy Woodentop’. This caused amusement as Dad, like all the men in his family was bald.
It was at Penn Ponds in Richmond Park that I did not learn to swim, but did love wading around. I have always thought hot weather means you should be immersed in water of some sort. One time I found floating in the pond a brightly coloured feathery creature and picked it up, only to look up and see an angry man trying to fish and telling me off.
As my brother got mobile and Mum had a baby to deal with, I would sometimes be locked in the front room with him. This might sound bad, but the alternative was presumably him falling down the steep staircase and fracturing his skull on the tiled floor below. On one occasion I credit myself with saving his life, though at the time I thought I would get told off for making him vomit. He was choking on a plastic rose from his toy watering can. As I did not know the Heinrich manoeuvre, I stuck my hand down his throat to pull it out.
By this time I was at school. I had begged to go to school and Mum got me in to The Blue School in Isleworth at four and a half years. I started just after my baby brother had arrived so probably thought I was being ousted. It was a long walk and I had to be dragged crying with the promise of Robin comic at the weekend, or threats of no Robin comic at the weekend. Thanks to the internet we know this Church of England School is still flourishing after nearly 400 years. It looked pretty old when I went there, but they were building a new school building right next to it as we left the area.
It was Mum’s friend Pam at the bank where she worked who had led to my parents finding somewhere to live and being able to get married in the post war shortage of homes. Her parents rented a downstairs flat in the same row of terraced houses and knew the landlord who had a vacant upstairs flat for rent. Pam lived with her parents and as there was only one bedroom she slept on a ‘put me down’ settee in the front room. As far as I know she never left.
After we moved away we did go back to visit the old couple, Pam’s parents. In their garden was a fish pond and enough room for us to run around and play while the grown ups were having boring conversations. I did get told off for getting the poodle excited and risking him having a heart attack. But worse was to follow. Nobody had told me I was acting as life guard. While I was playing round the corner my sister fell in the fish pond, luckily seen by the grown ups through the window. I was soon alerted to the drama, wondering why all the adults had rushed outside. The old lady said I would get a black spot in heaven.
Mum and Dad were glad to get their own house with a garden, but missed the lovely area we had lived in which is still highly sought after. In Farnborough, Hampshire Dad joined the other fathers on the new estate who commuted up to Waterloo on the steam train.
Have you vivid memories of your early homes or been back to visit?
I was idly scrolling through Facebook on my phone when I was surprised to see a picture of myself. I never post pictures of myself on holiday, well I never go on holiday, nor do I socialise enough to appear in other people’s photos. I peered closer. It was definitely me, in that fleece I got from Mountain Warehouse, but I had never been to the Royal Albert Hall. There I was standing outside the famous round building in summer sunshine. Had I been photoshopped in?
I dashed upstairs and put my desk top computer on, I needed to look at this properly, but knowing Facebook that post could disappear any second. Even as I climbed the stairs my phone pinged with a WhatsAp message.
Hi Claire, have a good time, which Prom are you going to?
I wasn’t the only person to have seen my picture, the picture that could not be me. I would love to have got down to London and gone to The Proms, but my budget did not stretch to a city break.
I don’t take much interest in Facebook, occasionally I put a link to my blog or my website when I have a new book published. My followers are a select bunch, but it’s surprising how many readers love my series about Bunny Bunting, a private detective who solves crimes in the cut throat world of pedigree rabbit shows.
There I was again looking up at the Prince Albert Memorial, carrying my jade fleece. I had on my blue polo shirt from Edinburgh Woollen Mill. Did I have a long lost twin? Now I was sitting and looking properly I read what the post said.
Have you seen Claire? Her family are desperately worried. She went on a day trip to London with work friends, but became separated. Claire is believed to be vulnerable and does not know her way around London.
Thanks a lot, not only has someone stolen my identity, now they are calling me vulnerable?
Claire Smith is forty three years old, five foot four inches and well built.
That is me exactly, though what is well built supposed to mean? At least she has not got the same surname.
We know it’s a long shot, but if you are a Londoner, especially a music lover, perhaps you may have seen Claire at Thursday evening’s prom. She is believed to have struggled with depression lately after the end of a relationship.
That is certainly not me, unless Claire Smith has just lost her pet rabbit. Give me a Flemish Giant any day over a man… there were comments already…
Is this Claire from Carlisle, I follow her on Facebook.
Oh no, that is me, I live in Carlisle, so wonder where this other Claire comes from? Please answer and tell us Claire Smith comes from Saint Ives…shall I add a comment…
No, I am Claire Lapin from Carlisle.
Hang on, that post has disappeared.
A hospital room, now what has happened? That looks just like the picture my brother took of me after I had my tonsils out.
Claire Darling we all love you and beg you to get in touch, you are due for dialysis tomorrow at Glasgow Royal Infirmary, but if you cannot get back here in time, please call at any hospital Casualty Department.
Oh dear it gets worse and worse…
My phone rang, my brother.
‘Sis, turn on the evening news, it’s you, are you in London, lost?
‘No Sam, of course I am not, nor am I on Facebook, someone has stolen my identity.’
He laughed ‘You have got a Doppleganger!’
‘A what?’
‘Your exact double, doesn’t even have to be a relative, just someone who looks exactly like you, everyone is supposed to have a Doppleganger somewhere in the world. But I know how you can find out if she is a relative, they are calling for kidney donors, searching for a good match before its’s too late, someone to give her hope…’
‘How can you call for dead people?’
‘No, live donors, you have two kidneys. I’ve taken the number, I’ll text it over to you.’
‘But Sam, I don’t like hospitals…’
I called the number, it was one way to find out who this Claire was. The kidney business caught people’s interest and a chap spotted her at sunset on Waterloo Bridge, staring into the Thames. He called out to her, rather prematurely ‘Hey, they found you a kidney.’
Claire Smith had a kidney transplant thanks to me. No it wasn’t my kidney. We are not related at all, but I somehow found myself in the swapping chain. My kidney went to an anonymous patient whose relative was a good match for Claire. I wasn’t in the news as I had not actually given her my kidney and I certainly did not post pictures of myself in hospital on Facebook.
If you live in a city or suburb you will probably hope to get away for a change of scenery. As you stand on top of a moor, hearing only sheep bleating, you will say to yourself ‘This is Real Life.’ The same thoughts will surface if you stand on a rocky outcrop feeling the spray from the waves pounding below, or perhaps you have visited a peaceful holy island, Iona or Lindisfarne.
Supposing you move somewhere remote and idyllic, or to the coast and can saunter down to the beach on a wild winter day, dodging waves. Sheer bliss. Then one day you go up to London to visit friends or relatives or for a cultural outing. As you arrive at a London terminus, descend into the underground, hear the rumble of an approaching tube train, then squeeze on board with the multitudes, you find yourself saying ‘Back to Real Life!’
Could it be that real life must involve cities, mainline railway stations and underground trains?
Those millions of us brought up in suburbs anywhere in the world are bound to feel we are never in real life; neither in the bustling heart of the city, nor in the countryside growing food and raising livestock to feed the nation.
When you turn on the television news real life takes on a different dimension. Why are your working on the cheese counter at Waitrose when that girl you were at school with is now a war correspondent standing on a heap of rubble?
Is real life the peace all great prophets have urged us to follow; cherishing the soil, creating harmony, music, arts, science and babies. Or is reality living on a knife edge beneath a volcano or on an earthquake fault line? Are you likely to see your home swept away by fire or flood or do you face death every day in war?
Have you experienced real life or are you still waiting to find it?
What is your reality?
Be careful what you say, the gods are listening.
‘Once we get to Waterloo we’re on the home run, we can relax and have lunch.’
How many times have I stood looking at the large departures board at London Waterloo? Generations of my family commuted up to Waterloo along with hordes of fellow office workers long before working from home was thought of. The last London terminus to have steam trains, they were still running when we lived in Farnborough in the early sixties. Nothing can ever beat sitting in a train as it builds up steam and leaves the station and what fun being totally enveloped in smoke as you walk to school over the railway bridge.
Now as I stared up at the board to check train times before we sauntered off to find lunch, I wondered if it was the board or my brain that had become jumbled up. Nothing made sense, though the words cancelled and delayed seemed to feature rather a lot. I suggested we go to the information desk.
‘When is the next train for Bournemouth?’
‘No idea what’s going on, signal failure at Winchester, you best get straight on the next train.’
‘Have we got time?’
A bloke standing beside us said ‘Don’t worry, you’ve got time, I’m the driver.’
We got on the South West train and off we went, but at Southampton we stopped and didn’t start again. We sat there for a while, chatting to someone who had just flown into the country to go and see her dying sister in Bournemouth hospital. We were apparently waiting for a driver – after rail mishaps to come we soon learned that any rail problems result in drivers everywhere being in the wrong place. Each message over the Tannoy contradicted the previous one. We were told this train was terminating and we all got off. At least we could have a comfort break. Train toilets are a subject for another time, preferably when you’re not eating your dinner. Then a message of hope for some of us, the next train was for Bournemouth only, hurrah. It was a ‘Cross Country’ not conjured up especially for us, just happened to be passing through on its normal route. And what of the other poor souls who needed to go to the other stations along the way? I don’t know.
When my sister came over from Australia for a long holiday I had suggested a trip by train and ferry to the Isle of Wight as it is pleasant and easy, all went well when I did the same trip last year with my friend. Bournemouth to Brockenhurst in the New Forest, change to the dear little train that just goes back and forth to Lymington Pier then saunter on to the ferry to Yarmouth, Isle of Wight. We had booked three nights at a B&B yards from the little ferry terminal.
At Bournemouth station that morning all was chaos, car on the level crossing at Brockenhurst, how long does it take to tow a car off a railway line? All day perhaps judging by what lay ahead. The platform was full of staff, they didn’t know what was going on, but they were doing their best to keep up our morale or their own. Then a train appeared, we got on with our wheelie cases, found a seat then heard the announcement ‘This train is for Southampton only.’ We got off again.
A train did come along and we arrived at Brockenhurst where the platform was full of confused passengers wanting to go up to London or down to Weymouth. We went over to the empty platform to check if the train sitting there was for Lymington, it was and we jumped on quickly, but it didn’t move. It was waiting for a driver. We sat and sat, no more messages came.
Then thinking outside of the box I suggested we just get off the train, trek back over the bridge to the information office and ask what was going on. They had no idea and I proposed Plan B, just walk out of the station and get a taxi to Lymington Pier. Another passenger had already found one and was happy to share. I am still not convinced that this was a genuine taxi, I could see no evidence and the driver wanted cash only, £18. The other passenger was a local who needed to get back to his house in Lymington and I offered him a free ride, just glad that I always carry real money. He insisted on giving me a ten pound note, so we had made a bit of a profit. Whether or not it was a genuine taxi, he did take us to the right place. We relaxed at the little coffee shop in the tiny terminal while we waited for the ferry. The ferry is a delight, you just saunter up the gangway in minutes, climb a few stairs and sit in comfort at the front soothed by the smooth journey across the Solent.
You will have to wait to find out if we ever returned home from that trip, but if I mention we had to come back on a Sunday, some of you might guess.
Julian Mountjoy was on top of the world, or at least almost at the top of the Royal Albert Hall. At last his dream to be a BBC presenter at The Proms had come true. He could combine his two dearest interests, music and talking. In his eerie close to the gods he could look around the glorious plush red interior and the tiers of seating, then down at the tiny figures of the Prommers in the arena. With the first piece of music just finished there was time to chat with his two musician guests while the orchestra jiggled positions and the grand piano was carefully wheeled into place.
‘Ariadne, what did you think of that stunning premiere of John Smith’s Symphony in one movement for strings and mobile phones?’
‘I had thought five minutes would be a little short, but there was so much to take in, it was quite long enough.’
‘George?’
‘What an amazing sound picture, I felt… ’
‘Now let’s move on to the piece we are about to hear for the first time at the Proms. Composed in 1911 by Anton Slivervitz it is not often played, perhaps because of its reputation for being fiendishly difficult?’
‘Yes Julian, Slivervitz was famously polydactylous, having five fingers on each hand plus his thumbs. In addition, he was also unusually tall at six foot six, so he was blessed with long slender fingers.’
‘No wonder this piano concerto has always been such a challenge. Tonight’s soloist has waited till this mature stage of his career to add it to his repertoire and this will be the first time he has performed it in Britain. Ariadne, what do we know about Torvig Absalom?’
‘He has been acclaimed as the greatest pianist of his generation and is also a polymath, speaking half a dozen languages fluently and having a masters degree in physics. His upbringing and studies in different parts of the world have made him popular with many great orchestras and he brings his unique personality and energy to every piece.’
‘Well the piano is in place now, there is growing excitement and anticipation in the audience as we wait for Torvig Absalom to step onto the stage. The leader of the orchestra has taken up his position and played that all important note to lead the orchestra in tuning up. All the players will need to be on their toes for this marathon piano concerto that lasts one hour and twenty minutes. Now we wait for the conductor to lead tonight’s soloist onto the stage. The string section are turning their heads obviously expecting tonight’s young conductor, Melody Fairweather, to lead her guest soloist on at any moment. Excitement is building as we all wait for the grand entrance. Daisy Fairweather is making her first appearance at the Proms and this will be a thrilling moment in her career no doubt. We can imagine the excitement back stage as they prepare for their entrance. At rehearsals this afternoon you could see and hear the very special connection she has made with this world famous pianist. If tonight’s performance repeats the wonderfully energetic rehearsal, we are all in for a treat. As we wait for them to appear, Ariadne can you tell us what it’s like in those last moments as you wait for the go ahead to walk on stage and be greeted by the best audience in the world?’
‘Nervous and excited, however many times you have played in a prom. But Torvig is a such a natural performer he knows how to build the excitement, keeping the audience waiting just that little bit longer.’
Backstage at the Royal Albert Hall there was a very different kind of excitement and tension. Daisy Fairweather was getting very nervous with the delay, she just wanted to get on stage and raise her baton. The bossy woman who seemed to be in charge of the crew was also getting edgy.
‘Alison, are you sure you gave Mr Absalom his final call? Is the intercom working, did you knock on his dressing room door?’
‘Yes but he didn’t answer, maybe he got lost.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous and where’s Jerry, it’s his job to escort him so he doesn’t get lost, ah you’re here Jerry, where is Mr. Absalom?’
‘We seem to have lost him, he didn’t answer when I knocked so he must have slipped out.’
‘Alison go and check all the corridors and you too Ben. Jerry go and knock loudly and if he doesn’t answer open the door.’
‘The door was locked.’
‘I think we need to call security, we can’t keep the audience waiting or the BBC, this is a live television broadcast. Ben get hold of security, Jerry get yourself back to his dressing room and… and…’
‘And this is Julian Mountjoy live at the proms for this very special concert. There seems to be a delay bringing on tonight’s highly esteemed soloist… George, as an orchestra leader tell us what it is like as you wait for your conductor and soloist to step forward to the front of the stage…’
‘Jerry, there you are, what the hell is going on?’
‘I’m afraid it’s bad news.’
‘How bad?’
‘The worst, he’s… he’s dead.’
‘What do you mean, who’s dead?’
‘Mr Absalom, dead in his dressing room.’
Happy Birthday Doctor Who. Many of us, including the media are indulging in nostalgia as it is sixty years since BBC children’s drama series Doctor Who appeared on our screens. I was always rather resentful that I missed the first episode as we got stuck in traffic on the way home. In those days if you missed a programme that was IT, no recording on your video player, or catching up on iPlayer. It was not until 1990 when we bought a boxed set of videos of the first four episodes for a relative, that I discovered why the Time Lord travelled in a police phone box. The Tardis was meant to change its appearance to fit the surroundings wherever and whenever it landed. It landed in 1960’s London, but due to a technical fault ( or perhaps the BBC budget ) the Tardis remained a police box forever.
It was the second series that introduced the iconic Daleks. With sink plungers their only weapons and unable to climb up stairs, they still struck terror in our hearts. I only have to hear the word EXTERMINATE and a chill goes down my spine. I only have to hear the words Radiophonic Workshop and the electronic theme music fills my head.
Urban myth has it that children used to hide behind the sofa when the Daleks were on and I know this to be true. My aunt and uncle for many years recalled my friend hiding behind the sofa at my 11th birthday party and this same friend today recalled that she did indeed hide behind the sofa.
Doctor Who is wandering round my local area at this very moment, his police box is parked in the middle of Boscombe.
Back to adult television in 2023 and at last there is a drama with Janet as the lead character. Unfortunately she has her fingers chopped off in the first few minutes… well only one hand. Boat Story is a black comedy drama and there were more scenes I couldn’t watch! Not sure if I can face the second episode…
For proper adult drama I am really enjoying the second series from Australia of The Newsreader, set in the 1980s.
Were you a Doctor Who fan?
I know not all bloggers watch television, no doubt having better things to do like reading our blogs and writing their blogs. If you are a viewer have you found a favourite programme lately?
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.
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…’
‘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.’
Interview part one ended for refreshment break.
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 