A Step Back in Time

It was April, the fourth month of the year, yet not the first day, the Fool’s Day, but the second day, my wedding day, and from the window, through the warm sun drenched panes, I saw daffodils, clusters of bright yellow and cream daffodils nodding and swaying in the chilly spring breeze like shy ladies hanging their golden heads. Their brightness dazzled me and my eyes hurt. They stung, they watered until they were red rimmed and I looked as if I’d been weeping.

Standing in front of the mirror, the tall oblong mirror with gilded beveled edges, I stared at my image and my image stared back at me. I raise my hand and my image raised its hand. I touched my hair and my image touched its hair. We were as one, a carbon copy—we were twins. We had the same dark eyes flecked with splinters of gold, and our hair, adorned with a circle of wild flowers, was long and loose on our shoulders and down our backs as a symbol of purity.

Our wedding dress was white interwoven with a silver thread, and the skirt, as wide as a puffy meringue, flared over our hips, stomach, and thighs like a bell, a sweet melodic chiming bell that, as we moved, rustled and whispered along the floor like voices murmuring secrets. The sleeves were full and tapered at the wrist, and the whole gown was alive with sparkling emeralds and rubies.

“Something old,” muttered my mother, Margaret Pole, as she helped me into an old lacy petticoat that was concealed, like a child playing hide and seek, beneath the full skirt of my wedding gown. “Something new,” as I pulled on new flesh colored stockings. “Something borrowed,” as my mother, Margaret Pole, hung her very own golden locket around my neck, and “Something blue” as the garter, blue as the sky on a hot summer day, encircled my slim thigh.

“You are ready,” said my mother as she stood back to inspect me and then nodded with satisfaction. “You are fair as a summer day, my dear, worthy of any man.” My mother’s ladies bowed their heads as I walked past with my father, Sir Richard Pole, who held my arm tightly as we stepped out into the spring sunshine and took the short walk along the petal-strewn path from Warblington Manor to St. Thomas à Becket Church.

Fluffy white clouds floated slowly in the blue sky, and the leaves on the trees shone so brightly they hurt my eyes. A piper playing Greensleeves danced ahead. Crowds lined the path, shouting and cheering, and I bowed my head so my face could not be seen. My bridesmaids’ blue gowns haunted my vision as they pursued me along the aisle and to the altar, where Henry Stafford awaited me, the expression on his face both malicious and triumphant.

“Hannah? Hannah?” It was Max’s voice; or was it Gregory’s? My head was swimming and, hearing footsteps on the stairs, I quickly put my hands over my eyes and shook my head, hoping the dizziness would go away. Opening them slowly and carefully, I saw that I was no longer in the dressing room but the toilet, and I was wearing the black trousers and red blouse that I wore for work that day. My beautiful wedding gown had vanished into another time and another place, as had Ursula Pole.

Max called again and I shouted out, “Okay, I’m coming—two minutes.”

I quickly checked my reflection in the mirror, Hannah’s reflection, before running downstairs to meet him.

***

Mooch Cafe Bar on Cosham High Street was fairly busy when Max and I eventually got there, but it was nearing the weekend and most people would probably be enjoying that Friday feeling. As we walked Max had a bit of a dig at me about what I’d been doing all that time upstairs at Mum and Dad’s. He gazed at me for some time, his eyes narrowed. “A trip back in time eh, Ursula—Little Bear?” he said with particular emphasis on the name Ursula, before opening the door of the cafe and ushering me in ahead of him.

“My name’s Hannah,” I retorted as we went in and found a table for two by the window. “And anyway, it’s not something to be ridiculed...Max. And how did you know about Ursula’s nickname?”

“I’m not ridiculing it, and of course I know Ursula’s nickname,” he replied casually as he studied the drinks menu, opting for a coffee latte, and I a hot chocolate with the whole works of cream and a flake. At that moment in time I didn’t care about steps and diet.

“What do you want to talk about, Max?” I asked him as I licked cream from a long silver spoon and then dunked the flake into the hot chocolate until it began to melt.

Taking a sip of coffee, he shook his head as he watched my antics with the hot chocolate, commenting that I was just like a child before leaning forward his elbows on the table and saying, “I want you to believe me when I tell you that I am Gregory Walsh.”

“Oh, so that’s what all this is about? Max, for God’s sake, it’s just not possible.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, taken aback. “You’re Ursula Pole, aren’t you? How can you say that what happens to you is possible, but not what happens to me?”

“That’s different,” I said lamely.

He licked froth from his lips before shaking his head and saying, “No it isn’t.”

I tried not to look at him while he was licking his lips, as it sent a not unpleasant shiver down my spine, so I gazed around at our surroundings, thinking what a nice trendy place it was. Not just a coffee bar, but a night out sort of bar as well, as they served wine and spirits as well as coffee and light snacks. The lighting was low, and the tables, made of blonde wood, were round, like little mushrooms had sprung up everywhere, and there were big squashy pouffes to sit on. Music played softly, some sort of Latin American stuff, which was really good.

Vintage posters adorned the cream and beige walls, and skinny candles in wine bottles flickered on the tables and pretty pink fairy lights twinkled around the bar. I noticed that people drank beer and sipped at red wine from massive balloon glasses. Good God, it was only just after six o’clock!

All the customers looked really cool and stylish—ripped jeans, tattoos, pierced noses and ears. I felt positively dowdy compared to them having no tattoos or piercings whatsoever. Just imagine if I had one and went back as Ursula Pole. I didn’t think she would look good with a tattoo. It was surprising, though, that King Henry hadn’t made a rule that everybody had to have a tattoo of the royal standard on their shoulder or their ankle, or “off with their head!” Ha, how funny that would be!

“Hannah, you’re miles away? What are you thinking about?”

I came back to the present time and to Max, and said, “Actually, Max, I was thinking about Ursula Pole and how a tattoo wouldn’t look good on her. So I’m glad I don’t have any!”

He laughed so loudly that a lot of the customers looked around and grinned, and just for a moment, for a split second, I wished that Max and I were a couple and were out together drinking red wine and having a good time. Then, as quickly as it had come, the feeling went away, and all I could see was his procession of Barbie dolls that had come and gone right in front of my eyes in such a short space of time.

“Seriously, Hannah, as Gregory I’ve been with you many times, and mostly in times of crisis; it should be so obvious to you now. Look at what happened when I saw you at the ruin and we put our hands on the stones together.” I must have looked blank, because he said, “Surely you remember that—it was only a few weeks ago.”

“I’m not sure,” I muttered as I took a sip of hot chocolate.

“We went back in time again after that, and you came to my cottage, well, Gregory’s cottage,” he whispered. “We ended up in the sack, Hannah.”

I looked up abruptly. “The sack?”

“I mean we went to bed for the first time. We made love. Gregory and Ursula love each other, Hannah. If they were of the same station and birth, they would probably be married.”

“Yes, Gregory and Ursula for sure—but not Max and Hannah,” I said quietly.

“Yeah. Well....” He thoughtfully stirred his coffee with a spoon and then looked up at me, sending shivers down my spine again—he looked so much like Gregory. “There’s something between us though, isn’t there, Hannah?”

“No,” I said calmly, although my heart was thumping like a crazy thing. “Boss and personal assistant, Max. As you said before, it wouldn’t work.”

A group of people came chattering through the doorway, drowning out our conversation. When it quietened down again Max said, “You came to me through the deep snow when you were upset about baby Henry’s death, and when your mother told you that King Henry had found you a husband. And do you remember the day the king arrived unannounced at Warblington Manor?”

I nodded slowly as I thought back to that lovely summer day when Gregory and I had embraced in the gardens of Warblington Manor, and a fanfare had sounded out of nowhere heralding the arrival of King Henry. I didn’t think we’d been seen hiding beneath the spreading branches of the trees, but we had, by my mother, Margaret Pole, who kept my secret to the end—to her bitter, gruesome end.

All the things that Max was saying to me were true, perfectly true. But oh God, it couldn’t be, it just couldn’t be that Max was Gregory. And if I was in love with Gregory, then did it mean that I was in love with Max too?

“You always come to me, Hannah. You know who I am, please don’t deny it.”

He leaned in closer and took my hands in his. Blushing, I averted my gaze and looked out of the window instead. I watched as people, tired from working all day, got slowly off the bus at the stop opposite. A boy zoomed past on a skateboard and a couple of girls jogged by, chatting animatedly. Then a little old lady shuffled along holding a canvas shopping bag, the words Do More Yoga printed on its side.

“I know what will clinch it,” said Max suddenly. “I have proof.” He started to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt.

“Whoa, Max, what are you doing?” I held up my hand like a traffic cop. “Not here.” I glanced around to see the girl serving drinks at the bar stop momentarily to see what was going on. Her eyes almost popped out of her head as she ogled Max’s bare chest, lager foaming in a golden stream over the top of the pint glass she was filling.

Grinning and still unbuttoning his shirt in what could only be called a slow and erotic manner, he said triumphantly, “The crescent moon, Hannah. Look.” As he pulled his shirt wide open, there it was, the tiny crescent moon, the shape that I’d seen so recently just below the left nipple on the sexy bare chest of Gregory Walsh.

Totally lost for words, I stared at Max’s chest, even, in shock, rubbing my finger over the tiny shape that nestled amongst the slight hairs around his nipple. How could it be? Now this really was impossible.

“Well, what do you say now?”

“No.” A sudden panic took hold of me and, pushing back my chair and standing up, I said, “No, Max. I still don’t believe you. It just can’t be true.”

The girl behind the bar, pouring wine now, looked disappointed as Max buttoned up his shirt and tightened his tie before standing up and, bewildered, said, “Hannah...?”

Without a backward glance, I dashed out of the door of the Mooch Cafe Bar, and ran frantically down the road, my heels clattering on the pavement as if I really was being pursued by the Fitbit Police.