Acme Time Travel Incorporated - Volume 1

John and Mary sat on an old wooden bench, looking out over the sea. They were sitting about a foot apart from each other.

Mary thought that John seemed very pre-occupied. Their conversation had been stilted, and he seemed to be looking everywhere rather than at her. They had been taking walks every day since John’s recovery, but his relationship with Mary had seemed to have become more and more strained.

She wondered if it was because of the excitement in the town caused by his unexpected recovery. John had become a minor celebrity. Everywhere he went, people would stop to talk to him, maybe just to see the very marvel of a grown man speaking. Even the local doctor had stopped by to say hello. This was not the doctor that his mother had taken him to when he was very young. That kindly man (he had never charged his mother for her visit) had died some years ago, but the practice had been taken on by someone else. And he must have heard of the news of John’s recovery. The doctor had come to see John. He was aware of John’s condition, but he could offer no explanation as to why John had recovered. He could only say how happy he was to see such an outcome and hoped that the recovery was not short-lived. Then he had realised that he might have inadvertently raised a concern ... the possibility of a sudden relapse. He had quickly re-stated his pleasure in seeing John fit and able, said that he must be on his way.

“Is everything all right?” Mary asked him.

John stared out to sea.

A seagull flew overhead. The sky was grey, with a sense that rain was not far away. Against the brooding sky, the taut white body of the seagull seemed to almost glow. Mary could hear the waves chattering not far below them, and a cool breeze stirred the patch of tall grasses fringing the cliff top.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she said. “All the excitement.”

John looked at her. He seemed unsure as to what she was alluding to.

“People are so pleased to see you ... to see you looking so well.”

John remained silent.

She tried again.

“When we are out walking, we can barely walk five steps without someone coming up to say hello ... and to ask how you are.”

John turned towards her. She began to smile, but instead he twisted his head around to look at a small brass plaque that had been screwed onto the bench. It proclaimed that Sydney and Joan Potts had very much loved to sit here.

It was dated 6th October 1913.

Just before the First World War started.

Mary turned to see what John was looking at. She wondered if Sydney had been called up to fight. Or maybe he had been an old man back then, in 1913. Maybe he had simply watched as his friends and their children had gone off to war.

“Please tell me John,” she said. “Please tell me what is wrong.”

She remembered that when she had called for him at his house this morning, she had asked Margaret if he was in. John had come to the door, and she had asked him would he care to take a walk with her. He had agreed, but he had seemed all very formal. Then, as they had walked along to the seafront, their conversation had been very stilted. Mary had wondered if John would try to hold her hand as they walked, but he seemed to be taking great care to avoid doing so. Once, when he accidentally brushed her hand with his, he seemed to almost jump back away from her.

And now he seemed determined to not engage her in conversation.

Mary stood up, re-arranged and smoothed her skirt, then sat back down again.

“Maybe the summer is going,” she said. “it was so warm, only yesterday.”

John stared out to sea, saying nothing, and suddenly Mary became frightened. His mother had said that she was worried that John might have a relapse. She leaned over towards him and touched his arm.

“Are you alright, John?” she asked him, her voice betraying her fear.

“I’m sorry, Mary,” John said, removing her hand from his arm.

Mary took her hand back, resting it back on her own thigh.

“You don’t know me, Mary,” John said.

Mary stared at him, uncomprehendingly.

“Not at all,” John continued. “You’re fond of me because I’m Robert’s brother, and I think you are kind to me because that would be what Robert would have wanted, but Robert is dead, Mary. He died eight months ago. I think you should move on. You are a beautiful woman. Don’t hold on to me as a means of preserving his memory.”

Mary stood up. She was trembling, and her eyes glistened.

“Don’t you like me at all, John? In all the years I’ve known you, when you were ill, weren’t you able to see me? Could you not hear my voice?”

John looked up at her.

“I could hear every word, Mary. I could smell your scent. I could see your smile. I could see how you loved Robert. I could ... I saw how you wept at the Remembrance. I felt the warmth of your hand as you sat next to me in the church.”

“But you want me to go,” said Mary, her voice breaking. “To treat you just like an un-wanted memory of ... of an old lover. To pretend that we have never met, never had a friendship, never had ...”

Mary fumbled in her coat pocket, awkwardly pulling out an embroidered cotton handkerchief. She began to dab her eyes, but John stood up and took it from her. He gently wiped her tears away from her cheek.

“I know you, Mary,” he said. “I have watched you across all these years. I could never speak to you, but you were my life.”

Mary gazed up at John as he gently dabbed at her cheeks and the corner of her eyes.

“I care for you deeply, Mary, but still you don’t know me. There was no way that you could. It’s because I ... because I care for you ... that I think you should go.”

Mary looked into John’s face, seeing the emotions behind his eyes, seeing his steely resolve, seeing his braveness, seeing him doing what he thought was right.

“You don’t really know me Mary, and I don’t want you to treat me as an obligation,” he said brokenly.

Mary took hold of John’s hands, and leaning forward, she kissed him gently on the lips, then tucked her face into his shoulder.

“Then let me get to know you, John,” she murmured into his ear.

John sighed a deep sigh. He wrapped his arms around her, clasping her tightly against him. He brushed his lips against the nape of her neck, breathing her in. Breathing her in.