Symbols of the Past

I was in the town centre, shopping. For me, it was therapy and it worked. I was trying to cheer myself up, so I bought a pair of shoes and a new bag with my last twenty pounds. ‘Why not?’ I thought. I had just been turned down for a job. That’s why I was there. It wasn’t a well paid job, but I still needed it nevertheless. To cut a long story short, it went like this: If I got the job, I was going to uni. That’s all that mattered.

I went to the store to look at the mobiles; even though I was broke. I knew that could all change in a flash, and there was always contract.

After checking them out, I left. I was officially spent up, apart from bus fare. ‘It’s time to go home’ I thought, but I needed change. All I had was a five pound note. I remembered the last time; the bus driver wouldn’t let me on. ‘Who can I ask for change?’ I wondered. ‘Who has a friendly face?’

There was a man in fancy dress. He was meant to be dressed up as a policeman. He was wearing one of those old coats with the belt around the waist. I wanted to tell him that his uniform was all out of date, but I thought he was wearing it to raise money for charity, so I didn’t.

He wasn’t the only one. Others were dressed in corduroy jackets and flared trousers. ‘What’s happening?’ I wondered. ‘Where’s the party?’ The women were all wearing short skirts and long boots. ‘It must be some kind of weird hippy festival’ I thought.

As I looked around, it soon occurred to me that the shops had all changed. I needed to sit down for a minute. I needed to get my head together.

“Are you okay?” asked a man who was passing. I said I was fine. I just needed to think. He sat beside me on the bench. He was wearing a brown suede suit and a white shirt with a big collar. I nearly laughed out loud. He said he was going to visit his granddaughter. He told me her name was Louise.

I wasn’t in the mood for polite conversation... not here... not now. I think he could sense it, so he got up and said goodbye. I politely smiled.

That’s when my eyes were drawn to something on the ground. It was small and black. I picked it up. I thought that he must have dropped his wallet, but it was a book. “Hey you!” I called, but my words were carried away by the wind. There was nobody there. On the spot where he stood just a second ago, he had just disappeared.. vanished... gone. I looked left and right as I stood with the tiny book in my hand, wondering where.

I opened it up and I looked for his name and address, but I didn’t know where to start. Every page was filled from top to bottom with numbers and contacts. ‘They could be important!’ I thought.

I closed the book and I suddenly saw his name and number on the back, written in gold. ‘That’s lucky!’ I thought, and I grabbed my phone, but it was dead. ‘That’s never happened before!’ I thought. Something strange was going on.

I was stood in the heart of the town centre. I knew where I was. I must have been there hundreds of times over the years. And yet, I was still trying to tell myself that somewhere along the way, I had taken a wrong turn somewhere. ‘Town is a big place’ I thought. ‘It’s easy to get lost. Maybe it’s a part I’ve never noticed before.’

I ran to the bus stop. It was easy to catch a bus. There were loads about, but the numbers were strange. I asked the driver if he went my way, and he said he did, but I couldn’t bring myself to step onto the bus. It was all wrong. The buses were wrong. There were stairs to the top and a man selling tickets.

I noticed a big, red phone box, so I ran to make a call. Things were falling into place, but I couldn’t call a spade a spade.

There was a newspaper, folded. My hands began to shake as I opened it up. I read the date, 1st October, 1970. The Rolling Stones Arrested in Milan was the headline.

I examined the slot for the coins. The only one that seemed to fit was a two pence. I dialled home, and I prayed it would ring, but there was no line. Now, I was really afraid. I wanted to call the police, but I couldn’t. I hadn’t been born yet... not for another 29 years.

I rang the man who owned the book. It rang, but no one picked it up. ‘He’s probably walking around town’ I thought. ‘He’s probably looking for this.’ I phoned another complete stranger. I didn’t know what I was going to say if anyone picked it up.

Someone did. It was a woman. “Do you know Mr Whinny?” I asked. She said she did, so I told her all about the book that I had found. She offered to meet me right away. She told me to stay where I was. I had to swear I wouldn’t show the book to anybody else. I wondered why, and I flicked through the pages again. It was just filled with numbers. She said there could be vital information inside.

I sat on the bench. I knew she could take a while to arrive, and I needed to think. That’s when I noticed something strange as the cars passed; it caught my attention. It was a cab with the word Delta across the side, and a number I knew.

I looked around me. Everything looked right... the cars, the buses, the shops. I was in 1995 again; at least I hoped so.

I tried my phone. It was working again, so I checked the date to be sure. I felt like a lost dog who had just seen its owner once again. I was glad to be back. I jumped on the bus and I headed for home. I was staying away from town.

I still had the book in my pocket. ‘What should I do with this?’ I wondered. ‘What if he was meant to go back and find this?’ I thought. ‘What if I’ve just changed the future by changing the past? What if I’ve changed it for the worst?’ I began to panic. I flicked through it. I didn’t know why or what good it would do.

On the back page, there were lots of strange symbols, scribbled in pen. Some weird part of me wanted to know who this strange man was. It would not change anything. It could not change anything. It was part of the past now, but all the same, I just had to know.

When I got home, I told my mum, but she wasn’t surprised. I thought she would be. Over the years, she had heard strange stories of time slips. “If you’re curious about him, try the library” she told me. “Some keep old newspapers” she claimed. “You could try the obituaries.”

“What if he’s still alive?” I asked.

“Maybe you can return it” she suggested. “Can you imagine after all these years?”

I took her advice and I tried the library; I was there until it closed. I read through as many obituary pages as I could stand in one day... from 1970 all the way through to 1975, but it was a very slow process, and it wasn’t bearing fruit.

A kind librarian took pity. “What are you looking for?” she asked. I gave her his name. “That rings a bell!” she said. “Wait here for one minute!” When she returned, she was holding a paper in her hand. “You’ll find him in here” she said.

“Are you sure?” I asked. The date on the paper was 1969.

I read the headline: Local Man Murdered. I was shocked. It said he was last seen talking to the lady in the photograph. Apparently, it was taken on the day that he died, by a tourist. I looked at the photo again. I swear it was me! I began to worry. I knew that unsolved cases never close. It only takes one clue and they’re looking for suspects again.

I started to think about the whole thing logically; none of it made sense. ‘Why am I worried?’ I thought. ‘I wasn’t around in the sixties! And how could he have died in 1969 anyway? The paper in the phone box was dated 1970. I spoke to him on that day!’

I suddenly felt a chill. ‘What if the man was a ghost? What if the book was meant for me to find?’ My mind was running away.

I needed to find his next of kin, so I spent an hour scanning the phone book. Most of the Whinnys I called were at work, so I had to leave lots of messages, or call back the next day instead. Only one showed any interest, so I called at the house.

A young woman opened the door, so I showed her the paper. “I’m looking for any family of this man” I explained. “I know it’s a long shot, but it’s such an unusual name.” The woman agreed.

“This is a very old paper!” she said, surprised. “You’d better come in... He was my granddad!” she told me. “He was murdered in his own home.”

“Did they get the people who did it?” I asked.

“No one was ever arrested. Whoever it was, he knew them” she revealed. “Nothing was taken, and there was no sign of a break in.”

I gave her the black book. “This was your granddad’s” I told her.

She looked at me, surprised. “How did you acquire it?’” she asked.

I told her I found it under the floorboards of a shop that my father was working on. “He must have dropped it years ago!” she smiled.

“There are strange symbols at the back!” I pointed out.

She knew what the symbols meant the moment she saw them; I could tell. “These bring back memories!” she smiled. “When I was a child, granddad always used to write to me in symbols. It was our own special language. Each one represented a letter or a number. He was always going away. He used to trade overseas. Before he left, he would hide things all over the house; usually toys, dollies and books: all kinds of wonderful things, and then he would write to tell me where they all were, using symbols.”

She thanked me again, but to tell you the truth, I was glad to be rid of the thing.

A month later, I found a small white envelope on the door mat. My name was on the front. Someone had posted it by hand. When I opened it up, I nearly fainted. There was a check for £20, 000 pounds and a letter. I read it with interest; eager to know who, and why.

It read... To Charlotte, Thank you again for taking the trouble to seek me out. It’s thanks to you that today, we can start a brand new life. We would like you to share in that too. It’s what granddad would have wanted.

Ps, Can you keep a secret?

The symbols were the numbers to a safe deposit box, and the location of one of they keys. Can you believe they hadn’t closed it after all these years? Minus the money for renting the box, it was well worth the wait!

‘And all courtesy of the little black book’ smiled Charlotte. ‘It looks like I’m going to university after all.’