Journal Back In Time

The warmth of the aged single malt reached the back of his throat, soothing his mind, although not dulling the ache in his heart. It was his Father’s favorite drink, so today it seemed appropriate, although Martin had never really acquired a taste for it.

“Mr. Hurrell!” came the mono toned droning voice of Randall Murray, bringing Martin back into the present moment.

“I’m sorry Mr. Murray, you were saying.”

“Yes I was” came the stern reply.

Martin had seen Randall Murray many times but had never before been this close to the family solicitor. He was a scary looking man of advancing years, and had a sour, scornful approach, and yet, surprisingly, there was a warmth to him.

“I do appreciate this is a difficult time for you, and of course you have my condolences, but time is money Mr. Hurrell, so lets pick up the pace” he continued, “Your Father, Mr. Anthony Hurrell, has left you the family estate in Surrey including all contents and vehicles, but has divided his financial fortune between various charities which I’ll come onto in a moment, but he has also left you one other item.”

With this Randall, turned, walked across his office and unlocked his wall safe, withdrawing from it a book, before returning to his seat.

“Martin, he left you his journal” There was a softening sincerity as Randall smiled and handed over the black notebook.

It was beautiful, warm even with its soft cover, seemingly untouched by age, and yet every one of the ivory page’s inflated with blue ink musings, thoughts, passions and purpose. Martin had seen his Father with this many times over the years, but had never been allowed to hold it. But now he was mesmerized, feeling that he had a piece of him back, which was better than any family fortune. But wait, there was an inscription on the front:

'Read aloud and believe,

'Ying yang didall eye po, '

when you want to leave. '

His hand was shaking, as he read the inscription, reaching for another swig of his malt to force the tears away, as he realized his Mother used to sing this to him as a boy. But what could it all mean?

Mr. Randall watched from his desk as the man before him, turned momentarily back to the boy, who he’d watch playing with his dog, on the many visits to the family home over the years. The Hurrells were good people he thought, trying to conceal the emotion not befitting to his profession, and yet he couldn’t help but shed an inward tear for Tony and Marie.

“If there’s anything more you need, Mr. Hurrell, please email my secretary, and we can arrange another meeting” Mr. Randall spoke softly trying to regain composure.

“Thank you, Mr. Randall for everything you’ve done for my family” replied a teary-eyed Martin, grateful that this ominous task had now been completed.

Martin was glad to be home. This beautiful estate has seen generations of his family, filling it with history, love, laughter, singing on occasion, and now grief. What he wouldn’t give to see, smell, and hold his parents again, if only for a fleeting moment. But here, in this beautiful place they would always be, and now this well-loved notebook, what treasure would this hold for him? And why did his father want him to have it? These questions would require the lubrication of another glass of malt for sure. Martin swirled the golden liquor around, watching it catch the light within the cut crystal glass, before throwing it down his throat as if it were nothing more than tap water. Returning to the notebook, he cautiously flicked through the pages, there was writing, and lots of it.

The first page was titled; The Grand National, Aintree, Liverpool 1974. The entry read:

‘Martin, go to Grandma’s room, in the chest you will find authentic 1970s cash and clothing, my old cords and shirts are in there, they should fit you. Take the savings book with you, and place all of your winnings in that account which is still live. Most importantly take the notebook with you when you go, the inscription on the front will get you back home. When you’re ready to go, read this rhyme:’

'Let’s have a little fun,

Put £150 on Red Rum,

See you at the races' son! '

What the hell?! Is my Dad completely barking mad?! Or maybe I’ve had too much of the single malt? Martin pondered, really not sure about what he’d read. Regardless, he was going to give it a go, after all, what was the worst that could happen? Him feeling like an idiot in his Dad’s old clothes!

An hour later, dressed in his Dad’s finest flared cord trousers, brown leather ankle boots, and light denim shirt, clutching £150 in old, very large banknotes, he began to read out loud:

'Let’s have a little fun,

Put £150 on Red Rum ,

See you at the races' son! '

With this a gentle wind blew through, and nausea set in. The wind gained in power, as Martin grew dizzy and eventually spun around landing hard on the ground, but as he come to, he realized it wasn’t carpet he landed on, it was turf. He was here, The Grand National, the most famous steeplechase in the world, about to bet on a horse who is yet to know he’ll make history.

Striding happily up the bookie, he confidently requested “£150 on Red Rum to win please.”

“How much?!?!” came the stunned reply from the bookie, “In all my years, my God, are you sure son? Don’t you want to split it between a few, after all this is The National anything can happen, and Red Rum is a good ‘un for sure, but Scout is favorite to win.”

“Thank you for your good advice my friend, but definitely all on Red Rum please.”

“Oh yeah! Do you know something I don’t?” Inquired the bookie.

“Yes I do”, replied Martin, with a wink, which made Martin smile; he knew his Dad would like that!

“Got a mate in the stables have you?” the bookie pressed Martin further on the subject.

“No, I’m a time-traveler, I’ve come from the future” Martin responded proudly.

“Really son?! Well in that case I’m Elizabeth Taylor!” responded the bookie jovially, concluding that he and Martin were just sharing some banter.

With that, Martin swapped £150 in used notes for a small black and white betting slip. He took a deep breath and headed towards the track, his heart was beginning to race as the adrenaline started to pump. Questions poured through his mind, was this legal? Would he get caught? What would happen if he couldn’t get back? Did he really just time-travel via a black notebook? How was that even possible?

In the distance the horses started pounding down the track as the race got started, sounding like moving thunder across a sea of perfect grass, only broken up as they jumped the hurdles. The place was electric, filled with excited punters cheering their chosen horses on. Some had chosen on form, some on hearsay, most just because they liked the horse’s name! But one thing brought all of these people close; the sheer thrill of it all. People dressed in their best outfits, basking in the glorious sunshine. It was truly a momentous occasion, and Martin was glad he could experience it first hand, knowing that within the next ten minutes, he would be a considerably richer man.

Allowing himself to relax and enjoy the moment, he tilted his head back and took one solitary deep breath which momentarily locked out all of the noise until he could only hear his own heartbeat.

“Having fun son?” came the question from a voice he longed to always hear; his Father.

Martin shot his head around and there he was wearing identical clothes to him, with his Mum giggling by his side looking amazing in a full length Biba floaty dress.

“Dad? Mum? Oh. My. God. I cannot believe it” was all he could manage.

“We cannot stay with you for long, cannot risk altering future events” His father cautioned.

“Why the notepad? How does it even work?”

“Because when you write memories down, they never cease to exist. They remain, waiting for future generations to find and read, providing a portal to a previous time, and a different life. This one just takes it to the next level thanks to your Mum and Grandma being witches!” he explained and signed off with the wink that warmed Martin’s heartbroken soul.

“Son, we have to go now, and you are about to win.”

“Dad, Mum, I love you both so much. I wish you’d stay with me.”

“Look for us in the notepad, we are in every page” stated his Mum, as she held her son in a warm embrace, along with his Father.

The three of them came back to earth with the sound of Red Rum being announced as the winner, followed by L’Escargot in second place. With this Martin’s parents went off into the crowd, and Martin gleefully retuned to the bookie to collect his £1,800 winnings.

After depositing the money into his Father’s bank account as instructed, he found a private place, and said out loud “Ying yang didall eye po”, the wind came and blew him back home, arriving on his Grandma’s carpet with a thud.

The tears came now, burning his face as they headed south towards his chin, finally landing delicately with a gentle warmth onto his Dad’s denim shirt. It was the first time he’d cried since his Dad died, and he allowed it now, in all its glory, just to come and release him from the choking grip of grief, if only for a few moments. As his tears passed, his breath returned, and so did his memory. Retrieving the notebook he began to read the next page:

Apple shares released, December 1980. The entry read:

Apple releases shares for the first time at $22 each. Covert your winnings to dollars, and go get you some! Read this when you're ready to go:

'Red Rum was fun,

But in the city that doesn’t sleep,

Buy into an Apple,

To earn your keep.'

Martin laughed as he read it, perfect he thought, I’d love a trip over the pond. With this he returned downstairs, to watch with glee as his £1,800 win had turned into a little over £15,000 with time and interest, which in turn became $20,000 within moments as he transferred it into his American bank account, all ready for a trip back to 1980 and a bite of an apple!