Post by simon darkshade on Jul 20, 2018 15:05:04 GMT
Never Had it So Good Part 1
Bright.
Bright light.
Someone had left the light on, he thought as he woke. Everything was sore and his head throbbed with a pulsing intensity. He opened one eye before immediately closing it in renewed pain. It must have been one hell of a night. Raising one arm, he went to grab for his phone from the bedside table. It wasn’t there. Nor was the table. Nor, for that matter, was the bed. Instead, he felt leaves, rough twigs and cold earth. Ugh. He must have passed out outside. He grimaced and lay back, breathing slowly until the pain subsided. The world still spun around him and he felt incredibly weak. His head felt like it had been slammed several times with a sledgehammer, but there was no blood, just this splitting headache. Who was he? Where was he?
Mustering his strength, he sat up and opened his eyes again. He was lying on wet grass in a small mossy copse. The sunlight shone down through the tree branches onto his face, making him shrink back into the shade. An insect crawled over his leg and he brushed it away instinctively and it flew off past his face. It was a strange looking thing, like a crystal rainbow shot through with gold and silver. He swatted at it, but it buzzed away into the bushes. He tried again to remember what he had been doing last night or anything, but couldn’t manage to break through the fuzzy greyness that filled his mind. Looking around him gave no further answers – no cans, no rubbish, not even a cigarette butt.
Ignoring the niggling pain in his head, he drew himself to his feet and brushed himself down, taking stock of the situation. No phone. Dammit. He still had his jeans and t-shirt, although they were wet with dew and covered in dirt and leaves. They hadn’t stolen his trainers, which he guessed was a bonus. Reaching into his back pocket, he felt for his wallet. It was gone as well. I’ve been robbed, he thought. I’ve had my drink spiked, they’ve robbed me and dumped me out here. Wherever here was, he concluded bitterly. He listened for traffic, but no sound came but the chirps and trills of birdsong. He figured it was early morning by the light. A brief look through the undergrowth failed to turn up his phone, his wallet or any possessions that could remind him of who he was. Well and truly robbed.
There was nothing else for it but to push through the trees and hope he came to a road. The trees seemed unfamiliar, for that matter. He could recognize some sort of elms, great, thick oaks that soared high above the canopy and gnarled twisted ash trees, but others were laden with intricate blue blossoms and thin golden leaves. He trampled through the undergrowth, scratching his legs and arms in the process. Small snippets of memory ebbed back to him as he headed onwards. His name was Sam, Sam Johnson. He was 21 years old and a history student at University College London. Last night, there had been a party. They’d gone back to someone’s house, but the faces and names seemed blurred and beyond him. He had sat down on a couch and felt very, very drowsy.
The ground began to rise in front of him and bright sunlight broke through the screen of trees. Scrambling up the bank, he reached a narrow road paved with small stones. The warm sun was high in the sky to his right and a soft, pleasant breeze blew past him. Fields of wheat waved slowly in the wind on the other side of the road, which stretched off in either direction over a gently rolling landscape. No houses or landmarks stood out to orient him. He had no idea where he was, or what direction London lay in. With a resigned shrug, Sam began to walk along the road towards the north. A small rabbit darted out of the wood in front of him and eyed him carefully before scampering away into the long grass. Several bees buzzed past his face, but paid him little mind. Hopefully he would reach a house soon and be able to call the police and get himself out of this predicament.
He walked down the road, keeping a careful eye out for any of his possessions. Five minutes passed, then ten minutes. Nothing seemed to disturb the peace of the quiet country morning and Sam began to despair of ever being found. He saw a flash of sunlight off a metallic object in the grass up ahead and ran to investigate it. His heart sank slightly as he found it was a largish silver coin and not his iPhone. Picking it up and examining it he saw a portrait of the Queen and an inscription: ELIZABETH II DEI GRATIA BR OMN REG. Flipping it over revealed a royal coat of arms flanked by the initials ER and surrounded by another inscription: FID DEF IND IMP HALF CROWN 1960. Something seemed a bit jarring, but Sam couldn’t put his finger on exactly what was the nagging thought at the back of his fuzzy head.
The sound of a car engine approaching behind him shook him out of his musings and he turned to wave it down. An old-fashioned black vehicle came over the rise behind him and he frantically waved it down. It slowed to a halt and pulled up next to him. Sam was fairly sure it was a Rolls Royce of some sort. The driver’s side door opened and the sound of classical music came out, followed by the driver himself. He was a tall, blond fit-looking man in his mid-thirties with a neatly trimmed moustache, a cheerful, open face and a strong upright bearing. The man was dressed in a well-cut charcoal three piece suit and wore a royal blue tie and sparkling black shoes. He smiled and nodded at Sam.
“Spot of bother there, old boy?” he spoke in a cut-glass accent.
“Hi, mate. I just woke up back there and think I’ve had my drink spiked. They took my wallet and phone and everything.”
The man looked at him quizzically. “Whatever were you carrying a telephone around for?”
Great, a genuine posh idiot. thought Sam. “My iPhone. You know, a 6.” he explained sarcastically. The man looked no less puzzled but continued to smile as he nodded again.
“Well, whatever the case, I can give you a lift to Ashford. You should be able to be sorted out there. Student, aren’t you?’
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Last time I was down in the city I saw a few dressed up like you in that American-style costume. Jolly good wheeze, eh?” the man laughed heartily.
“Um…yeah. You couldn’t tell me whereabouts Ashford is, could you? I can’t really remember much at the moment.” The guy was clearly weird, but Sam felt somehow that he could trust him. The man laughed and clapped his hands in obvious amusement at something.
“Sorry, forgot that you weren’t from here. Ashford. It’s about 10 miles up the road, on the railway halfway between Aylesbury and Winslow. I’m Simon Bailey, by the way.” He said, extending his hand. His grip was firm, but not crushing.
“Sam Johnson.”
“Righto, Sam. I’ll run you up to the police station there and they’ll be able to sort you out. Hop in and we’ll be there in a jiffy.”
Sam climbed into the comfortable leather passenger seat and looked around for a seatbelt.
“Lost something else?” asked the driver as he closed his door and started the engine.
“No, just looking for the safety belt.” Sam murmured, feeling slightly embarrassed.
“My dear chap, this isn’t an aeroplane!” laughed Bailey as he drove off at a high speed. Sam sat back in the seat as the music on the radio started up again. Looking at it, he saw it was an old fashioned device with two large knobs and a number of silver buttons underneath. It was playing some sort of old military march like in the movies – very brassy and loud.
“Do you get Radio 1?”
“No, only the Home Service, Light Programme and the Third Programme out here, I’m afraid. Speaking of that, it is just about time for the news.” Bailey leaned over and twiddled the knob until it reached a position a third of the way along the display. Sam glanced at his watch and saw the time. Just before 10 o’clock.
Home Service. Strange. No one has called it that for years, Sam remembered.
They caught the end of a majestic fanfare followed by the familiar sound of six pips and a rather formal voice. “This is the BBC Light Programme. Here is the news. Talks continue in Stockholm between the British Empire, the United States, France, Germany and the Soviet Union regarding the Eastern European situation. Foreign Secretary Lord Wooster has stated that he has solid hopes for a lasting agreement between the powers. The Air Ministry has announced that a Royal Air Force Vulcan bomber has successfully dropped Britain’s most powerful hydrogen bomb yet in a test on Christmas Island in the Pacific last night, with scientists being very pleased with the results. A successful Commonwealth military operation in Malaya has captured or killed seventeen Communist terrorists overnight. A woman in Dublin has given birth to sextuplets at St. James’s Hospital; both mother and children are reported to be well. RMS Great Britain left Southampton early this morning on her first North Atlantic voyage since her recent refit. Manchester United won again last night thanks to a late goal from Duncan Edwards and keep their twelve point lead in the First Division. And the weather this afternoon is forecast to be fine and sunny, with a chance of showers over parts of Wales and the West Country.”
Bailey switched off the radio with a contented chuckle and focused back on the road. Sam sat back in his seat and exhaled. This was no longer a case of not knowing where he was. It was now a question of when he was.
British Empire. Soviet Union. Hydrogen bombs. Malaya. Vulcans.
As a history student, he felt fairly sure he knew the general period – some time in the late 1950s or early 1960s. Thinking things through like this helped him stop from losing it. The crossover time between the technology and politics was fairly narrow. Let’s see…there was the moratorium between 1958 and 1961 after Operation Grapple in ’57. Sometime in the early 1960s, he concluded. Still, there was only one way to make sure.
“Simon?” he ventured in an unsteady voice
“Yes, Sam?” replied his driver jauntily, keeping his eyes on the road and his hands upon the wheel.
“This may sound like a strange question, but what date is it?”
“June 2nd. My goodness, you must have had a couple last night.” Bailey chuckled, slowing down to a halt as he spotted several sheep ambling across the road ahead.
“And what year?”
“1961 of course.”
Sam’s eyes widened and he swallowed grimly. Was this a nightmare? Was he drugged with some truly weird substance? Or could he have really…If he had, then he needed to keep things quiet and figure out some way of getting home. Should any of these backward people work out what he really was, then he would be thrown in a mental hospital or worse…
Bailey stopped the car to let the sheep finish crossing, turned at him and smiled. “So, when are you from?” He fixed Sam with a level stare.
“What?! How?! I mean, what do you mean?” Sam’s mind went into overdrive, trying to put together a response and some sort of cover story.
Simon shook his head and sighed lightly. “It’s quite obvious you are some sort of traveler from another time and place, old boy. You are dressed like nothing I’ve ever seen before, your hair is cut very strangely, your accent and speech is different and you were unfamiliar with my radio but seemed to presume knowledge of some sort of phone. All of that was enough to make me think something queer was going on. Then you went and sealed the matter by your reaction to the news and then asking the exact date. A chap simply doesn’t forget what year it is without a good cause. So, when are you from?”
Sam was left with nothing but the truth. “2015.”
“Goodness me, the 21st Century. Good to see we made it through without World War 3. Or was there one after all?” He seemed suddenly serious.
Sam thought about telling him about the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the Soviet Union, about Yugoslavia, 9/11, Afghanistan, Iraq, London and Paris but decided to take things one step at a time. “No, there wasn’t a war.”
“Nice to see that they weren’t that silly. Are you really a student?”
“Yes. I read history at UCL.”
"UCL?"
"University College London."
“Of course. What type of history?”
“My thesis is on British defence policy in the 1960s.” Sam smiled wanly at that one and Simon chuckled.
“Well, old boy, if we can’t get you home, at least we can get you a job at the War Office.”
Bailey nodded, started up the car again and headed on towards Ashford. Within a few minutes, they crested a green hill and Sam caught his first glance of the village. It was like a picture straight out of the Archers, Harry Potter or even Lord of the Rings. Several dozen little houses and shops with flowery gardens were arrayed along winding cobblestone streets lined with trees, bushes and neat hedges. In the centre of the village, a stone church rose up next to a brilliantly blue river, a huge oak tree, a broad village green and a crooked ramshackle tower. Further out, it was surrounded by orchards, fields of tall, waving grain, impossibly green meadows, hedgerows and, in the distance, thick woodland. On one hill stood what looked like an old monastery whilst across the vale stood a genuine castle.
Simon glanced over at Sam. “I can’t see the local constable being able to help you with your particular problem. What do you say to going to the pub and working out what we can do next over a pint?”
“That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”
Bright.
Bright light.
Someone had left the light on, he thought as he woke. Everything was sore and his head throbbed with a pulsing intensity. He opened one eye before immediately closing it in renewed pain. It must have been one hell of a night. Raising one arm, he went to grab for his phone from the bedside table. It wasn’t there. Nor was the table. Nor, for that matter, was the bed. Instead, he felt leaves, rough twigs and cold earth. Ugh. He must have passed out outside. He grimaced and lay back, breathing slowly until the pain subsided. The world still spun around him and he felt incredibly weak. His head felt like it had been slammed several times with a sledgehammer, but there was no blood, just this splitting headache. Who was he? Where was he?
Mustering his strength, he sat up and opened his eyes again. He was lying on wet grass in a small mossy copse. The sunlight shone down through the tree branches onto his face, making him shrink back into the shade. An insect crawled over his leg and he brushed it away instinctively and it flew off past his face. It was a strange looking thing, like a crystal rainbow shot through with gold and silver. He swatted at it, but it buzzed away into the bushes. He tried again to remember what he had been doing last night or anything, but couldn’t manage to break through the fuzzy greyness that filled his mind. Looking around him gave no further answers – no cans, no rubbish, not even a cigarette butt.
Ignoring the niggling pain in his head, he drew himself to his feet and brushed himself down, taking stock of the situation. No phone. Dammit. He still had his jeans and t-shirt, although they were wet with dew and covered in dirt and leaves. They hadn’t stolen his trainers, which he guessed was a bonus. Reaching into his back pocket, he felt for his wallet. It was gone as well. I’ve been robbed, he thought. I’ve had my drink spiked, they’ve robbed me and dumped me out here. Wherever here was, he concluded bitterly. He listened for traffic, but no sound came but the chirps and trills of birdsong. He figured it was early morning by the light. A brief look through the undergrowth failed to turn up his phone, his wallet or any possessions that could remind him of who he was. Well and truly robbed.
There was nothing else for it but to push through the trees and hope he came to a road. The trees seemed unfamiliar, for that matter. He could recognize some sort of elms, great, thick oaks that soared high above the canopy and gnarled twisted ash trees, but others were laden with intricate blue blossoms and thin golden leaves. He trampled through the undergrowth, scratching his legs and arms in the process. Small snippets of memory ebbed back to him as he headed onwards. His name was Sam, Sam Johnson. He was 21 years old and a history student at University College London. Last night, there had been a party. They’d gone back to someone’s house, but the faces and names seemed blurred and beyond him. He had sat down on a couch and felt very, very drowsy.
The ground began to rise in front of him and bright sunlight broke through the screen of trees. Scrambling up the bank, he reached a narrow road paved with small stones. The warm sun was high in the sky to his right and a soft, pleasant breeze blew past him. Fields of wheat waved slowly in the wind on the other side of the road, which stretched off in either direction over a gently rolling landscape. No houses or landmarks stood out to orient him. He had no idea where he was, or what direction London lay in. With a resigned shrug, Sam began to walk along the road towards the north. A small rabbit darted out of the wood in front of him and eyed him carefully before scampering away into the long grass. Several bees buzzed past his face, but paid him little mind. Hopefully he would reach a house soon and be able to call the police and get himself out of this predicament.
He walked down the road, keeping a careful eye out for any of his possessions. Five minutes passed, then ten minutes. Nothing seemed to disturb the peace of the quiet country morning and Sam began to despair of ever being found. He saw a flash of sunlight off a metallic object in the grass up ahead and ran to investigate it. His heart sank slightly as he found it was a largish silver coin and not his iPhone. Picking it up and examining it he saw a portrait of the Queen and an inscription: ELIZABETH II DEI GRATIA BR OMN REG. Flipping it over revealed a royal coat of arms flanked by the initials ER and surrounded by another inscription: FID DEF IND IMP HALF CROWN 1960. Something seemed a bit jarring, but Sam couldn’t put his finger on exactly what was the nagging thought at the back of his fuzzy head.
The sound of a car engine approaching behind him shook him out of his musings and he turned to wave it down. An old-fashioned black vehicle came over the rise behind him and he frantically waved it down. It slowed to a halt and pulled up next to him. Sam was fairly sure it was a Rolls Royce of some sort. The driver’s side door opened and the sound of classical music came out, followed by the driver himself. He was a tall, blond fit-looking man in his mid-thirties with a neatly trimmed moustache, a cheerful, open face and a strong upright bearing. The man was dressed in a well-cut charcoal three piece suit and wore a royal blue tie and sparkling black shoes. He smiled and nodded at Sam.
“Spot of bother there, old boy?” he spoke in a cut-glass accent.
“Hi, mate. I just woke up back there and think I’ve had my drink spiked. They took my wallet and phone and everything.”
The man looked at him quizzically. “Whatever were you carrying a telephone around for?”
Great, a genuine posh idiot. thought Sam. “My iPhone. You know, a 6.” he explained sarcastically. The man looked no less puzzled but continued to smile as he nodded again.
“Well, whatever the case, I can give you a lift to Ashford. You should be able to be sorted out there. Student, aren’t you?’
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Last time I was down in the city I saw a few dressed up like you in that American-style costume. Jolly good wheeze, eh?” the man laughed heartily.
“Um…yeah. You couldn’t tell me whereabouts Ashford is, could you? I can’t really remember much at the moment.” The guy was clearly weird, but Sam felt somehow that he could trust him. The man laughed and clapped his hands in obvious amusement at something.
“Sorry, forgot that you weren’t from here. Ashford. It’s about 10 miles up the road, on the railway halfway between Aylesbury and Winslow. I’m Simon Bailey, by the way.” He said, extending his hand. His grip was firm, but not crushing.
“Sam Johnson.”
“Righto, Sam. I’ll run you up to the police station there and they’ll be able to sort you out. Hop in and we’ll be there in a jiffy.”
Sam climbed into the comfortable leather passenger seat and looked around for a seatbelt.
“Lost something else?” asked the driver as he closed his door and started the engine.
“No, just looking for the safety belt.” Sam murmured, feeling slightly embarrassed.
“My dear chap, this isn’t an aeroplane!” laughed Bailey as he drove off at a high speed. Sam sat back in the seat as the music on the radio started up again. Looking at it, he saw it was an old fashioned device with two large knobs and a number of silver buttons underneath. It was playing some sort of old military march like in the movies – very brassy and loud.
“Do you get Radio 1?”
“No, only the Home Service, Light Programme and the Third Programme out here, I’m afraid. Speaking of that, it is just about time for the news.” Bailey leaned over and twiddled the knob until it reached a position a third of the way along the display. Sam glanced at his watch and saw the time. Just before 10 o’clock.
Home Service. Strange. No one has called it that for years, Sam remembered.
They caught the end of a majestic fanfare followed by the familiar sound of six pips and a rather formal voice. “This is the BBC Light Programme. Here is the news. Talks continue in Stockholm between the British Empire, the United States, France, Germany and the Soviet Union regarding the Eastern European situation. Foreign Secretary Lord Wooster has stated that he has solid hopes for a lasting agreement between the powers. The Air Ministry has announced that a Royal Air Force Vulcan bomber has successfully dropped Britain’s most powerful hydrogen bomb yet in a test on Christmas Island in the Pacific last night, with scientists being very pleased with the results. A successful Commonwealth military operation in Malaya has captured or killed seventeen Communist terrorists overnight. A woman in Dublin has given birth to sextuplets at St. James’s Hospital; both mother and children are reported to be well. RMS Great Britain left Southampton early this morning on her first North Atlantic voyage since her recent refit. Manchester United won again last night thanks to a late goal from Duncan Edwards and keep their twelve point lead in the First Division. And the weather this afternoon is forecast to be fine and sunny, with a chance of showers over parts of Wales and the West Country.”
Bailey switched off the radio with a contented chuckle and focused back on the road. Sam sat back in his seat and exhaled. This was no longer a case of not knowing where he was. It was now a question of when he was.
British Empire. Soviet Union. Hydrogen bombs. Malaya. Vulcans.
As a history student, he felt fairly sure he knew the general period – some time in the late 1950s or early 1960s. Thinking things through like this helped him stop from losing it. The crossover time between the technology and politics was fairly narrow. Let’s see…there was the moratorium between 1958 and 1961 after Operation Grapple in ’57. Sometime in the early 1960s, he concluded. Still, there was only one way to make sure.
“Simon?” he ventured in an unsteady voice
“Yes, Sam?” replied his driver jauntily, keeping his eyes on the road and his hands upon the wheel.
“This may sound like a strange question, but what date is it?”
“June 2nd. My goodness, you must have had a couple last night.” Bailey chuckled, slowing down to a halt as he spotted several sheep ambling across the road ahead.
“And what year?”
“1961 of course.”
Sam’s eyes widened and he swallowed grimly. Was this a nightmare? Was he drugged with some truly weird substance? Or could he have really…If he had, then he needed to keep things quiet and figure out some way of getting home. Should any of these backward people work out what he really was, then he would be thrown in a mental hospital or worse…
Bailey stopped the car to let the sheep finish crossing, turned at him and smiled. “So, when are you from?” He fixed Sam with a level stare.
“What?! How?! I mean, what do you mean?” Sam’s mind went into overdrive, trying to put together a response and some sort of cover story.
Simon shook his head and sighed lightly. “It’s quite obvious you are some sort of traveler from another time and place, old boy. You are dressed like nothing I’ve ever seen before, your hair is cut very strangely, your accent and speech is different and you were unfamiliar with my radio but seemed to presume knowledge of some sort of phone. All of that was enough to make me think something queer was going on. Then you went and sealed the matter by your reaction to the news and then asking the exact date. A chap simply doesn’t forget what year it is without a good cause. So, when are you from?”
Sam was left with nothing but the truth. “2015.”
“Goodness me, the 21st Century. Good to see we made it through without World War 3. Or was there one after all?” He seemed suddenly serious.
Sam thought about telling him about the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the Soviet Union, about Yugoslavia, 9/11, Afghanistan, Iraq, London and Paris but decided to take things one step at a time. “No, there wasn’t a war.”
“Nice to see that they weren’t that silly. Are you really a student?”
“Yes. I read history at UCL.”
"UCL?"
"University College London."
“Of course. What type of history?”
“My thesis is on British defence policy in the 1960s.” Sam smiled wanly at that one and Simon chuckled.
“Well, old boy, if we can’t get you home, at least we can get you a job at the War Office.”
Bailey nodded, started up the car again and headed on towards Ashford. Within a few minutes, they crested a green hill and Sam caught his first glance of the village. It was like a picture straight out of the Archers, Harry Potter or even Lord of the Rings. Several dozen little houses and shops with flowery gardens were arrayed along winding cobblestone streets lined with trees, bushes and neat hedges. In the centre of the village, a stone church rose up next to a brilliantly blue river, a huge oak tree, a broad village green and a crooked ramshackle tower. Further out, it was surrounded by orchards, fields of tall, waving grain, impossibly green meadows, hedgerows and, in the distance, thick woodland. On one hill stood what looked like an old monastery whilst across the vale stood a genuine castle.
Simon glanced over at Sam. “I can’t see the local constable being able to help you with your particular problem. What do you say to going to the pub and working out what we can do next over a pint?”
“That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”
]
Also if his memories right there was a test moratorium at this date so that hints at other changes. Not sure if there's any difference hinted at by the text on that half crown.
I don't think he considered the possiblities when Simon mentioned his daughters wanted a unicorn pony.