Having not used public transport for some time, I had anticipated a lively social experience, sharing my journey with a group of strangers embarking on a new day, a new week. I was to be disappointed; the bus was packed, and I was forced to stand in the aisle, sandwiched between a man who obviously enjoyed Garlic for breakfast and a slightly overweight lady who considered her shopping trolley to be a weapon with which she jealously defended the space she had claimed as her own.
There was an air of despondency which was immediately infectious, and I was already regretting my rash decision to leave the car at home. It was with a sense of relief that I arrived at the train station. No longer do train companies provide helpful staff to guide you to the correct platform, or even sell you a ticket. I am no stranger to computerisation but navigating the ticket machine with all its assorted options required an expertise I clearly did not possess, a glossary to explain the various ticket types would have been extremely helpful. Recalling my experience on the bus, I considered that twenty minutes of close contact with the public was enough for one day and decided to hang the expense, and plumped for a first-class ticket, I almost expected it to come out gold plated when the price came up, but hey! that is what credit cards are for, right?
Boarding the train, I found my allotted seat and was pleased to note there was a table, always a bonus, somewhere to rest your coffee when the refreshment trolley eventually makes an appearance. The man opposite me who had acknowledged my arrival with a brief friendly nod, was engrossed in yesterday’s Sunday times. The Sunday newspapers have grown to gargantuan size, and it take serious dedication if you are to take full advantage of everything in one day. My fellow traveller obviously had enjoyed neither of these advantages and was using his journey to work to catch up on world events. As we neared the next station, which as it turned out was his destination, he stood up to gather his belongings and slid the glossy Sunday times magazine in front of me. He pointed to the page he had left it open at, and informed me that I really should read this, “absolutely fascinating,” he confirmed, before leaving his seat and the scattered remnants of his newspaper to forge ahead with whatever awaited him in his immediate future. I am certain that his intention was less about my education than it was about his not wanting to bother gathering up the various sections of the newspaper and having to find somewhere to deposit it when he left the train, far easier to leave it for the other fellow to deal with. Feeling put upon I pushed the offending item back to his side of the table as he disappeared into his own personal future, ensuring the print faced away from me so that nobody taking his place would blame me for the mess, and reached into my brief case for the new Stephen King novel I had bought on Saturday and had not yet got around to starting. The novel was conspicuous in its absence, being as it was still sat on my kitchen table, waiting patiently to be added to my briefcase, along with the papers for my meeting. Disappointed and disgruntled I sat back and watched the scenery fly past the window, casting an occasional eye towards the discarded newspaper, and in particular the magazine. After about ten minutes of resistance, I succumbed, and pulling the various sections towards me I put the newspaper back in some semblance of order before taking up the magazine. The article he had been reading had obviously captivated him, so I started with that. It was the sort of story, at least on the surface, that you would have expected to find in one of the tabloid titles, alongside sexual shenanigans at the vicarage and I was abducted by aliens on my way home from the pub. It seemed out of place in such a prestigious, normally serious publication and I was intrigued enough to read the article. The premise of the story was that a man had been dreaming for years about a room. This room it appeared existed thousands of years ago, and in his dream, it was populated by people in the type of dress you would associate with Egypt in the time of the pharaohs. The frequency of this dream, and to him the authenticity of detail, when he claimed he had never studied nor taken particular interest in this period of history, inspired him to investigate. To cut a long story short, armed with a team of Egyptologists and historians, the room was eventually discovered buried below the sands and was declared by experts to have been untouched by human hands or indeed eyes for approximately four thousand years. Many such places have been discovered over the years, but what made this discovery special was the accuracy by which a man in the twenty -first century had been able to describe in detail what they would find inside. It was taking co-incidence to its extreme, if you believed the story, and as I said its appearance in the times gave it some credence, then this was déjà vu on steroids. One explanation was proffered by a man who was a doctor of some description, not the medical kind of doctor but a man who had made a career out of sounding cleverer than everybody else and providing explanations to phenomena that nobody else understands. The fact that nobody understands the explanations either is unimportant, he is a doctor with several, to the layperson at least, undecipherable letters after his name, and therefore we nod sagely and bow to his expertise. I have often wished I were clever enough to do this, I would love to have the imagination to be a theoretical physicist, imagine, you wake up one morning, with a wild idea to explain the currently unexplained, put it in a journal and sit back watching the rest of the scientific community desperately try to debunk it. Meanwhile you embark on a lecture tour, author a book, and hope for a damn good grant to expand on your theory and watch the zeros mount up in your bank account. However, that said, this man of many letters proposed a theory, that to me at least, seemed to make some sort of sense. He called it racial memory, a term I had heard previously but had never understood. I had assumed it was something to do with the social history of people whom we consider on these shores to be minority people. I had a vision in my mind of a man sitting before a fire in a jungle clearing, relating tales of outrageous acts of bravery by ancestors of the tribe. I was of course wrong, racial memory it turns out is the passing of memories from one generation to another by way of DNA. Ok, I admit when you first hear such a theory it sounds preposterous, but give it a moment, let the idea percolate for a while. Anybody who has had kids will tell you, she has inherited my nose and the wife’s chin, all my family were tall, it is no surprise that he is the biggest kid in the class. We accept that the physical attributes of a child are a mix and match of their parents, we even accept that personality traits can be passed from generation to generation, so why not memories, it goes someway to explaining the phenomena of déjà vu. It certainly explained concisely enough how this guy could remember a place that neither he nor anybody else alive today could have seen in four thousand years. Anyway, it worked for me, the story helped pass the journey, and when the train pulled into York, I passed the magazine on to the guy who was now in the seat formerly occupied by the original owner of the newspaper, subtly passing on the disposal problem.
The far-reaching affects of astrology
Driving over two hundred miles is understandably tiring, especially on motorways where concentration levels are intense, you prepare yourself for this, trying as best you can to arrive early for a meeting, to give you the chance to freshen up a little and relax your mind. What I had not been prepared for was how tiring sitting in a comfortable train carriage and relaxing could be.
When I finally arrived in York, I felt more like booking into a hotel and grabbing a few hours shut eye, than attending a business meeting. I decided that with at least a little time to spare, I would take a brisk walk from the station into the city, rather than grabbing a taxi off the rank. The chilly north easterly breeze would, I hoped, blow away the cobwebs in my brain and leave me, at least reasonably alert.
York is a beautiful city, fascinating both historically and architecturally, I knew the area quite well, having visited several times before, and I took a slight detour so that I could take in the magnificent York minster cathedral. Sadly, as is so often the case these days, the view was obscured by scaffolding and sheets of plastic, I suppose it is inevitable, the older it gets the more upkeep is required. No different to people I mused, feeling a tightening in my hamstring from the sudden exercise after so long in my seat on the train. I tend to be a bit of a dreamer, I am told that this is typical behaviour for a Pisces, although I give little credence to astrology, if it is true then a twelfth of the population are at any one time wandering around in a dream state. It momentarily occurred to me that a sizeable proportion of road traffic accidents are the result of Piscean daydreamers wandering into oncoming traffic or indeed driving over pedestrians. Maybe banning anybody born between the last two weeks of February and the first two weeks in March when the sun is in line with Venus, or whatever the right conjunction is, could be the biggest boon to road safety in history, somebody should do a survey. In addition to my tendency to drift away into flights of fancy, I am a lousy swimmer, so the accident of my birthdate has done me few favours. It was while I was pondering such nonsense that I walked headfirst into the scaffold pole.
As I mentioned, York minster was surrounded by the damn things, they are meant to be above head height. I have often wondered as to the accuracy or indeed usefulness of such statements like head height, or room temperature, I mean which room? If I keep a bottle of wine in the lounge with the central heating on, it is going to vary from my unheated cellar, and how high exactly is head height? I am not excessively tall, I can claim six feet on a good day if I stand on tip toe, therefore I imagine whoever built this stretch of scaffolding was a midget, or should I say a person of restricted growth as we are supposed to refer to them in these days of political correctness. Whatever the correct terminology, the fact of the matter was, that one moment I was happily wandering along, lost in my own thoughts, and the next moment, bang! And I had no thoughts at all.
The sudden proof of my astrologically endowed personality traits failed to register in my mind as I descended into unconsciousness, as far as I am aware I did not even have time to say ouch. Despite my allegedly inherited lackadaisical approach to my own welfare, by allowing my mind to wander off on its own leaving nobody to take care of the rest of me, I had never been knocked out before, and had no idea what to expect from the experience. Deep sleep was the closest I have come, but dreams would appear to be proof of some activity, at least on a subconscious level, so did that mean when unconscious, some other mental process would step in and steer the ship through sudden stormy waters. Would my subconscious suddenly leap to the fore with a cry of, ok guys I got this. I hoped this was the case, it would certainly explain what happened to me next. What still confuses me though is that dreams, at least to the best of my knowledge are not the product of pure invention, they are a Hotchpotch of previous experiences, what I did experience from my inadvertent meeting with the scaffold pole was more akin to a historical movie by a director who could not decide which period.
Journeys into the once unknown
The world at the end of the nineteenth century was a far different place to the current day. smog from coal fires filled the air and the lungs, streetlights were still mostly gas, and cars were rare. The streets were filled with the sound of hoof beats and traders announcing their wares at the tops of their voices. Were it not for the smog you could almost call it colourful, despite that, it could be said with some accuracy to have character. The fact that the internal combustion engine had failed to dominate, as it was destined to do in the not-so-distant future, did not make the streets any safer than they are today, a fact that I was soon to become aware of.
As I surfaced from my brief mental sojourn, I became aware of a man standing over me, he was dressed in a type of leather smock and wearing a flat cap. “you alright mate?” he said. The accent was pure east end of London, unexpected to say the least being as I had, until moments before, been in deepest darkest Yorkshire. As my senses returned piece by piece, I became aware of other anomalies, to begin with, the strong scent of horse manure, I grew up in the countryside, and there was no mistaking it. As my hearing caught up and came out of temporary hibernation, I became aware of the rattle of wooden wheels, the clip clop of numerous horses, and the total absence of traffic noise. The street was pulsating with life, I was overcome with a sensory overload, my head swam, and pain throbbed between my temples, not knowing what else to do, I closed my eyes, and inadvisably shook my head before opening them again, hoping to achieve, if not normality, then at least something approaching what for me would be reality. It appeared to have worked, the man, the horses and all the sights and sounds that had seemed so real moments before had disappeared. Unfortunately, those images were replaced by something every bit as disturbing.
A bright pinprick of light was burning into the retina of my right eye, abruptly it disappeared and after a moments darkness my left eyelid was forced open and the same light re-appeared before once again darkness. I could hear muffled voices but was unable to make out what was being said. It was like being underwater in a swimming pool, the noise about you loud and full of echoes, but muffled and indistinct when you dove beneath the surface. It is said that when faced with a traumatic situation your subconscious mind will go into defence mode and discern which survival trait to adopt, fight? or flight? Being indecisive by nature, mine, despite the panic I could feel rising, took its own sweet time to make its choice and then decided to do both at the same time. In my mind I was running, getting the hell away from wherever I was, but I was getting nowhere, it was like trying to run through quicksand. I began thrashing around like a lunatic to ward off the unseen enemy, I was screaming but no sound was coming out. Just as I reached the point where my heart might burst through my chest I felt a slight pricking sensation in my arm, and I began to sink, slowly falling into some unseen void until I finally descended into blessed oblivion.
When I finally surfaced, and I have no idea how long I had been gone, it was to a loud and insistent banging sound. Heavy thumps were coming from somewhere below me, I reached for the digital alarm clock on my bedside table and found it was not there. Neither as it transpires was the bedside table, and for that matter the entire bedroom. I admit to momentary panic, I sat up quickly, too quickly in fact, for my mind spun alarmingly, my head pounded and leaning over I vomited onto the floor. I lay back resting my head on the pillow for a moment, and then once again heard the thumping sound from below, this time it was accompanied by angry shouts. Unsteadily I got to my feet and tottered precariously down the wooden staircase that creaked noisily beneath my feet. The waves of nausea had subsided a little and as my mind cleared, it occurred to me that I do not actually have a staircase, I live in an apartment, one level. Where in the name of God was I? The curious thing was, that although I knew this was not my home, and as far as I could remember, I had never been here before, somehow, I knew precisely where to go. Reaching the bottom of the stairs I padded down the dimly lit hallway and noted the shadows of two men through the frosted glass of the front door.
In 1944, history now tells us that World War two was coming to a close, another year or so and there would be parties in the street, and those that had survived the fighting would return home as heroes. However, at this precise juncture in history, nothing was clear. As the V1 and V2 rockets flew across the channel, leaving the white cliffs far below them, their engines roared until they reached their targets over the highly populated cities before cutting out and leaving the ominous silence that meant death and destruction wherever they fell. Men were still dying in droves on the battlefields of Europe, those who had previously been overlooked for service, or had until then not reached the age of maturity were being drafted to do their duty for God and King
I opened the front door and found myself confronted by two men in military uniforms standing to attention on the doorstep and holding official looking papers. “Mr Allen Turner”? enquired the larger of the two, “Yes,” I replied, “your conscription papers “he said passing me a large manilla envelope, “you are to report to the town hall on Friday.” They gave no further explanation, as if none were deemed necessary, and then did a smart about turn and marched on to a house three doors down, to, I assumed, repeat the process. I watched them on their way with a certain amount of bemusement, wondering whether this was some sort of elaborate practical joke or just a case of mistaken identity. I decided that I needed to get my bearings, a cup of tea, the good old British cure for all ills would certainly help. I considered the possibility that I was dreaming, and then wondered if you can question whether you are dreaming, when you are in fact dreaming, such conundrums were a little beyond me at this early hour, and especially as it appeared, with a severe hangover. The drinking hypothesis seemed the most likely explanation, I had no recollection of having been drinking excessively, or indeed at all, and there was the redolent scent of horses in my senses to confuse matters further. It seemed logical to my befuddled mind that I must have drunk an awful lot, Horses have never featured large in my life, so why I would have been spending time in their company last night was beyond me. I am not a big drinker as a rule and am easily intoxicated when I do, so I supposed that alcohol amnesia was to blame for my current state of confusion. Closing the front door, I wandered back along the hallway and went into the kitchen, again it seemed as if I knew instinctively where to go. The first problem in my quest for a cup of tea was that there was no kettle, at least no electric kettle. The two-burner gas stove had an old, tarnished copper affair, the type you heat up on the burner, a box of swan matches sat by the side, and I lit the burner and went in search of tea bags. Again, I was to be disappointed, a tin container on the side held a small amount of loose tea, this was all new to me, it was like visiting my grandmother when I was a small child.
While I waited for the kettle to boil, I opened the envelope and took out the two sheets of paper, the first thing I noticed was the date, September 13, 1944. Now, I admit to being no great fan of the post office, especially since it had been privatised, and had no confidence that my letter would travel any faster from A to B than it had done before, I did however feel that seventy-four years was pushing the boundaries of acceptable service, even more so when considering that it had been hand delivered, and no more than five miles from the war office. Before I had the chance to contemplate this latest mystery, the kettle began to rock and shake and emitted a shrill whistle. Turning off the burner I was pouring the water into the tea pot when an unearthly noise broke out. Having never experienced an air-raid siren before, I was shocked to the core, it was incredibly loud, so much so, that when it first started, my instinct was to duck in case whatever it was had entered the room. As it grew in intensity, I went back to the front door, and on opening, watched in amazement as everybody in the street ran as if for their lives, while staring fearfully at the sky above. Somewhere beyond the clouds I heard the distant sounds of engines, which grew in intensity, the siren having died, left this as the only sound. I gazed at the sky searching for the source when all at once it stopped. The sudden contrasting silence was unnerving, I stood open-mouthed wondering what the hell was happening when a mind-numbing explosion assaulted my ears, and a rush of hot air hit me like a sledgehammer, throwing me backwards into the house, which collapsed in slow motion about me.
I am no expert on the power of explosives, but I have seen first-hand the effects of a relatively small amount of Semtex detonated in a bus during the rush hour in London, in what was to be known as the seven\seven terrorist attack. Numerous people were injured, some separated from their limbs and thirteen separated from their lives. It appeared to me that the result of the explosion I had just experienced had only separated me from time, or at least the time I had been occupying. 1940’s London had disappeared, and I found myself, fortunately still in full possession of all my limbs although I was becoming increasingly concerned as to the whereabouts of my sanity, standing in a large crowd of people, the majority of whom were waving small union jack flags.
The second of June in 1953 was to be a special day for the British people, having suffered a decade of post war austerity, and then just 16 months previously had mourned for and buried their King, George VI, it was time for a party. Elizabeth II, who had acceded to the throne on the death of her father was to be crowned at Westminster Abbey. It was under leaden skies in the coldest June that century that the 25-year-old Queen left the Abbey to be greeted by three million people who lined the route back to Buckingham Palace.
I found myself in parliament square directly opposite Westminster Abbey and it was obvious that something momentous was happening, at that moment a huge cheer rose from the ranks of the spectators as a very ornate and one must assume expensive gold carriage trundled slowly past, surrounded by members of the royal yeoman of the guard and pulled by four magnificent white horses. This was something I had seen on television, all-be-it in black and white, to be honest, the bleakness of the weather didn’t lend the scene much more colour in real life. The newly crowned Queen of England smiled and waved as she was taken from her coronation to Buckingham palace, where she would be able to stand on the famous balcony and wave and smile at lots more happy people.
I was struck by the fact that not three weeks before I had witnessed the funeral of this happy smiling 25-year-old, she had died aged ninety-five after having served her country for 70 years and once again we had a King, I felt strangely privileged to be the only person here, at least to the best of my knowledge to know this.
The ability to adapt to change is considered to be one of the main reasons for the success of our species, and I, for my part, despite how surreal my recent experiences had been, was beginning to relax into my new perceived reality, it occurred to me that my wanderings through history were taking me back to where I had started on the streets of York in 2022. Here and now, or maybe then, trust me, time travel gets confusing, a large crowd of excited people were cheering and waving, a mass of people is an unruly and unpredictable beast, and this one of which I seemed to be a part took it upon itself to follow the carriage. Anyone who has ever partaken in a three-legged race knows the difficulties that arise from trying to co-ordinate more than one pair of legs, a crowd of this size had many thousands and whilst they may have all had a similar basic direction in mind, they all had their own methods of achieving it., human beings have no hive mentality, it’s every Bee for itself as far as we are concerned. I found myself carried along in the swell, helpless, it would only take one person to stumble, one person to catch the heel of the person in front for chaos to take control. You would assume that if not one twelfth then at least a sizeable number of these people would be daydreaming Pisceans and considering recent events it should have come as no surprise to me that it was this Piscean, yours truly, who’s heel was tapped from behind and found himself the victim of gravity. Unable to move my arms freely to cushion the fall, my chin did the job in their stead, I had no time to react before I was trampled on by several it seemed well fed fellow revellers and received a stunning kick to the temple, at this point the lights went out.
Part three next week.
© Gareth Mehigan 2026
