He stuck three pieces of the stripy pink and white tracktogether and placed one end on the bookshelf, securing it underneath a heavy children’satlas. He picked up one of the cars from the floor, an Audi Quattro similar tothe one his hero, Gene Hunt, had driven in “Ashes to Ashes”, and ran it downthe track. He remembered spending hours doing this. He used to set two tracksup next to each other and race them in knockout competitions, starting with thirty-twocars until only two were left.
He had been so creative like this when he was young,effortlessly finding ways to entertain himself which didn’t have to revolvearound alcohol and the pub. There were no responsibilities and no worries inthose days, but the inevitably of growing up had crept up on him unannounced. Whendid he stop doing all this stuff? He couldn’t remember the last day he hadplayed with his cars. He probably didn’t even realise at the time that it wasthe last day. Life had a way of creeping up on you like that. He didn’t evenhave the cars anymore: had he got rid of them in embarrassment, too?
Why had he had to grow up? Why did everything have to change,and why did everyone have to get old and die? The utter futility of it all suddenlyfilled him with rage. He grabbed the three pieces of track and flung themacross the room. What was the point of this stupid angel sending him back here?To rub his nose in it, show him how great life used to be, and then make him goback to the shitty reality of his current existence?
After this little outburst, he felt a little better. So whatif he did have to go back to 2018 later? He may as well try and live for themoment now he was here. On top of the bookshelf he spotted his piggy bank,which was not a pig at all, but a yellow china rabbit. It rattled encouraginglywith the sound of money when he picked it up.
He turned it over and removed the plastic stopper from thebottom to get at the money inside. Out fell a fifty-pence piece along with fiveten-pence pieces. They seemed huge, even allowing for the fact that he washolding them in his seven-year-old hands.
He remembered someone saying to him once that everythingseems bigger to a child and that seemed logical enough. The theory worked in reverse,too. He remembered going back to his old primary school a few years ago to givea road safety talk and being amazed at how small the assembly hall had seemed.In his memory it had been a vast, cavernous place, akin to the Albert Hall, butit hadn’t shrunk. He had grown.
However, in the case of the money, it really was bigger in thepast. These coins were seriously chunky and actually felt worth something. In1984, they were. Before being devalued by years of inflation, fifty pence couldactually buy you something worthwhile. As for the coins, they were twice thesize of the modern versions.
At some point during the 1990s many of the coins had shrunk,presumably to save on the cost of the metal they were made from. He could rememberhis aged grandmother, the same one who claimed it snowed every Christmas in herday, moaning about it at the time. She claimed that the new 5p coin, or ashilling as she referred to it, was too fiddly as she had rummaged for one inthe bottom of her purse to give him as pocket money. He had accepted gracefully,despite being sixteen at the time. Like his mother, she had suffered from Alzheimer’sand in her mind 5p was a tidy sum to give a teenager for a treat.
He was dragged out of his reminiscences by Annie callingfrom downstairs. “Are you ready yet, Richie?”
He realised he was still in his pyjamas so he opened thedrawers, pulled out some impossibly small-looking clothes and quickly put themon. Age 6-7, said the label on his trousers. Kent couldn’t remember the lasttime he’d pulled on anything under a 38” waist. During his thirties, his waistlinehad kept pace with his age.
He pocketed the money and headed back down to the livingroom. The telly was still on but the morning programmes had finished. All thatwas on the screen now was a page from Ceefax, another blast from the past. DaytimeTV shows about antiques and buying houses were far in the future and he was veryglad about that. Debs seemed to spend all the days she wasn’t at the bakerywatching them.
“You’d better put your big coat on,” said his mother. “It’sfreezing out there today. The weatherman on breakfast TV said that it mightsnow later.”
She handed him his coat, a familiar old blue parka with afurry rim around the hood, and he started to put it on. Instinctively, shereached down to do his zip up for him. It was great being a kid, thought Kent. Everyonedid everything for you.
“Now, you look after him, Annie,” said his mother. “And makesure he crosses the road safely. Remember the Green Cross Code.”
“Don’t worry, Mum, we’ll be OK,” replied Annie.
Kent’s childhood home was on the main road leading intotown, just a couple of hundred yards from the start of the town centre. As theywalked towards the town, he marvelled at how much things had changed.
For a start, there were the cars, a never-ending streampassing in both directions on the busy road. This was before the ring road hadbeen built and long before the M40 was finished. Back then, the town got a lotof through traffic. This road still formed part of the main north/south routethrough the county.
It was like being at some sort of classic car rally for crapcars. Austin Maxis and Allegros rumbled past in a variety of revolting colours,sporting varying degrees of rust. There were Mini Metros, Morris Travellers andeven a bright orange Ford Capri. Inside the Capri
