Always, Harri

This sofa was always going to be an opulent purchase. “It’s absolutely, fucking ridiculous, Shell!” That’s what you had said when we first slumped down onto it in the store, laughing. But even though you'd complained at the ‘mad’ price, I knew you loved it really. It does feel ridiculous now - massive - without you sat at the other end.

I snap my gaze back into focus. Try to continue reading, through watery eyes and ragged breaths. Your absence presses itself upon my ribcage, jutting between them into my lungs, my heart. How am I supposed to do this?

‘...and don't give up on Tom and Will either,’ you continued. ‘Take charge of the arrangements though because you know what they're like. But they love you - us - and I can only know how difficult this would be if it were the other way round, and if it's anything at all how that would feel… well, you'll need some support. Some love, Love.’

‘And finally - but never truly finally - I'd been putting money aside for our 35th anniversary for a trip. Not just any trip. I never told you this because I thought - well, knew - you'd ridicule me, but years ago I invested in ‘Past Forward’. Yes, yes that sci-fi time travel, madness company you've seen, don't roll your eyes.’ I caught myself doing just that, and laughed as tears continued to stream down.

‘A total flight of fancy when it popped up on a Reddit thread, years ago. Well, as an early investor, they sent out invites to join a lottery to be one of the first to try it out, and I was only bloody well one of the winners. It's still mega expensive, but I want you to do it. I’ve scheduled their email to arrive after I knew you’d have read this.’

‘You should do it. Really Shell. Go visit another time, whatever that means, and whatever that looks like. I wish we could do it together, but maybe this will help in some way? Go and see your mom or something if you must. You'll probably think of something more original than that, just don't mess with us ok. I don't know how it works, but just don't mess with us. It was perfect, Shell. I wouldn't change anything. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I love you so much. I wish I could change this, but everything else? I wouldn't change a thing. Come find me in the stars, not back in time. All my love, always, Harri.’

I placed the letter down, curled up into your corner of the stupidly big sofa, and sobbed.

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Sure enough, the email from ‘Past Forward’ arrived the day after next. It looked dodgy. That was my first thought. Not awe at the technological possibilities; not relief at an escape from this abyss; not excitement at the world of opportunities it opened up, just - this looks dodgy. Based out of China, the slightly odd translation and phrasing probably didn’t help, but it slowly became more intriguing:

‘Everyone has a reason to go: to right a wrong, to see a lost loved one, to simply witness the spectacle. To eat bitterness from a past defeat, to taste the sweet fruit of a past victory, to nourish your appetite for experience on old starlight, the opportunities are endless.’

A strange focus on eating in their sales metaphors admittedly, but as I let the concept marinade and percolate, it did come to tantalise. You’d have liked that. You’d have groaned, but you would have liked it. I smile at the chair where you’d sit with a coffee each morning, and sigh. Your absence is a moonless, midnight sky.

Of course I’d heard about the Government’s ‘Chronos Programme’ and the success they’d been having in sending people forward in time. A few seconds became a few minutes. Minutes became hours. Hours became a few days. We’d all sat down, watched on headsets, marvelled at another small step into the future. You always liked to remind me that we were ‘living in the future’. I’ve heard you talk enough times about ‘the dubstep-dial-up tone’ we used to get when we were kids. And listened to you reminisce over memories of using the computer for the one allotted hour each night, so as not to block off the landline for too long. ‘The future’ always meant more to you than it did for me. I was just happy in the present.

But this was different. There had been vague warnings about unregulated use of unverified, untested, dangerous ‘black market’ technological companies run by eccentric, genius, nefarious billionaires - it depended who you listened to. But I hadn’t really paid that much attention. And I wasn’t moved to care too much now.

You’d shown me articles about the ‘Technological Wild East’ as they’d called it, but now here I was, a time prospector, picking up my pickaxe and pan, and it felt like I was getting in early. Quite possibly, for it to just collapse upon me, and leave me in eternal darkness. But the gold deposits had run out here, the shimmering, glittering, golden light of this life had been completely excavated. Extinguished already. What harm in searching for one last nugget.

I looked at the empty sofa again and the void you have left. It didn’t even feel like home any more without you, so I booked the flight.

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I had thought about it long and hard: where to go? Who to see? You’d have had a list of amazing ideas and locations drawn up; you’d spoken about it often enough. But that’s you. You’re not here and I don’t have anybody to discuss this with. I couldn’t be more original I’m afraid, you were actually right the first time. I just want to see my mum. Perhaps that’s the sum of the wisdom I’ve gained in life. When things go wrong, whether you’re six, sixteen or sixty-eight, you just want to see your mum. At six and sixteen I took it for granted. At sixty-eight, it had seemed impossible.

I sat through the briefings from shiny-teethed tech heads. I signed away my life in form after form. I took their tests to check I was physically able. I understood the protocols and limitations - specifically that you couldn’t make yourself known: the plug pulled, the contract torn up, money lost, even possible imprisonment, if you tried to reveal your identity. This was despite the fact that obviously nobody would believe you anyway. I sat through it all, and I steeled myself to move forward, by going into the past.

If I can’t see you my love, if our relationship is sacred, if I must respect your final wish without causing ripples that interfere, then I just want my mum. I didn’t tell them that of course. I told them: 24 Princess May Road, Dalston, London, Friday October 29th, 1982 - ‘I want to see my London before I was born’. Twelve months before I was born. Twelve months before she was mine. Five trips I get. 12 hours each time. That’s what the voucher offers me.

As they strapped me in, fixed me up to the whirring machines, injected me with anti-nausea medicine, and ran through the guidelines once again, I wondered again at what I would actually do? How would I get your attention? What were you like mom, before my possessive yells and cries? Mid-thought, I’m whisked away.

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It took me a few hours, but I found you on your way back from work, hopping off the 243, bags in hand, flustered. I’m struck by how young you look, obvious really, but you look like a different person - in vibrant technicolour as opposed to waning sepia. I try to shake my feelings of voyeurism, and start to cross the road towards you. But what would I say? How can I strike up a conversation without being dismissed as odd and then avoided here on in. Paralysed, I watch as your key finds the latch and you disappear through your front door.

Separation brings clarity. I’d listened to you reminisce over the days in the Railway Tavern enough times, to know where you’d be heading later. ‘Never the same when they built Kingsland station next door in ‘83, ironic really’, I’d heard you lament to friends during my childhood - ‘‘you knew everyone. Although, it’s not that I could really have made much use of it after that anyway’ you’d often trailed off. Not after I arrived - not after I demanded you and wanted you for myself.

You arrive at 8pm.

I take my time, strategically talking with those that seem to know you, not wanting to appear too keen, or desperate, but my heart is hammering inside my chest. It’s almost painful, but exhilarating too. I’m reminded of how dormant it’s been since Harri died. Eventually, you join two friends at the bar and introduce yourself. Overwhelmed, I fight back the urge to break into tears, and introduce myself, ‘I’m Michelle’ I manage.

‘Aww I bloody love that name! It was my Grandma’s name too.’ You light up. ‘Can I get you a drink?

As the night progresses, your dark haired friend, Lisa invites me to sit at the table and I join your group of about 20. I explain as truthfully as I can that I’m relatively new, just moved into the area, and that I’m recently widowed. This arouses some unplanned tears, and you reach over and put your hand on mine. Smile kindly. I want to sink into your arms, but am aware of how ridiculous and insane that would look. You’re not mine yet. But even now, (then?) your gentle touch starts to soothe the pain. As the night progresses, there are singalongs to songs familiar from my childhood, the lyrics from Love Comes Down ‘been dreaming of you, please hold me tight’ fire through me, and I can’t help but look at you with a smile wrapped around your face, as I join in.

As the pub closes, people erupt out onto Kingsland Road, laughing, shouting, embracing. ‘Hopefully see you in here again soon,’ you slur, ‘lovely to meet you, we hang out here a lot, so come and say hi if you’re in here again’ And with that, you blast off into the night. I watch as you link arms with Lisa, swinging each other around and shouting ‘Come on Eileen… at this moment, you mean everythinnnnnnnn’ into the electric phosphorescence of the night. Again, the words cut through me.

On the second visit, Dad is there too. Obviously I had vaguely anticipated this, the possibility of this, but it still comes as a surprise. It’s been nearly 60 years for me since he left, and his presence even before that was a kind of spectral one. Often present, but out of focus. We had some good days. But Dad drifted in and out of things, never really feeling tethered to us. Even before he left, his absence was tangible. A sometimes interloper into the world of me and my mum. It’s almost a shock to note that you are as vivid and real as the others, and not more of a translucent entity.

This night is different though. Pretty much the same people are there, but the group is a little more divided this time. You are in a smaller group, side by side with Dad, you wave at Lisa across the other side of the pub, but you are more reserved. Happy enough, I guess, but more timid, withdrawn, dimmed. Where last time I saw cosmic energy in your eyes and smile, now the energy feels very terra firma. No singalongs tonight. You are pleased to see me at the bar, chatty and grateful for it being the weekend. Even excited and encouraging when I weave a tale of my week, settling into a new place: a new time. But still, different.

You introduce me to Dad and he’s polite, but largely disinterested. I guess things didn’t change too much when I arrived. I am being unfair, it is good to see him, but I can’t shake a feeling of envy that you seem to belong to each other here, and not to me. I don’t want to feel this way, but he feels like an obstacle as opposed to a part of what I need.

Even here I could see his future was written in the earth, whereas there’s a version of yours that could have been written in the stars.

You leave with him before last orders, walking out smiling and waving at people as you leave. I spend more time with Lisa and others before they head out to leave. The conversation turns to you: they love you. I discern a slight sense of unease about him, a feeling that skirts around dislike. He is clearly not deemed worthy. I feel treacherous in agreeing, but I can’t help it.

The next two weekends follow the same pattern. The third time we meet, he is absent and you appear set free. Unburdened. We talk for longer this time, and I re-learn things about you. Things that washed gently over me when I was young, stories that never felt real, but now I listen hungrily, asking questions, digging into each story, each event, each person. We giggle together over punchlines, put downs, adventures, mishaps. I bask in your glow; I feel renewed. I even talk about Harri with you with a smile on my face. I imagine my eyes twinkle as I talk about our lifetime together.

As you open up further, I ask about Dad. You smile wearily and explain how you met, how long you’ve been together, but it feels performative, not bursting with detail and spark like the others. And that spark is missing once again, when he arrives by your side the following time. The penultimate time is almost a complete disappointment, a lost opportunity, until speaking with Lisa at the end of the night: ‘it’s my birthday next week, we’re going to see a friend perform in Vauxhall at the Tavern. You should come along! There’s loads of us.It will be a real mix. We’re going to meet here and then go from there’. I accept, gleefully.

My final trip, my final chance to seek comfort from you before returning for good to a world where you don't exist, where Harri doesn't exist, where the light has gone out.

Lisa didn't lie, there's a large group gathered and everyone is buzzing like illuminous neon signs with the excitement of the night that lies ahead. Dad isn't here. However, anxiety pangs shoot through me - and the sense that 'this is it ' looms over me - but the humming excitement of everybody present is captivating and my nerves quieten. The longish journey by bus and then underground rushes by, propelled along by laughter, bottles of wine passed around and then bumblingly hidden from conductors and inspectors who don't really care anyway.

I'd been to the Vauxhall Tavern plenty in my youth - less so in my 40s and 50s - but it was a thrill to head towards it once more. It is where Harri and I had met all those years before. Not quite a spiritual home, but a spiritual beacon perhaps. And its spirit, its music, its energy fizzed at its edges, breaking free through windows, doors, brickwork and onto the streets around.

Inside, we get drinks, dance, shout over the booming music. All things I'd done hundreds of times before, more often than not in this very room, and the familiarity settled me, released me.

I watched proudly, parent-like as you danced. You twirled hand in hand with Lisa, spinning each other round, absorbed in each others' eyes, held together in each others' orbit… just as Harri and I had done. I saw and understood. Preoccupied with what I needed, I had missed it to begin with it. But here it was now, clear as scent in this famous room.

Outside for a breather you lean into each other, but now aware of my presence we talk. I reveal partial truths, that Harri and I spent some time here. Emboldened by drink, by the night you say: 'I'm so glad you came! She would be proud of you, I bet. It sounds like what you had was perfect.'

'It wasn't perfect,' I begin 'but it was love. We worked at it, we made time for each other. But the foundations were the fact we couldn't keep our mouths or hands off each other!' You laugh. 'We would be out, with friends, dancing, at a museum, and our eyes would always find each other, and everything else would blur, become meaningless. I could listen to her all day, watch her do the most mundane tasks, count her eyelashes in her sleep. Life seemed to shimmer. It wasn't perfect, but it was love. You should make sure you find it, love. Make sure to recognise it when it’s there.’

More sober now, you gaze wonderingly at me for a second, looking deeper. Lisa has drifted away, subconsciously aware of the intimacy of this moment. You then hold me close, as accepting tears fall down my cheeks. This is what I had wanted to - be held by you. But now my purpose has shifted.

‘Keep your eyes open, and follow the stars.’ I say.

Something in you hardens. An awareness blooms behind your eyes. ‘I will… thank you’. Resolute, aware, you look to where Lisa has drifted off to.

As you take her hand in yours, dragging her back through the crowd to the dancefloor, I suddenly feel weak. An understanding shudders through me as you go out of sight. I look at my hands as I begin to fade, to deliquesce.

I don’t know what an

y of it means, but one last thought flickers: I’ll come find you in the stars, my love.