Short Cut

by Bob Aldridge

Five thirty-five p.m., the lift out of order again and a crush of people at the top of the stairs.

“Let's go this way,” said Norman, “It's a short cut.” He led the way through the door marked 'Boiler Room' and down the clattery iron stairway, “It leads out onto the car park,” he explained.

Frank, following more slowly, paused in the gloom at the bottom of the steps, sniffing coal dust.

Together they rounded a corner into the basement boiler room where the open maw of a furnace redly lit the figure of a man in black dungarees and a once-white singlet, who was feeding it shovels full of small coal. A great heap of the stuff lay under a grating and coal dust swam and glinted in the yellow light of a single tungsten lamp. The man leaned on his shovel, spat dust and looked them up and down through red rimmed eyes,

“Oh no,” he said, “not another lot!”

Norman stopped; Frank cannoned into him.

“I thought we were oil-fired” Frank said,

The man fed more coal into the hungry appliance “You might be,” he grunted, “I wish I was.”

Frank and Norman exchanged puzzled glances.

“Oh - right,” said Norman.

“G'night,” said Frank.

“For now,” said the man, and he watched them with a knowing smile as they crossed the dust strewn floor and stepped out into the clean, dark night air.

Frank peered upwards. “What's happened to the floodlights I wonder?”

At that moment, several doors in the main factory building opened and a human flood poured across the tarmac, catching Frank and Norman up and sweeping them out through the factory gates.

They grabbed for the railings,clinging on and when the torrent slackened, edging back through the gates just in time to turn-tail again, before a cavalry charge of bicycles. This time they took refuge behind the impregnable bulk of a paper seller.

'What the hell's going on?' Norman asked, 'It's not usually like this.’

The rush slowed once more and Norman eased gingerly back round the gate pillar, only to step back sharply as a shiny black Austin Ten Saloon rolled past him with a sharp horn blast An amber-lit semaphore arm flicked out of a door pillar, and the car turned into the road,

'Wow,' said Frank, 'that was a classic!.'

‘I don't understand it,' Norman sounded nervous, 'I've come through the boiler room a hundred times.'

A few more cars drove out past them, two old Rileys, a Sunbeam Talbot and a pop-pop two cylinder Jowett.

'Must be a vintage car rally on somewhere,' Frank said, 'And I expect we left by the wrong door,--comes from talking! Our car park is probably on the other side of the factory.'

He took an evening paper from the vendor and, thrusting a fifty pence coin into the man’s palm and telling him to keep the change, he followed Norman back into the now deserted car park, The vendor yelled after him that he didn't take bleedin' foreign coins, but two late customers wanted his attention. and by the time he'd served them Frank was gone.

The boiler man grinned as the puzzled pair re-entered the boiler room.

'Knew you'd be back,' he said, and spat more coal dust. 'Where's the other door?' asked Norman. He looked round uneasily. 'P'raps there's another boiler room…?' his voice faltered. ---’You know, we were oil-fired last week. I remember talking to the tanker driver.'

The boiler-man sighed and wiped sweat from his neck with a dirty rag.

'That coat vou're wearing,' he said, 'Aromack innit?'

'Anorak,' corrected Norman, 'What's that got to do with anything?'

'Late eighties? ... early nineties?'

Norman was getting irritated. 'I've had it a long time. So what?'

The boiler man pointed to Frank's evening paper. 'Check the date on that,' he said, 'Go on; read it out.'

Frank looked at the date. 'November the eighth,--- nineteen thirty six.' he read, '--What is it ? A souvenir copy? A promotion of some sort?'

The other shook his head. 'It's me Uncle Walter's fault.-- I'm Harry by the way-

'Hi,' said Frank, 'He's Norman, I’m Frank. What's your Uncle Walter got to do with anything?'

Harry threw two more shovels of coal into the furnace and slammed the door.

'I've had all sorts traipsing through here since he started messing with that thing.' He pointed to a wired enclosure in the cornier. 'I'd get the sack if the gaffer knew I let him use that place, but Auntie Glad won't let him use the shed any more, not since Lady Godiva came out on her 'orse and flattened her cabbages.'

With a growing feeling of unreality Norman and Frank almost floated over to the wired enclosure from which a pulsing blue light now came. Behind the wire was a strangely familiar contraption, shaped something like one of those Russian horse-drawn sleighs, and it was this that glowed and pulsed while a white-haired, white-coated man stood with his back to them, fiddling at a work bench.

'I've seen one of those,' whispered Norman, 'On the telly,..in that old film.’

Frank swallowed. ‘The Time Machine,' he said, 'HG Wells was in it.’

The white-haired man turned and looked at them over his half-specs.‘I’ll give you two out of three for that,' he said, ' He wasn't in it; he wrote it: the book that is, not the film.' He pushed open the wire gate. 'Come in, come in, You can help me with a small experiment. -- Excuse me a moment.' He turned and gave the contraption a sharp kick. The light pulses doubled in frequency. 'That's better, er...yes, where was I?'

Frank looked nervously at his watch. 'I should get my skates on,' he said, 'I'm taking Marigold out tonight. Coming Norman?' He turned to go.

'Won't do you no good you know,' Harry the boiler-man had joined them. 'Not 'til he gets it right.' He nodded at the contraption which was now making noises like a worried hen, 'See ... instead of travelling in time, it sort of sucks people in--from other times, like.’ He took half a Woodbine from behind an ear and looked from Frank to Norman. ‘Got a match?’

‘Verv funny,' said Norman, 'Come on Frank.’

Norman and Frank went back up the iron staircase and into the main corridor. There, they paused and looked around, puzzled. Frank scuffed the sole of his shoe on the green linoleum floor.

'Correct me if I'm wrong,' he said, 'but wasn't this all beige carpet tiles earlier this evening?'

Norman didn't answer; he was staring after a girl who had emerged from a door marked “Personnel” and was wiggling towards the stair head. 'Wow,' he said, 'She's new.'

A few more late-leavers walked past them and not one did they recognise. Some stared curiously at them and a couple stopped and looked them up and down in silence.

Nervously, they peered through the open door of the semi-darkened general office and gazed over the deserted desks, each with its sit-up-and-beg Remington typewriter.

After a long, hard look at a desk calendar, the pair retraced their steps, edging past two ladies with buckets and mops and descending the clattery stairs to the basement.

Uncle Walter was very apologetic. 'It's still nineteen thirty six,' he said, 'even up there.’

Norman was aghast. He reached out a finger and gingerly touched the contraption.

'You mean this thing is for real?'

'It's "for real", as you quaintly put it, but in need of fine tuning.'

'Oh my God,' said Frank,‘D'you mean we're stuck here? Marigold'll kill me if I'm late home.'

'Why not give it another go then, Unk?' said Harry, 'I gotta lock up in a mo' any road so you'll all have to buzz off.’

Uncle Walter rubbed his hands and beamed. 'Why not indeed? Nothing ventured, eh?' He seated himself on the contraption. 'Now if you two gentlemen will hop up beside me we'll be off ... or perhaps not, er-let's find out shall we?'

Norman hesitated, then stepped aboard and closed his eyes tight. Frank followed and they both hung on fiercely. Uncle Walter reached for a switch and Frank immediately found himself wedged in the narrow space behind the coffee machine outside “Human Resources”.

Norman was prone outside Miss Pringle's door. He stroked the beige carpet tiles affectionately.

At this moment Miss Pringle left her office, stepped carefully over Norman with a murmured apology and left for home.

Frank and Norman stood up and looked round for Uncle Walter.

Uncle Walter staggered out of the cleaner's cupboard and looked round for his contraption.

'Did you see which way it went?' he asked.

Frank and Norman shook their heads.

'But I must have it,' said Uncle Walter, 'How else am I going to get home?'

Norman opened the door marked Boiler Room and gently ushered Uncle Walter through.

'Try that way,' he said, 'It's a short cut.'

 

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Philip The

Flying Frog