The Unexpected Gift of Joseph Bridgeman (The Downstream Diaries Book 1) Read online

  With a jangle of my new favourite bell, Amy leaves and I’m alone again, except I’m not. I’ve got my family back and can feel their foundations again, a surety I haven’t felt since I was a teenager. Trust me on this. Even if you don’t always get along with your family, you’ll feel it when they’re gone; the gap they leave is impossible to fill.

  I smile. Amy on speed dial and a full fridge. I was lucky to find half a pint of milk on the turn in my previous life.

  I’m liking the present more and more.

  18.

  I tour my new/old house and every angle is an assault on my senses. It feels as though I’ve snuck into some other bloke’s house and I really dig his style and although I’m an imposter I have no doubts that – in time – I will learn to be very happy here. This is confirmed when I discover my study. It’s been directly lifted from my old house. Everything is here, and in the corner I find my favourite chair, a reading lamp and my beloved vinyl collection. I wonder if the albums are the same or if I will have chosen different ones this time around? I browse through them and am relieved to find my Beatles collection intact, and pleasantly surprised to even find a few new ones too. I had no memory of this place, yet each room feels instantly familiar and it only takes a few hours for me to feel something akin to settled. Once I feel satisfied I’ve seen every nook and cranny I decide this is, indeed, my home and also decide that I like it here. More than the last one. That was a ghost house, this feels alive, and I vow that no matter what I will continue the process of living here, and I’m going to start right now. I’m going to do what you do in your own place. I’m going to take a bath.

  Half an hour later I slide back into the hot water and finally feel the stress of the last few months (and if I’m honest, years) dissipating a little. In my own words it’s time to decompress. And time is a great healer. For some.

  My thoughts return to Alexia and my heart sinks. Time-travel is amazing, it’s given me sister back, but it can also be painful. Without Alexia Finch none of this would have happened and I’ve lost her. This morning, when I asked Amy if I had someone special here, she looked thoughtful and careful as she said no. She said there had been someone a few years back, but not for a while. And you know what? I was glad.

  I soak for a while, moving my hands through the water, letting my mind settle. When my finger tips finally look like prunes I get out of the roll-top bath (good choice), dry off and find my razor and shaving foam exactly where I expected them to be. I am nothing if not consistent. I begin to shave, staring at myself, trying with each stroke of my blade to adjust. Mirrors. They kind of freak me out a bit now. Once you’ve seen yourself, I mean in the flesh like I have, you kind of expect the man opposite you to shout boo!

  I finish shaving, splash cold water on my face and browse my wardrobe and chest of drawers. I own good clothes, much better than the ones I left in my old life. Amy’s influence maybe. Either way, I find myself thinking again that life here is good.

  I’m drawn to my favourite place, my study and my beaten up leather chair with the studs still missing in places. People are drawn to objects I think, and it appears this chair and I were destined to be together. I open the book written by my sister about a family I love and hope Alexia and I are the same; that we will be drawn together again.

  I open the book to page one and begin. The first entry is dated August 12th 1993 and for the next few hours I am utterly engrossed. The book, part diary, part journal, part newspaper, is brilliantly written, each entry a pleasure. It’s almost like your favourite novel, one you read a long time ago but have sort of forgotten about. Characters appear, and when they do you think ‘Oh yeah! I’d forgotten that’s when they turned up’. And so it is for Mark and Vinny and Chad and a whole host of others – thank the stars – who still feature in my life. Things are different, of course. I never won the lottery, which means Vinny and Louise never got that trip on the Harley, but I suspect something similar will play out. Things seem to have a way of chasing through the sieve of time eventually. ‘We won the lottery,’ I whisper, staring at the ceiling and smiling. I never spent a penny of it.

  I close the book. I’ve been skimming and I don’t want to. I need to take my time, but there’s only so much ‘This is your life’ you can take in one hit. My brain is glowing with new information that I’m somehow supposed to remember.

  I wonder – not for the first time – if I should just fake a severe head injury.

  19.

  My decompression continues slowly. It’s Monday morning before I finally pluck up the courage to venture downstairs again. I still feel very much like an imposter, a clone who has inherited a whole load of goodies from some poor sod who was me not so long ago. It’s just plain weird, but I as I browse my place of business I try to re-assure myself that I didn’t murder Other Joe. I am him. I’m Joseph Bridgeman. I catch my reflection in a large, gilt framed mirror and hike an eyebrow, ‘No, I’m Joseph Bridgeman.’ I smile.

  Okay. I’m weird. So, no change there then.

  The next hour or so is spent meandering around, familiarising myself with my stock of antiques and collectibles. As I pass each item, I get an undeniable urge to touch them. Perhaps because there are so many in one place, so many I haven’t connected with yet. Either way, I’m careful for now. The last thing I want is a load of new viewings when I hit the pillow tonight. Plenty of time to find out if the old Bridgeman magic is still there. Plenty.

  Whilst this shop is bigger than the one I rented years ago, and more varied in terms of items, there are similarities and one specific thing unites the past with the present; the undeniable randomness of the contents. Antiques centres can appear jumbled but often they aren’t really. They are organised by period or a specific collector’s specialism. But in my case, there is no thread, no preferred items. My stock is a random – and, in my opinion, fascinating – mess of desirable pieces. Rare and collectible coins are mixed up with Second World War memorabilia. Early 20th century furniture (art deco and art nouveau), sit alongside porcelain jars and old cameras. I heard that Winston Churchill once sent a dessert back to the kitchen, explaining that it, ‘had no theme’. Well, as a collector, I have no theme either, no speciality or leaning. I merely keep old things safe until their destiny walks through the door to claim them.

  Me? An old romantic? Who would have thought?

  I eventually make it back to the focal point of the shop; the big oak desk, the owner’s desk. I sit back in my leather Captain’s Chair and stare at the phone, one of those old black ones with the spinny dial in the centre and dare myself to pick up the receiver. It takes an age, but eventually I dial her number, heart thumping in my ears as the dial rotates, clacking back to zero each time. I don’t get her of course, I get her receptionist, who I then persuade, very forcefully, to put me through.

  ‘Hello, this is Alexia Finch,’ she announces in her best and most professional phone manner, ‘how can I help?’

  I can tell she’s annoyed because, well, I know her. Unfortunately, when I speak I’ve regressed to the man I was before I met her, the bumbling one. ‘Hello, yes, er hi,’ I stutter awkwardly, ‘I was wondering if I could make an appointment with you.’

  So I can work on you falling in love with me. Again.

  ‘Okay,’ Alexia replies, tone professional, ‘I can put you through to my secretary, she has my diary and can make you an appointment.’

  ‘Hmmmm,’ I mumble, ‘but I wanted to speak to you directly.’

  ‘Okay,’ she waits.

  I swallow and blurt, ‘I run an antiques business and I would like some help dealing with people.’ I pause, drawing in a breath before adding, slowly this time, ‘My name is Joseph Bridgeman.’

  I feel a fleeting moment of connection through the wires of this old telephone line. Alexia Finch is only a few miles from here. The woman who chose the track, ‘Got To Get You Into My Life’ with a smile. The woman who kissed me. The woman who cared. But when she speaks, the temporary spell is shatte
red and I am reminded that the space between us is huge, the connection is only in my mind.

  ‘Okay, Mr Bridgeman,’ she says, efficiently. ‘How about next Monday, say four o’clock?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, flatly. ‘Thank you, that’s great.’ Really, really, great.

  ‘Good,’ Alexia replies, formally. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you then.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say again, resting the receiver gently back into its cradle.

  She doesn’t know me, she doesn’t know me at all. I recall the last time I saw her on Leckhampton Hill. She re-assured me. ‘It will be okay Joe,’ she told me. ‘When you come back, Amy and I will be waiting.’ But she was wrong.

  I draw in a long, slow breath, ironically just as Alexia taught me. That’s when the bell above the front door rings and I jump out of my seat. I didn’t lock it, what kind of shop owner am I?

  A tall man enters the shop. He’s around fifty years of age and smartly dressed in a blue striped shirt, light grey trousers and matching waistcoat. His hair is dark, well cut and swept back neatly over his head. He has the look of man who pines for a bygone era, old fashioned but not out of fashion, confident enough to be firmly grounded here. He pauses by the door, glancing around as if waiting for someone, but then steps inside. He approaches my desk and then pauses, just a few feet between us. I’m about to explain that I’m not open today, when he speaks. ‘Hello Joseph,’ he says, pulling a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat, ‘bang on time I believe.’

  Oh crap. He knows me. Probably has an appointment. My first encounter with someone from Other Joe’s life and I’m woefully under-prepared. ‘Yes,’ I say, without a clue what will come out of my mouth next. ‘Good to see you. Yep, bang on time.’ I think I recognise him from somewhere, but can’t place him yet. I glance down at my desk, there’s a calendar there, maybe that will tell me who I’m expecting.

  The man smiles, ‘I saw something in your window that caught my eye.’ He leans in a little, eyes sparkling, ‘Can I show you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, as though I’m watching a play, one I arrived at late and don’t have a clue about the plot or who the characters are. I follow him to the window and he points out the item in question. It’s a Zoetrope, just like the one I imagined when I travelled back to Amy, the last time. My heart skips a beat and I turn back to him.

  ‘Could I have a look?’ He enquires politely.

  I nod and pick the Zoetrope from the display, placing it on a table behind us. The man waits for my permission and then gently spins it. Through the slits around its edge, a horse gallops over jumps.

  ‘We’ve met before,’ the man says softly. ‘Do you remember?’ His eyes dance playfully as he rubs a hand across his jaw, which I notice – for the first time – is bruised and slightly swollen.

  Sharp fingers pinch my heart and my legs go weak. I remember him. ‘I don’t understand?’ I manage to say to the man from the fair, the one who asked me very directly what I was doing there, the one who seemed out of place, the one who interfered, the one I had to punch and cause a scene. ‘What are you doing here?’

  The man nods as the Zoetrope slowly comes to a stop. ‘This is a beautiful piece Joseph, but it’s not quite what I’m after.’ His voice is precise and clipped like a British newscaster from the sixties. ‘Not to worry though.’ His eyes sparkle as he adds, ‘We can’t always get what we want, can we?’

  A second wave of connection rushes through me as I realise the fair isn’t the only time I’ve seen him. He was on the train the day I went to see Mark D’Stellar. He’s the business man who struck up a conversation with me.

  ‘I can tell by your expression, that you do remember me.’

  ‘Yes,’ I murmur. ‘You’re the Rolling Stones fan, you’ve been following me.’

  He shrugs easily. ‘Yes, I have been keeping an eye on you I suppose.’ He pauses. ‘Did you spot me at the science fair too?’ He recalls the date efficiently. ‘Cheltenham Town Hall, 2005, front row.’

  ‘Yes,’ I manage, vaguely remembering a smartly dressed man, the only one not entertained by my sudden arrival on stage. ‘Who are you?’ I steady myself against the table. ‘What do you want?’

  The man straightens his back, draws in a breath and says, ‘Please forgive me Mr. Bridgeman, where are my manners?’ He tips his head and hands me a business card. ‘My name is William P. Brown and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  I hike my eyebrows, rotating the card in my fingers and then look back at him. ‘And what do you want Mr Brown?’ I ask again.

  ‘My friends call me Bill,’ he says, with a wave of his hand, ‘and I’ve been following you because I need your help.’ He cocks an eyebrow, and smiles warmly. ‘Well you and your sister to be precise.’

  My guard is still up and I know the mention of Amy should panic me, but my initial fear is transforming into something else and I find myself smiling back at him. I’m intrigued and I have a very strong sense that our meeting is going to be somehow important. He nods, grinning confidently as though we’re sharing some marvellous secret together and somewhere, deep in my guts, I suspect we are. ‘Are you ready?’ Mr William P. Brown asks, mischief and adventure glowing in his eyes. ‘Are you ready for the Magical Mystery Tour?’

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  I hope you enjoyed reading ‘The Unexpected Gift of Joseph Bridgeman’ as much as I enjoyed writing it. Book 2 in The Downstream Diaries is already taking shape and will be released soon.

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