George was hurrying down the stairs, checking he had his train ticket in his jacket pocket, when he realised his phone was missing.
He groaned and heaved his suitcase back up the three flights to his flat. This was all he needed – it was Christmas Eve, he was already running behind time, and if he missed the train back home, his parents would never let him forget it. He’d have to buy a new ticket and catch a later train, and would probably end up standing for most of the three-hour journey.
George flung open his door, leaving his suitcase in the hall. He grabbed the landline phone in the hallway, called his own mobile number, and waited for its ringtone to sound out from wherever he had left it. He didn’t hear anything at first. Then he became aware of a tinny voice – a voice that sounded familiar – shouting ‘Hello – Hello!’ from the receiver. He put it to his ear.
‘Hello?’ the voice said again. Although it was a little faint, and a little high, and a little hoarse, George realised straight away why it sounded familiar. It was his own voice.
‘Hello,’ said George, tentatively.
‘Yes, hello to you too, Merry Christmas, peace and goodwill to all men, who the hell is this? You think it’s funny to call someone up and not speak when you’re spoken to, sport?’
‘No,’ said George, then, ‘who is this?’
‘George!’ said the voice, suddenly warmer.
‘I’m George,’ said George.
‘I know, I know,’ said the voice, the voice George would come to think of as Old George, ‘Oh, I was thinking this ought to happen someday soon.’
‘What?’
‘This phone call,’ Old George replied.
‘You remember it?’
‘Of course I do, it happened forty-odd years ago, sport.’
‘How –’
‘If I were you, which in a way I am, I wouldn’t waste too much time on the how. I spent a whole year of my life after this phone call trying to work out the how. It wasn’t important in the end.’
‘But –’
‘Okay, okay. You know sometimes a switchboard puts you through to the wrong place? Well, I reckon sometimes you can get put through to the wrong time as well, sport.’
‘That’s hardly a satisfactory explanation,’ George replied.
‘Yes, I remember saying that. That was my problem. I was never satisfied.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said George, ‘If it’s the future, don’t you have videophones or something?’
‘We did, but they were more trouble than they were worth. Let’s leave it at that.’
‘And in forty years’ time, I still have the same number?’
‘I never changed networks. I always got good reception on this one. Anyway, I’ve got something important to tell you, sport.’
‘Sport?’ George asked.
‘What?’
‘Why do you keep saying sport?’
‘Do I? It’s just something people say now.’ Old George sounded tired. ‘Isn’t that just like me? I get to speak to myself in forty years’ time, and all I ask about is trivia.’
George, who had been thinking just that, said ‘So what have you got to tell me?’
‘You’re going to miss your train,’ Old George replied.
‘I know!’
‘No, no,’ said Old George. There was a slurping noise as if he was drinking something. ‘Mm. There’s more. You’re going to miss your train. You manage to get a ticket for the next one. It costs you a lot of money, sport.’
‘Thanks,’ said George, ‘this is all useful stuff.’
‘Oh, George, will you shut up a minute and listen?’ Old George said sharply. ‘This is me all over when I was your age. Always thinking of the next clever thing I could say, never listening to anyone else, never imagining anyone else had anything of value to tell me.’
‘Well, if you’re going to be like that-’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Old George, ‘You’re still young, I forget that. You know, the odd thing about being young is that you always think you’re in control, that every decision you make is yours and yours alone. Do you want to hear more?’
George found himself nodding. Old George kept talking.
‘This train you get on, it’s crowded. But there’s a seat right at the front, in the first class carriage. Pay extra for the upgrade, it’s worth it. Anyway, the seat there is opposite a girl. Red hair, a blue dress, can’t miss her. You need to talk to her.’
‘What do I say? I can’t start a conversation with a stranger. She’ll think I’m a creep,’ George protested.
‘No, George, you’re forgetting. It’s Christmas. It’s the one time of year you can start up a conversation with a stranger without them thinking you’re a creep. Most of the time, anyway.’
‘But what do I say?’
Old George sighed. It was a whistling sound, like a winter wind.
‘It’s not what you say, George. The point is to listen. Believe it or not, she ends up thinking you’re a kind man. And she’s right. That’s all, I really can’t say any more.’
‘Kind?’ George asked.
‘Yes, and that’s my final word. Now go on, catch that train. Give my love to your parents. My parents.’ His voice shook a little. ‘It feels good to be able to say that.’
‘Thank you,’ said George, ‘but what –’
‘Don’t bother asking me any more, George, I remember quite clearly that I’m not going to tell you. Oh, and your phone – it’s on the table in the living room, under a magazine, sport.’
And so it was.
*
In all the Christmases that came after, the last one with his parents, the first with his wife, the first after his daughter was born, George looked forward to getting that phone call from his younger self. He would lie awake in bed on Christmas Eve, his head swimming pleasantly, and think up all sorts of wise advice. He even wrote some of it down on a piece of paper.
He knew, though, that when the time came, he’d forget every word.
© Niall Boyce, 2008
Christmas Future by Niall Boyce was read by Paul Clarke at the Liars’ League Lost & Found event on Tuesday 9 December, 2008.
Niall Boyce lives and works in London. He is currently writing more short stories, as well as a novel about television drama, lost memories, and time-travel.
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