He stood on the far side of the railway line, the untrimmed growth crowding the fence hid him from curious eyes. The public footpath slanted on up the hill towards the woods at the crest.

Was this the place? Or should he seek greater privacy in the woods? The climb would be in full view from the village …

No, it must be here. Delay might corrode his resolve.

Shrugging off his coat, he pulled the drawing compass from his schoolbag, its newly sharpened point glinting in the thin October sunlight. No knife, so no single smooth slice to a fast fade: multiple punctures, the extra pain his reward for that failure.

He dropped his bag, the strap slithering down his arm and he sank back into the matted grass edging the undergrowth. The thick wool of the school jersey moved easily up his arm. The diagrams of the wrist and forearm in his mother’s anatomy text were clear in his mind – the artery drawn in carmine ink. The point of the compass teased his skin.

How many punctures he would need? Would he need to pierce both arms? Possibly.

He slid his other jersey sleeve up past the elbow. He would cry out with each plunge and needed the camouflage of a passing train. His mind drifted, strangely detached, then came the distant clatter of an approaching train, its low speed and loud clanking marking it as a goods train – perfect.

The point poised over the chosen spot and the clamour grew. A bit closer … he rested it on his skin, ready for the first stab.

I jerked in surprise, pricking my skin with the compass in my hands. A bead of blood formed on my wrist and I leaned forward to lick it but stopped in shock: my wrist … was not mine, with no greying hair, no age-marred skin.

And yet … it was the wrist of this body: it flexed when I commanded.

My tongue dragged across the skin and saliva stung in the tiny puncture. The blood left a smear in which a smaller droplet formed. I rotated my hands, revealing fresh, pale skin with none of the blotches and well-known scars from seventy years of living.

Above was a hill crowned with woodland and a footpath losing itself in the autumnal russets and yellows. Surging to the surface of my brain came the memory: the hill behind my junior school back in England.

I sat there. I had been relaxing half a world away with a glass of Australian Shiraz. I must have dozed off. But no previous dream had ever been this sharply drawn; each strand of yellowing grass beside me executed in exquisite perfection.

What had stirred this distant memory to surface with such preternatural detail?

The thought halted me: whilst asleep, I was critiquing my dream?

I glanced around, expecting the dream to spiral away … only a whispering breeze, chilling my arms and legs. Minutes passed. Another train slipped into my world, building to a crescendo before rushing away.

I surveyed my body – skinny legs sticking out of grey corduroy shorts, grey knee-length socks, black lace-up shoes, glasses on my face. Such a youthful body – the body of my youth – and it had been about to spike its artery. The dark emotions of my younger self flooded me in a roiling tide. My head jerked up and tears ran down my cheeks. The bitter memories of these bleak times flooded back– the school bullies, my father’s beatings, my impotent raging, my loneliness. Eyes closed, I took a stuttering breath. The rawness of these teen emotions was agonisingly sharp for a seventy-year-old.

And I knew when I was as well as where: my first contemplation of suicide, aged twelve years. But … I had thought about it on the far side of these railway tracks. I had not set about the deed - and not here.

Dream, or nightmare, this was no memory.

I could have sat there by the railway line and waited for something to happen, but the cold was seeping into me: time to go. If a dream, this could end somewhere else as well as here.

My hand still clutched the compass. I opened my school satchel and dropped it in, pulled my jumper sleeves down to my wrists, donned the blue school mackintosh and cap and set off, back across the railway line, through the village to the bus stop. I wanted a number seven bus, which would take me close to my house, but what came was a number six, which meant a mile walk and a steep climb home. I sighed and climbed to the top deck.

The conductor followed me. “Tickets please.” Her lilting West Indian accent was still a novelty in the rural Kent of 1962.

For a moment, I froze and the conductor’s sunny smile morphed towards a glower, but my twelve-year-old memories served up the knowledge of the season ticket in its leather case, firmly attached by a cord to a button in my left-hand coat pocket. I dragged it out and the smile returned as she moved on.

Shoving away the season ticket, I wondered what else I had with me. My pockets turned up fluff and a handkerchief, so I opened my school bag: a French text, a Latin grammar, Caesar’s De Bello Gallico, three exercise books. Opening one of these revealed my awful handwriting. My stomach clenched – my father goes wild about this.

Goes wild?

My twelve-year-old brain told me he would be waiting for me at home, ready to thrash me for even an imagined transgression. But twenty-five years ago, I had insisted on viewing my father in his coffin: I needed to see his corpse, to know it was finished.

My memory was a confusing melange: both a twelve-year-old’s and remembered through six decades.

I dived back into the bag finding the Horse and his Boy, my favourite from the Narnia series. I escaped into a simpler world, escaping the turmoil I was feeling.

My twelve-year-old brain warned me to pack up and head downstairs for my stop at the foot of Mickleburgh Hill. Trudging upwards, my satchel banged annoyingly against my thigh until my twelve-year-old brain told me to hook the strap over the opposite shoulder. After the climb, the road flattened out before I turned down my street.

About halfway to our house, a boy was sitting on a low wall, idly kicking his heels into the bricks. He glanced up as I approached and then went back to staring at his feet banging on the wall.

I stopped – anything to delay the arrival home. “You are new around here,” I said, realising I had never seen him before; he wasn’t part of my memories.

His eyes narrowed quizzically. The feet stopped kicking. He stared up at me with wide, almost black eyes. “Neu…new…Ja.”

He was speaking … German. I had learned the language in senior school.

“D…umm.” I had nearly replied in German – but my twelve-year-old self wasn’t supposed to know his language. “Um…who are you?” I spoke slowly as I suspected he spoke little English.

He gave me an unblinking stare for a second or so and then jumped off the wall and headed rapidly back down the road in the direction I had come. I almost called after him, but I didn’t know what to say in English he might understand. I watched him turning the corner at the end of the road without a backward glance. I had never met – or even known of – a German-speaking boy around here. It looked like the world of my childhood but at the same time, it wasn’t.

What would I find at home – my mother, father and sister or complete strangers who would throw me back on the street? Was this reality or a dream?

The kitchen lights were on and I walked warily towards the back door. A head with a long pigtail appeared in the window and turned, glancing at me. It was my bossy older sister as I remembered her as a teenager. She sniffed dismissively as I climbed the two steps to the back door.

My father was seated at the kitchen table, a malevolent presence looming towards me.

“Why are you so late?" He snapped the question, voice coiled with menace.

Our final physical confrontation, one Christmas day when I was fifteen, crashed into my consciousness. I had silently urged him to touch me imagining I would hammer him. But he had turned away for reasons I still could not fathom.

But now? Now, I was too small. The angst and anguish behind my afternoon’s decision flared through my brain, swamping any control from my seventy-year-old self. I fled through the house crying impotently, pursued by my father’s yells. Slamming my bedroom door behind me, I threw myself on the bed and sobbed.

It was dark when the bedroom door opened. Light from the landing crept in, waking me. I lay still. The slight hint of rose scent and swish of a skirt: my mother. Her hand touched my shoulder.

I must have flinched, but I remained curled around my satchel.

“Will, do you want any supper?” She asked.

I shook my head.

“Shall I bring you something here?”

My stomach lurched and, again, I shook my head.

Her hand left my shoulder and, with the same faint swish, she walked out. The room descended into darkness as she closed the door and a terrible fear claimed me. I could not go through this childhood again. Even with a seventy-year-old perched on my shoulder, I couldn’t do it. I would take a knife next time.

But…was there a way back from here? If this was a dream – what would happen if I went to sleep – would I wake, reach out and find my glass of Shiraz? If I killed myself here, would I wake there? Had I had a heart attack and died back in my old world – and what would happen if I killed myself here? What was the importance of the differences in this world? My brain swirled: questions without answer.

Lying there fully dressed was uncomfortable, so I crept over and cracked open the door. I heard muffled voices from downstairs. I took advantage of the relative quiet and got ready for bed. I pulled the covers over me and drifted off to sleep.

When I woke, I glanced round at my childhood bedroom. No glass of Shiraz for me – I hadn’t gone back. I lay in bed, immobilised by my crushed hope and this strange situation.

I heard my parents head out for communion. The front door closed, and the sound of wheels crunching across the gravel drive came to my ears. I decided to make my escape, to find time and space to think. Hurrying into my clothes, I scurried downstairs where my sister was preparing breakfast. I grabbed two slices of bread, slapped on some lime marmalade and slipped an apple into my pocket…

My sister walked back into the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going out. I won’t be back until after lunch. Bye.” And I flew outside, down the garden, across the back fence and into the field.

Would my childhood sanctuary be here in this world?

The marmalade sandwich had picked up some dirt from its encounter with the fence; I ate it anyway as I walked down the field towards the derelict house and its overgrown garden.

This had been my private escape – specifically the massive cedar tree. I could lie back and hide, high in its enfolding arms, invisible from below. Across the field, its top branches rose above the fruit trees. I clambered over the rickety fence and pushed through the overgrown shrubs to the tree. The cedar was huge and under its shading arms nothing could grow through the thick carpet of old needles.

I wiped my sticky fingers in the long, dewy grass at the edge of its shade and walked in beneath it. There was a single way into the tree and it required some acrobatics. I reached up and grabbed the lowest branch in both hands, swinging my feet up. I scrambled round the cold, dark bark and started the climb.

I was reaching for the final handhold before the fork when a head poked out above me. I almost fell, waving my wildly grasping hand to regain my balance; a hand clasped it, placing mine on the branch.

“Vorsicht.” It was the German boy, telling me to be careful. Those large, dark eyes stared down at me. We sat in the fork, each leaning back against a spreading branch, assessing one another.

He was the same height as me but slender, wearing long, grey trousers and a baggy blue jumper over a grey shirt. His hair was longer than my short back and sides. Mine, however, was blandly mouse-brown whilst his was a glossy black, matching his eyes. His features were delicate set in pale skin.

After long seconds of mutual examination, he flicked the long fringe out of his eyes and tapped his chest. “Col.”

Oh, my god. In this world is this my friend, Colin – Col?

My Col was English, well half English, half Canadian.

In this dream, this world, Col was German?

He was not at all like my Colin, who had been (or perhaps is?) blond-haired and blue-eyed.

Bewildered, I tapped my chest. “William…Will.”

“Ach so.Willi.” He smiled. “Wo wohnst du?” He shook his head when I didn’t respond. “Wo ist dein Haus?” He wanted to know where I lived. Pretending to not understand German was important as I was not supposed to know it. Meanwhile, my brain spun around this huge anomaly.

“House?”

“Ja. Dein…you…Haus?”

“Oh.” I waved vaguely through the cedar branches to where part of our roof was visible. “Um … you?” I was still not thinking clearly.

He pointed in the opposite direction, across some vacant land to houses along Sea View Road. I knew where my Col lived, and it wasn’t in Sea View Road. Col was eyeing me speculatively as all this bounced around inside my head.

“You are new here.” I said, in a somewhat accusatory tone as if it was his fault he wasn’t my Colin.

“New…here?” he said, pronouncing the words ponderously, testing them for their meaning. “Yes…zwei Wochen…two…” he held up two fingers and then shrugged, seeking a word.

I paused, as my brain started working again. I held up seven fingers. “Week?”

He counted my fingers. “Ja, Woche…aber zwei…two.” He held up seven fingers, twice.

I nodded, “Week is Wocke.” mispronouncing it.

“Ja – aber Woche, Woche.” He emphasised the German ‘ch’ sound which doesn’t exist in English.

“Woche, Woche,” I copied and then said “Week.”

“Veek.” I smiled and corrected him, emphasising the shape of the lips for the ‘w’ sound, which didn’t exist in German.

“Veek.”

Again, I smiled at him, shaking my head. We leaned back against the tree branches, appraising one another – and I heard my father’s voice in the distance. He knew I used the overgrown garden as a sanctuary.

“William … William … Where are you?”

I leaned across and clamped my hand over Col’s mouth. “Shh.” I whispered.

Col’s eyes stared into mine over my hand. After a moment, he nodded and then pulled my hand from his face. He must have felt the tremor in it and our eyes locked as he recognised my fear.

We sat in silence as my father searched the garden below, calling out for me. Not finding me, he swore loudly and headed back to the house. Moving between branches, we watched him climb over the fence and walk across the field.

We sat back down and Col searched my face.

“My father,” I admitted, dropping my head in embarrassment.

“You…Vater?”

“Father, yes.”

Col again searched my face. “Du hast auch Angst vor deinem Vater,” he murmured.

I frowned, pretending not to understand – but his words made it clear he also feared his father. Another difference: my Colin’s father had died before I met Colin. We sat for a while, each tasting our private fears. After a minute or so, Col reached a decision. He leaned across, grabbing my hand.

“Komm.” he said, pointing in the direction of his house and then clambered down the tree.

“Komm, Willi.” he said, glancing back up, seeing I had not started down.

My father would be back, searching for me after Matins. It would be safer if I were somewhere else. I followed Col down.

He led me through the garden, now settling down for winter after its late summer riot of juicy, untamed blackberries and sun-warmed apples. We slipped through a decaying fence into a vacant block. He showed me how to climb over his back fence and led me to the back door.

Col pushed open the door and walked into the kitchen. “Mutti.”

I paused on the steps, unsure of myself.

A woman younger than my mother, with the same dark hair, dark eyes and pale skin as Col appeared. Her eyes travelled past Col and saw me in the doorway.

“Col, Was machst du?" Her voice sounded anxious. I half turned away, ready to make my escape. I did not need additional trouble in my life.

“Mutti, ich habe einen Freund gefunden. Er heißt Willi.”

Col’s mother shifted her attention to me. “Welcome, Willi, come in please.” Her English was excellent, not accented, but pronouncing my name the German way.

I stepped hesitantly through the doorway.

“Please shut the door, it is a bit cold today.”

I did as she asked, standing with my back to the door, my hand still on the doorknob: I could feel some undercurrent in the room.

Col turned to his mother and started a rapid-fire conversation my rusty German could not follow, but I did pick up “friend”, “father” and “fear”. During the brief conversation, Col’s mother glanced at me. Col asked another question and she held up a hand, stopping Col. He tried to speak and she held up her hand again.

“Willi, I am Frau Schmidt, Col’s mother. Perhaps you would like to join us for some milk and a biscuit?”

Col visibly relaxed at Frau Schmidt’s welcoming sounding, if incomprehensible, words.

“Yes, please.” My twelve-year-old body had eaten precious little since lunch at school the day before. Frau Schmidt indicated a chair at the kitchen table and Col sat opposite me. Shortly, a plate with half a dozen plain biscuits appeared along with two glasses of milk.

I retrieved the apple in from pocket. “Would you like half my apple, Col?”

Frau Schmidt’s lips curled into a hint of a smile as she repeated my question to Col.

Col’s eyes smiled. A frisson ran through me and I watched Col’s eyes widen at my reaction. My Col had been my closest, my only friend.

Would friendship happen again with this Col? What if my Col were here as well?

“Eat.” Frau Schmidt was smiling as she placed two quarter apples on each of our plates.

I picked up one of my quarters and took a bite.

“Where do you live, Willi?” Frau Schmidt’s voice was gentle, encouraging me to answer her.

I finished my mouthful. “About half a mile over there.” I waved my arm towards the back fence.

“And do you have any brothers and sisters?”

I nodded. “A bossy older sister.”

“Older siblings can be difficult.” Frau Schmidt smiled. “And your parents? What do they do?”

“My mother’s a doctor.”

Frau Schmidt nodded, impressed. “That’s unusual for a woman. And your father? Is he a doctor too?” Frau Schmidt asked.

Col leaned in. There was something about fathers.

My father … emotions welled up inside me. My fear at reliving this life had me close to panic. I struggled for control but felt the black tide surge in. I sent my chair crashing to the floor and ran for the door into the garden. In my confusion, I tried to push the door rather than pull and I stood there pushing futilely at the door, tears streaming down my face.

Arms folded around me and for a moment I struggled against them.

“Shh, shh.” was murmured into my ear. “Shh, shh.”

Frau Schmidt half-carried, half-led me into the sitting room, where she placed me on her lap and rocked me. After a while, my sobs stilled. I was safe, encircled by warm and caring arms. I opened my eyes to see Col sitting half turned towards me, his head leaning on his mother’s shoulder, eyes filled with understanding.

Frau Schmidt felt me stir and saw our eyes sharing our fear.

“We have trouble with Col’s father, and he must not know we are here.” Her arms echoed the tension in her voice.

“Perhaps you can tell me about your father another time.”

I tensed and she murmured, “Shh, shh … stay calm, Willi.”

We stayed there on the couch for a while, the human contact providing comfort.

Frau Schmidt gave me a gentle squeeze. “Are you hungry, Willi?”

I nodded and clambered off her lap. She led us into the kitchen. Col and I sat at the table, finishing the biscuits and milk as she put some soup on to warm and buttered some crusty rolls. At first, I didn’t feel hungry, but the thick chicken soup settled my stomach. I dug into the rolls, following Col’s lead in dunking them in the soup, enjoying the delicious combination of soft and crunchy textures. As I finished my bowl, Frau Schmidt smiled and ladled in another serving.

“Thank you.”

“Growing children.” She said, with a touch of laughter.

When we finished, Frau Schmidt sat opposite me. “Do your parents know where you are, Willi?”

My head turned away.

“Willi?”

I turned back, seeing sympathy and kindness in her eyes. I shook my head.

“Well, I think we had better get you home, don’t you? Your mother will be worried about you.”

I closed my eyes and fought down my young brain’s panic.

Col stretched across the table, putting his hand on mine, inviting me, in German he didn’t think I’d understand, to come to his house whenever I wished. But I did understand and wanted to come back to this gentle, welcoming house. I struggled to keep my face emotionless while feeling intense gratitude for the kindness surrounding on me.

Frau Schmidt smiled. “Col invited you to visit us whenever you can.”

I gave Col a heartfelt glance.

Frau Schmidt rose and pulled on her coat and hat. She took a hand from each of us, stopping when we reached the gate.

“Which way, Willi?” I led them along Sea View Road, around the corner to my house. One house short of our destination, I stopped and pointed. Frau Schmidt smiled encouragingly down at me, but kept a firm grasp on my hand, leading us to the front door.

She pointed at the bell and Col reached up and pressed it. My father opened the door, startled to see me in the company of a strange woman.

“Willi has been with my son and me. He was upset about something and I thought it best he calmed down before I brought him home.”

My father glowered at us.

My mother appeared behind him, paused as she surveyed the grouping of her son with strangers, and then pushed past. “I’m sorry, please come in.”

My father was not pleased but stood aside and we followed my mother into the sitting room. She and Frau Schmidt touched eyes briefly. “Will, perhaps you can show your friend your room.”

I led us out, closing the door behind me. Upstairs, Col’s gaze travelled round my room. Hanging from the ceiling were my prize Airfix models of a Spitfire on the tail of an Me 109. I glanced at Col and blushed at flaunting Germany’s defeat at a German boy. On my bookshelves were lined up about a dozen Biggles books, all featuring images of German defeat at the hands of the RAF and RFC across two wars.

Col did not seem upset – perhaps he didn’t recognise the cover images. He continued his inspection, noting the bed as the one place to sit and sat cross-legged on the carpet. I sat down facing him. As far as he knew, we shared no language, but I ached to find out about him and his mother. He searched my face and then leaned across, taking my hands in his.

“Willi und Col…Freunde?”

“Friends?”

“Yes…Freunde…friends.”

He shook his head in frustration.

I squeezed his hand. “You must learn English and I must learn German…Deutsch?”

His face showed a mix of surprise and hope. “You spick Deutsch?”

I shook my head. “I will learn – and you will learn English.”

He laughed and an idea came to me. I jumped up and grabbed my school atlas off the shelf. Flicking the pages, I came to the map of Europe. I pointed to the two of us and where we were in England and then pointed to Germany.

“Where are you from?”

Col paused. I had the feeling he was assessing me in some way. Then, murmuring, “Freunde”, almost as if reassuring himself, he pointed at Leipzig. His eyes flicked back to mine, seeking my reaction. For my seventy-year-old self, the Wall had come down and Germany had been unified for thirty years. The old east Germany along with the entire Soviet Bloc was now history. But here in 1962, the Cold War was real…and I started to wonder about Frau Schmidt and her son. Col had expected me to react, perhaps in an unfriendly fashion.

Who were they and what were they doing in England?

Friendship with this Colin was far more important to me than some long-dead (if strangely still current) global rivalry. I let my face form a smile. “Leipzig,” pronouncing it the English way. “Freunde.” I repeated back to him.

He smiled and his body relaxed a tension I had not seen.

Squeezing my hand, he pointed at my head. “Kopf.”

I realised what he was doing. “Head.” I replied and we started on the process of learning to speak each other’s language, with me trying hard not to ‘learn’ too fast.

After about half an hour, my mother and Frau Schmidt appeared in the doorway. Smiling at me, Col pointed at objects around the room saying the English word and I chimed in with the German. Together, we ran through about thirty words, occasionally helping when we stumbled.

“Willi, you speak German well.” Frau Schmidt remarked.

Had my practiced accent given me away?

“Will is learning French and Latin at school and he has an ear for music…so perhaps that helps,” said my mother. “Anyhow Will, Col and Frau Schmidt are leaving now.”

My buried panic welled up at my father’s probable reaction to today’s absence. Both Col and Frau Schmidt seemed to sense this because Col held my hand tighter, searching my face with concern, while Frau Schmidt knelt beside us, placing her hand on my shoulder.

“Willi, you are welcome at our house. Please come and help Col learn English – and we will help you learn German.” She turned towards my mother, raising a questioning eyebrow.

My mother knew as Col lived close by, her permission or lack of it would not matter to me. But I knew it would matter to Frau Schmidt – and my father.

“You must let us know where you are.” My mother’s voice held a touch of the ferocity her recalcitrant patients feared. “You are not to disappear.”

Swallowing, I nodded.

Her intent gaze rested on my face for a long heartbeat. “Time to see your friend out.”

We descended to the hall, where my father was standing, waiting.

“Frau Schmidt and I have agreed Will and Col can spend time together here and at their house. It will benefit their language skills.”

I realised she had outflanked my father. His face hardened but he was unwilling to make a scene. He managed to shake Frau Schmidt’s hand as my mother ushered them to the door.

“Thank you, Frau Doktor Johnstone.” Frau Schmidt raised an eyebrow at her son.

“Vielen Dank, Frau Doktor Johnstone.” Col’s voice was polite but guarded, his eyes flicking anxiously across me and my father before coming to rest on my mother’s face.

“Bitte sehr.”

My mother spoke German?

She laughed, embarrassed. “I learnt a little German in school before the war.”

Frau Schmidt smiled and walked with Col down the drive. As they reached the gate, I rushed after them. “Please, can I come round when I get back from school tomorrow?”

Frau Schmidt’s head lifted in question towards my mother, who nodded.

Returning inside, I hurried past my father and up to my room. Nothing was settled with my him, but I had an ally in Frau Schmidt. I also had a friend, but not the one I remembered: a different friend in a new world.

I negotiated the day without my father exploding and safely in bed, I curled myself around this strange, new friendship, revelling in its gentle glow. But Col had shown me this world was definitely not the same world I had lived in before.

What did these differences mean?

If this were a dream, I could understand the differences, but this was like no previous dream.

Sleep came.

My eyes flicked open and I sighed when I found I was still in my childhood bedroom.

How had I survived the continuous tension of my life here?

At least my father would have left for London and so I wouldn’t have to face him. My young brain got me ready for school and after breakfast, I walked up the road to catch a number seven bus. Passing a pair of new houses, I realised the wall Col had been sitting on was the garden wall of my Colin’s home. I stopped across from what had been my Col’s house. A young man came to the front door, accompanied by a woman with a toddler on her hip. The man gave the woman a kiss, patted the toddler on the head, got in the car and drove off. It was not my Col’s family.

A great sense of loss descended on me: my Col, my childhood friend, didn’t exist in this world. The woman across the road examined me with curious eyes and I turned and walked on. Though this new Col was not my closest friend from before, he was kind, and that meant something.

At school, the bullies were there as expected, but I ignored their taunts. I pulled out my book and read. One of the leaders, a tousled, blond boy started shoving me. I pushed back firmly but the bell went. The glare we shared indicated unfinished business.

Schoolwork was trivially easy, given the level of education I carried in my old brain and I tore through it. By the end of the first lesson, Mr Maple, my Maths teacher, was eyeing me speculatively. He had chided me about showing all the proper working as I skipped over calculation steps but gave each of my solutions a tick as he walked round checking them.

Next period in French as I completed an oral translation, Mr Partington nodded. “Excellent, Johnstone.” Puzzlement apparent in his voice … I had forgotten my twelve-year-old self was still a novice.

I needed to be careful about showing my knowledge and intellectual skills – assuming I was marooned in this world.

On the number seven (hooray) bus trip home, I worried at my situation. If I were stuck here, I needed to find out about this world, but there was no Internet, Google or Wikipedia. My parents still had a newspaper delivered each day. I had never read this in my previous childhood and I’d need to be careful if I started now.

I still hoped this was some incredibly complicated dream. But doesn’t your life pass before your eyes as you die? Was it happening to me? For a minute my mind worried at this possibility.

Would I be reliving such a subtly different world?

It made no sense.

If I was stuck here, I needed to act appropriately or there could be big problems. Fortunately, I had all the experience of my ‘old’ brain to make it work. I almost miss my stop thinking about this and rushed to the exit as the doors closed.

“Pay attention, young ’un.” The driver’s voice was surly as he recycled the doors.

I walked down the road, giving what had been Col’s house in my old life another scan. But nothing seemed out of place, except there was the wrong family inside. I walked past my house and turned into Sea View Road, before knocking on Col’s door.

“Willi, welcome. Come in.” Frau Schmidt smiled.

Col helped me hang up my coat and we went into the kitchen.

“Do you have schoolwork to finish, Willi?”

“Yes, Frau Schmidt.”

“Sit at the table and you can do it there. I will help Col, but he will do the same work and you will learn the German and Col, the English.”

I worked on my Maths problems. Frau Schmidt gave Col a pencil and paper and insisted he did the same work. To my delight, I was able to help Col, once I understood the way he wrote some numbers. I was also learning the German needed for the work as Frau Schmidt explained to Col what he had to do.

Once we had finished, Frau Schmidt provided us both with a slice of cake and a glass of milk – and the double-sided language lesson continued.

This set the course of my days as autumn slid into winter. I continued to avoid my father, keeping out of trouble. But a beating lay somewhere in my future. This certainty slunk along beside me, a dark companion. My mother was eyeing me somewhat speculatively. She was an intelligent woman and knew there was something about me but couldn’t put her finger on it. I hoped she would pass it off as puberty and growing up.

Each day, I smuggled the previous day’s newspaper up to my room. I’d discovered this was easy to do as the old newspapers went on to a stack beside the kitchen door and I could slip the top one into my school bag as I passed, returning it later. The reporting was restrained compared to 2020. Each day I would spend half an hour or so going through the paper, comparing events with my memory. Part of my problem was I hadn’t been into world events and politics until later in my teens. The reports were largely new to my old brain. I didn’t even remember the Mariner two flyby of Venus, which surprised me when it happened in December. My addiction to space must have developed later than I thought.

I worried about finding something important. My greatest fear was the world would descend into nuclear madness, although there was precious little I could do about it. Life went on, even if my inner life was strange by any normal standards.

An explanation of what had happened – was happening – eluded me. I was in a different world, but Col and Frau Schmidt being in this world could be significant in geopolitical terms as they had defected to the west. None of this had happened in my world where Col was English.

Most afternoons I went to Col’s house after school where we sat at the table doing my homework with him. Frau Schmidt would listen to music and act as translator and guide as our language knowledge deepened. I tried hard not to ‘learn’ too fast, but as we approached Christmas, Frau Schmidt commented to my mother on my ‘remarkable language ability’ when they met in the High Street. Col’s English was improving rapidly, although he still spoke with a noticeable German accent.

We were sitting at the table, homework finished one day, chatting.

“Willi, how about we meet in town after school tomorrow? There’s something I want to show you.”

“Okay.”

Col smiled, excited at my agreement. “Where shall we meet?”

“How about in the library? Whoever gets there first can stay warm and dry while they wait.”

The next day I caught a number six bus and went on into the town and then walked to the library. I found Col and greeted him in German. The young librarian at the desk heard me and sniffed, sharply.

“I wonder what her problem is?” I asked Col, still speaking German.

Col sighed, speaking English. “Willi, many people suffered in the war and blame the Germans. Mutti and I have talked about it and I can see it happening when people realise I am German.”

“It’s not fair.”

“No, but I am German, Willi.” His shoulders slumped in resignation.

I changed the subject. “Come on, what is it you want to show me?”

Col’s face lit with a smile. “Oh, wait until you see this. It’s the most…” He stopped, before giving away his surprise. Instead, he grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the street. We almost ran to a car showroom where Col stopped and pointed. There, lit by angled spotlights, crouched the sleekest sports car; I hadn’t seen one for decades: a Jaguar E-type coupé, resplendent in British racing green and glistening chrome.

“Wow.” I breathed.

“Isn’t it gorgeous?” said Col, sighing. “Do you think we could go in?”

They wouldn’t want a pair of schoolboys putting their fingers all over their gleaming centrepiece, but I grabbed Col’s hand and we walked over to the car. Everyone must have been busy as we weren’t noticed. We walked around this vision of automobile pulchritude, staring at our faces reflected and distorted in the chrome and deeply polished paintwork. We peered over the driver’s window at the tan leather upholstery and polished walnut dashboard.

“You like this car, do you?” A rumbling voice almost propelled us over the car in fright. We swivelled to find a huge bear of a man standing watching us with a crooked smile: a scar ran diagonally from his right eye to pull at the corner of his mouth.

I swallowed. “We haven’t touched it, sir. We were just admiring it.”

He looked us over and we must have passed inspection. “Carry on boys.” He leant past us and opened the driver’s door. “Would you like to sit in her?”

I pushed Col forward, speaking English. “Go on, Col, it’s your car.”

Col’s gaze was devouring the gleaming vision.

“Go on, get in, but don’t touch anything.” His voice rumbled inside me. Col’s eyes widened with uncertainty.

“Go on, dummy,” I said, with a smile, the German sliding from me without thinking. Col frowned at me but climbed into the car. I caught a sour glance from the salesman.

Col reached out and put his hands on the steering wheel and then grabbed them back into his lap, recalling the salesman’s admonition.

“You can hold the wheel,” the man laughed.

Col’s face was all question. I nodded and he put his hands back on the wheel, almost reverently, his gaze roving over the interior.

“You can sit in her, too,” the rumbling voice told me, and I caught a hint of a foreign accent.

I shook my head. “I’m not interested in cars. I prefer planes.”

A strange yearning passed across his face, then he turned back to Col, pointing out a feature.

“Brian. Brian. Phone call for you.” A voice called out across the showroom.

Our salesman raised an arm to wave his understanding. “Come on, out you get. Hop it out of here before the boss sees and I get into trouble.”

Col climbed out, a huge grin on his face and we scuttled back outside. He was practically walking on air. Col turned, his lingering gaze storing away this view of his dream machine and then we set off for home. I gave him space to savour the experience and walked silently beside him through the town.

“I got to sit in an E-Type.” Col almost sighed, still awed by his experience, grinning from ear to ear. I smiled back, knowing I didn’t need to say anything. By the time we had walked back to Col’s house, he was coming down from his high – but, of course, the whole experience had to be recounted to Frau Schmidt.

At Col’s house, our conversations at first were a cocktail mix of English and German, with frequent side trips into grammar and vocabulary with a rich admixture of Latin and French, both of which Col was picking up as we studied together. Col was keeping pace with my school work, despite his learning coming second hand. To impose some linguistic discipline, Frau Schmidt decreed we would alternate English one day and German the next. This worked quite well but did not prevent excursions into French and Latin (and to be fair, German on English days and vice versa).

At school, I was still having some trouble with the bullies, but my seventy-year-old attitude sapped their energy. Even Abbott had not pressed our earlier, unresolved, shoving match. In contrast, my schoolwork improved dramatically, perhaps a bit too dramatically, despite my best efforts to hold back. My teachers were scratching their heads at my sharpened interest and abilities. By the end of the term, I was effortlessly topping the class and constantly reaching for something harder to avoid boredom.

Sitting at Frau Schmidt’s kitchen table one afternoon in December as we translated a section of De Bello Gallico into English and German, I realised I had no idea what school Col went to. I had never seen his school uniform or even any schoolbooks. He wasn’t at my private school. “Where do you go to school, Col?”

“I don’t go to school, not since leaving Germany.”

I sat there, surprised. “Why not?”

Col shifted uncomfortably in his chair and didn’t reply.

Frau Schmidt, who had been sitting on the sofa, reading, and occasionally joining our conversation when we were stuck for a word, came to sit at the table with us.

“Willi, I know you and Col are friends and want to share everything. But there are some things we cannot share. I am sorry, but please believe me when I say they are not bad things, just … things we cannot share.”

I was perplexed. “Why not?”

Frau Schmidt sighed heavily. “Willi, you know Germany is divided?”

“Yes, I’ve read about Germany since meeting Col.”

“Of course, you have.” She said, with a smile. “Well, there is … disagreement … between the two parts of Germany. East Germany, is aligned with the Soviets whilst West Germany, is aligned with England and the USA. We are caught up in this … and I can’t tell you any more.”

“Col said you come from Leipzig, in east Germany.”

Frau Schmidt’s eyes pinned Col to his seat. After a moment, he shrugged shamefacedly. Frau Schmidt leaned across and grasped my hand on the table, her voice low and urgent. “It is important you do not tell anyone else. It must remain a secret.”

I stared silently at Frau Schmidt as a terrible thought crossed my mind. Frau Schmidt peered into my face, trying to work out what I was thinking.

I blurted out. “Are you a spy?”

The pressure from her hand spiked momentarily before she replied. “Oh Willi, no, no. I am not a spy,” she said, with a touch of laughter before her face became serious again. “But it is complicated. For us to be safe, you must not tell anyone what you know. No-one else must know.”

“But I don’t know anything – just you are from Leipzig, in east Germany.”

“And if people know we are from Leipzig, we could be in danger.” She paused for a moment. “It is possible people are trying to find us.” She paused, again. “But you can help us: if anyone asks you about us, please tell me.”

I could sense how serious this was to her and nodded my head in agreement.

After a moment, she patted my hand and stood up. “Once Col’s English is better, perhaps he can go to the local government school, we cannot afford a private school like yours. Now, how about a piece of cake?”

Frau Schmidt walked into the kitchen and I heard her gasping.

“Col, Willi – come here.”

The usual view of Sea View Road illuminated by the streetlights was lost in a thick, fog, glowing from the unseen streetlights. It was so dense the front fence along the road lost in its depths.

“Let’s go outside, Willi.”

“Children. Coats, gloves, scarves – and stay in the garden. It will be dangerous on the road.”

We surged into our coats and opened the front door. The world sounded odd, blanketed by the fog. The air carried a taint of smoke and tasted bitter from all the coal fires burning against the winter cold. We walked down to the gate and stood there, peering out along the road. We could hear a car approaching and its lights crawled into view. The driver had his window open, his head half out, following the central white line. Other cars and a bus crept past.

Frau Schmidt came out, carrying my school satchel. “I think we had better walk you home, Willi. I don’t want you walking home alone, and your parents will be happier once you are there.”

It took ten minutes as we walked through a strange world, with the landmarks looming out of a blurred wall of grey.

At my gate, I turned to Frau Schmidt and Col. “Goodnight, Frau Schmidt. See you tomorrow, Col.”

“Okay.” Their breath plumed in the cold air as they turned for home.

There were lights on in the kitchen, where my mother was tidying up.

“Hello, Will. I’m glad you’re home.”

“Frau Schmidt and Col walked with me. I think she was worried I might get lost.”

“She’s a thoughtful person. The awful weather has upset the trains, so your father is staying in London and your sister is staying with Lucy as the buses are all over the place, too.” She finished gathering the breakfast dishes from the drying rack and put them away. “I’m glad my evening surgery was cancelled or there would have been no one home when you arrived. This is like the pea soup fogs we used to get in London.” She paused for a moment’s reminiscence. “Anyway, it’s the two of us tonight. How about sausages and baked beans on toast?" She smiled, knowing this was one of my favourites.

“Lovely.”

“Does Frau Schmidt have a telephone?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve not seen one.”

“It would be easier on days like today if she did. What would have happened if there had been no one here when you got home?”

“I’d have gone home with her and Col. You know I’d be there anyway, so you don’t have to worry.”

“Hmmm…I suppose so. Sit down and finish your homework whilst I cook, please.”

“I don’t have anything to do. We finished everything for next week at Col’s house.”

“What do you mean…we?”

“Col and I do the homework together.”

“You mean he helps you with yours? What about his?”

I realised I was on dangerous ground here. I was certain Frau Schmidt didn’t want Col’s absence from school spoken of.

“We do our homework together – in various languages. Col is even learning French and Latin from what I have. We do our Maths in English and German and today we translated my Latin homework from De Bello Gallico into English and German.”

“Oh.” My mother was placated. “It’s a great advantage having a foreign friend. I know all Germans were not Nazis, but I was concerned when I first learned Frau Schmidt was German. She’s a caring mother and Col is a lovely boy.” She paused for a moment’s thought. “Do you know where they come from?”

Frau Schmidt’s request ran through my mind, but I knew my mother was asking out of curiosity.

“I don’t know, Germany somewhere, I suppose.” The half-truth slipped easily off my tongue.

After supper, we listened to “Round the Horn” on the radio and I fell about laughing at Kenneth Williams’ “Hand up your Sticks” sketch and then I was sent off to have a bath and to bed. I snuggled in my blankets against the cold night, rediscovering H Rider Haggard’s Africa in King Solomon’s Mines.

When I turned the light out, I lay in the darkness, thinking about my friend. In the world I grew up in, the Cold War had been savage to many people in the Eastern Block, but it had remained a cold war.

Would it do so here? How could I tell?

My need to know if this world differed churned inside me.

My friend Col, being German, told me it was not the same …

In both worlds John Glenn had flown in space earlier in the year – a year after the Soviets put a man in orbit. In my world Valentina Tereshkova would be the first woman in space in the middle of next year, followed by the assassination of JFK in November. But there was nothing in the immediate future to show me if this world were deviating in a major way from my world. I would have to keep reading the papers and watching.

I drifted off to sleep.

December rolled on towards Christmas. Frau Schmidt found a job in a dress shop in the High Street. Final term marks were posted on the classroom noticeboard for every subject and I found I had made top of the class in all but one subject – French. But then, I was competing with a boy called Leurmet, a native French speaker whose father was a French diplomat of some kind. The following day I had confirmation of what I had already guessed: I was top of my class overall.

I don’t enjoy Christmas shopping, but this year trying to find something for Frau Schmidt and Col provided the spice I needed. My small weekly pocket money didn’t leave me with much, but after school one day I went a bit further on the number six bus so I could wander along the High Street.

In a toy shop was the perfect gift for Col – a Matchbox car model of an E-type Jaguar coupé – painted British racing green. I had no idea what to give Frau Schmidt, so I meandered along, sampling the various shop windows.

I spied a scarf in swirls of black and crimson blending into one another. It was tied around a mannequin’s neck. When I asked, I was told it wasn’t for sale, but a prop used to enhance an outfit. I explained I wanted to buy it as a Christmas present for my friend’s mother as it would go with her dark hair and eyes. The owner of the shop showed her surprise at this. She let me buy it for four shillings, a huge sum of money to my young self. On my way back up the High Street, I acquired some blue tissue paper for wrapping and then walked to Col’s house. I pulled my homework books out of my satchel with some care to keep the presents secret. In my bedroom I wrapped the scarf and model car ready to put under their Christmas tree.

Three days later, Col proudly showed me a newly installed phone sitting on the hall table. I wondered how they had managed such a feat – it usually took months for the GPO to install a new phone line.

The winter term ended a week before Christmas and I knew my school report would be arriving by post any day. Because of the bullying at school and beatings at home, schoolwork in my old life had been my lowest priority – so I had continually been close to the bottom of my class. My terrible school term reports had been a cause of some of my father’s most explosive rages – accompanied by thrashings. In my previous life, nothing I did made any difference and I had struggled through school, escaping from home into mindless clerical work before discovering I had a brain. At school, I would try to concentrate and might manage for perhaps a week; then my father would beat me for some supposed infraction … and school passed in a blur. I escaped into books, books taking me into another world were my saviours. I dreamed of opening a door and finding my way into Narnia or passing through Alice’s looking glass. I knew these were phantasies, but I ached to escape. Ultimately, they were not enough, and I found myself beside the railway track baring my forearms as a train approached.

But this term, this report, I hoped topping the class and glowing reports from my teachers would make a big difference. My anxiety when the report arrived was present but muted.

The report arrived the Monday after school broke up for the holidays. Sitting at the kitchen table when he arrived home, my father opened my report and read through it. I was watching his face and it did not soften. He flipped back to the beginning.

“I will be contacting the school to check on these results as they cannot be correct. You were at the bottom of your class last term. This report must be a mistake – or you have somehow forged it. As a result, you are forbidden to visit your friend Col and you will stay home and study at my direction.”

My mother sat there, saying nothing, her faced closed.

“No.” I fought to control my surging anger. “You cannot do this to me. I’ve done well this term and you dismiss it as nothing.”

My father’s eyes narrowed, a storm brewing behind them, but I held my ground. Taking a breath, I stared back at my father. Rage blazed through me, but I managed to contain it. “You cannot keep me from seeing my friend because you cannot keep me in the house – unless you tie me to my bed.”

I sensed my father’s temper rising – and I no longer cared. My anger at his injustice had carried me beyond fear.

“You are no better than the bullies at school, but they at least have the excuse of being children.”

I took another breath as my father towered over me. “William,” he growled.

I leaned back in the gusting wind of his menace but held my feet in place. “You no longer control me because I do not fear you.” Our eyes were locked together in anger and hatred. “I despise you.” The truth of my feelings about him lay naked between us.

I knew the blow was coming. He hit me hard and sent me sprawling across the kitchen floor, with a ringing in my head. I ended up against the sink. Trying not to cry I pulled myself up. The bone-handled carving knife lay on the drying rack.

My eyes moved from it to my father.

I heard a sharp intake of breath. My mother understood the threat I was making; there was confusion and fear in her eyes.

Without hurrying, I walked to the back door. It was freezing outside but I hardly felt it. I fought to contain the anger threatening to surge through me and blank out all rational thought. The siren call of the carving knife disturbed me. I walked along the road and turned on to the cliff-top path away from the town. I knew my father would search for me at Col’s house, so I could not go there, at least, not yet. My fury ebbed, and I started crying. Not the wracking sobs marking the end of a melt-down, but steady tears of endless sadness at my strange situation, my terrible father and my loveless home. Starting to feel the cold, I turned back along the clifftop allowing me to approach Col’s house from the opposite direction. The coast was clear: no sign of my father.

I arrived at Col’s door and knocked. The outside light flicked on and Frau Schmidt opened the door to a shivering, weeping boy.

“Willi, what are you doing here at this time of night?” Then she saw the shivers and tears and whisked me inside to sit in the kitchen. Col appeared in the doorway.

“Quick. Get a blanket for your friend.”

Col reappeared with the blanket and they cocooned my shivering body.

“What is going on, Willi? Your father was here earlier, looking for you,” Frau Schmidt’s gentle voice asked.

I shook my head…I couldn’t speak.

Frau Schmidt picked up a tea towel and started dabbing the tears from my face – and then I watched her caring eyes change as the handprint on my face registered. They filled with concern, her brows forming a frown.

“Willi, who hit you?” she asked.

Col pulled up a chair beside me and clasped my hands in his, rubbing warmth into them.

Frau Schmidt stemmed my tears. Col went to the sink and filled a glass with water and brought it to me. I took a sip and handed it back, so Col sat and again held my hands in his.

“Can you tell me what happened, Willi?”

I heaved a shivering sigh and found a wavering voice. “My school report arrived, and my father said I had forged it.”

“But weren’t you top of your class?” Col asked.

I nodded.

“Did your father hit you?” Frau Schmidt asked.

I stared into her eyes. “Yes.” My voiced hardened. “I told him I despised him.”

Frau Schmidt blanched at my vehemence.

“And then he whacked me across the kitchen.”

Col wrapped his arms around me, resting his head on my shoulder. Frau Schmidt’s face held something I had never seen there before: something bleak.

Someone banged on the front door.

“I expect it’s be my father,” I said, retreating deeper into the blanket.

Frau Schmidt glanced at the door. “Willi, does your father speak German?”

I shook my head.

“Well, if I need to say something to the two of you, I will speak German.”

A volley of hard thumps rattled the door.

“Go into the lounge room but leave the door ajar so you can hear – and unlock the veranda door, so you can escape. Go.”

From the lounge, we heard Frau Schmidt slip on the safety chain and then open the front door. It slammed back against the chain, leaving the door open a few inches.

“I want my son,” my father shouted, angrily.

An arm reached through the gap, trying to snag the chain and release it.

“Why? So you can hit him again?” Frau Schmidt’s voice held an edge I’d not heard before – hard, uncompromising.

“You Nazi bitch – give me my son.”

Frau Schmidt gave a low, contemptuous laugh. “Ach so. Because I am German you think I am a Nazi?” Her voice slowed, dripping derision. “You have no idea how wrong you are.” She rolled up her left sleeve, baring her forearm.

“See these numbers? I expect you know what they signify.” She paused. When she continued, her voice was low but intense enough for us to hear. “They mean you cannot scare me. I had Elfriede Muller and the other SS scum in Ravensbrück at me for five years and you think you can scare me?” Her voice was contemptuous. “You are a bag of wind. Go home.”

“John. John.” My mother arrived behind my father, panting for breath. “Please stop this and come home.” Her voice cracked. “Please John, come home. You’re making a spectacle of yourself. We can deal with this in the morning when things will be clearer.”

Frau Schmidt stood there. “Yes, go home. I will come tomorrow to your house and we will talk. Tonight, Willi stays here.”

“Please John.”

My father’s arm retreated, and Frau Schmidt stood there staring out into the darkness. I heard some muffled conversation beyond the front door and then footsteps fading down the path. After a minute Frau Schmidt closed the door, walked into the kitchen and sat down. Col and I came out and sat down with her at the table. Her eyes were closed, and her fingers were trembling.

That was a preview of Through my Eyes. Again.. To read the rest purchase the book.

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