In theory, therefore, all I had to do was come up with an algorithm which made it more likely for, say, Hanslip not to exist and the laws of probability would take care of the rest. Past and present would re-form to flow in a new direction to reach the easier destination. The computer simulation had demonstrated (even if it had otherwise been useless) that this is difficult — history follows definite, if broad, rules. The more dramatically different the future, the more dramatically different the past must become. But all I wanted was a simple tweak to take care of my little difficulties.
Time travel has nothing to do with either travel or time. The term is a sort of unfortunate hangover. When I went to 1936, I was not travelling ‘through’ time in any real sense; this has no meaning. Rather, I was making small adjustments to the totality of information that makes up the universe. It was like cutting a block of text from a manuscript and inserting it at an earlier point, which causes everything else to shift to make room. ‘I’ am simply a particular block of information within a much larger whole which, as far as I am concerned, seems like a different time and place. The version of 1936 without me faded out, and the version with me came into existence. I moved the string, to use my metaphor again, or, if you prefer, slightly changed the disposition of events on the scales.
Now I wanted to experiment with more deliberation to see if it would be possible to reconstruct my own point of origin, but with certain improvements. If I was going to go back, then there was no point in returning simply to be arrested and locked up, as I was sure would happen. The calculations for that, however, were way beyond my current abilities. I wanted to experiment with a grosser construct first of all to amass the data. So I needed a world so outlandish that the likelihood of it seriously challenging my own line of reality would be too slight to be worth worrying about. I didn’t want a nasty accident.
Fairly simple in theory. Very optimistic in practice.
My decision to go to England for the war was not merely a desire for self-preservation. By that stage, I had given up worrying too much about pursuit; I had assumed that Hanslip would at least try to send someone after me but no one showed up. It was true that I had disguised my destination and there was little juice left in the machine, but I had assumed that he would be able to do something. That he didn’t suggested he was much dumber than even I thought.
I began to relax. I had been more or less living the life of a hermit; I had only casual acquaintances, no one who might (for example) refer to me in a diary or letter that stood a chance of surviving, just in case. I avoided important or notable people and steered clear of officialdom as much as possible. I was stuck, however, with my name. The psychiatrists got it out of me in my delirium, and it was too late to change.
Two years in, though, and I felt much safer and began to explore the mysteries of friendship. The world had many attractions, and I was missing most of them. I was also becoming a little complacent and rash. What possible danger could I face in Europe in 1939?
One day that spring, while driving into Collioure, I stopped to get some petrol and water for the radiator at a small village. I loved that part of the world, not least because the first time I had seen it the whole area had been a barren, scorched wasteland. To see it in its glory — the pine trees, the vegetation, the olives, the vines, the sea still blue and alive — was glorious beyond words. I settled there, mainly because the place had lodged in my mind as being important.
This time, rather than watching with interest as the man slowly filled the tank and the radiator and washed the windscreen, I crossed over to the bar for a drink for myself. It was just over the road from the railway station.
I ordered a cold glass of local white wine with some bread and, when it was delivered, took a sip and looked around me.
There, at the only other table in this dusty little bar, was Lucien Grange, reading a newspaper.
My cry of shock must have been quite loud; if not, then the way I suddenly stood up, knocked over the chair and table and sent the bowl of rather tasty sausage spinning across the floor may have been what attracted attention. Either way, I was noticed. He saw my distress and himself got up.
‘Is anything the matter, madam?’ he asked in perfect French.
‘No, thank you so much,’ I said, still trembling. I examined him carefully, then began to relax. It was close. The same nose, the same eyes, the same mouth. But it wasn’t him. The moment I could collect myself enough and be calm I knew it wasn’t him. The voice was different, the shape similar, but not similar enough...
‘Forgive me,’ I said, as the waiter came over, grumbled and began repairing the damage I had caused. ‘You so greatly resembled someone I knew.’
‘I’m afraid it cannot be,’ he replied. ‘I could never have forgotten meeting you.’
Charmed? Of course I was; it was delivered handsomely, and I was unused to such rhetorical devices.
‘You must have thought me terribly clumsy.’
‘On the contrary. It brightened up a tedious time waiting for my train. May I offer you a replacement for your drink?’
Of course he might. He did.
‘May I introduce myself?’ he said once it was delivered. ‘My name is Henry Lytten.’
I suppose it was Henry who took the full force of my desire to explore the nature of human interactions, and the fact that (I suspected) he was the ancestor of someone I knew made me cling to him in a way I had never experienced before. I didn’t exactly kidnap him, but very nearly: I took him back to my little house in the hills, and he stayed with me for three weeks. By the end we were firm friends. He was a kind, gentle fellow, and put up with me: not easy considering the huge outpouring of entirely raw and uncontrolled emotions that erupted from me in those days. When I was angry I was murderous; when affectionate, then such love had never been felt before by any human being. My hunger was insatiable, my thirst unquenchable and I once laughed so hard I had to go into hospital for three days because of the torn muscles. I learned to avoid Walt Disney cartoons, as the despair at watching the cruelty inflicted on Snow White by that horrid Witch was so great it took me weeks to recover. As for Romeo and Juliet... Henry took me to see it in Stratford in 1941, with Margaretta Scott as Juliet; I nearly expired from sheer anguish. I was quite sophisticated by that stage, but was hard pressed not to leap onto the stage, grab the knife and kill myself in order to spare her. Only the thought of Henry’s embarrassment made me stop myself.
What I mean is that it took a lot of practice to get these emotions under control, and Henry, dear man, taught me more than anyone, with patience and kindness. Do you know, I even thought of marrying him? But how could I have possibly done such a thing? I still planned to go home one day and we were ageing at different rates. I had habits (drink, drugs and work, mainly) which he could not understand. Great friends make bad spouses. I cannot easily say how much I regretted it. I almost abandoned everything, just for the sake of happiness. It was the first time in my life I had ever loved anybody. The realisation that I could, and the extraordinary impact on me in comparison to the chemically induced emotions I was used to, made me think deeply. Did I really want to go back to a place where such things were illegal, where people conducted themselves only in a narrow range of efficient civility?
I fear I hurt poor Henry, but I think that even he realised that I would have been a difficult partner; he had certainly seen enough to know that I would be, at best, an uncertain companion who would not easily fit into the quiet contemplative life he had in mind. On the other hand, he never found anyone to take my place. I regret that too; had I not come into his life then perhaps he would not have become the slightly reclusive figure of later years, although considering the polite and distant way most of his contemporaries dealt with their marital relationships I am not sure he was missing so very much.