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The Incredible Adventures Of Sylvester Merridew


Chapter One

It was dusk and a thick cloying mist hung low to surface of the cobbled streets.

Sylvester ran his right-hand up and through the right side of his two-tone hair, the right side being black, the rest being white.

With his left hand he adjusted his monocle and then turned to Tabbi, a wide smile on his face of manic delight on his face; “Egads girl, the chase is on…”

Tabbi turned her head and, with irony she told him, “Yes boss.”

And, she was hardly surprised that he ran ahead; he was brave but very foolish: ‘Yet, that’s why I like him’, she thought with wry amusement, moments before she ran to catch up with him.

‘Yet, that’s why I like him…’ she thought, beginning to run after guardian, mentor and the butt of many of her jokes.

Sylvester Merridew ran helter skelter through the yellow fog, his left hand reaching for the warehouse wall now and then.

Behind him ran his ward Tabbi, so often his companion on these adventures.

His cufflinks, the right one, his initials embossed on it, glittered in the dim yellow light of the gaslight to his left, as his fingertips found the end of the wall and, the beginning of the alleyway.

He turned his head briefly and called over his right shoulder calling, Tabbi!”

And, having called her name, Sylvester gave a start, as the young woman appeared at his side.

As ever, she had dressed in entirely unsuitable clothing, for a woman, a tight, clinging woollen white dress with dark blue stripes on it, a heavy black leather jacket worn over it and, tough looking black boots on her feet.

Born of an Irish Mother and a Swedish Father, Tabbi was tall, yet slim; delicate and agile, with a sharp mind, which Sylvester had quickly learnt to appreciate.

Her reasoning skills had proven themselves many times since their paths had first crossed, all those years prior: since then, the out-of-place Edwardian Gentleman had grown to trust her judgement implicitly.

‘He’s out of time and place,’ she mused, watching Sylvester run farther ahead and into the whirling yellow smog: ‘or, maybe it’s me?’

Chapter Two


Suddenly awake Sylvester sat up, the duvet falling to his waist as he did so, then he lay back, wiping his forehead with the back of his right arm.

As per usual, he had gone from sound asleep to wide-awake within seconds, such was his desire to escape from the dream-world he’d found himself in the midst of, yet again.

Sylvester swung round, placing his bare-feet on the floor then stood, the coverlet falling away from his rangy frame, covered in white cotton one-piece long-johns and his hands on his hips Sylvester stretched backwards, giving a satisfied smile when he heard his back crack,

Once more, he looked round the small room, as he had since the first morning here, filled with ‘stuff’, little of it meaning anything to him; much of it he had little comprehension of.

He was grateful for his life and that he had somewhere to live, but hated the couch.

Padding through to the small kitchenette, he ran his right hand fingers back through his thick, two-tone hair and looked about. The kettle still puzzled him. Yet, he was not a stupid man and had watched his young rescuer many times. So he made his way to the wall-socket, cautiously flipped the inset switch and stood back. When nothing happened, he thought carefully, “What have I missed?”

Then he recalled the next step and, flipping the switch on the kettle he saw a small light show red. Within moments he heard bubbling, noticing steam emanating from its spout. He felt pleased with himself and grinned.

Minutes later, Sylvester returned to the small living-room, the gap of the top of the thick drapes suffusing the room with a warm glow.

Placing his coffee on a newspaper-strewn coffee table he reached beneath the couch, reaching for the small rectangular plastic device, still intrigued by the feel of the smooth material in his hand. He pressed the small buttons, in the sequence he had seen done, so many times.

In the corner of the room, the glass-fronted box on four legs spring to life and white snow on black formed into colour and the image of a man in a blue shirt with a maroon tie, with diagonal gold-stripes, sitting behind a panelled desk.

“And now for the morning’s news…” the fellow intoned, shuffling papers.


Chapter Three

Sylvester Merridew had arrived in Nineteen eighty seven via a break in the temporal vortex his machine had been travelling.

Needless to say, he had not realized what had happened, or how to fix it: after all, he’d acquired the machine, after its creator had disappeared with its prototype, years earlier.

Then, there’d been a garage sale and, he’d seen and been fascinated by the contraption he’d seen: The construction of brass, copper gears and levers had captivated him and, his keen imagination. It had a whirling disc at the back of a comfortable red leather couch, atop a metal bed, on a sled affair, with a control panel and steering column in front of the seating.

Bug-eyed, Sylvester had paid the moustachioed seller.

‘It was a delight!’ He’d thought, beaming with pride at his acquisition, as he watched the fellows carrying it towards a flat bed cart led by two large grey shire horses.

Down cobbled streets the tarpaulin-covered machine had been taken, until it reached the back of the Mews where Merridew lived, where he had a small workshop of his own. And there the machine had sat, for several days.

A pouch behind the seating provided a manual, but Sylvester only glanced at it, preferring to polish the sleds ski’s, until they shone, like the machine’s inventor had not intended.

Finally he had sat on the bench seat with a mug of tea in one hand, a dirty rag in the other, sighing with satisfaction, ‘at a job well done.’

Having swallowed the last drop Sylvester had leant forward to place the empty mug on the dash, ahead of himself. As he sat back the chain on his fob watch had caught on the red ball, atop a long lever, drawing it into the base of its slot.

Then, the disc at the back of the machine had begun to turn, slowly at first; and as it did Sylvester had held his hair in place, staring ahead goggle-eyed, as the air seemed to shimmer before and around him.

And, the disc had spun faster and faster, until his ears caught the whirring sound it produced. Still its speed increased further still, until slowly the room outside the shimmering sphere around the machine and occupant continued at an incredible speed, with the world turning and ageing at a rate he did not.

Stupefied, Sylvester let go of his hair, which wisped around his head wildly, as he had clutched at the column and grip before him, his knuckles turning quite white with the exerted pressure.

And, that had been when his mind had cried out from sensory overload and Sylvester blacked out…


Chapter Four


Dressed in her current uniform of short pleated tartan skirt, tee-shirt with a print of Queen Elizabeth the second, her eyes blanked out with a black rectangle and the legend below, ‘God Save The Queen;’ ripped fishnet tights and heavy boots, Tabbi had taken a walk down by the canals towpath, as she avoided the police. They were using; and ‘abusing’, in her opinion, “the suss law”, as many called it: and, she’d been stopped twice already that very morning.

And, all she’d been doing was go to the shops.

But, as she lived where she did, the seventeen year-old knew that she couldn’t afford hassle from the law, hence taking this shortcut, via the towpath

Kicking at a can, Tabbi smiled, picturing it to be a policeman’s helmet.

And, with that image very much in mind, she had kicked at a nearby length of copper tubing, yet there’d been no movement from the metal; no give at all.

‘The metals part of a bigger something,’ she mused as a thrum from the vibrating copper tub hummed in the air a moment.

Then she’d heard a groan, coming from behind some greenery to her right, where the other end of the copper tubing had disappeared.

And, following the metal into the bushes, Tabbi had found herself amidst twisted wreckage, beneath which a pair of legs protruded in dirty black trousers, with the feet in expensive black leather ankle boots.

Bending forward, Tabbi had cautiously lifted a large bed of metal up, noticing a red leather bench seat, which lay over the prone figure of a man, with shoulder length hair of black and white; and, wearing a red frock coat.

The man had groaned again and Tabbi knelt at his right asking, “You’re okay Mister, I’ll get you out of this then…”

“I’m alive?” The fellow queried, in a raspy voice.

“Yes,” Tabbi had reassured him, as she lifted some twisted tubing from his back; “not only that, but if you’re not injured, you’re free to stand.”

“Am I injured? Good question Miss?” The fellow had muttered as he turned over, then sat, with his back with his back to a twisted disc of metal.

“I’m alive!” He exulted, looking up at Tabbi, with wide eyes.

He had swept his right hand through his windswept hair, which hardly tidied it at all, then sighed. And just moments later, the fellow began to cough.

It turned into a coughing fit which finally ceased and, looking somewhat abashed, he had wiped a trickle of drool away from his mouth with the back of his right hand.

“’Scuse me Miss, it seems time-travel isn’t easy on the craft, or its occupant, it seems…”

“You what!” Tabbi exclaimed, “Time travel?”

Her mouth had opened and closed and, then finally she said, “You what! Time travel? You have to be kidding me…?

The man had sat up, brushed at the dust on his lapels, then proffered his right hand: “The names Sylvester, Sylvester Lee Merridew…”

Tabbi had offered her hand to the gentleman, who accepted it and, her help, with obvious discomfort.

“I’m Tabbi,” she had said to him, simply.

“Well Tabbi,” he began, “let me assure you, I didn’t think I was kidding when I paid a hundred pounds for one… ‘the first production model’, the booklet had said.”

“Booklet?” She quizzed.

“Yes, somewhere, midst all of this…” he indicated the wreckage, “there is a booklet, a manual as it were, on the construction and maintenance of the machine…”

Then, after a long pause, Sylvester asked the young woman, “So, what year is this?”


Chapter Five


“You weren’t kidding ,” Tabbi asked, “where you?”

“Kidding?”

“You know, telling a joke?” She clarified, “you do understand, don’t you?”

“I erm…” he muttered, looking confused.

Tabbi looked at Sylvester and said, “Somehow I think you need a cup of tea…”
Then she added, “Or perhaps something stronger?”

“A wash and a whiskey perhaps?” The dishevelled gentleman responded, running his left hand upward and through his hair, as he looked at Tabbi, looking as tired as if he had walked several marathons.

She reached for his right hand in both of hers gently and then smiled.

“I think we can do something about that…” she assured Sylvester, idly glancing behind him, at the red leather covered seating that had covered him, when she noticed a grey booklet, tucked beneath a leather slip.

Releasing his hand and looking into his eyes, a trace of amusement playing on her face, Tabbi walked across to the twisted pile of metal and retrieved the manual.

“Somehow… I think I’ve found some interesting reading material,” She told her companion, with a grin.

She took his right hand again, with her left, “C’mon Sylvester, lets’ get back to my squat…”

“Huh?” He expressed, in confusion: “Back to your… way of sitting?”

“No Sylvester, here in the twentieth century, it means an empty house, that’s been occupied…” She had told him, as they walked along the towpath, toward the steps leading up to the roadway.

“Oh it does seem that I have much to learn about this time,” he sighed, allowing himself to be led upward, then down the road, toward where she lived, passers-by looking at the disparate pair, with curious eyes.

Cars bemused Sylvester, as did traffic lights and electricity, she learnt less than twenty minutes later, as she turned on the water heater and told him, “Your bath water will be ready for you soon…”

“This reminds me of a different time,” he told Tabbi, looking around himself.
“What do you mean?” She queried in response.
“I used to have someone to heat my water for me,” he informed her, frowning at the mere idea of electricity, a power-source constantly ‘on tap’, as it were.

As she had listened to him speak, Tabbi set out two mugs and slipped a switch on the wall, then another on the kettle itself. Soon the whistling kettle announced that it was boiling and, Sylvester watched, as she poured the water into two mugs, each with a small bag inside; then she added milk, asking him; “Do you take sugar?”

“Yes… yes I do, to spoonfuls,” he answered, still fascinated by how her actions in making a cup of tea were so dissimilar from those he had witnessed when Mrs Brubaker had made his cups of tea.

“Now, Sylvester let’s go through to the front room and we can chat awhile, alright?” Tabbi had told him, leading the way through to the front room.

.

He sat, as requested, on her battered yet comfortable sofa, as Tabbi had sat on the sofa to the right, the television before them.

Accepting the blue and white striped mug of tea, Sylvester watched Tabbi with fascination, as she had pressed small buttons on a hand-held device, of a strange black material he’d not seen before.

Briefly he had looked round the room filled with ‘stuff’, realising that much of it was made of the same substance, although in many varied colours.

“What is that?” He had asked.

“A teevee remote…” she answered.

“Hmmmm… what’s a teevee remote? And, what’s that material it’s made of?” He queried, as snow formed within black on the television screen.

At this had Tabbi slapped her forehead exclaiming, “Oh-boy, it’s going to be a long night!”


Chapter Six

Tabbi had been right, ‘It had been a long night’, that had lasted well into the early hours of the morning, as the moving images he had seen on the television had led to so many questions, she had turned it off, then begun to try and answer his questions, as best she could.

Tabbi had begun with an explanation of the television and, how they were lucky enough to live in an area that could receive all four channels.

She had also explained the workings of her new ‘toy’, which sat beneath the large television, a VHS video-recorder, that an ex with ‘waaaay too much money’ had bought her to impress her. It hadn’t worked: the fellow had been a cheat and, she’d been grateful to be rid of him. But, she had kept the television.

That had led to a conversation about its power source, electricity. That in turn led to the merits of making a mug of tea, over the traditional method that his housekeeper had practised.

Finally, as eyelids began to close, Sylvester asked, “So, what were those four-wheel horseless carriages we saw on the roadway, that moved fast and were pumping out such fumes?”

That had led to a dialogue on the combustion engine and how it superseded the horse over a period of years.

Hearing that, Sylvester had lain back and slapped his forehead, “No more horses?”

“Oh, we have horses still. It’s just that they’re used more for recreation,” Tabbi had told him in response.

Thinking back to the news he had seen on the television he had then observed, “You have all this fine technology, yet still you wage wars; and people starve…”

As she has listened to the stranger from another time, Tabbi had drawn her legs beneath her, her mug of cold tea in her hands; “Yes,” the teen agreed with a sigh, “there are those who don’t appreciate what they have, while others fight against repression. Me? I sometimes wish this were a different time…”

Curious, Sylvester had asked what seemed an obvious question to him, “So, when would you have lived if you could Tabbi?”

She had grinned a Cheshire Cat grin before answering, “Me? I’d have been a punk, in the Seventies?”

“A Punk? … The Seventies,” the man had repeated, slowly.

“The nineteen seventies,” she had told him, sighing with exasperation: “And punks, they wanted to do as they wanted, at a time when England had a repressive government…”

And, though Sylvester had listened to her words; because he heard the passion in her answer, few of her words actually made sense to him. And, he was very tired, which made comprehension all the harder.

“But for now Sylvester, I think it’s time you rested…” She told the older man, who had begun yawning minutes earlier.

Tabbi had stood, collecting their mugs and went through to the kitchen.

“I have a question to ask young lady?” Sylvester said, as she left the room.

“Go on, I can hear you…” she responded, as she began to wash the mugs.

“Is there a reason you have one brown eyes and one blue?!”

“Yes…” she answered, “story has it, I’m David Bowie’s love-child…”

“Dave Bowie? You say that as if I should know that name…” Sylvester reminded her.

Re-entering the living-room teacloth in hand and a smile on her face, Tabbi grinned.

“Yes,” I guess expecting the Man Who Fell From the Past, to know The Man Who Fell To Earth would be a bit too much….” And so saying, Tabbi had begun to laugh.

Her laughter had proven infectious and, was soon he laughing hard himself and, it seemed neither could stop, until finally, panting, Sylvester did, “Why am I laughing?”

Abruptly she had stopped laughing herself: “You are tired Sylvester… and, so am I. We need to rest…”

“But first, tell me… who is this David Bowie you speak of?” He asked.

“He’s a singer… a pop star… he’s…” She had sought hard to find words he might understand. But, his frowns showed he did not.

“What’s a pop-star?” He asked, “You’re using words I find hard to follow…”

Almost shame-faced, Tabbi sighed and then had retorted, “I’m sorry Sylvester. I’m using terms of reference lost on you.”

“But then, she had added with feeling, “but then, I’ve never travelled in time. You have…”

Smiling wanly, his eyes heavy Sylvester had agreed, as he accepted the sheets and blankets she’d offered him.

“The couch isn’t bad Sylvester,” had assured the man, as he smiled his thanks: “Sleep well and, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Tabbi had said, as she closed the door with the grey manual furled up in her left hand, leaving the light on.

Minutes later, Sylvester rose from his makeshift bed on the couch and he crossed the room, to open the door and ask Tabbi to turn the light off, for him. There had been something about electricity he just didn’t trust.

Yet, the young lady, his saviour in a short pleated tartan skirt and heavy boots had gone to bed. And, much as he wished for the dark, Sylvester was if nothing else, a gentleman. That night, his first in the twentieth Century, Sylvester slept with the light still on and, blankets over his head, to create some semblance of dark, with which to aid rest. Yet, as a gentleman, he did leave the light on.

“After all,” he had thought, ‘She deserved her rest.’


Chapter Seven

Sylvester woke as accustomed, to a shaft of sunlight streaming through the gap at the top of the rooms drapes, where the curtains didn’t quite meet.

Wiping the sleep from his eyes with careful fingers, he idly wondered what day it was. Then, he reminded himself what year it was.

He eased the sheets off his lean, sinewy body, chest moderately hirsute, having slept in his white ankle-long, long-john bottoms… just in case Tabbi entered.

H swung his legs round then stood and walked across the room and turned on the television, having already realized that he’d slept on the remote, again.

And, although the couch was undoubtedly comfortable, as he’d been told all those months ago, Sylvester still awoke with aching knees, shoulders and lower back.

But, he had his exercises…

‘First though, the news:’ He watched ‘Good Morning’, having decided months ago that he preferred it to the informal manner of ITV’s morning show. Timmy Mallet, of the loud colours and large inflatable mallet derided hi brain cells, he thought.

And, as for Channel Four and, the levity of its presenters – well, he gave up the ghost on that one!

Having learnt that Secretary of State George P. Shultz had testified he was deceived repeatedly on Iran-Contra affair, Sylvester sighed, then turned the television off and made his way through the kitchen.

As the kettle boiled, he went to the bathroom to pass water. He then made his tea, before returning with it, to the living room and his can of beans.

In the past, in his own time, Sylvester had started his morning swinging clubs and now, since he’d begun to care for himself again, he had begun his old regime once more, after he’d watched the news ‘and, learnt of the world news that is!’

And having learnt to like doing them to music, Sylvester turned the radio on began.

As he began to swing his arms, the door opened and Tabbi entered the room, a wide smile on her face and a mug of tea in her cupped hands.

Her bleach-blonde hair was gelled and brushed hard back. She had ultra-tight blue-jeans on, big boots on her feet and she wore a tea-shirt, knotted high at the waist, so that the legend Frankie Says Relax’ just said, ‘Frankie Says R…’

Yet, it acted to highlight her flat belly and her belly buttons piercing that sported a safety pin, as did her right earlobe. Another affectation of hers that Sylvester did not understand – her dress sense, which only served to exemplify to him how little he fitted in this time.

But, Tabbi had saved him and furthermore, he’d grown to like her.

“What on earth are you listening to?” She snorted.

“It’s La Bamba by a band called Los Lobos,” he told her panting, gently swinging his arms, “they’re number one in the charts, this very week.”

“Shee-it, gimmee The Clash and White Riot… now, that’s to be listened to Sylvester,” she said slowly, as he continued his exercise.

He was breathing hard and would have to stop soon.

“And, you know that?” She asked, surprise evident in her voice; “That’s sad.”

Sitting down on the couch, Sylvester saddened a moment, then he looked up and smiled: “Perhaps…” he started, “Perhaps I’ve been to long in this time…”

“Now, about that…” Tabbi said to him solemnly as she sat on the armchair, “We need to talk…”

She looked at him a wide grin on her face, explaining; “Once I got the machine back together, I had to figure out what went wrong…”

Sylvester’s mouth opened and his breathing became slower, as he sat entranced, with his hands supporting his chin, elbows on his knees.

“You got it here? And, you got it back together?” He asked, rendered incredulous at the idea, suddenly sitting bolt upright, his mind wide-awake: now, here was news..

“I had a few friends help me bring the bits back and I assembled it down in the cellar, using the manual. And Sylvester…” she began, sounding very earnest; “I’m ready… Or, I should say… it’s ready, to use… All I’d had to do was figure out what went wrong and, I have…”

“You want to use it yourself?” He asked, unnecessarily.

She laughed briefly, “Of course silly… why else do you think I’ve been with that manual every night for the last few months, instead of a hot guy?”

‘Scandalized, scandalized, I refuse to be scandalized,’ Sylvester thought, chanting.

Still now, after all these months, her straightforward manner still surprised him.

But, he didn’t want to interrupt her flow, yet was a little irked, that she wouldn’t consider his sensibilities, sometimes…

So, he chose to ignore the remark, intent on learning what she had planned for his infernal machine.

Tabbi leant forward, her drink held in two hands, as she spoke with passion: “The only fault was the accident and, you hadn’t engaged the chrono-shield, or the spatial regulator. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” He responded, stunned that his young friend knew quite so much.

“Uh-huh and now, it’s ready, to use again… H.G. Wells first working machine made for sale…it’s ready for use!” she added, her voice sounding as enthusiastic as it had moment’s prior.

“Well Sylvester, I want to know; are you coming with me?” She asked with a broad smile on her face.

“When to?” He asked curiously, left eyebrow raised.

“Nineteen seventy seven, of course!” She told him, grinning maniacally.

Running his right hand up through his tousled two-tone hair Sylvester thought hard.
He’d learnt much while he’d been with Tabbi. ‘Now, maybe it was time to continue the adventures…’

He looked to his bare toes, then looked up to her eyes of brown and blue a long moment, before answering, “Well, if I’m coming with you, I’d best get dressed…”