I became aware of a low drone in the sky, and we both looked up, shading our eyes with cupped hands. It was the sound of aircraft engines, and I instantly identified them as a flight of Supermarine Spitfires. My heart quickened as they approached in an arrow formation, five aircraft in total.
Ours appeared to be the second aircraft on the starboard side of the lead plane, but I couldn't be certain from here. Suddenly, the sun pierced through the clearing rain, allowing me to see the RAF roundels painted on each fuselage. Number two sharply banked away, revealing his yellow underside, streaked with oil, then sharply turned, diving straight towards us, levelled off at the last moment, and roared directly overhead. Waggling his wings in greeting, he flew over the roof of the house to make a pass from the other side.
"It be your father again, Master Paul," shouted Jenkins excitedly. "It be him, all right! Second time this week!"
He looked around the garden.
"Now, where are the other children? Be madder than wet hens to know they missed him."
On its second sweep, the Spitfire came in low, and, strangely, the wings reflected a luminous green glow—it must have been a reflection from the trees; the sun was extremely bright.
I could see the pilot at the controls with his face mask hanging down so that he could get a better look at us. I waved both hands and nearly fell out of the window. The pilot looked directly at me. He was young and handsome with a neat black moustache, and I saw the white of his teeth as his face broke into a wide smile, and he waved back. He gave me a thumbs-up sign and pointed upward, signalling that he needed to rejoin the other aircraft. With one last wave, he pulled back on the stick and climbed steeply to regain his position.
"Leader One to Red Two, are you receiving me?"
Silence.
"I say again, Leader One to Red Two.
"Are you receiving me, Red Two?"
"Red Two to Leader One, receiving you loud and clear."
"Sorry for the delay, skipper; the radio must be playing up."
"Everything, O.K., John? You drifted completely out of position."
"Sorry, skipper. "I have rectified my course; I must have been daydreaming."
"Do you feel all right?"
"Fine, no problems." "I will get the radio checked when we land at Northolt."
"Leader One to Red Two." Stay alert, John. Report to me when we land. Roger, and out."
Flight Lieutenant Pevensie turned up his oxygen supply.
What happened there? I must have blacked out for a second, but I don't remember a thing. Won't mention it. I don't want them to ground me."
The planes were now out of sight, and I hurriedly caught the swinging window and closed it shut. I sat down on the floor with my mind racing. I felt elated.
I could interact with the story, but which story? I needed to think this through.
The pilot had seen his son. Jenkins also recognised me as 'Peter,' a fourteen-year-old in clothes typical of that time, but I was actually seventeen, dressed in modern attire. Jenkins seemed not to notice, but what about my language?
'Thanks awfully' and "all that rot!" Where did that come from?
The appearance of the aeroplane was quite strange indeed. I knew nothing about aircraft, yet I seemed able to describe the ones flying above us with accuracy and confidence. The character of 'Peter' and my own must have partially merged when the planes were overhead, and our separate personalities had momentarily become entangled.
But even this small deviation from an established narrative would have future consequences, and not only for the people directly involved.
Take Jenkins, for example. The character of 'Jenkins the Gardener' was not from the book, but he instantly came into being to fit into the new narrative, a man able to think and reflect.
He was a man who fought in the First World War, and the effects of his wounds are still with him today. A man, not an automaton, capable of abstract thought and capable of reflecting on the futility of war. A man who had lived for sixty years or more interacting with other people and events. The cumulative effects of his existence were simply incalculable.
Has Jenkins's voyage into existence carried an ancillary cast in its wake, and do these, in turn, have their associates in tow?
Is there a huge group of players now strutting the stage of an alternative universe because I said 'hello' to a gardener?
Nobody lives a life in isolation; every life touches another and creates an interdependent circuit that is inescapable, and not just from each other; everything in the universe is part of a vast web of connectivity.
Something terrible was happening.
My already fragile mind was ready to collapse, and there were enemies around me waiting to take advantage. They had me exposed and unprotected on the surface of my conscious mind.
I struggled to think straight.
I must dive into the dangerous, uncharted depths of the unconscious, a realm governed by chaotic forces beyond control, where the enemy would hesitate to go. However, I need a mental anchor, a strong memory, to secure me safely in my past and restore my sense of self. I must act swiftly before they set me adrift, leaving my mind's remnants picked clean.
Among all the thoughts bouncing randomly around in my mind, the one that surfaced was the memory of a pencil sketch. It had been my habit as a child to prop up a book in front of my face while lying in bed and stare at an illustration as I tried to drift off to sleep.
The picture showed a reindeer-drawn sleigh, loaded with brightly wrapped presents, that had come to a stop on a lonely country road. A table had been set up at the roadside, laden with seasonal food, and Father Christmas himself was sitting down to the feast. His guests were four familiar children who would free the land from the tyranny of a perpetual winter without Christmas.
'Merry Christmas! Long live the true king!'
The image faded, and the enemy was gone, but I could not wake myself, and in the way of idle thoughts, my mind drifted back to a dream of Christmas in my childhood.
My mother once told me that on Christmas Eve, there was magic in the air. I believed that if I was ever going to be reconciled with my true father, a shadowy figure I imagined, this was the night he would choose to come and take me away. Running to my bedroom, I pressed my face against the cold glass window, and the sight of the frosty night sky filled me with wonder.
Last-minute shoppers jostled along the icy pavements, carrying parcels in the High Street below. Christmas candles shone from every shop window, and in the early evening darkness, iridescent pools formed on the damp pavements, oily circles of light that mixed tints indiscriminately in a kaleidoscope of colour.
An hour later, I lay in bed, listening to the tick of the clock on the wall and counting down the minutes until my departure. A man selling hot chestnuts had passed, ringing his bell, and I pressed my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep in case it was Santa.
When I woke up in the morning, I found myself still in my pyjamas, tucked under the sheets, and I cried because my father had not come to collect me. The memory saddened me, and the loneliness returned. The enemy might have been manipulating my mood, but I felt only a deep despair that made my life seem worthless.
In the dim reflection from the window, I saw how scared I looked and felt ashamed. My head ached, and quite unexpectedly, I remembered a poster on my bedroom wall at home and smiled at the memory of the cartoon print.
It depicted a huge swan about to swallow a small green frog. The frog's body was already inside the wide-open beak of the swan, but the frog refused to give up. He was determined to fight until the very end, gripping his tiny, webbed hands around the throat of the enormous bird and trying to choke it.
The motto below says:
"Never, ever, give up."
"Never, ever, give up." Without thinking, I had spoken the words aloud, and to my astonishment, I heard a girl's voice from the other side of the door exclaim:
"There is somebody inside that room. I just heard a voice!"
The handle of the door began to turn; she was coming in, and my stomach tightened. This was it: first contact…