I don’t know what I need. But I’m too tired and emotionally exhausted to process anything at this moment, so I focus on the practicalities: the ten-minute walk to the station, fiddling around with notes and coins at the self-service ticket machine – something I haven’t done in a long time – and then finally plopping myself down on an empty seat in a commuter train heading towards London in eight minutes’ time. Orpington is the start of this route, otherwise I’d have been standing, and the rest of the seatsfill quickly. It feels like hours before the packed train finally pulls away. Thankfully, It’s only a handful of stops to Beckenham Junction and I should be there in under twenty minutes.
As the train rumbles out of the station, I stare blankly ahead. My brain is stalled and I have no idea how to jump-start it again. I’m vaguely aware of train doors opening and closing, of people getting on and off. Somebody trying to edge their way down the aisle whacks me in the side of the head with their massive tote bag but all I do is blink slowly, then keep staring.
Eventually, my gaze is snagged by the front page of the newspaper the man opposite me is reading.Ferry sinks off coast of South Korea, the type at the top announces. There’s a picture of stormy seas and rescue boats. My gaze drifts to another picture down to one side – the Princess of Wales greeting crowds and accepting a bouquet from a child, but the headline causes me to do a double take. The mistake I spot is only amusing enough to warrant a gentle huff but I burst out laughing, and then I find I can’t stop. A couple of people narrow their eyes at me, but the woman sitting next to the guy with the newspaper smiles back. ‘What’s so funny?’ she asks.
I shake my head, knowing I should clamp my lips together and try to keep it in, but it’s as if the absurdity of my life has finally caught up with me. ‘It’s stupid, really … but you’d thinkThe Timeswould get it right, wouldn’t you?’
The guy with the paper realizes we’re discussing his reading material and gives me a quizzical look as he closes the paper and inspects the front page. ‘What did they get wrong?’ he asks me, and I get the impression he’s about to be offended if his daily paper has let him down. I almost don’t want to mention it.
‘The Royal tour in Australia – they’ve called William the Duke of Cambridge.’
Both of my travelling companions frown. ‘What else are they supposed to call him?’ the woman says.
‘The Prince of Wales, of course.’
Newspaper Guy looks at me from over the top of his reading glasses. ‘But that’s Charles’s title.’
Now it’s my turn to frown. ‘Not anymore.’
‘Oh, my God. Has old Queenie given her son the boot and said Wills is going to take over next instead?’ she says excitedly. ‘I always said she should do that! Those poor boys … especially losing their mother in that way.’
Newspaper Guy rolls his eyes at both of us and opens up the paper again, clearly done with any form of commuter chit-chat.
I’m about to open my mouth and point out the obvious, but then I spot the date under the name of the newspaper. He’s reading a newspaper from2014?
Well, I suppose it makes sense of what I thought was a factual error. The woman next to him starts talking with the older lady across from her about how she went up to Kensington Palace with flowers when Diana died. I tune her out and study the man sitting across from me instead. He looks like a normal City type, no hint that there’s anything unusual going on there. But what does he do? Read the same old newspaper every day on the train into work? You’d have thought, after twelve years, he might have been in the mood for some fresh material. But then I think again about how I’ve been turning the doom and gloom on the breakfast news off recently, and I realize he might be on to something.
A pregnant woman gets on at Shortlands, so I offer her my seat and squeeze myself into the mass of bodies in the area nearthe doors. It’s one more stop until I reach my destination, so I’ll only be stuck in the crush for a couple more minutes.
Another newspaper is sticking out of the narrow bin next to the door. It’s one of the tabloids but I notice that it, too, is sporting the wrong date. Even weirder, it’s exactly the same date asThe TimesNewspaper Guy was reading.
I snatch it up to check my weary eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. No, I was right the first time: 14 May 2014. Perhaps I judged the guy sitting opposite me too harshly. Has this become a thing since I last commuted into London more than eight years ago? If it has, I have no idea why. I look around the carriage in confusion, feeling that something is off. I can’t quite put my finger on what – people are listening to their headphones or staring out the windows, just as they would do on any ordinary morning commute.
But then I catch sight of someone’s phone over their shoulder. The calendar app on the home screen is also showing a number fourteen as today’s date.
What is going on? Surely it should be fifteen? The fourteenth was yesterday.
Another message alert sounds on my phone and I realize I still haven’t replied to Priya and it sounds as if she’s getting a little desperate.
R U on urway? Not sure how much longer I can make up excuses for ur empty chair!
Whatisshe talking about? On my way where?
I’m about to reply, asking her what she means, when I getthe instinct to check something first. I pause, scroll out of my messages and return to my home screen.
What the … ?
My calendar icon also says ‘Wed 14’.
AndWednesday? The anniversary party was on Thursday. Today is Friday.
Isn’t it?
I’m still puzzling what this all means when the doors beside me open. It’s my stop. People inside the carriage start jostling, getting ready to squeeze through the bodies and get off. More are waiting to cram themselves into the already stuffed and humid carriage. I angle my shoulder, allowing myself to squeeze between two people, and step down onto the platform.
I weave in and out of the crowd until I’m standing at the barriers. After pulling my ticket from my pocket, I pause before feeding it into the machine and look around, catching the eye of the railway employee on duty. ‘What day is it today?’ I ask.
‘Wednesday,’ the woman says.
