The Silver Saxophone
That night, I didn’t sleep at all. I had an unshakeable feeling that there was something in my mind that I couldn’t quite grasp. I tossed and turned on my bed until 3 o’clock in the morning, when I finally fell into a restless sleep.
When I awoke, my mind still shrouded in the haze of sleep, a few moments passed before I began to notice my surroundings. The room was colder than before, and dusty sunlight filtered through a gap between thick grey curtains, sprinkling onto the jade-green wallpaper. I suddenly jolted into consciousness. This wasn’t my room! Panic replaced my drowsy stupor. Where was I? What’s more, how did I get here? I tried in vain to calm my thudding heart. Something gradually dawned on me: I could hear soft voices coming from downstairs. I decided that following that sound was my only choice.
I tip-toed down the stairs. The deep-red mahogany wood of the banister shone, and was cool to the touch. When I reached the bottom, shock rendered me speechless. It seemed as if I had gone to sleep in 2015, and awoken in a home from the 1940s! Women wearing blouses and long skirts and men with waistcoats and pocket watches bustled to and fro. Children were running around everywhere, and the delicious smell of home-cooked food floated towards me. I looked down at myself, and it appeared that I was also wearing an old-fashioned frock. I could hear the high-pitched sound of tinkling laughter, the clinking of glasses and jazz music drifting in from a nearby room. I was about to bolt back up the stairs in my panic and confusion, when I noticed a small boy surveying me from across the room.
He looked around eleven years old, had an oval face shaped like a sunflower seed, and a tall nose. His chestnut hair gleamed, a single lock of which fell down over his forehead. I stood stock still. He took a few steps towards me.
“Who are you?” He demanded.
“I’m Sophie. Who are you?” Then, I added: “And where are we?”
His large, almond eyes flashed towards me, and his face lit up with a cheeky smile. “I’m Douglas. And this is my house. 52 Bold street, Liverpool, England!” He spoke lyrically, as if reciting a poem. I had definitely never met him before, but he seemed strangely, achingly, familiar, as did the address. Before I could ask him any more questions, he grabbed my hand, mumbling: “Come with me!”
He dragged me into a richly decorated living room, and we seemed to enter a lively party. In the corner of the room, a woman in a red silk dress sat playing a piano. Stood beside her was a tall man, his dark brows furrowed, playing a beautiful silver saxophone. Hearing the mellow, sweet music, I immediately couldn’t help but be dragged back through my memories. I recalled sitting in my Granddad’s kitchen; we would often listen to jazz together, whilst he would tell me stories of his father, the best musician in Liverpool. Suddenly, the reverberating sound of enthusiastic applause pulled me back into the present. I looked at the boy, and slowly realised where I must be. He turned towards me and announced: “That’s my Dad! The best musician in Liverpool”.
Seeing the date on a newspaper, flung across the sofa next to me, confirmed my suspicions: 25th December, 1946. I had no idea how I got here, but I had absolutely no doubts: the little boy in front of me was my Grandad.