BOTTOM STEP

BOTTOM STEP

Ron Isaacs

The lounge was full of celebrities, local and national. The occasion
was to celebrate the launch of a new book by Dr. Henry Carson, the
first novel he had written since his retirement a year before.

"This is not the first time I have had a book launch in my home,"
announced Douglas Baldwin, the publisher, "but this one is very
special. After a lifetime as an eminent research physicist, Henry has
decided to turn his talents to writing non-scientific works. Tell us
about it, Henry."

The scientist, now past sixty, showed his age only slightly. Tall, with
a slight stoop and a full head of grey hair, he was remarkably fit for
his age. He stood and faced his admirers.

"I've written a lot in my time." he said, " An account of nearly forty
years of research in a couple of hundred scientific papers appearing in
learned journals all over the world. But I've decided that enough is
enough and it's time to try something else. There is drama in
scientific research and I have recorded some of it in this, my first
novel. But I must admit that none of my work would have been successful
without the full, patient backing of my wife, Cicely!"

Eyes turned to the lady in question. Not as tall as her husband and
still showing signs of the beauty of her youth, she stood, her face
slightly flushed. She bowed slightly, saying "Harry was often away from
home for months pursuing a project, but I knew it was important, not
just for him, but for everyone else as well. Even our three children
were aware of that."

Seeing Baldwin about to raise his glass for a toast, Harry hastily
asked "Before we drink any more, Doug, would you mind directing me to
your bathroom?"

Amid laughter, the host took Harry into the hall and pointed to the
stairs. "Up to the top and straight ahead. Will you be OK now?"

Receiving an affirmative reply, Doug returned to the lounge. Like the
entire house, Harry could see that the staircase was absolutely
splendid. Wide treads, with a magnificent ornamental balustrade, this
was the mark of a house of distinction. He began to ascend the
stairs.

Suddenly, when he had climbed about a third of the way, the hall lights
went out. Not only the hall lights, but no light showed through the
open door of the lounge. There was only the dim evening light through
the fanlight over the front door, and he could not even see the stairs.
Finding this all very disturbing, Harry continued his climb. He
continued until he lost his breath. Surely, he though, he must have
ascended more than five times the height of the stairs.

He stood and thought for a moment. His customary scientific logic told
him that if he could not get anywhere by going up, he should arrive
somewhere by going down. Heeling rather foolish he turned, supporting
himself carefully on the nearest banister, and began to walk
downwards.

For no apparent reason he lost his footing ad fell headlong. But
instead of falling down a flight of stairs he crashed to a floor. There
was no sensation of bruising, but being slightly winded Harry lay for a
moment looking at his surroundings. Now, instead of almost total
darkness brilliant daylight shone through the fanlight. He rose to his
feet. The hall and stairs were exactly the same as before, but were
covered in cobwebs. He entered the lounge. It was empty of both people
and furniture. What on earth had happened?

Harry passed through the front door into a bright spring day. He walked
down the front garden path to the gate. Secured to one of the posts was
a large "For Sale" notice. People were walking along the street and a
few cars passed. He was surprised to notice that these were all models
fifty years or so out of date. The same applied to the clothes worn by
pedestrians. Then a horse-drawn milk float stopped nearby and a
uniformed milkman began delivering clinking bottles of milk to some of
the houses. Harry realised that he had somehow been taken back to the
time of, maybe, his childhood.

Perhaps, he thought, he might visit the place where he lived as a
child. That presented a difficulty, for it would be a very long walk
and he did not have the right kind of money for the bus fare. But he
set out, finding the way easily. He was rather breathless when he found
himself at his intended destination. A little further and he found his
childhood home, looking exactly as he remembered it.

He walked gingerly through the front gate and knocked anxiously at the
door. After a few moments it was answered by - his mother. She was
young and pretty, just as he remembered her when he was small.

"Yes?" she queried, eyebrows raised in familiar fashion.

What was he to say? He could hardly tell her who he was. "I am sure I
used to live here a long time ago," he ventured, and curiosity, I am
afraid, got the better of me."

"That's quite all right," replied the lady of the house, "When would
that have been?"

"About fifty years ago." Blurted Harry without thinking.

"That's not right," returned his mother, "this house was newly-built
when my husband and I first moved in, and that was less than ten years
ago."
What was he to say? Should he just wish her good day and leave? Then
she broke the ice.

"You look tired," she smiled, "we were just about to have tea. How
about joining us?"

Thank goodness these were friendlier times that his own, or what would
once more be his own if he ever returned. Then he remembered his
mother's habitual kindness to strangers who were obviously in
trouble.

The table was laid for tea. His companions, could it really be true,
were his parents and a tousle-haired boy about eight years old or so,
whom he recognised as himself. This visit must have taken place, but he
had no recollection of it.

"What do you do for a living?" asked his father.

"I am actually retired," replied Harry, "But I was a research
scientist."

"Sounds like a good job," returned his father, maybe you're famous.
What's your name?"

"Henry Carson." replied Harry.

"That's funny!" called the boy, "I'm Henry Carson as well! But you can
call me Harry if you like!"

"There's a coincidence!" laughed everyone else at the table.

"What would you like to do when you grow up, Harry?" asked already
grown-up Harry.

"I'm gonna write books!" replied the boy.

"You'll be OK if you work hard at school," advised Harry, "especially
at your English composition."

After a little more pleasant chat, Harry decided to take his leave. He
shook hands with the others, and they accompanied him to the front
door.

As he stepped over the threshold he slipped and fell. His right hand
stretched out instinctively in an attempt to save himself, and he fell
flat on his face.

He found he had fallen on not a gravel path, but a pile carpet. Sitting
up, he found he had upset an umbrella stand, and several of its
contents were lying around him. Several people, led by his wife, ran
from the lounge. Cicely held his shoulder while Baldwin and one of the
other guests helped him to his feet.
"What happened dear?" asked Cicely anxiously.

"Must have tripped up as I came down." Murmured Harry.

"But to do that you would first have to go up, and you had only been
gone for about ten seconds?"said Cicely, her words trailing off as she
realised that he had been lying with his feet towards the stairs. Those
present, also realising this, looked at each other.

Harry was helped back into the lounge, put in a comfortable chair and
given a stiff brandy. "You know," he laughed nervously, "I have just
remembered that it was when I was about eight that I decided I would
take up writing!"

? R. J. Isaacs, 2002