That’s what it is to be an Englishman.
The thought rolled around Clive’s brain, sparking feelings of pride and nostalgia. He stood on the pavement outside his house and looked out over the town in which he lived. It was quintessentially English. The 12th-century spired church, the main high street, made up of a mishmash of shops and pubs, the secondary school (which he had gone to as a child), and all the houses plotted on the many estates. From his vantage point at the top of Hermes Drive, the main road in town, he could watch over it all. That’s how he saw what he did each evening. Stood there, with the first beer of the night in his hand. He watched over the town. His town. It was safe from the ravages and corruption of the rest of the world, and he wanted to keep it that way.
This Sunday evening, he felt an extra swell of pride. He and a small group of like-minded friends had been putting up England and British Union Flags on a string of lampposts. They lined the other end of Hermes Drive and up past the school. Kids needed to see these flags. He wanted children to know the real flags of the country, not some multi-coloured nonsense teachers were pushing on them, or some Middle Eastern terrorist banner. The flags that men had bled and died for. The flags that represented the history of his country. He wanted to unite the people of his town and let those not welcome know, he knew who they were.
40 flags up in total, all in time for St George’s day. Something to be proud of. He took a swig from his can of lager and smiled. He leant on his gate and watched the sun set over the town as the flags waved in the wind. This is what it is to be an Englishman, he thought. Can empty and sun almost gone, Clive nodded to himself and walked inside.
“Alright, love,” he called into the living room as he passed the open door, “Fancy another drink?” His wife, Britney, didn’t look away from the TV but raised an empty wine glass to confirm she did indeed want another drink. Clive was happy to oblige and grabbed another cold can from the fridge for himself.
Britney was watching some reality TV bollocks Clive couldn’t stand. He sat for several minutes, getting increasingly annoyed by the nonsense.
“What’s this crap you’re watching?”
“Child swap,” she paused to take a mouthful of wine. “Two couples swap their kids for a week and see how they cope. It’s dead good. This couple ’ere had five sons all under the age of ten and are now looking after these two teenage girls. It’s so funny, the dad doesn’t know what to do with himself and keeps accidently walking in on them.”
“Right. Do you think anyone would take our two? I’m not lookin’ for a swap, just for ’em to be taken.” Britney hit his leg in mock anger and chuckled into her wine. “How long’s it got left?”
“About another half hour.”
“I can’t stick that. I’m gonna go play Xbox.” Clive got up and sloped out the room and up the stairs. Even before he reached the top, a voice called out.
“Dad, that you? Can you help me with my homework? I need to get it in for tomorrow.” Clive rolled his eyes and walked into his son’s room. The floor was littered with wrappers, and several items of unidentifiable food. The only area that seemed to be clear was the space created by the door opening. Clive daren’t look behind the door to see what had been swept aside by his entry.
“What you got, Jared?” Clive asked, a weight resting on his shoulders. He dreaded being asked to help with homework. Wasn’t it enough he worked and gave the kids a roof over their head? It was the teacher’s responsibility to make sure they knew this stuff, not his.
“History. I need to answer these questions and give evidence.” Jared handed his dad a crumpled piece of paper with a series of questions that had clearly been photocopied many times. Clive looked it over but didn’t get much further than the title, “The Islamic Empire – life in the Abbasid Caliphate (750 to 1517)”
“What’s this crap they’re teaching you?”
“What? It’s just history. We’re covering the world during the medieval period.”
“Why aren’t you doing Britain during the medieval period? That’s more important for us.” Clive dropped the paper onto Jared’s desk, no intention of looking at the questions.
“We’ve already done that. This is to look at how other countries progressed differently to us, and if we could learn anything from them.”
“We have nothing to learn from them. You look at those countries and what you’ve got ’ere. They need to learn from us. If they had something to teach Britain, they wouldn’t all be trying to come ’ere on boats, would they?” Jared sat in silence for several seconds, not wanting to antagonize his dad.
“OK, thanks, Dad. Don’t worry about it, I’ll use ChatGPT to help.”
“Good lad, and let your teacher know, I want to see you doing more British history.” Jared nodded and turned back to his laptop, as Clive left the room.
Walking across the landing, he thought it best to look in on his daughter as well. Pushing the door open, he could see Chantelle was laying on the floor headphones on, her face lit up by the glow from her phone screen. No point disturbing her, he thought and moved on, closing the door behind him. He was soon sat on his bed, controller in hand and the familiar noise of the Xbox booting up. He skipped to his game of choice and started shooting up a terrorist cell.
“Dad, you better come and see this.” Chantelle’s appearance at the open door gave him a start, making him miss a crucial sniper shot. Sighing heavily, he paused the game.
“What is it?”
“There’s a man leaning on our front gate. Mum said he’s been there a few minutes drinking a beer.”
“What?” Standing from the bed, he moved the window to look out over the front. Sure enough, there he was. A man leaning on Clive’s front gate drinking a bottle of lager. “Bloody cheek. Sick of Chav’s, pain in the arse.” Before he had finished speaking, he was halfway down the stairs. Seconds later, he was nearly at the gate.
“Oi, mate. Get off my bloody gate.” The man on the street didn’t move other than to look round at Clive, storming towards him. “Are you deaf, son? Get off my gate or I’m gonna slap you into next week.”
The man laughed at the notion and stood away from the gate.
“No need to be so aggressive, my friend. I am merely admiring the view. Such a beautiful town, lit at twilight.” Now stood to his full height, Clive could see the man was several inches taller than himself but of a much slimer build. Clive was sure he could take him in a fight.
“Don’t you tell me what to do, son.” Clive pulled the gate open, squaring up to the stranger, who showed no sign of being intimidated. He lay a hand on Clive’s shoulder and took a small step back.
“No intention of instructing you in any way, my good man. We appear to have gotten off on the wrong foot. My name is Mr. Apate, Dolos Apate. I am merely passing through and was taken by the view. No offence was intended.”
Clive’s temper started to subside, a sense of calm creeping in. The stranger’s plummy pronunciation, which usually irritated Clive, was soothing him. Now clear of mind, Clive was able to take in Dolos more closely. He had a Mediterranean air, dark slicked back hair, olive skin, and warm hazel eyes. His smile was playful and Clive could not help but smile in response.
“Fine. We get enough riffraff ’round here. I don’t want strangers hanging ’round my garden.” Clive explained in a cooler tone.
“I understand your concern, and you have every right to protect your home. Let me offer you a show of good intent.” Dolos reached into his deep red coat and pulled out another bottle. It had no label, and the liquid within sparkled as it caught the glow from the streetlights. He passed it to Clive, who despite himself could not help but take it. Dolos popped the lid with a smooth hand gesture and took a swallow from his own bottle. Clive joined him. Within several swallows, the men were laughing together as though they were lifelong friends. “Well, Clive, I have to say this has been a splendid way to spend an evening. Learning about your town and family has been a delight. I will take into consideration your points of returning the country to an earlier period, to make for a better future. If only we could indeed change history.”
Having drank several bottles of the sparkling amber liquid, Clive felt flush with drunkenness. He finished the remnants of his latest bottle and saluted Dolos with it.
“You too, mate. Have a good one.” With that, Dolos nodded and started his journey down Hermes Drive towards the town. Watching him leave, Clive checked his watch and saw it was after 11pm. His fuzzy brain told him it was time for bed. In his happy little haze, he made his way back to the house, and with bleary eyed recognition of his wife fell asleep on the sofa.
The morning sun crept into Clive’s conscious, waking him. He was still sprawled on the sofa and was expecting to feel awful. As he sat up, he was shocked to realise he felt not only fine but refreshed and well-rested. The clock over the fireplace showed 06:07am. Balls to that, 3 hours until work, I could snooze some more, he thought, but not feeling he needed anymore rest he shrugged and decided to make a start on the day. Moving as quietly as possible to avoid waking the rest of the house, he showered, dressed, and decided to take a walk to see if he could get a paper.
The sky was clear, and the cool spring morning bit at his cheeks. Clive felt good as he opened his gate and stepped out into the world. As always, he took a second to admire the view. Something was wrong. The view he had seen hundreds – no thousands – of times was different. How was it different? Then it struck him: the church spire wasn’t there. No, hold that, the church wasn’t there. In its place was a building with a pillared front atop a tall, stepped mound. Clive looked around but nothing else appeared to be different. The houses were as they always were, and the usual cars filled the road. Curiosity getting the better of him, he made his way towards the new building.
Walking along the path, as he had done every day for years, he looked for anything else different. As he reached the edge of the High Street, he noted a pattern. Many of the houses had a small statue in the front garden. He had never noticed them before. He spotted another and took a closer look. It was clearly new. A figure of a woman, draped in cloth with one hand raised toward the house.
“Salve.” The pronouncement made Clive jump. He looked up to see an elderly woman walking across the garden towards him.
“Morning.” Clive responded, confused by what the woman had said. “Sorry, I was just looking at your statue. She’s very nice.”
“Thank you. We had her installed and blessed last week. I’m sure our last Lares was broken by those kids from the Pagan school. I can’t prove it, but you know what that lot are like.” Clive was processing what the woman had said as he watched her go about her business. She was removing a stale loaf of bread from the base of the statue and replacing it with a fresh one. She then arranged some flowers around it. “Always best to make sure Vesta gets the first bread of the day,” the woman chuckled and waved to Clive as she went back inside.
Clive looked up and down the street, confirming what he had seen. Several other houses had similar statues in the front garden. Feeling a little shaken by this brief encounter, he continued towards the pillared building.
When he finally reached the steps, he looked up at the building in front of him. The steps were steep, leading up to a large open space beneath a roof held up by massive stone columns. As Clive made his way up the steps, he started to see a grand statue sat at the centre of the open space. A carving at the base of the statue read; Ceres, may she bring you healthy crops. He was stunned. The building and statue were things of beauty but wholly alien to him. Turning, he looked out over the town. From here, he could see other differences. The pub across from him had always been The King’s arms, now The Imperator’s Sword. The school he had attended so many years ago, Saint Jude’s School, was now The Minerva Academy. Out on the park land, beyond the school, was a circle of large stones, standing proud where a playground should have been.
Clive slowly sat down, trying to understand. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone biting into an apple and a shadow falling across him.
“Salve, my good friend. How are you feeling this glorious spring morning? Parise be to Flora.” The voice cut through him, and he knew exactly who was speaking. Dolos joined him sitting on the step. Clive looked at the man, still in the clothes he had been wearing the evening before, but they looked as fresh as if they had just been made.
“What the fuck is going on? Am I dreaming or… wait, did you drug me last night? Is this some kind of drug-induced freak out?”
Dolos laughed cheerfully, slapping Clive on the back. “Clive, you gave me the most wonderful idea last night. You are right; the modern world is awful and needed a shakeup. Returning to a point in history and making a couple of changes, let’s see how we could make Britain great again. Does this great monument not impress you?”
“What the fuck are you talking about, change history?” Clive stood up and started running down the steps. As he reached the bottom, he continued running along the High Street towards his friend Jeff’s house. Running from street to street, the once familiar route felt less known to him. Street names were different, and gardens contained different alter statues. Reaching Jeff’s house, panting and sweaty, he fell to his knees. Dolos was waiting for him, sat on the garden wall, eating the apple, with not a wrinkled item of clothing.
“Clive, before you so rudely wake your friend, let me give you a history update.” Dolos walked over and helped Clive up. “Take a seat,” he said, patting the wall. Clive, not knowing what else he could do, took the seat. “Good man, I knew you could do it. So let me ask you a question, are you a Christian?” Clive looked at Dolos and shrugged.
“I mean, I don’t really do the whole church thing but, yeah. This is a Christian country; the King is the head of the church. I was christened. I went to a Church of England school.”
“You really aren’t as ill-informed as I believed you were. Well done. The thing is, you didn’t. Not anymore. So, another question. When did Christianity come to your country?”
Another Clive shrug.
“The Romans?”
“Very good. You may indeed get a gold star at the end of this. For you, the Romans took on Christianity as the state religion in 380 AD. From there, it was spread across the empire. However, now Christianity was eradicated by the Romans as a monotheistic cult and so it never took hold. The Romans enforced the worship of their gods across the empire and, despite the fall of the Roman Empire, and the movement of people to these isles, no other religious structure took hold.” It was clear Dolos was enjoying giving his history lesson. “As the kingdoms grew and fought, Roman ideals remained, and the kingdom of Merica enacted them in the most effective way, becoming the strongest. So, in 929 AD, the kingdoms did not unify under the King of Wessex, but the King of Mercia, Ceolwulf Titus. You now live in the Greater Kingdom of Merica.”
Clive’s head was spinning. How could he process this kind of information? He rubbed his face and stood up from the wall.
“So, what does this mean for me and my family?"
“Not much, really. You still have a dull and unfulfilling job; your wife still loves you, and your children are still embarrassed by you. However, you will have to get used to a couple of other changes.”
“Like what?” Clive shouted. Dolos stood and put his arm round Clive’s shoulders, directing him to walk away from Jeff’s house. The morning was still bright, and the sun shone on them as they walked back towards the temple of Ceres. They walked in silence for a short time, Clive regaining some composure.
“Ok, well. As history trundled on doing its thing, there were ripple effects. No Christianity meant no splinter religious groups: Catholicism, Protestant, Islam, Mormonism. Belief systems mostly remained polytheistic.” Dolos looked over at Clive, registering the confusion. “They believe in many minor gods and mostly kept their beliefs to themselves. There have been religious wars, but not on the scale you had them. Don’t worry, you still get Christmas, you just don’t call it that anymore. Call it Yule or Saturnalia, I’ll leave that up to you.
“As the Kingdom of Merica grew, it merged with Scotland and Wales to become one state with one identity. However, Mercia was beaten to the punch in starting the industrial revolution by Spain. No Catholic dogma meant they focused on other things. I know, it was a shock to everyone. In turn, this meant there was no British Empire, and so Mercia remains a medium-sized economic country. Not unimportant, but never the global player. Think…Sweden.”
“So, we’re a joke?”
“Well, that’s a matter of opinion. Dear Flo back there tendering to Lares Hestia seemed pretty happy. Prejudice against Pagans aside. Did you think Sweden was a joke?”
“This isn’t Great Britain anymore; it’s not my home. I’m a stranger in my own land.”
“Well, the land is the same.”
Dolos grinned and shrugged, and Clive was hit by a strong breeze. Blinking, he cleared his vision to find Dolos was gone. Clive looked up and down the street. It was empty except for him. Not sure what else he could do, he started heading home, wondering if the family he had when he went to sleep would still be there.
As he turned back on to the High Street, he kept his head down, not wanting to acknowledge the temple. Not ready to accept the reality just yet. Each step was leaden, a struggle to keep moving forward. He wanted, no, needed, something or someone familiar.
“Bonjour Clive, as-tu regardé le match hier soir ?” His name being called registered, but the rest of the words had been nonsense to him. Still reluctant to see the temple, he looked in the direction of the voice that had called his name. Waving to him from across the street was Jeff. He was carrying a newspaper; his hair was a lot longer than Clive remembered it being. Either way, it was someone he knew. Filled with relief, he ran over to join his friend.
“Alright, mate, you won’t believe what’s happened. I’m not sure I can explain it.” He was panting, but with each breath he smiled a little more until he was laughing.
“Qu’est-ce que tu as dis?” Jeff asked
“Are you ok, Jeff? Why are you talking like that?”
“C'est une blague ? Revenez plus tard, quand vous aurez arrêté de faire l'idiot.” Jeff patted Clive on the shoulder, and as he walked away called back “À plus tard, Clive,” saluting him with the newspaper, allowing Clive to see the name of the paper, Ouest-France. Seeing the name, some old French lessons trickled back into his conscious. Jeff had been speaking French. Jeff hasn’t been to France in his life. Sure, some holidays in Spain – you could speak English there and the locals understood – but France? Even if he has been trapped in a weird new country, at least the woman he met this morning had been speaking English.
Panic struck. What if his family now spoke French and he couldn’t understand them. His legs kicked in, and he started running for home. As he did, his foot struck something and he went arse over tit, landing on the steps of the temple, but they were no longer the steps of the temple. Towering above Clive was a steeple with stunning stained-glass windows. Pushing up on his elbows, he took in the front of the church. It had beautifully carved statues surrounding two massive ornate wooden doors, over which shone an intricate stained-glass window.
One of the wooden doors opened and a priest stepped out and placed a sign at the top of the steps. After several adjustments, he seemed happy with it and moved to re-enter the church. As he did so he noticed Clive laying across the bottom steps.
“Bonjour, puis-je vous aider ? Êtes-vous blessé?” Clive just smiled, waved and got to his feet. The priest smiled in retuned and disappeared behind the solid wooden doors. He got it: this was another game that prick Dolos was playing on him.
“Ok, what now?” he called to the empty street. “I bet you’re watching and laughing, aren’t you? I don’t know what you are, but you better fix this mess by the time I get home!” With that, he started marching towards the bottom of Hermes Drive.
As he passed the house with the statue of Hestia in the garden, he stopped to take a quick look. No statue, no old woman.
“If you want to knock on her door, I’m sure she will invite you in for tea.” Dolos suggested. Clive almost jumped out of his skin. When his heart returned to his chest, Clive took a swing at him. A punch fuelled by frustration and desperation, which would have done some damage had it landed. Fortunately, it missed by some distance due to the wildness of the punch and Dolos taking a single step to his left. Clive staggered and readied himself to take another swing. He was going to beat this posh twat to death if he didn’t get him home.
“Ah, now. I know what you’re thinking. Pourquoi m'a-t-il fait ça ? Non ? Alors, comment faire pour qu'il me ramène à la maison ?” His usual distinct English flowed into a fluid Parisian accent. It was clear Dolos thought this was hilarious. However, he maintained his distance from Clive, not wanting to entice another possible wild blow. He moved past Clive and took a seat on the garden wall and gestured for Clive to join him. He chose not to, standing tense and ready to fight.
“Fair enough. I understand your reluctance.” Dolos cleared his throat, “In 1812, Napoleon was doing quite well in his wars across Europe, but he overextended his forces when, in June of that year, he invaded Russia. This error led to his initial defeat and exile in 1814, before his return and ultimate defeat at Waterloo in 1815. Well, not anymore.” Dolos’ smile was broad and hinted at a malevolence not yet shown.
“So, we still had the Duke of Wellington.”
“Very good! Indeed, you did, but he wasn’t much use dead. In this reality, Napolean was able to form an agreement with Russia’s Alexander the first. That meant Russia would stay out of the European war, and Napolean would leave Poland alone. This meant all his forces could be directed to Spain and Britain. At the battle of Vitoria, in frustration at several mistakes made by his subordinates, Wellington rode to the front line to give direct orders. He was shot several times and died on the field of battle. The loss of Wellington left the British and Spanish forces in disarray; the retreat was brutal and bloody. It also didn’t end at the French coast. In 1815, Napolean formed his entire fleet and invaded Britain. The war lasted for another five years. London fell in 1817, and the new capital, York, fell in 1820.”
“Wait, so all of Great Britain is now French?”
“Not all of it, no. Napolean was only focused on the English you see. In 1821, he completed a treaty with the Scottish, Welsh, and Cornish, giving them the option to become part of France or separate and maintain trading channels. They chose the latter and, along with Ireland, became the United Celtic Nations in 1832.”
“The Cornish? But they’re English.” His anger was still simmering. He desperately wanted to wipe the smug smile off Dolos’ face.
“Are they? You may want to ask them about that.” The mock confusion needled Clive further. He stepped forward, his fists clenching. Before he could act on his anger, Dolos placed a hand on his chest, holding him back – with very little effort it seemed. Gentle pressure from the hand pushed him back, and Dolos stood. His deep red coat flowed in the breeze around his legs, further highlighting his stillness as his held Clive back.
“I think you should get home now, Clive, and start thinking about what you are going to say to your family. If you can make yourself understood.” Frustrated but knowing there was little more he could do, Clive pushed away from Dolos and continued his journey up the road towards his house. “Au revoir, mon ami.” Dolos called after him.
As his home got closer, he ran through what he would say and how he would say it. He pulled his phone from his pocket and started to look for a translation tool. It wasn’t easy, as everything was in French, but English to French should be there, right? Scrolling through, the closest he could find was American to French. That would do. How different could it be? He started typing ‘hello, I need to explain something.’ Looking at the screen, he was horrified to see a messaged “non autorisé,” even he could figure that out. His words weren’t recognised.
He tried searching for “American language” in the search engine he had. From what little knowledge he had, what came up appeared to be a mishmash of Spanish, German, and words that meant nothing to him at all. He couldn’t talk with anyone. He was alone. He felt sick. His hands were starting to shake. He could no longer hold in his emotions. He screamed. A venting of his feelings and what had been taken from him. It felt good to let it out, but it didn’t help his situation.
“Bloody hell, mate. You lost your mind or something?” The words shook Clive. He held his breath and looked to where they had come from. His neighbour of 15 years, Paul Jenkins, stood on the path in front of him, rubbish bag in hand. Clive couldn’t move. He was still shaking from his emotional outburst, and like a switch he started laughing. His whole body joined in with the laughter. He rushed up to Paul and hugged him.
“I’m so glad you speak English, Paul,” Clive blurted out. Pushing out the hug, Paul looked him up and down.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been doing it since I was little. How do you know my name? I’m happy to help if you’re lost, but I don’t really want to have some random nutcase outside my house on a Monday morning.” He turned and dropped the bag of rubbish in a wheelie bin. “Do you need me to call anyone for you? I know it’s hard to get the help you need, but if I can help at all.” Paul smiled at Clive, but it was clear there was no recognition.
“Paul, we’ve been neighbours for years. We’ve played on the same football team for the last six years. I’ve lived on this street all my life.” His voice was quivering; his thoughts were difficult to pin down, constantly shifting. Was this what madness felt like?
“Sorry, mate. I’ve lived here 15 years. Don’t know you. The Patels live next door, have done for at least 10 years.” Paul was moving back towards his house, clearly no longer happy to continue the conversation. “Look, I’m going to call the police, and I’m sure they can help you.” With that, he was back in the house, and Clive heard the faint sound of the door being locked.
Undeterred by what he had just been told, he knew this was his house. He knew it like he knew himself. It was his home. His castle. His refuge. How it could it be someone else’s, especially someone named Patel. Taking a deep breath, he rubbed his face and shook his arms, ready to enter his home.
“I would advise against that, if I were you.” Dolos intervened.
“Fucking hell. What the fuck do you want now?” His hand resting on the familiar gate, Clive paused as the strange man in the red coat appeared at his side.
“Mr. Patel is a gun enthusiast and will be more than happy to protect his home.” Dolos placed his hand on Clive’s and guided him away from the gate and brought them to the middle of the pavement and the view over the quintessential English town. The spire was there. The school was there. The park looked like the park he played football in. It was his town again. The familiar view was a thing of beauty and reassurance. A tear ran down Clive’s cheek as he fought back the feeling the sight welled up in him.
“OK, what have you changed this time?”
“You really are getting good at this. The Second World War ended in Europe in May 1945. Churchill was a hero to many, and it was time to rebuild the country. Time for a general election. Despite all expectations, Churchill won by a slim majority and was able to form a government. With a new Conservative mandate, the focus was on how to make sure costs could be recouped and the economy could grow. This did not include the creation of a National Health Service or robust social support system. Looking for ideas, the Conservative government looked to America and instituted a similar insurance healthcare system.” Dolos took a breath and placed his hands in his pockets.
“That can’t be so bad. It must be tough for some, but insurance companies have policies people can use, and what about company benefits?” Clive said, knowing that the other shoe was about to drop.
“Oh, Yeah, those exist, but other ideas filtered over as well. Gun control legislation has never passed, and the European Union had a more limited scope. So, the UK is much more reliant on America for trade and support.”
“Not the end of the world.” His voice containing a slight quiver, “We have our sovereignty. We can guide ourselves and who we trade with.” He knew he was grasping at straws and that they were inching closer to the real kicker.
“Yes, that is a simple way of looking at it,” answered Dolos, looking out over the view. The clear blue sky giving the small town a glorious fresh backdrop. There were several moments of silence as the two men stood and watched the morning pass.
“Where am I, if I don’t live here?” Clive finally asked.
“In your 2004, you had your appendix out. The operation was a success, and you were in hospital for only a few days. After that, life carried on and three years later you met Britney. History did its thing.”
“Where am I?” The sick panic had returned.
“Here, you were unemployed and uninsured in 2004. You didn’t think it was a big deal, so you decided to tough it out. Your appendix burst. You died of sepsis a week later, having suffered horrific pain.” As this strange man laid it all out, Clive reached under his T-shirt and felt the faded scar the operation had left. “Oh, you weren’t a special case. Dozens of uninsured people died that year from untreated illnesses.”
Clive was exhausted by everything that had happened in the last few hours. He needed to digest this new information and mentally prepare for whatever was coming next. He looked back at the house that had been his home for so long, then back at the view.
“So where does that leave me?” he asked.
“Well, if you stay here, it leaves you in a bit of a pickle. You’re dead and reality tends to correct itself soon enough but let me ask you something.” Dolos stepped in front of Clive. The smug smile that had been so irritating had fallen away. “What do you think of history?”
Unsure what he was supposed to do with the question, or how he truly felt about history, he decided to take a stab at an answer.
“I don’t know. I didn’t think of it being so changeable. A single event having such an impact over time.” As he talked, things started to crystallize and the events of the morning flashed through his mind. “I had never thought about how many things had to happen for everything to be as I know them. I should really have spent more time learning about the history of England and how the country was made.”
“It’s a start. It’s no ‘you there, boy, get me a goose,’ but it’s a start. I ask that you reflect on this a little more. I’ll keep an eye on you, and let’s see if the March history is kind.” There was a blaze of red, a blast of wind, and Clive was alone – apart from a bottle of sparkling amber liquid resting at his feet. As he picked it up, he considered that going out with a good beer wasn’t the worst way to go.
“You back, love? Did you have a good walk?” Britney’s familiar voice rang out from an upstairs window. Looking up, Clive saw her face. His fears and panic pushed aside. She was all that he wanted right then. He could no longer hold back the tears. He was overcome with the happiest sadness. Beyond the front door, the door he had painted and fixed, was his home. His family. Yet, how fragile it could be with the swirling passing of time.
Wiping his eyes, he chuckled and took one last look over the town. The flags flapping in the spring breeze, bright in the morning sun. They looked different now. They had always been a symbol of who he was, his own history, and how he was tied to England. Now he realised he didn’t even know how the flags had come to be the way they were. As he walked into his home, he was troubled by a new thought.
What is it to be an Englishman?