I caught the apple as it dropped – a reflex action I had not expected to end in triumph, despite our extensive preparations. Once the specific fruit was selected, the months of ripening and calculating the moment of farewell from its mother branch had stretched the capabilities of even our most experienced mathematicians. Our instructions were clear. There must be no trickery or sleight of hand. The falling apple should be managed by nature alone. And there it was – a clean take blending seamlessly into an extravagant flourish of the wrists followed by a studied bow.

Together with my sudden appearance, the improbability of my catch in a manner of knowing nonchalance must have startled the gentleman facing me. Yet he was not as I imagined; no frock coat, silken blouse and elaborate, powdered wig, but a strangely dressed man of middle years with wispy hair straggling over a balding scalp. His upper body was loosely covered with a thin red fabric featuring symbols and letters on the front. His forearms were naked, as were the lower portions of his legs. Still, I had been warned to expect some eccentricity, so I continued according to our predetermined strategy.

I leant forward and peered at him. Yes, I could see there was a capable intellect somewhere in there, but I had not anticipated the roughened and ruddy complexion that encased his brain. I suppose the best way to describe him was having the eyes of a scholar set in the face of a medieval peasant.

Gaping admiration was the anticipated reaction to our stupendous feat of technological brilliance. Instead, I received a quizzical expression and clapping of his hands. ‘Well taken, sir,’ he said. ‘May I know your name?’

Those first words were startling. Apart from the blinking of his eyes, he showed no signs of alarm or surprise at my shimmering manifestation. I dismissed the absurd notion that I was expected and cleared my throat.

‘I am Hungerford Dick, descended from the line of blessed Dicks. I have travelled from the year 2733 to assist with your mathematical philosophy.’ I was pleased with my well-rehearsed oration of the archaic language. I was advised to be direct, as this was one of the few gentlemen in this era who would welcome candour. The name I used was, naturally, a pretence designed to offer comfort and familiarity in my introduction. The guttural shriek denoting my real name had led to unfortunate consequences in earlier travels.

He stared, scratched his head, then looked up into the branches of the tree. ‘How very kind, Mr Dick. Is the apple significant?’

‘It is the beginning of man’s comprehension of the universe.’
He nodded his head slowly as if arriving at an understanding. ‘It will be a very special apple, then. May I have it, Mr Dick?’

‘Of course.’ I presented it to him with a swagger and a knowing wink. ‘May I call you Isaac?’

He bit into the fruit. ‘If you must, but my given name is George.’

‘George?’

‘Yes, indeed, George is my name, Mr Dick.’

‘Is George perhaps… a familiar?’

‘Familiar. Do you mean, is it a nickname?’

‘I think I do.’ I was beginning to feel a little… exposed… uncomfortable. Surely, after all the planning and algorithmic determinations, we had not alighted in the wrong place.

‘No, it’s not a nickname. Mmm, this apple is delicious, just ripe enough. Would you like a bite, Mr Dick?’

‘Gracious me, no thank you, that would be a dreadful contravention of our travel laws and may even lead to a sharp reprimand on my return.’ I paused to emphasise the importance of my next question. ‘This place, this location, this setting, goes by the name of Woolsthorpe Manor, does it not?’

‘You are correct on all three counts, Mr Hungerford Dick.’

‘And is the owner of this estate named Isaac? Or to be more precise, Isaac Newton.’

‘At one time, yes.’

‘Time?’ We had never faulted on our schedule before. Exactness in measurement was our strong point. ‘This is seventeen hundred, is it not?’

Mr George raised his arm and peered at a bracelet. ‘Approximately, although my watch has 1704 at this particular moment.’

‘It cannot be. That signifies an error of four years.’

‘Years.’ He shook his head slowly as though trying to unravel a puzzle. ‘I think you are confused, Mr Dick. We are talking minutes here, not years. I would normally refer to 1704 as four minutes past five o’clock.’

I was unnerved and may have let my avatar slip. Mr George flinched and stepped back as though he detected danger in my presence. After a few moments, I gathered my senses and said, ‘If 1704 is the time of day, what year are we in?’

‘You are confused, you poor old sod,’ he answered. ‘The year is 2026, and the month is July. There, does that clarify the situation for you, Mr Dick?’

‘I understand completely, Mr George, but confess I am more than a fragment bumboozled.’

‘You mean bam.’

‘Indeed, one could exclaim bam and bother to describe my exasperation.’ What was I to do? I could depart without another word, return to base and blame the travel technologists. But that seemed a touch impolite, and perhaps I should try to discover more about my situation. ‘Tell me, Mr George, are you acquainted with Isaac Newton?’

‘Ah, well, naturally I know of Sir Isaac – who doesn’t? He was a great man and, as you stated, began man’s understanding of the universe. However, he passed to a better life almost three hundred years ago. So, no, we did not meet personally.’

‘I see, and why are you here at Woolsthorpe Manor?’

‘Me? Why, I am George the gardener.’

‘Ah, so you are not the owner of this property?’

‘No, Mr Dick, I am just a humble gardener for the National Trust.’

‘National Trust?’

‘Yes, Mr Dick, and it’s time I returned you to the company of your coach party in the cafeteria. We were warned there may be strays amongst you due to a few in your care home suffering from early-stage Alzheimer’s.’

He tugged at my elbow, and I will admit that I submitted to his urgings, eager to inspect this place named cafeteria. I also needed time to think. If I could not impart an understanding of the universe to Mr Newton or Mr George, would I encounter an alternative human who could understand my message?

We traversed an avenue of grassy pathways bordered by clumps of colourful flowering plants and angiosperms until we arrived at an area covered with a durable surface material that I understand was known as tarmacadam. Here, all was hum and hustle with many humans murmuring, wandering and observing. I stopped, transfixed by the scene of so many people moving at will, with no apparent purpose or overall organisation.

‘Come, Mr Dick, this way to the cafeteria.’

I followed obediently. We arrived at a crudely built structure of stone, wood and glass that I assumed must contain our destination. Mr George opened a door and ushered me inside. I confess that I froze in a state of terror. Within those walls, the sounds of munch, crunch, dribble and swallow were too much for my refined senses. Confined within other reverberations of yatter, natter and laughter as the humans conversed, it seemed as if I was trailing in the wake of a thermonuclear rocket.

Eventually, I became aware of Mr George talking to me. His furrowed brow indicated a concern about my state of mind.

‘… you, Mr Dick?’

My senses began to settle somewhat. ‘I am well, thank you, Mr George. I was just wondering…’

‘Ah, I see: the menu. Decisions, decisions, eh? It is all scrumptious, and I can recommend the rhubarb and custard as a particular favourite of mine.’

‘Rhubarb and…’

‘Come with me to this table over here. I’m sure these ladies will look after you.’

I was taken to a group of three humans sitting around a flat wooden structure. They all appeared shrunken and grey: not old exactly, but ancient in the way of historic mortality. I assumed they were all female, as their radiation and emissions differed from those of Mr George. I did my best to offer a smile and a happy face as the three females introduced themselves as Enid, Mariella and Agnes. I would have offered my name in return, but Mr George spoke before me.

‘This is Hungerford Dick, ladies. He wandered off on his own, mistook me for Isaac Newton and presented me with an apple.’ He chuckled, then put his hands around my shoulders and placed me on a seat next to Agnes. ‘Perhaps you could look after him until your coach leaves. I think he fancies a bowl of rhubarb and custard.’

Mr George turned and departed, leaving me in the care of the three females. I looked at each of the three in turn. All sported benevolent smiles. I began to explain the purpose of my visit.

‘The ecology of this biosphere lends itself to falling fruit revealing the secrets of the universe. Hence, the mention of an apple. The physics of gravitational inertia will be my starting point…’

Agnes leant towards me and placed her hand on mine, saying, ‘There, there, Mr Dick, there’s no need for all that malarkey. You look a little peaky. Would you like something to eat?’

‘Eat?’

‘Yes, you know, place food in your mouth and… consume it.’

‘Here,’ said Mariella, ’try a spoonful of this.’

She scooped a few grammes of mush from her bowl and thrust the spoon towards my mouth. Before I could turn away and deny her offering, my mouth opened and accepted what I now know to be stewed rhubarb. Well, words cannot explain the orgiastic explosion of pleasure that suffused my being on tasting that rhubarb. I shimmered, shook and grunted my gratification at the pure bliss of that experience.

I may have shocked the three females with the carnality of my enjoyment and insistence on more spoonfuls. (As an aside, I should explain that eating, drinking and procreation are regarded as repellent relics from an ancient civilisation and strictly forbidden in all present-day societies.) The bowl of rhubarb was empty, but I yearned for more bacchanalian excitement.

‘What is that?’ I asked, pointing at a flat bowl in front of Enid.

‘That? That is cabbage,’ said Enid with an expression of distaste. ‘I left it. It will be cold now, but you’re welcome to try it if you’re hungry.’

‘Yes, I am hungry,’ I said, lunging my open mouth towards the food, hoping she would spoon it in.

She did. It was delicious. But in a different way from the rhubarb. Looking back, I can perhaps best explain the distinction by likening cabbage to a pleasant and satisfying evening of intimacy with a longstanding partner. In contrast, the rhubarb is akin to a relatively brief erotic act with the sexiest woman in the World, encountered for the first time during a sweaty night in a Benidorm disco.

Enough of my recollective musing. Rhubarb and cabbage changed my existence. Today, I am happily ensconced with Agnes in a Clacton care home, enjoying the forbidden fruits of life. I have Isaac Newton to thank for my idyllic existence. I need only mention his name or hint at the secrets of the universe to have Agnes rushing for the kitchen in order to satisfy my craving.