Standing on the platform at Derby station, Jack watched the departure board count down to his eight-minute connection. The local train led to Long Eaton, then a fifteen-minute walk to Breaston, the small Derbyshire village where Howard and Margaret Hartley lived.
His parents.
Except they weren't—not really. Not to the version of Jack who'd lived thirty-four years in another timeline, who'd built a career and a life before waking up here in 1976, in a younger body with memories that felt increasingly like someone else's inheritance.
Four months in, he was still answering to "Jack Hartley," working at Brabham, and slowly accepting that his previous life, if real, was gone. This was his reality now: this body, this name, this history.
And that meant Howard and Margaret Hartley were his parents, whether he fully felt that connection or not.
The walk from Long Eaton to Breaston took him through streets that felt both familiar and alien. The buildings were unchanged from this body's childhood memories, but Jack was viewing them through different eyes—eyes that remembered these streets in 2025, or thought they had, in a life that felt increasingly like a half-remembered dream.
He stood outside Number 47 Church Street for a full minute, staring at the wooden door and the winter-bare rosebushes. This house, his body's memories insisted, was home.
Jack forced himself to knock.
Margaret Hartley opened the door almost immediately, her face transforming from curious to delighted.
"Jack! Oh, love, we weren't expecting you!"
She pulled him into a hug before he could react, and Jack found himself hugging back automatically, muscle memory responding even as his mind struggled to process the genuine warmth. She smelled like lavender soap and the kitchen—a familiarity that made his chest tight.
"Hi, Mum," he said, the word still feeling slightly wrong but less foreign than four months ago.
"Come in! Don't stand there letting the cold in!" She ushered him inside. "Let me put the kettle on. You must be frozen. How was the flight back? We tried to find the race on television but the BBC didn't show it properly. Did your driver finish well?"
He followed her into the small, immaculately kept kitchen. It was exactly as this body's memories suggested: floral wallpaper and photographs chronicling a childhood he remembered but hadn't lived. He could see himself—his younger self, this body's actual self—at various ages, grinning awkwardly in school photos.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Jack said, "Seventh place. We had mechanical problems."
Margaret filled the kettle. "And did the systems you designed work properly?"
Jack felt a small, unexpected pang: she'd remembered what he worked on specifically.
"They worked well," he said. "The engine let us down, but my systems performed as designed."
"Then that's what matters, love. You did your job well." She smiled, setting tea in front of him. "Your father will be so pleased. He's just finishing at the shop—should be home in half an hour. Are you hungry? Of course you're hungry."
As Margaret prepared food, they fell into easy conversation: small talk about neighbors, questions about his eating, and pride barely concealed when she mentioned her son working in Formula One.
It was surreal and oddly comforting. Margaret was warm, genuine, and proud, making Jack's impostor syndrome flare and recede in waves. She genuinely cared about the Jack Hartley she'd raised.
The front door opened. "Margaret?"
"Howard, It's Jack! He's come home!"
Howard appeared: tall, with grease-stained hands and a weathered face. His expression shifted from surprise to pleasure.
"Jack! Wasn't expecting you." He pulled his son into a brief, firm hug. "How's the racing world treating you?"
"Good, Dad. Busy, but good."
"Building systems for Gordon Murray at Brabham!" Howard shook his head. "When you said automotive engineering, I thought Ford saloons. Formula One! That's something."
They talked easily while Margaret finished dinner, Howard asking questions that showed genuine interest. The atmosphere felt natural.
Jack found himself relaxing.
Dinner was simple, hearty, and familiar: shepherd's pie with vegetables. They ate at the small table, conversation filling the space.
"So what was Brazil like?" Margaret asked.
"São Paulo is different from Rio," Jack said. "It's more industrial. The circuit, Interlagos, is in the hills—a beautiful location, but the heat was intense: thirty-five degrees in the paddock."
"That sounds miserable," Margaret said sympathetically.
"You adapt. And the crowd..." Jack smiled. "Two hundred thousand Brazilians. The noise when Carlos Pace went past was incredible. Like a physical wave of sound."
"Pace—he's Brazilian?" Howard asked.
"São Paulo native. Local hero." Jack took a sip of water. "Watching him defend position at his home circuit with two hundred thousand screaming, that was special, even if the car didn't make it to the end."
"What happened?"
"Engine failure. Alfa Romeo twelve-cylinder—beautiful sound, tremendous power, but unreliable. Pace was running fourth with four laps to go, defending brilliantly. Then the engine started failing; he lost three positions in the final lap, finishing seventh. Zero points instead of three."
"That must have been devastating," Margaret said.
"It was. But the crowd gave him a standing ovation anyway. They'd watched him fight with compromised equipment and refuse to give up. He didn't score points, but he proved something."
Howard nodded slowly, something in his expression suggesting deeper understanding.
"The work must be fascinating," Margaret said. "Do you interact with drivers much?"
"Mostly technical, but the drivers come through regularly. Pace, especially, has been good about feedback. I've also been able to observe how other teams operate."
Jack hesitated, then continued, enthusiasm overcoming caution.
"There's so much innovation happening. Not just in cars, but how teams approach racing. In America, IndyCar teams are experimenting with data logging: electronic monitoring of engine parameters in real-time. Temperature, pressure, fuel flow—all recorded instead of relying on just driver feel and stopwatches."
Catching himself getting animated, hands gesturing, Jack plunged on. "If someone implemented that properly in Formula One, it would be massive. The weight is the challenge: regulations are strict, and early electronics are bulky. But in a few years, as electronics miniaturize..." Jack trailed off. "The team that figures it out first will have an enormous competitive edge."
"That sounds expensive," Margaret observed.
"It is, right now. But the technology exists. It's just making it light and reliable enough." Jack paused. "Actually, I'm going to Italy on Friday. Three weeks at Alfa Romeo's engine facility in Milan, working with their engineers to understand why the engines keep failing. It's an incredible opportunity to see how proper engine programs work."
"Italy!" Margaret's face lit up. "How exciting! Have you been before?"
"No, first time."
"You'll have to write to us. Tell us about Milan." She smiled warmly. "My son, working in Italy with Alfa Romeo. Mrs. Patterson will be so impressed."
Howard watched Jack with an expression hard to read: interest mixed with something else—perhaps recognition.
"And after Italy?" he asked carefully.
"South Africa in early March. Then the European season starts." Jack hesitated. "It's going to be a busy year."
"Sounds like you're learning a tremendous amount," Howard said. "Understanding not just your systems, but how entire teams work, how engines are developed, how the business operates."
"I suppose. I just..." Jack struggled to articulate it. "I see opportunities: places where innovation could make a real difference. And I keep thinking what it would take to actually implement those ideas—the team structure you'd need, the resources."
The words were out before he could stop them. Margaret's expression shifted: not disapproval, but something watchful.
"You've been thinking about this quite a lot, haven't you?" she said quietly.
Jack took a drink. "It's interesting to consider. Theoretical."
"Is it?" Margaret's tone was gentle but probing. "Because you don't sound theoretical, love. You sound like you're planning something."
The table went quiet. Howard set down his fork, full attention on Jack.
"I actually met Emerson Fittipaldi while we were in Brazil," Jack said, changing subject slightly but knowing he couldn't deflect entirely. "The two-time World Champion. He was there with his own team."
"His own team?" Howard's interest was immediate.
"Left McLaren last year—walked away from a competitive car—to build a team with his brother Wilson. Copersucar-Fittipaldi. They're struggling now, underfunded, but it's theirs. Complete control over technical direction, strategy, everything."
Jack could feel the conversation shifting beneath him.
"Their operation is smaller than Brabham—maybe fifteen people total. The garage looked cobbled together, equipment secondhand. But Fittipaldi was working on suspension geometry himself, not just showing up to drive. Everyone there believed in what they were building. It wasn't just a job; it was a project they were creating together."
"And that appeals to you," Howard stated.
Jack met his father's eyes. "It made me think. About what it would take to build something from scratch. If you had the right technology—like data logging—the right approach, and people who believed in the vision..." He stopped abruptly, realizing he'd revealed too much.
Margaret's expression had gone troubled. She set down her fork carefully.
"Jack," she said quietly. "Please tell me you're not thinking about leaving Brabham. Not after just months. Not when you have a stable position."
"I'm not—" Jack began, but Margaret continued.
"Because Anne Wilson's son Peter—three years older than you—left a good accounting position to start his own computer company. Now, Anne says he's drowning in debt, having convinced friends to invest, and they might lose their house. Anne is beside herself."
The warning was clear—maternal concern wrapped in anecdotes.
"And Mrs. Patterson's eldest, David, tried to start a photography business straight out of university. Lasted six months before he closed it and took a factory job. He's still paying off equipment loans."
"Margaret—" Howard began, but she pressed on.
"I'm not discouraging ambition. But we've seen what happens when young people throw away stable positions for dreams that don't work out. The economy is terrible. Jobs are scarce. If you have something secure that uses your degree and pays well, you hold onto it. You don't risk it for something uncertain."
Jack felt the weight of her concern—genuine fear wrapped in reasonable arguments.
"You want me to play it safe," Jack said carefully.
"I want you to be smart," Margaret replied. "I want you to think about your future—a real, stable future. Maybe meet someone, settle down, build a life that isn't constantly at risk of falling apart. Is that so terrible?"
"No," Jack said honestly. "It's just..."
"Not what you want," Howard finished quietly.
Jack looked at his father, seeing understanding alongside something complicated—recognition mixed with concern.
"I'm not saying I'm leaving Brabham tomorrow," Jack said, trying for middle ground. "Or even next year. I'm just thinking about possibilities. Long-term possibilities."
"Building your own team," Howard said. Still not a question.
"Eventually. Maybe. If circumstances were right."
Margaret's expression shifted to alarm. "Jack, that's not 'maybe.' That's risking everything—your career, financial stability, possibly your entire future—on something that might not work."
"I know."
"Do you?" Her voice rose slightly. "Because I don't think you understand what you'd be risking. Your father and I, we struggled for years when we were young. Real struggle—not knowing if we could make rent, afford food some weeks. We worked incredibly hard to build stability, to make sure you never had to experience that. And now you're talking about voluntarily throwing that away?"
"I'm talking about building something," Jack said, frustration showing. "Not just working for someone else my entire career, but creating something new. Using new technology—"
"With what money?" Margaret interrupted. "Do you have any idea what it costs to start a racing team? Even a small one?"
"Some idea, yes."
"Then you know it's not realistic. Not for someone just starting their career, not without substantial backing from people with much deeper pockets than us."
The emphasis on "us" landed like a stone.
Howard had gone quiet, his expression unreadable as he watched the exchange.
"I think—" Howard began, but Margaret cut him off. "You see it too, don't you? He has the same look you had: the same ideas about building something revolutionary. And we both know how that ended."
The table went completely silent. Margaret looked like she immediately regretted the words. Howard's expression had closed completely, something painful flickering behind his eyes.
Jack looked between his parents, understanding he'd stumbled into something deeper. There was history here, old wounds not entirely healed.
"I think," Howard said quietly, his tone leaving no room for argument, "we should clear the table and Jack and I should have a conversation on the porch. Margaret, we'll help with dishes after."
It wasn't a request.
Howard grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge. "Porch. Now." He handed one to Jack, and they sat on the small covered porch, looking out over the modest garden. It was February: cold but not freezing.
Howard took a long drink, staring out at the dark garden for nearly a minute before speaking.
"Your mother is frightened," he said finally. "And she has good reason to be."
Jack waited.
"1961. I was twenty-three years old—just about your age. I'd been working as a mechanic for three years, saving every penny, learning everything about racing engines. The 1.5-liter Formula One regulations had just come in: a new formula and new opportunities. Ferrari was dominant, but I thought there was room for smaller teams if they were clever enough."
Howard took another drink.
"I had a friend. Michael Donovan. Best friends since we were twelve. Michael was the driver—good reflexes, fearless, convinced he could make Formula One. I was the engineer, equally convinced I could build him that car."
Jack felt his chest tighten.
"We decided we'd build our own Formula Junior team—prove ourselves, attract backing, move up to Formula Two, eventually Formula One. Young and ambitious and absolutely certain we could do it." Howard's voice had gone flat. "We found a sponsor—a local businessman. Got enough money to buy a chassis, build an engine, and prepare for the season."
"Dad—" Jack began, but Howard continued.
"But we were underfunded, underprepared, working out of a rented garage with secondhand tools. The car was fast when it worked, but it had problems. Handling issues I couldn't solve with limited resources. I knew we needed more development time, but Michael was convinced we could sort it out on track."
Howard's hands tightened on his bottle.
"Third test session, Mallory Park, April 17th, 1961. Michael took the car out for a shakedown run. Something in the front suspension failed—we still don't know what—maybe a cracked wishbone, bad weld, something I'd assembled incorrectly. The car snapped sideways at ninety miles per hour. Hit the barrier nearly head-on."
Jack felt sick.
"Michael died in the ambulance. Internal injuries were too severe. Twenty-three years old, dead because I'd built a car that failed." Howard's voice was emotionless now. "The inquest ruled mechanical failure—no criminal charges. But the sponsor pulled out. The team dissolved. I sold everything to help Michael's family with funeral costs."
He finally looked at Jack.
"I made a vow: I would never set foot in a race paddock again. Never build another competition car. Never put another driver at risk because of my engineering. I became a mechanic—safe, stable, ordinary work. Built a life that had nothing to do with racing."
The silence stretched.
"I'm sorry," Jack said quietly. "I didn't know."
"Your mother doesn't like talking about it. Too painful." Howard took a long drink. "We struggled financially for nearly five years after Michael died. I couldn't hold steady work—kept getting fired for showing up late or missing days because I couldn't get out of bed. Depression, though that wasn't what we called it. Your mother worked two jobs to keep us afloat, and even then we nearly lost everything twice. It wasn't until I opened the shop—steady work, routine, something I could control—that things finally stabilized."
He looked at Jack directly.
"So when your mother hears you talking about building your own team, she's not just being cautious. She's remembering what ambition cost us. What it cost Michael. She's terrified."
Jack absorbed this, understanding now.
"But you understand why I'm thinking about it," Jack said carefully.
Howard was quiet for a long moment.
"The apple didn't fall far from the tree," he said finally. "I see it in you—the same thing I had. The belief you can build something better. The technical mind that sees problems and designs solutions. The ambition to create rather than just maintain." He paused. "And it terrifies me, because I remember where that led."
"But I'm not you," Jack said. "I'm not building in a rented garage with secondhand tools. I'm working at an established team, learning from Gordon Murray. If I ever did try to build my own operation, I'd do it differently. More capital, better preparation—"
"With what money?" Howard interrupted. "That's the practical reality that kills most racing dreams."
Jack took a breath.
"I've been thinking about Formula 3 as a starting point. Where you can prove concepts without needing millions. A single-car operation, properly funded, using technology like data logging to gain competitive advantage."
"How much?" Howard asked bluntly.
"About forty thousand pounds for a proper operation. Maybe thirty-five if I'm conservative, but forty is realistic."
Howard's expression didn't change. "That's not a small amount."
"No. But it's achievable. I've been saving—I've got about six thousand from Brabham. Carlos Pace introduced me to Brazilian businessmen who sponsor racing projects. That could be another ten to fifteen thousand if I convince them. And there are other potential investors I've been researching."
"That's twenty-one, maybe twenty-five thousand at best," Howard said. "You're still short by a substantial amount."
Jack met his father's eyes.
"I know. Which is why I'm asking if you'd consider being part of it. I'd need about ten thousand pounds to close the funding gap."
The number sat between them like a physical object.
Howard was completely still.
"Ten thousand pounds," he repeated quietly. "That's everything your mother and I have saved over fifteen years. Our security. Our retirement. Everything."
"I know."
"And you're asking us to risk it on a Formula 3 team that might not finish a single race, might fold within a year."
"I'm asking you to invest in something I believe I can build successfully. With proper preparation, proper funding, proper execution—"
"Michael believed that too," Howard interrupted harshly. "He believed he could succeed with the right car. We both believed it. And believing it didn't keep him from dying at twenty-three."
Jack felt the words land but pressed forward.
"I understand the risk. But I'm not asking you to fund a reckless dream. Your ten thousand would be the difference between making it happen and remaining a team engineer for twenty years."
"And if it fails?" Howard asked. "What happens to our ten thousand?"
"You lose it," Jack said honestly. "That's the risk. But I wouldn't ask unless I genuinely believed it could succeed."
Howard stood up, setting his bottle on the railing with careful precision.
"I need to think. This isn't a decision I can make alone; it's your mother's security too." He turned toward the door, then stopped. "Before I even consider discussing this with her, I need several things. First: proof you have the other thirty thousand genuinely committed. Not 'maybe,' but actual documented commitments. Second: a complete business plan—costs, timeline, technical specifications. Third: evidence you've learned enough at Brabham to do this, that you understand team management, strategy, and the business side."
He paused.
"I understand," Jack said.
"I'm not agreeing," Howard said firmly. "I'm laying out what would need to happen for me to even consider it. But Jack..." He struggled with something. "Maybe—just maybe—if I'd had proper support back then, proper funding and preparation, Michael would still be alive. Maybe better resources would have prevented the mistakes. I can't change what happened. But maybe I can help you avoid those mistakes, if you're truly serious about doing this right."
From inside the house, they heard movement. The kitchen window was open slightly—had been open the whole time.
Margaret had heard everything.