Chained in Time

by David Waine

  *

  Thursday, 8th September, 1988

  Roberta Henderson painstakingly warmed the pot before adding her usual two tablespoons of loose tea from her caddy and filling it from the boiling kettle. She then insulated it with her excellent tea cosy, hand-knitted for her by her daughter-in-law years before. It was her third pot of tea that day and would see her comfortably through to bed time in a couple of hours, although the last cup would inevitably be less than piping hot. There was no point in making a further pot for a nightcap, she told herself, because it would be a waste. That sweet Linda girl had brought her some teabags, so she could just make a single cup for convenience, but the box remained unopened. Roberta Henderson distrusted new technological things and Linda’s smiling assurance that there was nothing new or particularly technological about teabags had failed to dent that view.

  She placed the insulated teapot on her trolley-cum-zimmer frame and steered it slowly back into her living room. The journey was just a few yards, but it took her several minutes to complete at her age, and even longer to manoeuvre herself so that she could sit in her favourite chair comfortably, with her knitted shawl across her lap to keep her legs warm. Still, she managed it at last and sat back to regain her breath. She could feel her heart thump slightly at the exertion and reflected with a sad chuckle that the days when she would have been able to skip through the entire exercise in seconds without feeling in any way fatigued were long past.

  The living room of her flat was a throwback to the 1940s. Whereas most of the street had been modernised, her flat had not changed significantly since Douglas lived there. Even the china geese still soared over the chimney breast, although one of them had been minus its bill for a decade. The most obvious nod to modernity was her television set, only the second that she had ever owned, which took pride of place in the corner along with what Harry had called a ‘video’ when he put it in for her. She still had only a vague idea of how to use it, so it contained her sole tape permanently, ready to play at the touch of a button because it rewound itself automatically when it reached the end.

  The set was used mainly in the evenings. Her daytime entertainment was her wireless. The venerable wood-encased valve set with its vast tuning dial, on which she had listened avidly to ITMA and angrily to Lord Haw-Haw during the war, still stood on her sideboard, but was silent now, having given up the ghost in the 1960s. Harry, had replaced it with what he called a 'tranny radio'. She had no idea what that was, except that it was a lot smaller than her beautiful old wireless, was covered in pale blue leatherette, had cream-coloured knobs and a round tuning dial from which all the old stations seemed to have disappeared. There was no Light Programme or Home Service on this 'tranny' thing. Instead she had Radios One, Two, Three and Four. One was horrible, all pounding pop songs and squealing girls. Two sounded a lot like the Light Programme used to and she quite liked that. Three was just like the old Third Programme, which was boring because it was posh music and she was just an ordinary sort of person. At least she could still listen to The Archers on Four.

  Her eyes strayed to the mantelpiece, where stood a photograph that she gazed upon a hundred times each day and thought the same wistful thoughts. There he was, Douglas, cheerful in his sailor’s uniform with his hat at a jaunty angle, the words HMS Hood clearly visible on the hat band. He was grinning at the camera, their ancient Kodak that still stood on her sideboard, and holding two fingers up in the way that Mr. Churchill used to do. V for Victory. The country had its victory all right, but the price she paid for it had almost destroyed her. Every time she waved him off, she had worn a smile to hide the knot in her stomach. This photograph was the last she ever took of him as he boarded the great battleship before it was sent to hunt the pride of Hitler’s Nazi navy, the Bismarck. They found the German all right, or maybe it found them. The Hood was blown apart by the Bismarck’s furious assault and went down with all but three hands lost. Douglas was not one of the three. The fact that the German crew suffered the very same fate shortly after could not assuage her grief. Nothing could do that. Widowed at thirty-eight, and with a very young son, she had struggled on alone, adrift in a 1940s Great Britain from which she never seemed truly to emerge. Harry was a good son and he had become a good man. She was proud of him, and she knew Douglas would have approved.

  Now he was a grandfather in his own right, rapidly approaching retirement age up in Manchester where he had lived for the past fifteen years since moving there for his work. She so looked forward to his visits from the North and still worried whether it would be too cold and wet up there.

  She was alone, and yet she was never alone. It was not in her nature to bemoan her loss or feel sorry for herself. When she could no longer care for Harry, she had cared for others as a nurse. Now she was too old to do that and largely restricted to her flat, but still they came and saw her nearly every day, just to make sure that she was all right: the meals on wheels lady, the home help, someone from Social Services, Linda usually. She liked Linda. Often her neighbour, Mrs. Hopkins, popped in. She had dropped by earlier with a beautiful cake that she had baked herself. That was so sweet of her.

  Mrs. Henderson fished for the remote control and immediately decided against watching what was on. Much too intense and miserable. Instead, she turned on her video and a delighted smile spread across her face as both Ronnies appeared on the screen. Oh, she loved The Two Ronnies and usually laughed herself silly. She could never quite make up her mind which was Ronnie was which, but what did it matter? With her pot of tea, her comfortable chair, Linda from the Social, caring neighbours and The Two Ronnies, ‘Berta Henderson was as happy as she knew how to be.

  It was then that the door unexpectedly opened.