“I suggest you go home for a while. Rest, have a bath, then spend some time with your family. Give yourself space to decide what you’d like to do.” He stands and hands me his trench coat.
“I suggest you borrow my coat – cover yourself up! If you should decide to return to Anne, you will need to devise something else to wear over it, unless you go back again in modern clothes.” With that, he bids me goodbye and shuts the door behind him.
With the professor’s departure, I cover my linen shift with his long overcoat. It swamps me right down to my ankles, making me look a little strange, with my bare feet popping out from below the hem.
I find it a unique experience walking to the student car park, jabbing my toes over the bare tarmac. It’s surreal that my little Figaro car is exactly where I left it months ago, or at least what I thought was months ago. Thankfully, the battery won’t be dead. The seat is comfortable and familiar, yet turning the key in the ignition and hearing the engine jump to life feels so weird having come from a world where no such things exist.
Driving home in the autumn dusk, the rain comes down in sheets, and the dazzle of oncoming headlights is intensified by reflections off the wet road. I switch on the demister and sigh as the realisation hits me that I may never be able to help Anne, to change her fate, or save her from the path set out for her. Accepting it is the hard part, and I guess that whilst I can continue to return to Tudor England, I will always have to take things as they are. I need to learn from the experience, as the professor said, and help and advise Anne where I can. I hope I can stay within those parameters.
Seven
Present Day – Carshalton, Surrey
I feel refreshed after a warm shower, washing my hair, and having the chance to do all those twenty-first-century things girls do: tweezing eyebrows, waxing my legs, using deodorant, having copious cups of hot tea, and eating toast with Marmite. Having realised I’d left my holdall back in the sixteenth century, packing a new bag to aid me against the perils of renaissance life is essential – I need to be ready for when I get the opportunity to go back, and I must go back, even if it’s just to retrieve my mobile phone.
I can’t just wear my shift if I go back through the portal – that would attract too much attention. I pull open my wardrobe doors and grapple around with a few large, zipped storage bags at the bottom. I grab one and pull it out onto the middle of my bedroom floor. It’s got my re-enactors Tudor gown inside that I bought from Gina Clark, the Tudor Dreams Historical Costumier, who advertises on social media. I’ve watched her Facebook Live dressing down videos many times – her dresses are as historically accurate as you’ll get, and my best choice if I’m going to return to Anne. I grab a big holdall, folding the dress and its underpinnings inside, along with the matching hood and velvet cloak. I’ve also got some cow-mouthed shoes, which will be ideal to finish off the outfit. It’s not as beautiful as one of Anne’s actual dresses, but it’s close to it, and will do the job, which is a big relief. I stuff aspirins and other necessities into a plain linen bag, as well as makeup, more toothpaste, a decent hairbrush, and a transparent lip-gloss.
I wish I hadn’t left my I-phone at Hever; otherwise, I’d have plugged it into my laptop and downloaded the photographs of Anne. Sitting at my desk, I open my laptop, log into Facebook, and check what I’ve missed. Nothing much. Just the same stuff I’d viewed before my time-travelling escapade. I decide to do some research to aid me on my return and check something about George, giggling to myself when I see portraits thought to be him, knowing none of them are a good likeness. Mum pops her head around the door, and I slam the laptop lid shut.
My mum is lovely, quirky, and intelligent. She’s not perfect, except only to me. A lecturer at the London College of Fashion, she is svelte and typically English, always dressing head-to-toe in navy or black. She is the mother of style, and is always busy, tending to delegate to save time, and is unsentimental with colleagues and students. The only occasions she shows any affection, is around her family. Her fashion hero is Christian Dior.
“Gawd, do you have to sneak up on me like that?” I’m hoping my sarcastic tone hides the fact that I’ve missed her – she has no idea how long I’ve been gone.
“Sorry, did I startle you?” she asks, coming over to my bed and picking up dirty clothes.
“Yes, you did!” I grin.
“Is this for the wash?” She picks up my Tudor shift from the bed, eyeing it curiously. “Gosh, this looks really authentic! Where did you get it from – Ninya, at The Tudor Tailor? It looks absolutely accurate, and perfect.” Gawd, I hope her seeing that undergarment doesn’t give the game away. To her, as a fashion historian, she’s looking at an artefact that’s technically over four hundred years old, and in perfect condition! She examines the stitching of the seams. “All hand-done, too. I will wash it by hand, to be on the safe side. Is that okay?” She looks at me with a hint of curiosity.
“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going back to university today?” She looks at the large holdall containing my gown. Her questions come at me ten to the dozen.
“Yes, Mum. I have a lecture this afternoon, at three p.m.” Why is she home, anyway? Shouldn’t she be teaching? She looks at me, lifting my chin with her free hand.
“You look pale. Are you sure you aren’t working too hard?”
“I’m fine, Mum. Honestly.” I shrug her off as she questions my comings and goings, and I brush off her curiosity by making excuses about spending time in the university library reading copious journals and papers, researching for my next assignment. In any case, she can’t grumble, as I’m a studious girl, intent on achieving the best I can with my dissertations.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” I ask. “Why are you home?”
“I have time owed for all the overtime I’ve done lately,” she says, releasing a long sigh, “but when I come home, all I seem to do is housework!” She slumps on the edge of my bed, still clutching the dirty washing.
“You work way too hard.” She looks tired, and grey bags have started to form under her eyes. Why haven’t I noticed them before? “Perhaps you should think about getting a cleaner?” I lean towards her. “I would help you, but I just don’t have the time.”
“I know, sweetheart. Your father and I want you to do well, so I don’t want to put any other pressures on you.” She retrieves a sock she’s just dropped on the floor. “But you should take a break from the study sometimes and have some fun. Go out with your friends. Haven’t you met any nice boys yet? You haven’t brought a boyfriend home in such a long time,” she teases, obviously hoping I’ll take the bait. George’s face wafts into my brain, as does Rob’s, but its best to keep my thoughts to myself.
“Seriously, Mum, how old do you think I am? Just because I live at home, and university is a long tube or car ride away, you still think I’m your little girl!” I laugh, wishing she’d be more grateful that I care about my degree and doing well for myself.
“Trust me, there’s plenty of time for men. I’ve got some fantastic friends from school and uni. Just because I don’t tell you where I am every second of every day, doesn’t mean I’m not having fun or even a few drinks in the pub with friends after lectures.”
Rob, of course, is interested in me, but as I don’t know where the relationship’s going, I’m not about to advertise him to Mum. We are just friends, really. He’s a massive Bowie fan – as am I – nearly twenty-two, a history graduate to be – also like me – and we often meet for drinks in The Greyhound Hotel, opposite The Ponds in Carshalton, a stone’s throw from my house here in Westcroft Road. It’s great because I can leave my refurbished little Nissan Figaro, or ice-cream car as Mum calls it, parked outside my home near the bollards and walk through the leafy suburbs to the pub.
“Okay, okay,” she says, her arms full of clothes
. “I was just checking, as your dad and I haven’t seen you that much of late. I was beginning to think you considered this house more of a hotel than your home.”
“Oi, I’m not that disrespectful,” I say, grinning and brushing my hand down her forearm. Dad says little – his schedule doesn’t allow him to notice much at home, with his work keeping him occupied. He treats me more like an adult, because he chooses to, which makes my life easier.
Apart from university, I have a few hobbies, like joining my re-enactor friends when they’re up for visiting Sudeley Castle or Penshurst Place, usually in my costume. Apart from that, I’m a normal girl who likes watching stuff on iPlayer or streaming something from the TV, as well as going to the gym and doing dance and fitness. Other than socialising, I love going to the cinema and hate essay deadlines. Rob’s a rebel, always cutting it fine with meeting dissertation end dates, staying out late, and generally having a good time. He’s gorgeous, in his own way – we met through our mutual love of music and history, and socials, which are a big part of our lives, whether it’s a night out, a quiet drink, or a day trip, or even just hanging out somewhere green and peaceful, like The Grove – the park opposite my house.
I’ve checked my diary and timetable and am prepared for whatever happens as I head to this afternoon’s lecture, which I must not miss. We have an exceptional guest tutor, the historian Suzannah Lipscomb, who I’ve met before and who has taught me so much.
The refreshments’ area adjacent to the lecture hall is awash with humanities’ students, hanging around with blank notepads at the ready, chomping at the bit to be allowed access to the university’s premier arts’ lecture theatre. I stand shoulder to shoulder with familiar faces as we filter through the doors to the large, well-lit hall, with its excellent audio-visual facilities. It is typically used for prestigious events and visiting speakers during term time and is much sought after for conferences the rest of the year. I secure a central spot a few steps up the tiered seating system, placing myself amid the action. After fifteen minutes of activity, everything finally stills, and the room is filled with a buzzing anticipation.
Professor Marshall enters, as does the head of the faculty, to introduce our guest speaker for the afternoon.
“Welcome to you all. Please seat yourselves quickly and quietly.” Both staff look around the room, observing the throng, waiting for respectful silence. Professor Marshall steps onto the podium, looking smart, his glasses wiped clean of smears and fingerprints. He seems excited and somewhat animated as he introduces our lecturer.
“Students and guests, along with the humanities’ faculty, it gives me the very great privilege to introduce to you the historian, author, broadcaster, and award-winning academic, based at the University of Roehampton, Professor Suzannah Lipscomb.”
We break into an enthusiastic round of applause as Ms Lipscomb wafts into the lecture hall, her floral perfume announcing her entrance. She takes the stage, the epitome of an intelligent, witty, and beautiful scholar, with such an enquiring mind. You can almost hear a pin drop. I feel torn, longing to be back with Anne in Tudor England, while also wanting to stay here and continue my twenty-first-century life. It’s a strange paradox and not one I’m sure I’ll ever get used to. Though I’ve only had one time-flip, it’s enough to know that I loved my extraordinary travelling experience.
Nevertheless, I must stay focused as Suzannah introduces herself. Her blonde, pre-Raphaelite curls cascade around her face and shoulders and her piercing blue eyes engage with every student as she removes her fuchsia coat and places it over the back of her chair, then unwraps her thick, woolly scarf from about her neck. Next, she secures her laptop on the table, and begins her lecture on ‘1536: The Year that Changed Henry VIII’.
“Good afternoon. I’d like to thank Professor Marshall for inviting me to come and speak with you lovely lot.” She smiles graciously to the gathering, and another short but loud round of applause fills the room as she opens her slideshow.
“Today we are going to discuss the big man himself, Henry the Eighth. There is something about Henry that makes us feel that we know him, although Hollywood does have a habit of reintroducing us.” The screen fills with pictures of Richard Burton, Keith Michel, Eric Bana and, of course, Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Chuckles fill the room, the noise diminishing as she clicks forward to show another slide. We look at a portrait of Henry VIII, c1536, by Hans Holbein the Younger. It’s the quintessential painting of the infamous Tudor monarch.
Ms Lipscomb continues: “I’d like to suggest that when you think of Henry the Eighth, this picture is what you actually visualise, and you attach to it all sorts of values, none of them particularly positive.” She smiles back at her audience as she points to the portrait. I pull out a large notebook from my bag and begin jotting down details of the last decade of Henry’s life, while Suzannah elaborates on the stereotypes surrounding him during that time. She smiles, almost knowingly, but not as knowingly as I smile back at her. If only she knew.
My thoughts drift, but I pull myself together and continue scribbling notes on how, when Henry came to the throne, he was known for being good-looking, accomplished, and kind. Ms Lipscomb clicks on several other portraits by unknown artists.
“Perhaps we have to rely slightly more on the documentary evidence than the pictures!”
This makes us all laugh. I know the chronicler Edward Hall said that he had a goodly personage, an amiable façade, a princely countenance, and the Venetian ambassador Sebastian Giustinian said the king had a round face so very beautiful that it would become a pretty woman.
According to Ms Lipscomb, the king wasn’t just good-looking, he was also very accomplished. Therefore, he could surpass all the archers of his guard. He was said to be a fine jouster and a capital equestrian, and could play musical instruments – in fact, he could play every single instrument in the room when entertaining visiting French ambassadors.
“Henry was also gentle in debate,” she says. “He acts more like a companion than a king. Apparently, the Venetian ambassador once said that he was ‘affable and gracious – a man that harmed no one’. In fact, it seems as if Henry, in the first twenty or so years of his reign, was the perfect golden-renaissance prince.”
It’s funny, because the way she describes Henry is precisely how he appeared at the Chateau Vert masque, and I’m anxious that if I go back through the portal, I won’t like the later prince – the king we know of as being savage, obese, cruel, and ruthless. I can’t imagine him being irascible, irritated, or capricious. The lecture is enlightening and engages all the students, who write down questions they want to ask Suzannah at the end of her talk. I want to know why she thinks 1536 was a pivotal year in the king’s life. My pages are full of spider-diagrams, crossings out, dates, and context.
The ensuing question-and-answer session goes on for over an hour, which is excellent, and the professor looks so pleased that Ms Lipscomb has given up so much of her time to be with us.
As students begin to filter from the hall, Rob is standing in the doorway waiting for me. He’s not what you’d think of as obviously good-looking; however, he is tall and dark, with a charisma that could charm the birds out of the trees. But what has attracted me to him the most is our mutual love and passion for history and his profound intelligence on all matters about it. Another thing I adore about him is his dress sense: those crisp, pastel, linen shirts, and the tight jeans that sculpt his bum – and yes, I’ve looked!
We often debate topics at the pub for hours on end, he nursing his pint and me with my usual alcopop – the blue variety. Everyone says Rob and I are an obvious match, and I agreed…before I ended up in Tudor England, spending so much time around George. Also, I don’t have the head for socialising anymore, at least not like I used to. And now with the portal and all it entails, I hardly have enough time to study, never mind be a girlfriend.
“Where were you at lunch?” he asks. “Are
you all right?” He stares at me. “You’re acting weird.”
“It’s nothing.” I can’t look him in the face. I can’t tell him I was with Anne Boleyn or he’ll think I’ve lost it. Not only am I finding it difficult to adjust to the time-slipping, but it’s also difficult to reconcile the length of time I’ve been gone with the reality that I seem to have lost only a few hours in my modern life. “I’ve been in the library. I had some books to take back.” I pinch my nostrils, trying to hide my dishonesty.
“Ah, okay. So how was the lecture?” He looks back towards the hall.
“Good, thanks. A great scoop for Professor Marshall to get Suzie Lipscomb here.” I smile. Now I pluck up the courage to look at him, and I feel my cheeks flush.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t go, but it clashed with a Classics’ lecture.”
“I thought as much. What are you up to now?”
“I was going to make a start on the three-thousand-word intro I have to do for my next module. I’m going to the library. What about you?”
“I’m not sure.” I’m finding it difficult to settle back into life with my friends and family, back in my real life. I worry whether the time-slip will work in reverse. If I spend too much time in the present, will I lose a year or more with Anne? I pull the strap of my bag higher onto my shoulder. People nudge passed us as they filter from the lecture hall.
“Rob, are you coming into town with us tonight?” Marc asks as he passes in the doorway. “You can join us, Beth, if you fancy it?”
We both shake our heads. “Not tonight,” Rob says. “I have other plans.”
“No worries,” Marc calls out to him as he joins his friends and heads down the corridor. Rob turns back to me, guiding me out of the doorway by my elbow.
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