Time of Her Life

by Josephine Scott

  She had written back during her lunch hour, confirming the dates and giving him her middle name, Guinevere, a name unusual enough to be an embarrassment to her, but one which might help him track the family back, as her mother had told her it was an old family name.

  None of this she mentioned to Des; some things were best kept to herself.

  To keep him happy she said lightly:

  "A family member is doing some research. We've been around here a long time, it seems." He seemed satisfied with that.

  Back in the flat he looked at her with bright-eyed eagerness.

  "I'd like to repeat what we did the other night."

  "I'm sure you would," she replied, with a teasing smile, feeling her stomach flip with pleasure. "Before or after I make some tea?"

  "After. Give you time to think about it. I plan to use a slipper this time, Abbey."

  He's learning fast, thought Abbey, going to the kitchen. Very fast. The old Des, the one in the past, is exerting considerable influence down the ages!

  But hold on, not quite fast enough for our Des there; if he'd been a true dominant, and I'd sparked it from him, he wouldn't have asked, he'd have told me. And there would be no question that I would have to obey.

  Which brings me back to Lord Danverson again.

  Damn, each time someone wants to hurt me, I think of him!

  Tea and small talk occupied half an hour, both of them skirting around the subject, Abbey letting her slipper fall from her feet as if by accident, him picking one up as if to study it, then slipping it down the side of the cushion. Both knew what they were doing; neither said a word. It was a game, a sensual charade of silence and intimations.

  Abbey started a mock fight, pretending to scratch and pull Des" hair, he in turn pretended to struggle with her, both knowing what would happen. With a tug she ended up over his knees again, staring at the floor, wishing desperately for someone who knew, what they were doing, berating herself for being unfair to Des, when the slipper landed on an exposed cheek and made her sting more than she thought it would.

  "That's different." Des spanked the other cheek. "No pressure on the old hands, no stinging palm, only stinging you!"

  Writhing over Des" knee as he brought the rubber-soled slipper down with devastating force, Abbey began to revise her opinion. It might just be possible for someone to learn to be a dominant after all.

  Sunshine, the smell of resin, sawdust and oil, of farmland and all things growing. Abigail glanced down at a strange outfit she had cobbled together: high boots,- trousers, a sort of smock and large floppy brimmed hat. She had aimed for, and succeeded it seemed, in going back further than the World War II land girl scenario, and gone for the earlier women's land army of the First World War.

  Just to see what it was like.

  The clothes felt coarse and uncomfortable. She wondered how anyone could work in such an outfit.

  "Hey, you!" The voice was hard, and female. "What are you slacking for? Get on with it!"

  "Sorry." Abigail moved towards a large shed, wondering what it was she was supposed to be doing. The woman, stern-faced, grey-red hair, charged after her.

  "I don't recognise you, do I? Where did you come from?"

  "I've been ... sent here," she said in truth.

  "Well? Who sent you? Come on, I don't need any more of you females around distracting my men!"

  "Might not be here long," Abigail floundered madly.

  "Well, good, for all the use you are! Get in that shed and start stacking Jogs! Now!"

  Abigail hurried towards the shed, her boots clumsy on her feet.

  The shed was dark, loaded with dirt, grime and crawling things. She disturbed a nest of woodlice and jumped back, repulsed by the creeping armoured bodies.

  "Scared of a few crawlies? Damn townies, they're all alike." A male voice this time. Abigail spun around to see a weathered man looking at her. Ageless, with a face so lined and hard he could have been any age from 30 to 60.

  "They give me the creeps." Abigail dusted her hand down her smock, wondering if this was the person she'd come to see. Could he read the "I'm available" sign stamped on her forehead?

  He moved closer - then possibly he could.

  "You ain't from around here."

  "No, I'm not."

  "No, I mean you ain't one of the land girls I been seeing for some time."

  "No, I'm not," she repeated, feeling foolish.

  "Come." He gestured towards a little cottage set on the edge of the woods. Abigail obediently followed, wondering what she would find; the mirror was always on her mind, finding it, getting back to Real Time.

  The cottage was damp, masculine and drab. No pictures ornamented the stained old walls, the plaster bowing and threatening to fall at any time. A fire was laid but remained unlit, the table and chairs were scarred and battered. He saw her looking, and sighed.

  "Missus over there don't think much of the workers on the farm. We get what they don't want."

  Abigail followed him into the bedroom, wondering just how big the "I'm available" sign really was that any man could see it so clearly, or...

  When she went back to a particular point, in a particular place, was the man she met expecting a session with a woman? It was a question to be pondered later, when the fucking was done.

  "You be a fair one, and no mistake. No dirt under the nails, no dirt in the skin. My, how white you are." Her clothes came off, one at a time. She had a bad moment with the lace bra but he didn't seem to notice. And it didn't matter. Shivering with cold and damp, she allowed herself to be touched, her nipples sucked and nibbled, the feelings swamping her as always. It didn't seem to matter that the man was of indeterminate age and certainly dirty with farm soil and probably animals; it didn't matter if the fingers were finding all the nerve ends, making her jump, making her squeal with pleasure.

  "My, you be a fine one and no mistake." No wasting time, either - no doubt time on the farm was precious. Missus wouldn't like them taking half an hour to do what could be done in ten minutes. His cock hard and sure, they fell back on a lumpy mattress and made the bed shake as he entered her, hot and wet and ready, desperate for the feel of it all, desperate for an extra inch, an extra half inch, looking for depth and finding it. Large balls crushed against her pubis, pleasuring her more. She pulled him closer, held his buttocks, attempted to keep him hard against her.

  When the first rush of passion was over, Abigail looked at him with calculating eyes. She reached for the still-stiff cock, played with it, felt it stiffen even more and smiled.

  "My turn." She rolled him over onto his back, mounted him, feeling him go even harder as he slid into her. She pressed her knees hard against his sides. He stroked her naked pubis and smiled.

  "Don't see too many of them around here. How'd you do it?" She didn't answer. He rubbed her nipples with a circular movement, caressed her breasts, opened his mouth in a silent scream as she rode him to her second shattering orgasm.

  "My, I ain't ever had one like that!" he told her as she eased herself off him and lay panting and lethargic, on his cold lumpy bed. "You be one rare fine woman."

  "Find me a drink." She traced his chest hair with a sensual finger.

  "Of course, anything for a fine white lady." He slipped on old baggy underpants and left the bedroom, muttering "slut" under his breath as he left. Abigail knew that was his real opinion of her.

  As soon as he had gone Abbey snatched up her ugly clothes and looked in the mirror.

  The church was empty and cold, echoing with the sound of the huge wooden door scraping across ancient stone. A worn coconut mat, Victorian tiles, out of place, damp from the cleaner's efforts that morning. Abbey's heels clicked on the cold tiles. She walked around, absorbing the strange atmosphere.

  Here over countless years people had prayed and sung hymns, had come with fears and desires, with praise and with happiness. Here people had been christened, married, confirmed, and had come to be buried, carried on the shoulders of the
undertaker's men, mourned over, prayed over, and finally carried out again, duly blessed and purified, to be laid to rest in the graveyard outside. Something of that lingered in the huge rafters, the soaring arches, the faces grinning at her from different angles and corners.

  I'm putting off the moment. She told herself she was doing it, yet went right on doing it. The war memorial to the glorious dead made Abbey ask herself again what was glorious about being dead in the mud surrounded by bullets and the insanity of a war that consumed so much and gave back so little. What was glorious?

  But these thoughts could lead to a bitterness she did not want to feel. She continued her tour, reading the glowing testimonials of the Christian hardworking men and women of the parish, those who apparently had dedicated their lives to the church, each side of the altar in the small Lady Chapel dedicated to -

  Stewarts. She hadn't noticed that before when they were on the tour. They were all Stewarts: died in India, in South Africa during the Boer War, and earlier, of smallpox and childbirth. Stewarts everywhere.

  And Danversons?

  The moment could not be delayed much longer. The Danverson Chapel was almost - almost - clear to view.

  A huge monument on the wall gave mute testimony to a Danverson - Thomas James - Rear Admiral, man of God, father of 10 children, who lived his life in the service of God and of this country, died at sea August 1648, and was mourned by his loving wife and all his children.

  A kneeling monument, lifesize, of a beautiful serene lady with hands in the classic position for prayer. A board hanging by a piece of string on the wall told Abbey that this was Margaret Elizabeth,, wife of Josiah Thomas Danverson, much loved, died in childbirth in 1616.

  Which meant that the table tomb had to be the man himself.

  Josiah Thomas Danverson. Yes, it suited the man with the Van Dyck beard, the piercing eyes and dominant manner, the one who so obviously ruled his household with a rod of iron. Had he loved Margaret Elizabeth a lot? And were there any children living from the marriage? Was Thomas James Danverson the son of Margaret Elizabeth and Josiah Thomas?

  The tomb was still covered with heavy tarpaulin, weighed down with stones and iron bars, but she could surely lift the side of it, gently, just the side, to try and read more of the man who was haunting her every thought and most of her dreams.

  JOSIAH THOMAS DANVERSON 6th June 1591 - 17th May 1673 For Glory And For Love

  Abbey stared at the words, tracing them with her fingers, not believing what she was reading.

  The name of the play she was in was carved here, in ancient beautiful script: For Glory and for Love.

  What kind of epitaph was that?

  She tried to walk around the tomb, but there were chairs stacked 12 high at the back, blocking her way. She tried to lift the tarpaulin even further but couldn't, because of the bricks and bars.

  "I wouldn't disrupt the work." A soft voice. She spun around in surprise. The vicar smiled at her.

  "Just visiting? I don't recognise you."

  "Just visiting." She smiled tremulously, feeling her heart pounding from the shock. "I had a letter the other day from a relative who is researching family history. He said we were possibly related to the Danversons, so I came to have a look at the tomb."

  "The roof leaked badly up there." He pointed to the water-stained walls. "We had to have all this cordoned off for ages, but they're getting there now. The tomb will be revealed soon. Can I help with any further information?"

  "Well..." Abbey rubbed at her forehead. "I wanted to know all sorts of things, like... is Thomas James Danverson the son of Josiah and Margaret? I saw the monument -" She pointed to the wall and then the kneeling figure. "And did Lord Danverson marry again, and - "

  "Let's look in the records, see what we can find. I'm not sure how much the Historical Society found out, but we might be able to find something."

  The vestry was a tiny cramped room, with clerical cloaks hanging from ancient hooks on the ancient door, a worn pump handle to one side of a huge safe that would have kept a safe cracker out for-all of five minutes, a huge framed map of the graveyard done by the local Historical Society, boxes and tables and registers.

  The vicar was everyone's idea of a vicar, small, white-haired, with glasses and a calm, soothing voice; almost the stereotypical parson. Did the profession make the man or the man enter the profession because he looked the part?

  Foolish thoughts.

  "We do have something about the Danversons here, but not a lot." He turned over typewritten sheets. "It seems Josiah Danverson married Margaret Stewart and they had three children, Thomas James, Henrietta Margaret and Edward. She died giving birth to Edward, and he died shortly after. The records indicate that later Lord Danverson married again, an Abigail Brandon, apparently, and they went on to have several children, some of whom died. Here are the notes -"

  The vestry was reeling. Literally. Solid stone walls flashed by, the world went around, and Abbey clung to the table.

  "Are you all right, my dear? You look as if you've had a terrible shock. Can I get you anything?"

  "No, I'll be all right in a minute. I just came over a bit faint, that's all."

  "Well, if you're sure -" he didn't look very sure, but turned back to the notes. "There's mention of a son, Josiah, named for his father, no doubt, a daughter, Guinevere, another son David. I think the Historical Society could help you further but that's what we have here."

  "Thank you, you've been most helpful, I think I'll get some fresh air. Thank you very much."

  "Come again, the tomb will be uncovered before too long."

  "Thanks, I will." Abbey clicked rapidly through the crowd of pews, feeling as if every one had someone sitting in them, someone who stared with large eyes, stared so hard they made holes in her clothes, melting ...

  The air was cool and fresh after the rain, there was a smell of grass and leaves, birds calling, the graves sleeping under their moisture-laden blankets.

  All right, so he married an Abigail Brandon. So, we are linked to the Danversons. I wonder why the Brandons stayed around and the Danversons didn't? Perhaps the line died out, perhaps later there were only girls. Makes sense. But -

  My name.

  As if-

  As if it were me back then, married to Josiah Danverson, giving birth to his children, in that time.

  Which means - *

  She shook her head, unable to comprehend the enormity of the thoughts.

  I can't cope with this.

  I'm going home.

  Seek refuge in my book.

  The mirror is strange, and unpredictable. It has occurred to me that it probably didn't have these magical powers in the past, or superstitious people would have smashed it long ago, so when did it start giving people access to the past? And how? And who first noticed it? Did they go and never come back?

  And what happened to the theory that the time which passes while you are in the past is the same as the time which passes in the present, which means I should come back several hours later than I leave, but I don't.

  Different time-travel methods have different time-travel effects.

  My theory for the day.

  Such things can never be answered, for there is no one to answer them.

  But it is strange and unpredictable.

  A 1910 outfit borrowed from the theatre, hobble skirt, long-line jacket, hat with feathers, sent me back to a dark and gloomy pub somewhere I did not recognise. Sawdust floor, scarred bar top, tables and chairs the worse for wear, smoke-dulled ceiling, beer-stained walls. A most unsavoury place. In another time and another place I'd have left and demanded my companion take me somewhere more salubrious.

  But here - well, it didn't matter.

  The barman, a large man with a broken face, looked like an ex-boxer and probably was. It occurred to me also that I'd never seen a small man tending bar; a small man would have to be a karate expert of some kind to control unruly customers and eject drunks, so on the whole they tended t
o be large men with strong arms and shoulders. There's also the heaving of the ale barrels around and a million other things. I wanted a strong man.

  One who came with arms and shoulders of steel, one who would give me what I wanted - a long hard ride.

  Damn the feelings which drive me to this!

  No, love the feelings which drive me to this.

  An unaccompanied woman, a magnet for all eyes and all men.

  In about three seconds flat I was accosted by a man at the bar: tall, thin, blackened teeth, soiled skin, someone who works with coal? Or industrial waste of some kind? There was a smell around his clothes, not quite coal, not quite chemicals, somewhere in between. I could not place it.