The Accidental Time Traveller

by Sharon Griffiths

  ‘I don’t know.’ And that was honest. I had sometimes daydreamed of marrying Will. Not the big white wedding, but just being married to him, having him there all the time. He was the only person I’ve ever daydreamed like that about. The only one.

  But I had never told him. Because there were times that the same dream could terrify me. The thought of being with just one person for ever. Well, it’s seriously scary, isn’t it?

  And Will … well, he wasn’t exactly husband material. I mean, he was nearly thirty and he still acted like a big kid. Away from work all he and Jamie cared about was football and drinking and playing computer games and the bloody grand prix and flash tellies.

  ‘You don’t know?’ he repeated, still waiting for my answer.

  I looked up at him. ‘Will, I love my job and I’m just beginning to get somewhere. I want to see how far I can go.’

  ‘Fair enough. You’ll go far, Rosie. We both know that.’ Full of angry energy, he was pacing up and down the tiny sitting room. ‘But I don’t know if I’m part of your plan. Frankly, Rosie, I haven’t a clue where I am with you. You want everything your own way.’

  ‘But it’s not like that …’ I was stunned, struggling to find ways of saying what I thought. And then he nearly floored me with his next question.

  ‘Tell me, do you see yourself having children?’

  ‘Hey!’ I tried to joke. ‘You can’t ask questions like that at interviews. Not allowed.’

  Will wasn’t laughing. ‘I want to know.’

  ‘Well yes, since you ask, one day, probably,’ I said. I’d daydreamed about that too. A boy and a girl, with Will’s blond hair and big brown eyes. But not yet. Maybe I’d have them at some vague point in the future.

  It was time for me to go on the attack. ‘And what about you? Do you want children?’

  ‘Maybe, one day. Depends.’

  ‘Depends on what?’ I asked. And the Devil got into me, because I snapped, ‘On whether you can fit it in between the PlayStation and the plasma TV? Or another new car? You’ve got to be a grown-up to be a parent, Will, not an overgrown bloody kid yourself.’

  Of course it all went downhill from there. We’d both had too much to drink and said too many things that shouldn’t have been said and that I’m not even sure we meant.

  I called him spoilt, immature and childish, among other things. He called me a selfish, unthinking control freak, among other things. It didn’t get us anywhere. In the end I went off to bed and I could hear Will still crashing around the sitting room, impatiently flicking through the TV channels, until he finally went to sleep on the sofa. My new sofa.

  And me? I lay in bed and tried to re-run the row. Did I really want to be married? Yes of course. Maybe. But now? Frankly, the thought frightened me. What if Will went to Dubai? What if I went to London?

  What if?

  My head was thumping. I hardly slept, and in the morning my head was worse … which is why when we got to The News on Monday morning – in Will’s car, in silence – I’d been hoping to crawl quietly to my desk and just plod through the day – but the editor, Jan Fox, known to all as the Vixen, spotted me.

  ‘Rosie! A word please!’

  The Vixen was standing at her office door, eyes glinting, coppery highlights shining. In one hand she held a large sheet of paper, on which the perfect scarlet nails of the other hand were lightly drumming. It was not a happy drumming.

  I realised that the piece of paper she was so obviously hacked off about was a proof copy of the next day’s feature page. A feature on childcare, one I’d written. My heart sank even further. Happy Monday.

  ‘Do you realise,’ she said, shooting me one of her fierce looks, ‘how incredibly young and silly this makes you sound? It’s written as though everybody in the world has a responsibility to look after children with the sole exception of their bloody parents.’

  ‘But I was just quoting from the reports and the government spokesman …’

  ‘Yes, I know you were,’ she sighed. ‘I just wonder about your generation sometimes. You must have had it easier than any other in the history of the world, and it’s still not enough, you’re still asking for more.’

  I just stood there, waiting, longing to get to the Ibupro-fen in my desk drawer.

  ‘OK, I’ve marked up some ideas. Get that done. And then there’s something else I want you to have a go at.’

  Just what, I found out at the morning conference.

  The News Editor, Picture Editor, Chief Photographer, and others all crowded into the Vixen’s office, with mugs of coffee and piles of notes balanced on their knees. Will was there too, not looking quite as polished as usual. I don’t know if he was trying to catch my eye. I didn’t give him the chance. I just kept staring at the photos of all the old editors on the wall above him. George Henfield, fat and bald, Richard Henfield with his pipe.

  We’d whizzed through the plans for the following day’s paper and much of the week’s ideas, but the Vixen was still talking. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Now what about The Meadows? It’s fifty years since the first families moved in and I think we should have a good look at it. At the time it was revolutionary, homes of the future, the perfect place to live.’

  ‘Bloody hell, they must have been desperate,’ muttered Will.

  The Vixen, of course, heard him.

  ‘Will, you haven’t a bloody clue, have you?’ she said in withering tones, which cheered me up.

  Will tried to score some Brownie points. ‘We’ve done quite a lot on the way the school’s improved,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a few interviews with the new headmistress who’s working miracles, Rosemary Picton, and we’re always doing picture stories there.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Vixen briskly, ‘and I’m sure we’ll be back to her. An amazing woman. But, as you know, they are using one of the houses on The Meadows for a new reality TV series, The 1950s House, so we need a good look at why people were so pleased to move there. What it was like at the beginning. Why it went wrong in parts. Why other parts are flourishing.

  ‘We’ll want to take a good look at life in the 1950s. It could make a series of features, but I want some meat on it, not just nostalgia. The Meadows seems a good place to start.’

  By now I’d finished gazing at the old editors and was working my way around the myriad awards that The News had won under the Vixen. Suddenly I heard her mention my name. I sat up and tried to take notice.

  ‘Rosie? Are you with us? I said I think this is something for you. If you wait afterwards, I’ll give you some contacts.’

  She always had contacts. I swear she knew everyone in town, not to mention the country. As the others picked up their notes and went back to their desks, she scribbled a name for me.

  ‘Margaret Turnbull was one of the first people to move in to The Meadows, and she’s lived there ever since. Nice woman, good talker. And she’s actually Rosemary Picton’s mother. When you’ve met Margaret you might get an idea of why her daughter’s so determined to help the children of The Meadows. Anyway, here’s her number. She’ll get you off to a good start.’

  With that she gave me an odd look. But her eyes, in that immaculate make-up, were unreadable. ‘I think you might find it very interesting,’ she said.

  Dutifully, I rang Mrs Turnbull and arranged to see her later that afternoon. Then I took a notebook up to the bound file room, where all the back copies of The News are stored in huge book-style files, and made a mug of camomile tea – all I could cope with – and settled down in the dusty little room. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not even Caz and certainly not Will.

  Was he going to go off to Dubai? Did I care? Well yes, actually, a lot. Could I cope without him? Yeah, course I could. Couldn’t I?

  It was probably easier to get on with some work. I felt rough though. My shoulder and neck hurt from lugging those old volumes around and poring over them. And my hands and feet were so cold. Bugger! My car was still in the car park at the Lion. So that’s when I ordered a cab and
went off to see Mrs Turnbull. Well, I thought she was Mrs Turnbull …

  Chapter Two

  Despite the pain in my head, I managed to open my eyes. The woman who opened the door wasn’t the same as the one I’d seen through the window. Come to that, the window wasn’t the same. Nor was the door. Oh God, what was happening?

  I slumped against the door frame, my head swirling, trying to make it out. What I really wanted to do was just slide down the wall and lie down … but the woman was asking me something. Her voice seemed to come from a long way away.

  ‘Are you the girl from The News?’

  ‘Er yes, yes I am,’ I said. It was about the only thing of which I was sure.

  ‘Well you’d better come in.’

  I wasn’t sure if I could even walk, but I dragged my body together and followed her into a dark hallway. Something very odd here. I was sure that this sort of house didn’t have that sort of long dark hall, or the sort of kitchen it led to. It had one of those cast-iron stoves, a bit like an Aga, only smaller. I could feel the warmth, which was wonderful. I was so cold. There was a strange smell. It took a while for me to realise it was coal and soot.

  ‘Here,’ said the woman, ‘sit down before you fall down.’

  There was a cat curled up on the chair by the stove. ‘Shoo Sambo,’ she said, pushing him off.

  ‘You sit there for a minute,’ she said to me, ‘and I’ll make you a cup of tea. You’re as white as a sheet.’

  I felt as if everything in my head had slid down to the back of my scalp and was made of lead. Never mind trying to make sense of what was going on. But at least I was starting to warm up. The cat, Sambo – Sambo! – jumped delicately back onto my lap and curled around. I rocked gently, feeling the warmth of the fire and of the cat. The room steadied. I wasn’t feeling quite so sick. I could even begin the attempt to make sense of my surroundings.

  The woman perhaps wasn’t as old as I first thought. Difficult to tell, probably only in her fifties, but definitely not from the Joanna Lumley school of fifty-somethings. She was wearing a heavy wool skirt and cardigan, a check apron and the sort of slippers that not even my gran wears any more. The room seemed incredibly old-fashioned. In the middle was a big table covered with a dark green cloth made out of that velvety stuff. Against one wall was a dresser covered with plates and jugs. Above the range was one of those wooden clothes racks that you see in trendy country magazines, but instead of drying bunches of herbs, this had sheets and pillowcases and what looked like old-fashioned vests and thick white underpants.

  As the woman moved around the room between the dresser, the table and the range, it was like watching a film. She set out a tray with proper cups and saucers and plates, wrapped a cloth around her hand and lifted a huge black kettle off the top of the stove. She poured some water into a little brown teapot, went out of the room for a second into a scullery beyond and came back again, spooned loose tea into the pot and poured the boiling water onto it. From a hook by the range she lifted a tea cosy like a little chequered bobble hat and popped it on the teapot. She went into the scullery again and came back with a fruit loaf, cut a chunk off and put it on a plate in front of me. Then she passed me a cup of tea. It was strong and sweet – both of which I hate normally – but I drank it and could feel the warmth going through me. It was quite nice really, very comforting.

  ‘I’m sorry about this, Mrs Turnbull,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I’m not Mrs Turnbull,’ she said.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I said and tried to stand up. ‘Then I’m in the wrong house. I thought something was wrong. Look I’m really sorry. I’d better be on my way and find Mrs Turn-bull. Is it the house next door? I must have come up the wrong path. I thought …’

  ‘Sit down, girl,’ she said, not unkindly. ‘I’m Doreen Brown. If you’re Rosie Harford from The News then you’re in the right place. I’ve been expecting you.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Yes. And anyway, your trunk’s upstairs.’

  ‘Trunk? What trunk?’

  ‘The things you’ll need for your stay, of course.’

  Stay? What stay? What on earth was going on? This was so confusing. I couldn’t get my head around it. What was happening to my head? Maybe she’d slipped something in my tea. That was it. I had to get out. My mum always told me never to go into strange houses. And I reckon they didn’t get much stranger than this.

  ‘They sent it round from your office this morning. All the things you’ll be needing in the next few weeks.’

  I gazed at Mrs Turnbull who was now Mrs Brown and tried to understand what she was saying. My mind was so confused I expected one of those warning notices to flash up, ‘You have performed an illegal operation. This program will terminate.’ And for a screen to go blank.

  I felt sick. I promised myself I would never ever drink again. Too much wine, a blazing row and no sleep made a dreadful combination. Never ever again.

  ‘You just sit there for a moment,’ Mrs Brown said, letting me soak up the warmth of the fire and the cat. It would have been quite pleasant if my head hadn’t been in overdrive.

  Where was I? Why was I apparently staying here? What on earth was going on? I took deep breaths and tried my best not to panic.

  By now I’d had two cups of tea and I suddenly realised that I really needed the loo. I couldn’t deal with this on a full bladder.

  ‘Upstairs, along the corridor, down a few steps and on your right.’

  I tottered off. It was a bit like walking when drunk, I was almost hanging on to the walls of the passage. But I made it.

  The bathroom was freezing. There was lino on the floor in a pattern of big black and white checks. Quite nice really. But the bath was hideous, huge with claw feet, a small brass tap and a big chrome one. It was all a bit Spartan. It smelt cold and clean and of old-fashioned rose-scented soap like one of Mum’s aunties always used.

  I got my phone out of my bag and tried to ring Will. I know we’d had a row, but this was really weird stuff. There was no signal. More than that, the phone was dead, as if the battery had gone. I sat on the loo and felt wretched. To be honest, I was frightened. Everything seemed strange. Even the loo paper was horrid. Nasty scratchy stuff. And the loo had one of those big iron cisterns and a chain. Everything was somehow wrong, unfamiliar, just not quite right.

  This house seemed to belong to another age. So old-fashioned. Can’t have been touched for fifty years at least.

  What was I doing here? There must be some mistake. I had to get out. I stood up quickly. Too quickly. My head swam again and I leant against the door. I mustn’t panic, I told myself. I must stay calm. Stay calm.

  After a few moments I washed my hands, splashed some cold water on my face and gingerly made my way back downstairs, holding carefully on to the banisters. I would go downstairs, explain to the woman in the kitchen that, sorry, I had to go, and get out as soon as I could. Yes, that’s what I would do. And as soon as I was outside, I would phone Will and ask him to come and get me. And if my phone still didn’t work?

  Stay calm. Stay calm. If my phone didn’t work, I would just walk towards town. It wasn’t that far. Even The Meadows must be safe enough in daylight. There might even be a phone box. And I would be all right once I was out in the fresh air …

  I made my way back along the hallway, leaning against the wall for support. I made it into the kitchen but collapsed back into the rocking chair. I would just sit here for a while and get my strength back so I would be able to walk back into town if needs be.

  My eyes lit on a calendar on the wall. There was a picture of the Queen looking very young. The calendar didn’t look old or as though it had been sitting in a junk shop for fifty years. No, it looked new and shiny. In a 1950s sort of way.

  I stood up. My head didn’t swim. Good. I went through into the scullery to find Mrs Turnbull or Brown or whatever her name was. She was standing by a big stone sink with a wooden draining board, deftly chopping potatoes into a pan.

  �
�Look, Mrs … er Brown. I think I’d better be on my way,’ I said. ‘There seems to be a bit of a mix-up. I was meant to be meeting a Mrs Turnbull so I think I’d better get back and check with the office. Thank you so much for the tea and cake. I really appreciated it, but …’

  ‘Oh you can’t go yet, pet,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘You’re meant to be staying. Anyway, Frank and Peggy will be back soon and supper won’t be long.’

  Meant to be staying? What was going on? And who were Frank and Peggy?

  ‘I’ll just get some fresh air, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Carry on, dear.’

  I picked up my bag and walked back along the hall. My head felt a bit better now. I’d tried to be polite about it, but that hadn’t got me anywhere. I would just have to walk out. I hoped the front door wasn’t locked. Strange. I was sure that when I’d walked up the path there’d been a modern white door, but here was this heavy wooden thing with stained glass at the top. I turned the handle, and opened it.

  It was different. Everything was different.

  Instead of the wide road of The Meadows with its rows of semi-detached houses and front gardens, parked cars and abandoned vans, the door opened directly onto a narrow cobbled street. Opposite was the high wall of what seemed to be a factory or warehouse. No cars. No people. I stepped back into the house and shut the door quickly again.

  Deep breaths. Stay calm.

  Slowly, very slowly, I opened the door again. Still a cobbled street. Still an old factory. A light glinted as something caught the late afternoon sun.

  I walked slowly back to the kitchen. That calendar. The Queen looked awfully young …

  ‘Mrs Brown?’

  ‘Yes dear?’ she was manoeuvring some pans on the top of the range.

  ‘Did you say my office arranged this visit?’

  ‘That’s right. And a young man brought your trunk around this morning. That’s why I knew you were coming. All arranged with the editor.’

  The editor. I thought back to the morning conference, which seemed a lifetime away. What exactly had the Vixen said? I couldn’t remember. I’d been feeling so lousy and thinking so much about Will, that I hadn’t really been listening. Think, girl, think. Something about The Meadows, of course, that’s why I was here. And a TV programme. A reality TV programme. The 1950s House …