The Accidental Time Traveller

by Sharon Griffiths

  And that really surprised me. If Peggy thought it would be fun to have me here, why has she barely said a word to me ever since I arrived? That was probably the strangest thing of all. She was still standing in the doorway with an armful of laundry. For a moment she looked almost concerned. Not surprising really, she probably thought all my questions where completely off the wall.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked again.

  ‘Yes, yes, fine really. Fine,’ I said, too baffled to say otherwise. But at least I had an idea now, something to do. Once I was back in the office on Monday, I could talk to the person Peggy had spoken to, and see who had arranged it. That was somewhere to start. I had a plan. I already felt I was doing something.

  ‘Here,’ said Peggy, ‘I’ve brought you a clean sheet and some pillow cases. We change the beds on Saturdays.’

  ‘Only one sheet?’

  ‘Put the top one on the bottom and the clean one on the top,’ she said with exaggerated patience. ‘This isn’t America you know. And if you bring the dirty sheet down and any white cotton things – knicks, hankies, I’ll put them in the washing machine.’

  After she’d gone, I made the bed. Tricky job with sheets and blankets. Hard to get it nice and smooth and neat. But it calmed me down. I straightened those sheets so there wasn’t a crease or a wrinkle to be seen. If only my life could be as neat and tidy.

  I gathered up the laundry and took it down to the scullery and put it into the funny little washing machine. Peggy looked scornful at the thought of my stockings and suspender belt going in there too, so I stood at the sink and washed them by hand with something called Oxydol. Like being on holidays. Funny sort of holiday.

  In the background, the radio – a huge thing the size of a fridge – played children’s songs, ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’, ‘There once was an ugly duckling’ … and something about pink and blue toothbrushes. It made Top of the Pop. seem edgy.

  The washing machine didn’t rinse. Well, it did, but first you had to empty the sudsy water out and put clean in. Peggy took the dirty hot water and threw it across the back yard and then scrubbed the yard with a big brush. This was meant to be a lazy Saturday morning …

  All the time we were doing this, I wanted to ask her about her visit to the Rising Sun, but she was looking pretty grim-faced so I thought I’d better leave it for now. Anyway, I had too many other things on my mind.

  Then we had to get the clothes out of the washing machine (at which point the radio was playing something of demented jollity and good cheer called ‘I love to go a wandering’, which somehow made me think of the Hitler Youth), and put them through the mangle thing at the top. I remembered books I’d had when I was little, Mrs Lather’s Laundry or Mrs Tiggywinkle. I was a real washerwoman. I thought fondly of my 1400 spin automatic washer-dryer. It was hard work turning that handle as it squeezed the water out.

  ‘Careful,’ said Peggy, ‘a girl from school went to work in the laundry and she put her hand in the mangle. Got all broken and crushed.’

  ‘Horrid!’ I said. ‘I hope she got some compensation.’

  Peggy looked at me blankly.

  ‘You know, a pay-out for her injury,’ I explained.

  ‘Course not. She should have been more careful, shouldn’t she?’

  Peggy took the washing down the small steep back garden to hang on the line, while I used the last of the water to mop the scullery and kitchen floor.

  Then I had to dash as I was meeting Caz …

  Town was busy. I looked around at the crowds and thought uneasily that they couldn’t all be extras. So many women, mostly dressed in coats, clutching baskets and shopping bags. Men seemed to be conspicuous by their absence. There were a few young men and one or two very bent old men on sticks, slowly making their way between the stalls, but otherwise it was a world of women. And children! There were children everywhere, many as young as seven, on their own and equally laden down with shopping bags. Little girls of not much more than ten years old were expertly managing not just the bags, but sometimes also a battered pram with a well wrapped-up baby inside, with a toddler trailing alongside as well. They stood in the queues at the market stalls and seemed to cast a keen eye over the limited number of vegetables available, confidently pocketing the change.

  Was it safe for these children to be out on their own? Shouldn’t someone be looking after them? I was still wondering about it when I spotted Carol standing on the steps of the market cross.

  Carol or Caz? Which was she? My steps slowed. I stopped, needing to think about this. Was she my friend from my real twenty-first-century life, playing a very nasty trick, a conspiracy against me? Or was she Carol, a young mother of three, whose life and background was half a century different from mine?

  She was talking to a young boy and handing over a couple of bags of shopping to him. He was about ten or eleven years old, and the image of Will, the same blond hair and big brown eyes. He was wearing short trousers, long socks and a big hand-knitted jumper, and he glowed with health and energy. Will’s son. So that’s what Will’s son would look like. Just like the boy I’d imagined in my daydreams. He looked exactly like a picture of Will his mum has on her mantelpiece. I felt I already knew him. He gave me a quick grin as Caz greeted me.

  ‘Perfect timing. I’ve just finished the shopping. Right, Pete, go straight home, mind. Your dad wants you to help him this morning. And if you’re good, I’ll bring some fish and chips home for your dinner. Now scoot!’

  The boy grinned and duly scooted, even though he was weighed down with all the shopping bags.

  ‘Right,’ said Caz. ‘Let’s go and look for some material. Will and I have got a posh do to go to next month and I must have something to wear.’

  Will and Caz, posh do? I knew it couldn’t be the real Caz saying this. She couldn’t be so casually hurtful. I must stop thinking of her as Caz and think of her as Carol instead. Carol. Not Caz. It had to be.

  Carol was already leading the way to the far end of the market where there was a clutch of fabric stalls. Great bolts of cloth lay out on the trestle tables, and men and women bundled up in layers of clothing casually lifted them here and there, expertly measuring out yards of material in stalls that looked almost like mini theatres. Most of the stalls seemed to have everyday-ish sort of materials, lots of wool and tweedy mixtures, ginghams and flowery cottons.

  Carol darted between them and had stopped at a stall where the bales of cloth glinted with the richness of velvet and taffeta.

  ‘Now then, Mrs West,’ said the cheerful stallholder, ‘looking for something special today are we?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Carol, putting down her shabby handbag and reaching into the mountain of material. She pulled out rolls of cloth, held them briefly against her, then put them down again.

  ‘Have you got something in mind then?’ asked the stallholder.

  ‘Yes,’ said Carol, ‘but I won’t know until I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Well you’re turning my stall nicely upside down,’ said the man, with only the tiniest hint of resentment.

  Then I saw it. Right at the bottom of the pile was a narrow roll of taffeta in a wonderful rich colour that hovered between a deep dark red, and black. It was exactly the same shade as a dress Caz had bought in the sale at Droopy and Browns, and made her look absolutely stunning. It would be just the thing for Carol.

  ‘That’s the one!’ I yelled and tried to grab it.

  All the rolls of material shifted slightly and I thought the whole lot would come down, when the man held them all back with one hand, while shuffling the dark red taffeta out with the other. He pushed it across at Carol, who unrolled a bit and held it up against her. Immediately it seemed to reflect hints of deep auburn into her mousy hair – the exact shade of auburn that Caz paid so much for, so often to achieve.

  ‘Perfect!’ I said. ‘That’s definitely the colour for you.’

  Carol grinned, then unwound the fabric from its roll.

  ‘Not muc
h left there,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘Don’t know if I’ll be able to make anything of that. I’ll be struggling and anyone any bigger than me would be left showing their underpinnings. No,’ she said, making a show of putting it back and walking away, ‘I’ll have to look for something else …’

  ‘Go on,’ said the man, ‘you can have it for eighteen bob.’

  ‘Hang on!’ Carol had grabbed another roll end from under a heap. It was a creamy cotton with a design – a picture really – on it in a deep pink. I couldn’t quite see what it was, but Carol’s eyes had lit up.

  ‘Look, here’s another roll end, neither use nor ornament to anyone.’ She looked at him challengingly, with such a Caz-like glint that I had to laugh. ‘You can throw that in buckshee, can’t you?’

  ‘Not on your nelly,’ said the man, ‘but go on, give us a quid for the lot and I’m a fool to myself.’

  Carol had a pound note out of her purse like lightning.

  ‘You’re a gentleman!’ she said. ‘I shall tell all my friends and acquaintances to patronise no other stall.’

  The man laughed and wrapped the material in a sheet of thin brown paper, and soon we were heading for Silvino’s, with Carol clutching her purchases.

  ‘Will you really be able to make that into a dress?’ I asked as we made our way through the market crowds.

  ‘Don’t see why not, I’ve got a pattern I’ve used before, so it should work OK.’

  ‘What’s the big occasion anyway?’

  ‘The Mayor’s Ball. Very posh. At The Fleece.’

  I shivered as I remembered my ghastly experience at The Fleece.

  ‘But it will be lovely. A chance to dance. This is the first time we’ve been. The mayor’s president of the football club, so he gave Billy some tickets, which was nice of him. Right, here we are.’

  We were in an alley and going in through a small door into a room that looked as though it had only just stopped being a store room. The walls were roughly whitewashed, but I could smell coffee, and could hear the sounds of music beating out from a juke box. A wonderful machine! Just like in those old American films.

  It was smoky and crowded, with people mostly in their mid to late teens or early twenties – Carol and I must have been the oldest people there. Their faces were bright and lively, but otherwise they were a drab-looking crowd. Boys in stiff, ill-fitting jeans, or baggy grey trousers, some even with jackets and ties. A few of the girls, like me, wore trousers. Most were in knitted cardigans and tops, tweedy skirts, apart from two girls, who stood in front of the juke box. Both had black polo neck sweaters and full skirts, one with a pattern of hearts sewn on, the other with stars.

  They watched as each record was lifted up and spun into place to play. Then they danced by themselves in the small space, just deigning to move slightly out of the way if anyone came to put money in the juke box.

  There seemed to be no waiters in this side. Instead the kids went up to a hatch that presumably opened into the main café and placed their orders, mainly for Coke or milk shakes it seemed, which they drank almost in parody of those black-and-white films about American teenagers. It was all warm and steamy and lively and smelt a bit of wet dog.

  As we ordered our coffee, the juke box started playing ‘Sixteen Tons’. That was really weird because my dad always used to sing a bit of it:

  Sixteen tons and what do you get? Another day older and deeper in debt.

  And I’d never heard the rest. I listened carefully to get the words. Next time I saw Dad I’d sing it to him. Next time … But now the juke box was playing ‘See you later, alligator’, and more of the kids were up dancing in the little space near the front,

  See you later, alligator.

  And they’d all yell back

  In a while, crocodile!

  The two girls in the black polo necks danced with each other, taking no notice of anyone else at all, just totally absorbed in their dancing. They certainly had style. But this was another favourite of my dad’s – and everyone was singing along. I knew the words and joined in happily. I felt part of it, I belonged. It was good. I grinned at Caz.

  ‘I don’t see why just the kids should have the fun,’ she said.

  Then she took the package of material out and looked at it again.

  ‘I’ve never had anything this colour before. Do you think it will suit me?’

  ‘Nothing better,’ I said. ‘Trust me. Do you make a lot of your clothes?’

  ‘Most of them. My gran gave me her sewing machine when Billy and I moved into our own place. I make most of the kids’ clothes, most of mine. Much cheaper and I can get what I like.’

  Again, she sounded just like Caz, when Caz talked about stuff she got from the charity shops or bought from eBay and added a twist that made things look stunning. Very talented. She loved old clothes. We’re talking retro or vintage here, not your average charity shop stuff. She had a magic touch with them, seeing possibilities that the rest of us never could.

  She did a lot of clever things with cushions and curtains too. And she’d helped with the costumes when Jamie had produced the school play. I guess she could make her own clothes if she had to, but then she’d never had to.

  Carol was drinking her frothy coffee from the shallow Pyrex cup and swaying to the music. ‘Rock, rock till broad daylight …’

  ‘Do you listen to much music?’ I asked.

  ‘Whenever I can. But you know, when we get our new house, I’m going to get a wireless.’

  ‘A wireless? You mean a radio? You haven’t got one?’

  ‘No electricity.’

  ‘No electricity? How on earth do you manage?’

  ‘OK,’ she said defensively. ‘We didn’t have electricity at home till after the war. I’m not the only one. There’s lots of people still haven’t got electric.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think you were, sorry.’ I was still thinking about what it would be like to live without electricity. I mean, a two-hour power cut can cause chaos. ‘Well you can still get a radio. One that runs on batteries.’

  ‘Do you know the price of batteries? And they don’t last more than a few hours. No, we’ll get a wireless. Maybe even a television. Billy would like a television. He loves watching it at his mum’s.’

  The rock and roll had finished. Another record was lifting out of the rack and being placed on the turntable. It had a gentle jazzy intro. Not Bill Haley or Lonnie Donnegan. I recognised this. It was Frank Sinatra.

  The way you wear your hat, the way you sip your tea The memory of all that. They cant take that away from me …

  I thought of watching Will across the newsroom, the same pose, attitude and mannerisms I knew so well. I thought of him at home in bed, the way he slept with one arm flung out over the duvet. I could hardly ask Carol if that’s how Billy slept. But I knew it. It was strangely comforting. They couldn’t take that away from me. Not how I knew Will, and my memories of him …

  The kids were crowding back around the juke box. ‘Rock around the clock’ came on again.

  ‘It’s no good,’ said Carol. ‘Time I was on my way. We have to have dinner early on Saturday. Billy goes to the match to do the football report for The News.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I said. ‘Well I guess I’d better be getting on home.’

  ‘No need for that,’ said Carol. ‘Why don’t you come and have fish and chips with us? Might as well, unless’ – and she looked suddenly shy – ‘unless you’ve got anything better to do.’

  ‘No, fish and chips with you would be great,’ I said.

  We must have walked half a mile or so from the town centre, then down into a little side street, where I could see a long queue of people standing on the pavement. We joined the end of the queue until it was our turn to wait in the greasy steam and sizzling noise for our order. The woman behind the counter wrapped them all efficiently in old copies of The News and Carol produced a string bag from her pocket and shoved them all in.

  We carried on walking. I didn’t
recognise this part of town. The streets were smaller and darker, many of them weren’t tarmacked but were just potholed mud tracks. On the corner of one of the streets a group of boys, about half a dozen of them maybe twelve or thirteen years old, were gathered around a lamppost. On the other side of the street was an old advertising sign that had come loose. It swung back and forth on two screws – driven by the stones the boys were throwing at it. You could hear the whistle of the stones as they flew across the street. Then the heavy ‘thunk’ as they hit the soft and rotten board.

  ‘Yeah! I win! I win!’ yelled one of the boys, who had managed to hit the exact centre of the board, while the others muttered and grunted and shouted back at him.

  Instinctively I’d drawn in on myself. Looked down, avoided eye contact. Gangs of thirteen-year-olds are never good news, especially when they’re bored and they’ve got pockets full of stones. I was busy hurrying along, gazing at my feet, when I realised Carol had stopped. What’s more, she was challenging the boys. Was she mad?

  ‘Hey you lot!’ she said. ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do on a Saturday afternoon? And you shouldn’t be throwing stones – you could hit someone and hurt them. What would your mothers say if they could see you now? Or your dads? I bet they’ve got plenty of jobs you could be doing for them.’

  To my utter astonishment – when I dared to look up – the boys looked abashed and embarrassed. ‘We weren’t doing any harm, Mrs West,’ said one.

  ‘No, not now, but you soon would be if I know you lot. Now go and find yourself something useful to do and stop making such a racket.’ And she started walking again while the boys shuffled a bit then ran off yelling down the road.

  ‘Little blighters,’ said Carol. ‘And they’ve all got mothers who could do with a bit of help. What makes them think they’ve got time to hang around street corners, I don’t know.’

  I was lost in admiration.

  ‘You know, Carol, I wouldn’t have dared speak to them like you did.’

  ‘What? They’re only a gang of kids.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but where I come from, you just wouldn’t. They’d beat you up, have your purse off you soon as look at you.’