The Accidental Time Traveller

by Sharon Griffiths

  ‘Is there anyone else who would know about it?’

  ‘Not if Mr Simpson was dealing with it. No.’

  ‘Does Mr Simpson have a secretary? Do you have an HR department? Who deals with jobs and training? There must be somebody.’

  ‘That would be myself. If I don’t know about this … arrangement … then I’m afraid nobody will. You will have to speak to Mr Simpson. I can’t help you any further.’

  And she put the phone down. Great. Two more weeks before I could talk to our Mr bloody Simpson. Two more weeks before I could get any further with this mystery of where I was and why I was there. I felt frustrated and, to be honest, a bit lost.

  Which gave me another thought. I started dialling my parents’ number. Maybe they’d be there. Maybe they were here too. Maybe they could put things right. So often in the past I remember ringing them when I was stranded or ill or the cash machine had swallowed my card. And they would turn up, one or the other or both of them would come and put it right. Once, when I was ill at uni, they turned up at midnight, wrapped me in my duvet and took me home. I can still remember that glorious feeling when they arrived, that from that moment on I could just give up. They would take over. They would make things right. Maybe they could put this right too …

  It was a moment before I could remember the string of numbers – I was so used just to clicking ‘Home’ on my mobile. But it didn’t matter. I hadn’t got past the area code when a voice interrupted briskly. It was the switchboard lady asking bossily, ‘Can I help you? Which number do you require?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, deflated. Then I remembered. Suddenly I was small again – about four or five years old and lying in my parents’ bed when they still had the old dark red telephone, one with a dial, on their bedside table. Back then it still had a sticker with the original number from the small local exchange.

  ‘Just a moment. Yes, hang on. Could you get me’ – I closed my eyes and tried to picture that old telephone, trying to read the sticker – ‘Could you get me Barton 463 please?’

  ‘Just a moment, caller.’

  There were clicks and rushing sounds. I held my breath, hoping that Mum or Dad would pick up the phone and all would be well again.

  But no.

  ‘Sorry, caller. I’m unable to connect you. That number is not in service.’

  No. I didn’t think it would be. But it had been worth a try. For a moment I felt bitterly, desperately disappointed. I had so wanted Mum and Dad to make things better, to take all this confusion away. But I guess I was a grown-up now. I blew my nose and got back to work, glad of the boring routine of News in Brief paragraphs until I realised that without Gordon barking orders, I hadn’t made the tea. I just had time for a cup before I went to see Dan and Doris. I was just going out of the office to fill the kettle when the phone rang.

  ‘Newsroom,’ I said importantly – and felt as nervous doing it as on my first work experience week, years before.

  ‘This is Ron Neasham, the newsagent in Friars’ Mill,’ said a voice. ‘Do you know what’s going on down here?’

  ‘No I don’t, Mr Neasham,’ I said, ‘should I?’

  ‘Well there’s all sorts of police here, with dogs and all. I think a kiddie’s gone missing.’

  ‘A missing child? Are you sure? They didn’t say anything to us when we made the calls this morning.’

  ‘I think it’s just happened. You’d better check it out.’

  ‘We certainly shall, Mr Neasham. Thank you.’

  He’d already put the phone down just as Billy walked back into the office.

  ‘Missing child in Friars’ Mill apparently,’ I said. ‘Someone called Ron Neasham rang to tell us there’s a lot of police activity there.’

  ‘Good bloke Ron Neasham,’ said Billy. ‘Used to be one of our van drivers so he often passes us snippets. Odd though that the police didn’t mention it on the calls.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  Billy looked around the office desperately, trying to find someone to send on the story. But he couldn’t. There was only me.

  ‘Look, you get down to Friars’ Mill and find out what you can, and ring me as soon as you’ve got something.’

  ‘Right.’ I’d grabbed my bag and was out of the office before he could change his mind. I’d miss Dan and Doris, but what the hell – there’d be another fifty years to catch up with them.

  Friars’ Mill was about two miles out of town. Which would take me forty minutes to walk and by the time I’d done that the Chief Inspector would probably be back in his bloody office. Bugger!

  Then I remembered Dan and Doris. Young George was out there waiting to take their picture. I dashed out and pushed through the crowds to find him.

  ‘Are they here yet?’

  ‘Just arriving,’ said George.

  ‘Then just take a picture as quick as you can and let’s get out of here. Just do it George. Please.’

  With that, Dan and Doris arrived looking a lot more like actors than a farmer and his wife. God must have been on my side, because as they went up the steps to the Shire Hall, they stopped halfway to wave at the crowd and a small child shoved a toy lamb at them. Brilliant. George got them perfectly. And soon we were bundled in the van and heading for Friars’ Mill.

  It must be part of the town now. I know there’s a Friars’ Mill Road, but that’s about it. Though there was something about the name that kept niggling at my brain. I knew it for something but I couldn’t recall what. Anyway, the place I went to with George was in the country. There was a green, and a river with a weir, and a duck pond, and a row of small cottages. There were a couple of black cars parked on the green, and I could see two policemen in their old-fashioned uniforms, talking to someone on a cottage doorstep.

  In the middle was what looked like an old army hut made out of corrugated iron but it had newspaper bills outside, as well as sacks of potatoes and gas cylinders. Tesco Express it wasn’t. This must be Ron Neasham’s shop. We headed there. Ron was busy marking up a ledger, but looked up eagerly when he saw George and his camera and realised who we were.

  ‘It’s the little girl from the big house, the housekeeper’s daughter,’ he said, so full of importance and keen to tell us all he knew.

  ‘She set off to school this morning as usual, about half past eight. Then her mum went down the school about half past ten to take her to the dentist and she wasn’t there. Never got there. Apparently, when Joyce Williams – that’s little Susan’s mother – was asking her friends at school if anyone had seen her, Charlie, one of the little ’uns, pipes up that he saw her being pulled into a van by an old man.’

  ‘What! Well why didn’t he say anything before?’

  ‘Little lad’s only five years old.’

  I was scribbling quickly in my notebook as he spoke.

  ‘Well, when she heard that, the headmistress got straight on to the police and the police came right out. They’re up at the house now, and those two over there have been going from door to door asking people what they’ve seen. As far as I can tell, no one’s seen anything, apart from that little lad.’

  ‘And if he’s only five, he could be making it all up.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe. But if you want to talk to the man in charge, I think he must be up at the house. Look,’ and he pointed out an impressive gateway at the far end of the green. ‘That’s the entrance, but the house is about half a mile further up the drive.’

  ‘Right Ron.’ I pushed the notebook into my bag. ‘Thanks a lot. You’re a real star.’

  ‘Just like to help the old firm, you know,’ he said, looking pleased with himself.

  I got George to take a picture across the green with the policemen in the background. Then we went up the drive to The Grange. It was a big house, not quite a stately home, but pretty impressive all the same. The drive swept around in front of well-tended lawns. I could see a tennis court, and what looked like stables and a paddock.

  ‘Better find the tradesma
n’s entrance,’ said George, and we turned up, past two small cottages and stopped in a back yard where there was a big black car and a young policeman guarding it.

  ‘Press,’ I said confidently, ‘from The News.’

  ‘Blimey, you were quick,’ said the policeman, who was pink-cheeked and looked about sixteen.

  ‘Is the Chief Inspector about?’

  ‘He’s in there. But I don’t think …’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said and I went in, with George following.

  We went into a room full of old coats and welly boots and dog baskets, along a passage until we heard voices, which we followed to a huge high-ceilinged kitchen. As we stood in the doorway, a young woman almost ran towards me.

  ‘Have you found her?’ she asked. ‘Have you found Susan?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. We’re from The News. Someone rang to tell us what had happened,’ I said quickly, before the Chief Inspector could throw us out. ‘They thought we could help.’

  ‘Help? How could you help?’

  An older woman, grey-haired, very erect, was standing by an Aga. She was clearly the lady of the manor. I learnt later she was Caroline Cavendish.

  ‘My apologies,’ I said, as politely as I could, while trying to look friendly, concerned, unthreatening, and helpful all at the same time. Quickly (I could sense the Chief Inspector homing in on me), I spoke to the housekeeper.

  ‘I’m sure Susan will be back home again by teatime,’ I said. ‘I’m sure the Chief Inspector has told you that nearly every child who goes missing wanders back fairly soon, safe and sound in a matter of hours.’

  Joyce clutched her hanky, sniffed and said yes, he had said that, he had and she really hoped it was right.

  ‘I’m sure she will be back. But, as I say, just in case, as a sort of safety net, just to be on the safe side, if we had something in tomorrow’s paper, then by six o’clock in the morning you could have 100,000 people looking for her. If we had a picture, then people would see it and be on the lookout.’

  ‘She’s right,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘The press can be very useful on such occasions.’

  ‘If you’re sure, Mrs Cavendish,’ said Joyce, looking beseechingly towards her employer.

  I turned to the Chief Inspector.

  ‘Are you having a press conference or briefing soon?’

  He looked blank.

  ‘Press conference?’

  No, of course, no press conferences. No reconstructions, handout pictures, interviews for TV and radio. I spotted a picture on the dresser. Clearly a school photo, a little girl with blonde plaits and a gappy grin, arms folded above an impressive-looking encyclopaedia. ‘Is this Susan?’

  ‘Yes,’ said her mother, snatching the photo and holding it close to her.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said gently, ‘you could just let George here borrow it for a moment and he could take a photograph of it, a copy of it. It’s all right, we’ll just take it out of the frame, but you can have it straight back. Can’t she, George?’

  ‘And while you’re doing that, perhaps the Chief Inspector and I can just go outside for a moment?’

  Outside, the Chief Inspector recapped on the details of the case for me, then added, ‘Little Charlie thought Susan was waiting for him, you see, when a van appeared, a grey one, he says, driving very fast. A “fat man” got out, shouting, and dragged Susan into the van and roared off.’

  ‘Do you think he’s telling the truth?’

  ‘Probably, yes. We can’t be sure, of course. He’s only five, and they can get muddled at that age. But he seems quite sure, and quite consistent. He thinks the van came from the woods.’

  ‘Could it?’

  ‘There’s no road there, but a good track, and in this dry weather it would be quite passable. Bumpy, but passable.’

  ‘Any idea of the van?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Grey vans are ten-a-penny.’

  ‘Who lives in The Grange?’

  ‘The Cavendishes. Mrs Cavendish you’ve seen. Husband Colonel Cavendish is up in London during the week. There’s a daughter at boarding school, and a son, Jeremy, up at Oxford, though he’s home for the holidays at the moment. He went out to see friends over in Upper Middleton last night, presumably stayed the night and isn’t home yet. They don’t own a grey van.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘Well, I still think that Susan will turn up by teatime. Amazing the number of kids who remember to come home when they’re hungry. She’s probably gone off in a dream, or had an arithmetic test today or something.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t?’

  ‘If she doesn’t, then in view of the evidence of the little boy, we’ll start a full-scale search. But I’m sure it won’t come to that. OK?’

  ‘Thanks, Chief Inspector.’

  I went back into the house and had a chat with Susan’s mother Joyce. Susan had never missed a day at school, not even been late, loved school, was doing well, wanted to be a teacher. She would be home soon, wouldn’t she?

  Of course she would, of course she would.

  ‘Right,’ said George. ‘What now? I’ve taken the copy of the kiddie’s picture. I’ve got the police and her mum. Any point in staying?’

  ‘No, I guess not. Anyway, I need to tell Billy what’s happening.’ I reached instinctively for my mobile before realising how hopeless that was. Down the drive I could see a policewoman coming up, firmly holding on to the hand of a small boy, no doubt Charlie. By now it was a quarter to four. Nearly teatime. Let’s hope Susan would get hungry.

  George and I were just getting into his van (thank goodness it was black, not grey), when I saw a young policeman running up the drive like a champion sprinter, his helmet bobbing up and down and his great long coat flapping behind him. ‘Sir, sir!’ He was calling to the Chief Inspector, who was just going into the gardener’s house behind the policewoman and little Charlie. The young policeman stopped, and dropped his head down onto his knees in his breathlessness, then looked up.

  ‘Sir, we’ve … we’ve found a body.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said the Chief Inspector, the colour draining from his face. ‘Not Susan.’

  ‘No sir, not Susan. It’s a young man. We think it’s Jeremy Cavendish. He’s been shot.’

  I was out of the van in a flash. But the Chief Inspector held up his hand, his former friendliness vanished under an air of grim authority.

  ‘No, I have nothing to say until I know more myself. Will you please leave now. When I have something I can tell you, I will telephone the paper.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Please. Leave. Now.’

  I needed to talk to Billy anyway, and George had to get his pictures printed.

  We raced down the drive, my teeth rattling in the little van. I thought of that erect grey-haired woman who had been standing at the Aga, dealing with officialdom on behalf of her housekeeper. Now her son was dead.

  Back at The News I raced up the dusty wooden stairs. Billy was talking to someone on the phone, writing in his notebook as he listened. It was very Will-ish. But I had no time to think of that as I waved to get his attention. He brought the call to a quick, but very polite end, and turned to me. I told him what had happened, as quickly, clearly and as professionally as I could.

  Billy took it all in, thought for a second, and then said, ‘Write up the story of the missing girl, but don’t mention the body until we get official confirmation.’ He turned to the other reporter in the room, ‘Derek – have you got your stuff written up?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘And have you got your bike here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Right, get yourself up to Friars’ Mill. Don’t annoy Watkins, but try and get the gen on this body. They’re going to have to open an inquest, so there’s bound to be an ID. We need to know exactly what’s going on.’

  ‘But it’s my story!’ I said.

  ‘Yes Rosie I know, and I’m not taking it away from you. This is a team effort. You get your stuff
written up as quick as you can.’

  I typed as quickly as I could, with all that fiddly carbon paper. I had just finished when I suddenly remembered.

  Back before all this strange Narnia type adventure had happened, when I’d been sitting in the bound file room, going through all the copies of The News from the 1950s, there was that small paragraph. A sixteen-year-old girl had died in the river below the millpond at Friars’ Mill. I remembered it simply because it was such a small paragraph, such a sad memorial to a young life, and because the verdict had been Accidental Death, but something about the way it had been written had made me think it had really been suicide.

  ‘Friars’ Mill,’ I said to Billy. ‘Wasn’t that where a young girl drowned recently?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Billy, ‘I did the inquest. She was only sixteen. What we didn’t say in the paper was that she was pregnant. It was pretty clear that she’d killed herself, but the jury decided to spare the family’s feelings and say it was Accidental Death.’

  ‘Pregnant and abandoned?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do we know who the father was?’

  ‘No, it didn’t come out in court. There was something from a friend of hers saying that she’d been worried, her boyfriend came from a good family apparently, something about him being a student but refusing to give up his studies and do the decent thing and marry her because his family wouldn’t approve. Wouldn’t even consider it.’

  ‘A student? Good family?’ I looked at Billy.

  ‘Jeremy Cavendish?’ he asked, looking back.

  ‘That would explain why she did the deed in Friars’ Mill, wouldn’t it? Right on his doorstep. Who was the girl? Can you remember her name?’

  Billy frowned. ‘Amy something. Amy … Amy … She was a farmer’s daughter, lived the other side of town, I think. Oh,’ he banged the desk in frustration, ‘if only I could remember her name!’

  Today at The News of course you’d just type ‘Amy sixteen-year-old suicide’ into a computer search engine, and the story would flash up in front of you in seconds.

  Not in the 1950s.

  Billy started rifling through the big bound back copies that lived on a shelf at the end of the newsroom. He was turning pages swiftly, searching. Meanwhile, I ran up to the library. This consisted of shelf after shelf of brown envelopes packed with curling cuttings. First go I grabbed a fat envelope marked ‘Friars’ Mill’ and shook the cuttings out onto a desk. There were cuttings about garden parties at The Grange, about archaeological digs, about the leek show, the spring fair, an overturned milk lorry and the WI planting daffodil bulbs. But absolutely nothing about a sixteen-year-old girl ‘accidentally’ falling into the river.