The Accidental Time Traveller Read online

  ‘Will you go and see The Skiffle Cats?’

  Carol laughed.

  ‘No, that’s for kids, not people like me. They haven’t even got proper instruments. Just a washboard and a bit of string on a broom handle. No, I tell a lie, I think one of them might have a guitar. I spend enough time with my washboard as it is, without going out at night to watch someone else scrubbing away. But I like to hear a bit of decent music sometimes.’ She looked wistful. ‘I like the juke box. Tell you what’ – and again she sounded just like Caz – ‘I’ll be in town for the market on Saturday. Will you be in town too? I could meet you, say at the cross at eleven-ish and we could get what we want and then go in the back with the kids for a coffee and some music. What do you say?’

  ‘Yes, great. Why not?’

  ‘Well that’s settled!’ said Caz/Carol, then she turned to Libby and said, ‘Now we’d better go and do some shopping, otherwise none of us will eat tonight. See you Saturday, Rosie.’

  She did up Libby’s coat buttons again, took her hand and manoeuvred through the crowded tables. As they went, Libby turned around and gave a quick smile. She was the image of her mother.

  I paid the bill (leaving 3d tip, how confident is that?) and dashed back to the office, teetering between utter gloom and a strange almost-happiness. The thought of shopping with Caz/Carol made me feel more cheerful than I’d done ever since I’d got here. The thought that she was married to Will just seemed so bizarre that I could hardly accept it. It had to be a joke or a trick. Hadn’t it? Maybe I’d find out more on Saturday. That was obviously what she was thinking. And even though she was making out that she didn’t know me, she was still like my friend Caz. At least she was friendly and chatty, not like Will. But I wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. Maybe she was trying to lull me into a false sense of security. Maybe this was even more devious …

  Will/Billy didn’t come back to the office at the end of the day. Every time the door opened and anyone came into the office, I geared myself up to see him, preparing my calm face while the blood raced around my system and pounded behind my eyes. Then every time it wasn’t him, I slumped again. God knows what all this was doing to my stress levels.

  In the end, when it was clear he wasn’t going to be coming back, I went home early for my ham and baked potato. Janice was there again later. I couldn’t help her with her homework – physics – but she asked lots of questions about newspapers.

  I still couldn’t believe that Caz was married to Will. That was such a sadistic trick by the organisers. I couldn’t believe that they would have agreed to that. I remembered the silly feeling I had occasionally when I was a bit jealous of their shared past, but they wouldn’t do this. Surely not.

  But if I took it at face value, at least Caz was here too and prepared to be friendly. That was something. Not much, admittedly. But right now it was all I had.

  Chapter Six

  Middleton Parva was a separate village. Amazing. I just thought of it as the bit by the ring road where the new B&Q and Tesco were. But we went out of town, past fields and off the main road and down a country lane to get to it. George’s driving was erratic to say the least.

  ‘Hey hang on. You nearly had us in the ditch there! You’re on the wrong side of the road!’

  ‘Sorry!’ yelled George. ‘Habit. Think I’m in Germany still.’

  ‘Germany?’

  ‘Yes. That’s where I learnt to drive, when I was doing my national service in the army. On tanks, so the van took some getting used to.’

  ‘You were in the army?’

  Honestly, he didn’t look old enough.

  ‘How old are you, George?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘Did you break any of the Fräuleins’ hearts?’

  ‘No,’ grinned George – and bless him, he blushed – ‘we didn’t do much of that sort of fraternising. Plenty of drinking though! Those Germans know how to drink.’

  Somehow, we got to Middleton Parva. And as we did, so the sun came out, just as Marje’s postman had said it would. It was really pretty. There was a proper village green with trees, a couple of little shops, a very attractive church, which I’d never noticed before, probably because it’s hidden behind B&Q. This couldn’t be a film set, could it? This was something else. Something much bigger. But quite what, I didn’t want to think about just yet. Too scary. Much too scary. My skin went cold and clammy as I tried to think about it. No. Easier to get on with work.

  While George went off to scout for pictures, I went to the post office and struck gold straightaway. The postmistress’s family had been running the place since the days when mail came with the stagecoach, so that was a nice easy story to write up. Then I found the vicar, and we did pretty pictures of the church and talked about its history and looked at a few interesting graves.

  ‘What now?’ asked George.

  ‘The lady from the post office said the pub was run by a cockney, a chap who came here as an evacuee during the war. He must have liked it to stay. No doubt he’ll have a tale to tell. Shall we?’

  ‘A pub will do me fine. We’ll get a drink while we’re there. But which one?’

  There were two pubs on either side of the green. One, the Royal Oak, was low and squat and old-fashioned. It had small windows, and beams that made it look as though it had grown up out of the ground and would return to it given half a chance. The other, the Rising Sun, was a big flash newer sort of place with a car park. It had beams too, but you could tell they weren’t very old. There was a sign in the window. I went closer to read it.

  ‘No Gypsies! No Irish!’ it said.

  I stepped back, shocked.

  ‘Can they really say that?’

  ‘Yes, of course. The fair’s been here recently, that’s what that’s all about. They don’t want gyppos upsetting their posh customers. Is this the pub we want?’

  ‘No, thank heavens. We want the Royal Oak.’

  We went across the green and in through the tiny low door of the pub. It had no signs in its window. Inside there were flagged floors and a small log fire. Two old men, smoking pipes, were playing dominoes. They looked up when we went in, ‘Afternoon,’ they said, and went back to their game.

  Since we’d walked in through the door, I’d been holding my breath. I was waiting for someone to shout at me, or say they couldn’t serve me, accuse me of being a tart. Instead, the cheerful young landlord was saying, ‘Right sir, and what can I get you?’

  ‘Pint of bitter for me please,’ said George.

  ‘And for the lady?’

  I hesitated. I could hardly believe I was actually going to get a drink at last. But I didn’t know what to ask for, what to choose. Apart from the beer pumps, the stock on the shelves looked pretty limited. I could see gin and whisky and lots of bottles of Mackeson and Guinness. An advert on the wall showed flying toucans, watched by some RAF types. ‘Lovely day for a Guinness’ said the slogan. But perhaps not.

  ‘No vodka, I suppose?’ I laughed, as if I were making a joke.

  ‘No, this is Middleton not Moscow, miss.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know what to have.’

  ‘She’s American,’ said George in explanation.

  ‘Right darling. Why not have a shandy, a lot of ladies like that. Or a drop of local cider?’

  ‘Cider. That sounds fine. Yes please.’

  He disappeared for a moment and came back with a large enamel jug. He placed a half-pint glass on the counter about a yard away and lifted the jug. Cider poured from it in a long arc and fell, perfectly on target, into the glass. It was neatly done.

  I took a sip. ‘Cheers!’ I said and nearly choked. ‘God this is strong! What’s in it?’

  ‘Apples, mostly,’ said the landlord, ‘and a few dead rats of course.’

  I trusted he was joking, but boy was that cider good. It hit the spot wonderfully. I remembered I’d left my Oxo tin at the office.

  ‘Any food on? Sandwiches?’

  ‘The missus can make
you a sandwich if you like. Ham or cheese?’

  We both chose ham and while the missus was making them, I told the landlord why we’d come. He was happy to talk, a good utterer, and he spoke in quotes. Easy peasy George did a nice picture of him leaning on the bar, and by the time the sandwiches came, we’d just about finished, leaving Ray, the landlord, to serve his other customers.

  George and I took our sandwiches – and a second drink – over to a table by the tiny window. The sandwiches were brilliant. Proper thick bread with black crusts, masses of butter (Diet? What diet?) and chunks of delicious home-cooked ham. Real food. But now we were just sitting down and not actually working or talking about work, I noticed George looked a bit uneasy. It took a while to dawn on me that sitting in a bar alone with an older woman was clearly something he wasn’t used to.

  ‘It’s all right George, I won’t eat you.’

  He smiled uneasily and moved a little further away from me.

  ‘Did you like the army, George?’

  ‘It was all right. Once you’d got basic training over. All that bloody, sorry Rose, all that drill and bullsh— all that stuff you had to do.’

  ‘Did you go straight from school?’

  ‘No. I was a messenger on The News. Then I used to help Charlie with the developing and printing and things. I told them that when I got called up and I got to work for the information unit. Which was spot on. I worked with the army photographers, so when I came back Mr Henfield took me on as a proper assistant for Charlie, so I was pretty chuffed really. I think Peggy put in a good word for me.’

  ‘Peggy?’

  ‘Yes, Henfield’s secretary. Oh you know, you’re lodging at her house, aren’t you? She’s nice, isn’t she? She was always nice to me when I was a messenger. Most people just take the mick all the time, but Peggy never did. She was always kind. She always said that there was no reason that I shouldn’t be a photographer. She always makes you think you can do things if you really want to. And she’s got a lovely smile.’

  I have to say this was a completely different view of Peggy from the one I saw. But then I remembered how nice she was with smelly little Janice, and I didn’t say anything. Young George clearly had a bit of a crush on Peggy, and who was I to disillusion him? Anyway, maybe it was just me she didn’t like.

  ‘Do you like it on The News?’

  ‘It’s good, yes. And I like driving the van. I’m going to get a car of my own one day. I’ll have a proper wage soon when I’m twenty-one. Then I can take my mum on outings.’

  ‘Do you still live with your mum then?’

  ‘Yes. Just me and her. Dad copped it at Dunkirk, so it’s been just me and Mum ever since.’

  ‘That must have been hard.’

  ‘No harder than for lots of folk.’ He paused, took a long drink and glanced up and out of the window across at the Rising Sun.

  ‘Looks like Henfield’s popped out for his lunch-time drink. That must be his car. There aren’t that many two-tone Hillman Minxes around here. Maybe he’s meeting one of his floozies.’

  Floozy, what a wonderful word. I thought my grandad was the only one to use it.

  ‘Goes in for floozies, does he?’

  ‘One or two. Another drink?’

  ‘George, you’ve had two. You’ll be over the limit.’

  ‘What limit?’

  ‘You’re not meant to have more than two pints. You won’t be able to concentrate properly.’

  ‘Rubbish. I drive better after a drink or two. One for the road.’

  As he was getting the drinks – and that cider was good –I was still gazing out of the window. A bus pulled up on the other side of the green, a real old-fashioned country bus. A young woman got out and hurried across the green to the Rising Sun. There was something familiar about her …

  I sat up straight and had a proper look. Yes, no doubt about it. It was Peggy – who should have been in work – rushing into the pub, the pub outside which Richard Henfield’s car was parked. She vanished through the door just as George came back with the drinks.

  So Henfield liked his floozies, did he? And he and his secretary just happened to be in an out-of-the-way country pub at the same time. Interesting. Very interesting.

  Chapter Seven

  DAY SIX IN THE 1950s HOUSE

  If that’s where I am. I’m not sure any more. I’m not sure of anything.

  If this is the 1950s house, why wasn’t I briefed about it? Interviewed, insured, had explanations, and introduced to it?

  It’s more than just a house and a newspaper office. It’s a whole town, not to mention the countryside around it, and villages like Middleton Parva. That was no film set. And so many people! No TV company would pay for so many extras. It’s all so real. It doesn’t feel like a film set. I haven’t seen any cameras. No one’s mentioned a video room.

  None of the other people seem to be competitors. Mrs Brown was expecting me. My trunk was here. Everyone seems to think I’m here for a few weeks. But where’s ‘here’?

  Will and Caz. Ah. This is the really tricky one. Are they Will and Caz? If so, they wouldn’t play such a trick on me, not for so long. Not pretending to be married, with children. They’re my two best friends in the world. They wouldn’t play a trick like that, not even for a minute. They certainly wouldn’t do it for a poxy reality TV show. They just wouldn’t. No. Not even for a ‘psychological test’. They wouldn’t play those sort of sick games.

  Because if they would, then how could I trust anyone ever again? And who? Billy and Carol are identical to Will and Caz. But they’re different too. They both look older for a start. What about Caz’s teeth? The wrinkles? Will’s hands? That’s not make-up. But if they’re not Will and Caz, who are they? Why is it all different? What the hell is going on?

  When Lucy went through that bloody wardrobe into Narnia she knew straightaway where she was. I don’t. I don’t know where I am or why I’m here.

  It’s not really the 1950s is it? That’s impossible. Isn’t it?

  But what else is it?

  After I’d written that, I seized up. My whole body froze and I couldn’t get air in and out of my lungs. There was just a pain, the pain of panic. I didn’t know where I was. In time or space. I couldn’t trust any of my senses. Nothing was what it seemed.

  As I tried to breathe, in great panicking gulps, I tried to get my brain to work, tried to think logically, calmly. Ha!

  I had thought this was a reality TV show, yet nothing, absolutely nothing backed that up. This wasn’t a single house, or even a single film set. This was more. This was an entirely different world, a world locked in the past of fifty years ago. I ran to the window and beat my hands on it as if it were the bars of a cage, because it might just as well have been.

  I couldn’t have gone back in time, not really back in the 1950s. But where was I?

  All I knew for certain, the one sure thing, was that I wanted Will. I wanted his arms around me and his mouth whispering in my ear the way he did when I had nightmares, because this was turning into a real nightmare. I wanted to be home. It was only eight o’clock – on a Saturday morning off, for goodness’ sake, and I’d already been awake for hours. I was still leaning with my head against the cool of the window, taking deep breaths, trying to control my fear and panic, when Peggy came in.

  ‘You all right?’ she asked, not unkindly.

  ‘Yes, no … oh I don’t know.’ But then I had a thought.

  ‘Peggy, you know you asked your mum if I could come and stay here?’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘Well who arranged for me to come and work on The News? You’re the editor’s secretary. It must have been arranged through you.’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘Well how?’

  This was it, I thought, I’m getting close to the truth now. If I knew who’d organised my trip, the clothes and everything, then I’d know just what was going on. There’d be correspondence, letters about it. If I could see those, I’d have cracked
it.

  ‘We had a phone call from Lord Uzmaston’s office.’

  ‘Lord Uzmaston?’

  ‘Yes, you know – the proprietor. I’ve never met him, but Mr Henfield has. He’s been to lunch at Uzmaston Hall.’ She said this with a sort of pride. ‘He owns The News and quite a lot of other papers.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Oh it wasn’t him. He wouldn’t ring himself, would he? It was a man, a young man, I think. Just said that they had a reporter who needed a temporary job and that we were to fit her in. I can tell you Mr Henfield wasn’t happy, not with the idea of a woman reporter. But you’ve got to obey orders, haven’t you? Especially when it’s the owner, and Lord Uzmaston does have some funny ways.’

  ‘Was there any correspondence? Any confirmation in writing? Anything like that?’

  ‘No. Nothing at all. It was all very strange. Most irregular. That’s why I was glad I’d asked about the rent.’

  ‘Rent?’

  ‘Oh yes. They asked if we could find her – you – accommodation. And I thought of our Stephen’s room, it being empty. But before I said that, I asked how much they would pay. And the man said “Whatever is usual. It would be easier if you pay it direct from your office.”’

  ‘Oh and do you?’

  I realised, to my shame, I hadn’t actually given a thought about whether I should be paying rent out of my £8. 12s. 6d.

  ‘Yes, I take it out of the petty cash, and Mr Henfield signs a chitty.’

  ‘And no one’s come back to you? Asked anything about it?’

  ‘No, which was a bit worrying really. But everything seems to be fine. Why? Who were you dealing with?’

  ‘Tricky to explain,’ I said, which was the understatement of the year really, or maybe even fifty years. One more thought occurred to me.

  ‘Peggy, why did you suggest I should stay here? Was it to get your mum a bit of extra cash?’

  ‘No, not really – though I suppose that was part of it.’ Peggy looked embarrassed. ‘No, I thought it would be fun.’