The Accidental Time Traveller (14 page)

At teatime we had tinned salmon sandwiches, which were clearly a treat, and a cake that Mrs Brown had made that morning. Listen, I was so desperate for entertainment that I learnt to knit. Seriously. When
What’s My Line
came on, Mrs Brown dragged her knitting bag out.

‘Do you knit much?’ she asked.

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Never learnt.’

Well! Do I eat babies for breakfast? Or push little old ladies under cars? You’d think I did, the reaction I had from Mrs Brown. Anyway, it all ended up with her digging out a pair of needles and some scraps of wool and teaching me how to knit. I was apparently knitting a scarf. I have done at least three inches of it. So far, it was black, and red, and yellow, and further colours will depend on the scraps in Mrs Brown’s knitting bag.

Once I’d got the hang of it, it was quite soothing really, click, click, click, as I watched the little grey people on the television signing in and then going through their mimes of the jobs. A lot of Hollywood stars have taken up knitting, haven’t they? Say it’s very good for their stress levels on set. I can believe it too.

I thought of Carol’s children and their hand-knitted jumpers. I suppose Carol had done that too – in between making most of their clothes, washing by hand and trying to keep that small dark little house clean. Very different from Caz. Don’t get me wrong, Caz is a worker. I’ve known her do twelve-hour shifts at work and not moan at all. But on her days off she believes in as little effort as possible. I thought of their bathroom – power shower, deep tub, surrounded by bottles of bath oil and candles. Couldn’t imagine Caz settling for a tin tub in front of the fire. But if there was no alternative …

I’d just come to the end of the red wool and was ready for a break from all this creativity and thinking – that’s the trouble with 1950s Sundays, too much time to think – when I heard a strange noise from the kitchen. When I went out there, it was young Janice, in a grubby shapeless kilt and jumper, eating what looked like a beef sandwich while walking up and down, with her eyes closed reciting a poem.

‘“Ish there any body there?” shaid the Traveller, knocking on the moonlit door.

And hish horse in the silence champed the grashes

Of the forest’s ferny floor.

And a bird … and a bird …
[Oh blow.]

And a bird flew up out of the turret,’

Above the Traveller’s head’
, I said, having picked up the book and looked.

Janice jumped and sprayed crumbs all over the kitchen.

‘Sorry Janice, didn’t mean to make you jump. Is this part of your homework?’

‘Yes, I’ve got to learn it for first lesson tomorrow. And it’s impossible to do it in our house with all the howling.’

‘Well I’m sure if you explained that to your teacher, she’d let you off.’

‘No she wouldn’t. If things are difficult, she says you just have to try harder. Anyway I’d feel silly, wouldn’t I? If all the others learnt it and I hadn’t just because my brothers howl all the time.’

I had to admire her. Even with her new haircut – already looking pretty grubby and greasy again – the poor kid didn’t have much going for her. But she was determined, I’ll give her that. She wasn’t making excuses even though it seemed she had a house full of them.

‘Well, come on, I’ll help you.’

So we walked around the kitchen, Sambo weaving between our legs, chanting it together.

‘But only a host of phantom listeners that dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men …’

Until Janice was word perfect and triumphant and I too had got it by heart. Knitting and learning poetry. Was this what Sundays had come to?

After Janice had gone home I went back into the sitting room and sat on the sofa in front of the fire. A draught chilled my shoulders and the back of my neck, while the fronts of my legs were almost burnt by the fire. I felt edgy and restless and could feel Mrs Brown beginning to get impatient with me, so I picked up my knitting again. It gave me something to do with my hands while I carried on with my thinking. I looked at the pictures in the flames and knitted my scarf. And did some thinking. So much thinking.

Click click
‘Is there anyone there?’ said the Traveller.

Click click
Dwellers all in time and space.

Click click
When you’ve eliminated everything else, then what’s left must be the truth.

Click click
They can’t take that away from me.

Click, click, click …

Maybe it was the knitting … OK, maybe not. Trust me, its therapeutic effects are overrated. But on Monday morning I felt a lot calmer. Maybe this was just an adventure. Part of me was still bewildered, trying to work it out and if I thought too hard about it, I guess I could feel the panic rising again. But I clung on to the fact that everyone said I would be here just for a few weeks. So the other part of me was curious, excited almost. This was an adventure and I wanted to see what happened. After all, I thought, it could be a great story …

After such a stodgy Sunday I practically ran into the office. I was actually looking forward to work. I went into the reporters’ room expecting to be greeted by Gordon’s demands for tea. But he wasn’t there. Instead Billy was standing with the big diary in front of him, marking up the stories.

‘Hello Rosie,’ he said, pleasant and friendly but still like a stranger. ‘Nice to see you on Saturday.’

I was completely wrong-footed. For some reason I hadn’t expected him to be there, didn’t know what to do with my hands, the expression on my face. ‘Yes. I enjoyed meeting Peter. He’s a great lad, isn’t he?’ Gosh, I was making conversation like an old granny with the vicar.

‘Not bad,’ said Billy, but he looked pleased.

‘Right,’ he went on, ‘Gordon won’t be in for a week or two. He’s broken his leg, fell downstairs apparently – while stone cold sober, before you start. He’s in the Victoria Infirmary at the moment and they won’t let him out until he’s mastered the crutches. So it’ll be a while before he’s back at work.’

I thought of Gordon trying to negotiate those long steep narrow cluttered stairs on crutches and for a moment – a very brief moment – almost sympathised.

‘So I’m taking over the desk for now and I’ve had to reorganise some of the jobs. Alan, you’ll have to get to the council planning meeting today. It’s the day they decide on the ring road. That’s a must. Tony’s down at the petty sessions. Derek’s gone to an accident on the Netherton Road. Marje – I’ve got you down for the Duke and Duchess opening the new school. OK?’

‘Fine by me,’ said Marje.

‘What about me?’ I asked.

‘Dan and Doris Archer are opening the spring flower show in the Shire Hall, but that’s not till lunch time, so if you can get on with some shorts till then …’

‘What, off the radio show?
The
Dan and Doris? Gosh my mum would be jealous. She loves
The Archers
.’

‘Not a patch on
Dick Barton
,’ muttered Marje. ‘They’re all yours.’

First I had a phone call to make …

Making phone calls was tricky because there were only three phones in the office, none of them on my desk. And everything had to go through the operators downstairs. You couldn’t just dial a number, you had to wait for them to put you through. The upside of this was that often you didn’t even need to know the number you wanted – just left it up to them.

I waited until the office was quiet, then I went over to Gordon’s desk, took a deep breath and picked up the phone. There was a quick click and a voice said, ‘Switchboard!’

‘Could you put me through to head office?’ I said briskly, in my best businesslike tone.

‘Who is that please?’ asked the switchboard operator suspiciously.

‘Rosie Harford.’

There was a pause and I could hear them dithering over whether to connect me or not. Obviously, humble reporters never dared ring head office.

‘I have a few details I need to clarify with Lord Uzmas-ton’s secretary.’

‘Oooh, right you are love,’ said the operator and, many clicks later, I was speaking to another operator who sounded as though she were on Mars, or underwater.

‘This is Rosie Harford on
The News.
I have a few questions about my attachment here and I would like to speak to the person who arranged it.’

‘Have you a name for that person, caller?’

‘No I don’t, sorry.’

‘Right, I’d better put you through to Lord Uzmaston’s office.’

Good. This was sounding promising. The phone was answered by an incredibly posh-sounding woman. I just knew –
knew
– that she was wearing pearls. She had that sort of voice. I went through my request again.

‘And who was the person who made this arrangement?’

Bugger. This would make me look a lot less businesslike.

‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure. I believe it was a young man who is an assistant to Lord Uzmaston.’

‘Ah. That would be our Mr Simpson.’

‘Could I speak to him please?’

‘No, unfortunately not. He is away from the office for the next two weeks.’

‘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.’