The Accidental Time Traveller (18 page)

And I didn’t care what anyone thought. I went over to him and put my hands on his. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, of course.’ He didn’t move his hands away but instead curled up his fingers until they were wrapped around mine. I gazed at him. He looked pretty bleary too, but his hands were warm and rough on mine. I untangled one of my hands and put it on his shoulder, reaching up, gently to his head.

‘Bad dreams?’ he asked.

‘Just a bit. I needed to know you were all right.’ And I just stood there for a while, feeling the warmth of his hand.

‘Takes more than a mad farmer with a rusty shotgun to get rid of me.’

‘I thought … I thought you were brilliant with him. Great negotiating skills.’ I tried to laugh.

‘You were good with the kid. Very calm. It helped.’

‘Good.’

We were still and silent for a moment. Me standing, him sitting, still touching, just looking into each other’s eyes, saying nothing, saying everything.

Then he gave my hand a final squeeze and moved his hand away.

‘And now we’d better get down to some work,’ he said briskly. ‘And you’d better go around to the police station and make a statement. I’ve already done mine.’

The working world came back into focus. My heart slowed down to something more normal. Billy wound paper and carbons into his typewriter and started tapping away on a longer fuller version of the very brief report we’d done just a few hours earlier. Billy talked it through as he wrote it, and, although it was tricky, what with Jeremy Cavendish being dead and Littlejohn having shot himself, I added bits, suggested bits and together we made a decent fist of it. If I’d been writing it up in the twenty-first century, I would have been plastered all over the pages, with my picture. But then it was a much more sober affair, and the only byline was ‘Our Reporters’.

But after that night and that story, everything seemed to get easier. I began to feel accepted as part of the team at
The News
, and the others started treating me like one of them, which was good. It helped, of course, that the old lech Gordon was still hopping around on his crutches and couldn’t get in. I still kept clear of the subs’ room, mind.

I began to feel less fraught about what was going on. Where I was in time and space – Narnia or over the blessed rainbow – didn’t seem to matter quite so much.

Working with Will got no easier. Seeing him every day and not being able to hold him, talk to him, be with him the way I once had was torture. And the friendlier we became, the more companionable and easier with each other, the worse it was.

But that morning, everyone wanted to know what had happened. Even Peggy was quite chatty and she made me a cup of tea – using the editor’s kettle, how honoured – while I told her all about it. I’d just got to the bit where I was telling her how Billy had calmed Littlejohn down. ‘Little-john was so angry and Billy just spoke to him quietly and it was like magic …’ when Leo walked in.

Leo! I thought back to when I’d seen him the day before all this began, in the pub with Jake, arm in arm, laughing, and so excited about their civil partnership plans.

‘Leo?’ I asked. ‘Is it you?’

He looked at me blankly, and it was Will and Caz all over again. But I think I was sort of expecting that. Peggy jumped up from her desk. ‘Hello Lenny!’ she cried. ‘I’ve got a great pile of books here for you.’

She turned to me. ‘This is Lenny. He does a lot of our book reviews. He reads an awful lot.’ She giggled archly. ‘That’s why he’s got no time for girls.’

‘So that’s why, is it?’ I said and put my foot in it big time. Well I mean, when Peggy said that he had no time for girls I thought she
knew
Leo/Lenny was gay. I mean, why else would she say something so stupid unless she meant it as a joke, however feeble?

‘So how’s Jake?’ I asked. ‘Are you still with Jake Andrews? Or is that different here too?’

Lenny looked as if I’d hit him. He really did. He went white, then red, and gazed at me as if I’d told him the worst news in the world.

Peggy was fussing about with a pile of books on the shelf behind her desk so, luckily, couldn’t see Lenny’s expression.

Lenny seemed terrified. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said. Then he picked up his briefcase, hurriedly, awkwardly. ‘I have to go, Peggy. I’ll see you later.’

‘What about …?’ But Lenny had gone, practically running from the room.

‘Well, what’s the matter with him?’ said Peggy. ‘He’s normally so nice and chatty. Ah well, must have got out of bed the wrong side. Right, now tell me about the farmer. Did you actually see him shoot himself?’

Sighing, I finished the story.

Later, when Billy and I were checking the page proof of our story, I said, ‘Billy, can I ask you something?’

‘Mmm?’ He was drinking a cup of tea while reading the proof. It was such a Will attitude and response. Ouch. I was getting better at separating Will and Billy, but it wasn’t easy.

‘Tell me, is it acceptable to be gay around here?’

He looked at me a bit blankly.

‘Well, er, of course it is. You can be as gay as you like. Laugh, sing, you don’t have to be gloomy. A bit of gaiety is always cheering.’

Now it was my turn to look blank. ‘No, not gay like that, I mean
gay’

Blank look.

‘Gay as in homosexual.’

A faint light began to dawn in Billy’s eyes. ‘You mean like er, like …’ He was clearly a bit embarrassed, which was sweet.

‘I mean one man loving another man.’

Was Billy blushing? Just a hint of pink on his gorgeous hollow cheekbones?

‘Like, um, queers and nancy boys?’

‘Exactly like that. Is it acceptable? I guess by your reaction it isn’t.’

‘Well it’s against the law for a start.’

Oh God, of course, I’d forgotten. Homosexuality was illegal until, oh I don’t know when, the 1960s I think. ‘But even though it’s illegal …’ I mean, a lot of things are illegal but quite acceptable, aren’t they? Like speeding or smoking dope, or dodging your tax. ‘… even though it’s illegal, is it still, well, all right?’

Billy was definitely blushing now.

‘Well, er yes, there are people you know, who are, well, who are … there were a few in the army. But, well, you don’t make a song and dance about it, because well, you just don’t. Right now, can we just get on with this please?’

He was
so
embarrassed, poor boy. I wondered whether it was because he was talking about gays, or just because he was talking about gays to a woman. Very funny really. But it told me what I needed to know, and it looked as though I had dropped Leo/Lenny right into it. I wondered whether I should tell Billy about some of Elton John’s parties. Maybe he wasn’t quite ready to hear that from me …

I was just smiling to myself about that when Phil, the reporter on night shift, came in. ‘Have you got your motorbike back?’ I asked.

‘Yes thanks. Only a young copper seemed to think there was something very suspicious about it all.’

‘Is there much activity up there?’

‘No, we sent a reporter up earlier, but I think the police have more or less finished there now. Up to the solicitors now, I suppose.’

‘I wonder what will happen to the house, if there’s anyone to inherit it. If so, they should have helped Little-john when he was alive.’

‘It will probably be a tenancy. The estate will take it back and let it out again to someone.’

‘Let’s hope they have better luck there. Anyway, what are we going to do about a follow-up?’

‘Follow-up?’ Both Billy and Phil looked at me as if I were talking a foreign language.

‘Yes. I mean this has been a terrific story, but shouldn’t we be getting more background about the Littlejohns?

What led up to this tragedy, etc, etc? And see how Susan’s coping? And her mum? You know, “My Night of Anguish, by shotgun girl’s mum”?’ I was looking at them eagerly. They were looking at me blankly.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Billy. ‘Let’s just let them get on with it in peace now,’ he said. He took some papers and walked out of the office, leaving me feeling a bit of an idiot.

‘Look, Rosie.’ It was Phil’s turn to look a bit embarrassed now. ‘Tonight’s my last day on nights. I’ve got tomorrow off, then I start on days again. Would you like to come to the flicks with me on Thursday?’

I looked at him. I was still thinking of follow-ups, and he was asking me out. A date! It was ages since anyone had asked me for a date. Because of course, I was with Will. But not here I wasn’t. But my heart was … Oh why not? This was only a pretend world after all. I smiled. ‘Right, yes. OK Phil, that would be really nice. I’d like that.’

‘That’s good,’ said Phil. ‘I’ll see you Thursday then. We’ll go straight from work.’ And he gave me a sweet smile and got on with making the first calls of the evening.

When I got home everyone wanted to know about the kidnapping and the murder. So I had to tell the story all over again, over the sausage and grey-looking mash.

‘Well I don’t care what anyone says,’ said Mrs Brown firmly, as she cleared the plates away, ‘all this started when that silly girl got herself in the family way. If she’d had more sense …’

‘But she didn’t get herself pregnant on her own, Mrs Brown,’ I said. ‘She must have been desperate to kill herself.’

‘She drowned herself in Friars’ Mill, didn’t she?’ asked Peggy quietly.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Jeremy Cavendish had presumably said he’d stand by her, and when he didn’t she shamed him by killing herself almost on his doorstep.’

‘Ha! There’s a lot of girls have trusted a fellow and look where it’s got them. Silly girl. Should have kept her hand on her ha’penny. No better than she should be and look where it’s led to,’ snapped Mrs Brown, coming back to the table with the pudding.

And that’s when I opened my big mouth …

‘If only they’d been sensible,’ I said. ‘If only she’d been on the pill or something.’

‘Pill?’ asked Peggy sharply.

‘Yes, you know, the contraceptive pill. No, actually you probably don’t, do you? There’s a pill you take that stops you getting pregnant. And if you slip up then there’s another, the Morning After pill, which you can take up to three days after unprotected sex and …’

‘And that’s quite enough of
that
thank you,’ said Mrs Brown, banging down a dish of stewed apples so hard that they slopped over the edge and onto the tablecloth. ‘We won’t have any of that sort of smutty talk in this household.’

Bang! A jug of custard was also slammed down and slopped over.

‘I’ve never heard of such a thing. And you think you can come out with filth like that while we’re having our supper. Oh no lady, I don’t know what you do in America, but we don’t have that sort of thing here. I will not have that sort of talk in my house, if you don’t mind.’

She almost threw the spoonfuls of apple into the bowls and pushed them in front of us. I realised I had genuinely upset her.

‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Brown,’ I said contritely – she was a seriously scary woman – ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that where I come from we talk quite openly of …’

‘Enough!’

I shut up and concentrated on my apple and custard. There was much spooning and slurping, but otherwise a deadly silence. Then Mr Brown, bless him, pointed out that they had more important matters to discuss.

‘We’ll soon be saying goodbye to this house, then,’ he said.

Overshadowed by the dramatic events at Littlejohn’s had been the council meeting that Alan had been to cover. The plans for the bypass and new inner ring road had been approved.

‘Well, that’s it then,’ said Mr Brown. ‘Just as well we never got you that fancy kitchen you wanted.’

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Will it affect you?’

‘Whole street’s coming down.’

‘Oh gosh, really? Are you sure?’

‘This one and all of Watergate and Fisher Quay.’

‘Oh, but they’re lovely old buildings!’ I had passed and admired them on my way to work. They were an interesting collection of higgledy-piggledy timbered buildings, not a straight line to be seen. True, they were a bit dilapidated, but they were interesting and historic and beautiful, overlooking the river. They must have dated back centuries, and were a real part of the town’s heritage.

‘Get away with you!’ said Mr Brown scornfully, as Mrs Brown passed him a cup of tea. ‘The Quay’s been a right warren of slums ever since I was a lad. Terrible place, only good for rats and thieves. Best thing to pull it down. Pull the whole lot down as far as I’m concerned. Let’s have something new and clean in the town. Something modern.’

‘But this is your home! Where will you go?’

‘They told us we’ll get one of those new houses they’re building up at The Meadows. Nice-looking houses they are. They’re what I call proper houses. Nice and light with big windows. And they won’t have the water and rats flooding into the cellars every time there’s a bit of rain. They’ll be all new and modern, with a proper garden on the flat and all.’

‘What about you, Mrs Brown?’ I was trying hard to get back into her good books. ‘Won’t you miss this house?’