The Accidental Time Traveller (28 page)

There were a number of chichi little shops that sold ‘Ladies’ Modes’, and I actually had to work out what that meant. One had a fur coat in the window. I think not.

There was no Debenhams, John Lewis or Selfridges. The nearest the town had to a department store was Adcocks, which was a series of small shops knocked together, but it actually had a pair of jeans in the window. True, they were in a side window under a hand-written sign saying, ‘Teenage fashion!’ but it was a start. I went in.

I’d hardly got through the door when a middle-aged woman in a black dress came sweeping down on me. ‘Can I help you, madame?’

‘Oh yes please. You have some jeans in the window?’

‘Jeans? Ah yes, the denim slacks.’ She wrinkled her nose as though there was a nasty smell. ‘Miss Marshall will help you. Miss Marshall!’

Another woman came gliding over and led me through a warren of rooms, up steps, down steps until we came to a tiny room, where a display model wore a pair of jeans and a peasant-style top. That looked quite fun.

‘Could I see what jeans you have please?’

‘We have those, madame.’

‘Is that the only style you have?’

‘Yes, madame. Would you like to try a pair? What size are we?’

I wanted to say ‘Well we’re a size ten but I don’t know about you sunshine,’ but I resisted. Instead, ‘Size ten,’ I said meekly. ‘And I’d like to try the top as well, please.’

She looked at me. She sniffed. She showed me into a tiny fitting room with a wonky chair, and then brought me the clothes. I tried the blouse on first. I pushed my arms in. Pushed. And stopped. I was stuck. My arms couldn’t actually fit all the way into the sleeves. They had got halfway and no further. What’s more, I was trapped.

Let’s make this clear. My arms are not Victoria Beckham stringy skinny, but they are not fat. In fact, I can honestly say they are quite decent arms. I can wear skinny fits and never have to cover up.

But now I was trapped in these tight sleeves. My arms stuck out like a scarecrow. I tried to pull the sleeves down. I couldn’t. As I tried to reach one sleeve with the other hand, I could feel the cotton material straining around my back, ready to rip. I stopped. Maybe I could sort of shrug it off, backwards … If I pushed both my arms out behind me, then maybe I could just ease one sleeve down a bit and then I’d be able to do it …

So there I was, arms stuck out behind me like a chicken, face bright red, sleeves stuck, when the sales assistant just yanked the fitting-room curtain open and stood there.

It’s difficult to feel cool and superior when you’re bright pink and stuck in a blouse that’s too small. ‘What size
is
this?’ I asked crossly.

‘Size ten, madame, as you asked,’ she said frostily, as she eased the sleeves off me. I rubbed my arms. They now had bright red rings halfway up. ‘You might find this a better fit.’ She handed me another blouse. Size sixteen. Sixteen! I’m never a sixteen.

I tried it on. It fitted. I know when I’m beaten. I didn’t even try the size ten jeans, but went straight to the sixteens. Even they were snug and the cut was pretty rubbish, but they were OK. They’d do. Obviously sizes were completely different in the 1950s. I took them out to Frosty Face and followed her back through the warren of rooms to the till.

‘It’s the milk, I believe, madame,’ she said.

The milk?

‘I understand Americans drink a lot of milk. It’s why you tend to be taller and … better made … than us. After all, we went through a war, rationing … We always noticed it when your GIs were here in the war. Such strapping young men …’ Her face went suddenly dreamy. I just did so not want to go there. I took my jeans and blouse and fled, feeling suddenly like a giant and even more out of place in this strange world.

When I got home, the first thing I did was cut the labels off. Size sixteen … never.

When Phil came around one sunny Saturday morning and asked me if I fancied a day at the seaside, I leapt at the chance. Just the opportunity to wear my new clothes, perfect for the back of a bike. Though Mrs Brown didn’t think so. As I came downstairs in my new jeans she looked at me and asked, ‘Is that considered decent in America, then?’

Mr Brown laughed. ‘Of course it is,’ he said. ‘Those are cowboy trousers. That’s what cowboys wear.’

‘Not like that, they don’t,’ sniffed Mrs Brown.

‘These are girl’s jeans, Mrs Brown,’ I said, and gave a little wiggle. And then I felt guilty because Peggy was standing there in a shapeless old skirt, the only thing that would fit her now, though probably not for much longer.

‘Enjoy yourself,’ she said. If I could see envy in her eyes, I pretended not to.

It was about thirty miles to the coast. Quite a long way on bumpy roads on the back of a bike, but it was just wonderful to feel so free. Spring was well and truly here. The sun was shining and the wind was blowing my hair, so even the odd bit of grit in my eye couldn’t bother me.

There were quite a few cars about, but we drove straight onto the prom and parked up. I felt like a kid. I wanted to rush down on the sand.

‘Why not? Race you …’ We dashed down. I pulled my shoes off and felt the sand between my toes and the little ripple of waves breaking on my feet.

‘Ow! It’s cold!’

‘Still early in the year,’ laughed Phil.

We walked the entire length of the bay and then put our shoes back on to scramble up a path to the top of a cliff. There was a big corrugated tin building in a grim shade of green. On the side in huge white letters was painted TEAS. Phil went in and emerged a few minutes later with a tin tray carrying a tin teapot, a tin milk jug and two thick white cups and saucers, and a couple of solid-looking scones. He carried them over to the top of the cliff where I was sitting on the grass, looking at the huge drifts of pale pink thrift coming into bloom alongside the paths.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Phil.

I nodded. And then burst into tears. Oh God, I know it was a stupid thing to do. And I don’t even know why it happened at that particular moment. Except maybe because I’d started to relax.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Phil, looking concerned and frightened.

‘I want to go ho-o-me,’ I wailed. Pathetic, or what?

‘Right. Fine. I’ll just take these things back.’

‘No, not home here. Real home. Proper home. Where I belong.’

Phil was hunting through his pockets. He found a nice, big, clean, white hanky and passed it to me. Then after I’d given my nose a good honk, he put his arm around me. ‘Well you’re bound to get homesick occasionally.’

‘I did at first, dreadfully, but then I thought I’d got used to it. I haven’t been thinking about home so much,’ I said with a sniff.

And I hadn’t. I had got drawn into this 1950s life. Sometimes, home – proper home – seemed like a dream. It was getting further and further away from me. And maybe that was the problem. I was scared of forgetting where I came from, where I belonged, who I really was …

Then the floodgates opened and I started.

‘Everything’s so different here. I want home and my friends and comfy clothes and proper showers and going out at night and big televisions and computers and my phone and texting and fluffy towels and garlic and curry and soft loo roll and cars and the internet. I want everything to be light and bright and white and clean not scruffy and shabby and smelling of mice. I want creams and shampoos and lotions and potions and mascara you don’t have to spit on and my boots and my duvet and my iPod. I want … oh I want so many things and most of all I want people like Caz and my mum and dad. But most of all I want Will.’

I only stopped because I couldn’t breathe and cry and talk at the same time. If this was Narnia, of course, there’d be Aslan to guard me. Or a faun or a talking horse. At the very least I’d have a bottle of magic elixir to make things better, or a magic hunting horn to summon help. As it was I just had me. And sort of Phil.

I thought of that hymn again.
Dwellers all in time and space.
Somewhere I’d lost my way in time and space. I was locked out of where I should be. I wanted to go home and I didn’t know how. Nothing was sure. Nothing was certain. Everything was out of focus and wrong. Panic was bubbling up into my throat, choking me. There must be some way I could get home. There had to be.

Phil was brilliant. He kept his arm around me and at the same time poured me some tea into the big thick white cup.

‘Drink this,’ he said. ‘It will make you feel better.’

Oh God, I’m lost in time somewhere and this man thinks a cup of tea can help. But it did, sort of. Phil really was such a decent man.

‘You’ll go home again. Of course you will. Don’t worry. Home is still there waiting for you.’ His voice was gentle, repetitive, hypnotic. I began to calm down. Took deep breaths. Concentrated on Phil’s arm around me. Let his voice murmur on, gently, soothingly.

I looked out at the sea and wondered if it was the same sea I’d seen before. Something someone once said about never bathing in the same river twice came into my head. I tried to make sense of it and I couldn’t. And suddenly I was too tired to try. For weeks I’d been battling to find out where I was and why I was here. And I just didn’t know if I could any more.

At least I’d stopped howling. I sniffed again, wiped my eyes and my nose, and shuddered a bit. ‘I’m sorry, Phil. What a scene. You bring me on a nice day out and I just go and cry all over you.’

Phil – bless him – looked relieved that I was talking more or less normally.

‘Nothing to apologise for. It’s all quite normal, quite natural,’ he was saying soothingly. ‘We used to see it in the army, time and again. Young lads getting on with things, no bother. Then suddenly, for no reason, out of nowhere, you’d get struck by the most awful homesickness. I remember getting really drunk one night because I suddenly missed my dog of all things, and I was just pig sick of sleeping in a wooden hut with nineteen other smelly snoring blokes and having to queue for everything, queue for a meal, queue for a shower, queue for a sh— Well, you get the idea. It’s bound to happen. Only natural. Don’t worry about it. Here …’

He passed me a scone. I nibbled it, still sniffing.

‘So how long are you going to be over here for?’

‘That’s the trouble. I don’t know. No idea at all, really. It’s complicated. I can’t really explain. But I didn’t think it was going to be very long.’

‘Well that’s all right then,’ said Phil easily. ‘If you’re not here very long, then all you have to do is make the most of it while you are. Get your head down and get on with it and you might find you enjoy it. Well some of it anyway. That’s how most of us got through national service. It’s the best way. Honest.’

He smiled at me. He looked so straightforward and cheerful. His pale blue eyes were full of kindly concern and I really wished I could love him.

‘Here we are,’ he said, ‘in glorious sunshine with a marvellous view across the sea. Let’s just enjoy this and not worry about what will happen next, shall we?’

It was as good a plan as any. I was already feeling a bit of a fool over my outburst. I managed a small smile for him. So we drank our tea and threw the remains of the scones for the seagulls, and then we walked back along the cliff path to the promenade. The turf was springy under my feet and Phil was holding my hand and whistling. The sun glinted on the waves and we seemed to have the whole world pretty much to ourselves. Wherever and whenever it was – it was a very good moment in time and space. The spring sun was surprisingly warm and I felt as though it was soothing me, taking out the twists and aches.

Back down on the prom we bought an Italian ice cream and had a go at the slot machines in the amusement arcade. Phil almost got a bar of chocolate in one of those crane thingies, but of course it slid out just before it got to the chute.

‘Has anyone
ever
won anything from this machine, do you think?’

‘Well, I’m sure that chocolate was there when I was a kid before the war,’ said Phil.

A kid before the war … Who was this person I was with …?

I shook my head and licked my ice cream. As the man said, enjoy the moment.

Back on the bike, we took a roundabout route home via a tiny fishing village. There was a pub right down by the little quayside, and lots of boats were pulled up on the beach. It was a place of lobster pots and fishing nets and the real smell of the sea. The sort of place so simple and unspoilt that you don’t think it exists any more. And I suppose it probably doesn’t. We sat on the wall and ate crab sandwiches, drank a beer or two and watched the sun set. Then climbed back on the bike and came home.

‘Phil, thank you. It has been a really lovely day,’ I said when we got home. ‘And thank you for being so kind. I’m sorry I was an idiot.’

‘Shh, not an idiot. Just normal,’ he said. He took me in his arms and kissed me gently.

‘I don’t know who this Will is who you miss so badly. But I think he’s a jolly lucky chap.’

Then he went back to his bike and roared off.

All right. I knew I shouldn’t have done it. But I had to know how Billy felt. Is that so bad?

It was early evening in the office. Billy had been going through the day’s stories with Brian the Night News Editor, ready to hand over to him. Phil, on nights again, had gone straight to a meeting of the Memorial Swimming Baths Committee, and wasn’t back yet. I was just typing up a story about a bull in a china shop. Yes really. A young bullock had escaped from the auction mart and had rampaged into the High Street. Seeing its own reflection in a shop window, it had charged at it and broken the glass. The shop actually sold toys and fancy goods, but as it had a display of souvenir mugs and ashtrays in the window, most of which had got smashed to smithereens, I thought it was fair enough to call it a china shop. Call it journalistic licence. The bullock, shocked and shaken, had eventually been recaptured by a couple of farmers and an energetic young policeman. Charlie had a picture of them all leading it away.