The Accidental Time Traveller (40 page)

‘Yes,’ replied Rosemary for her mother. ‘He started there at fourteen and was still working there when he died in 1994. Tragic, he died much too young. He was a lovely man. Both my brothers have followed in his footsteps. Tony works for the Press Association and David’s a cameraman with the BBC. I’m afraid the photographer gene missed me totally. I was the person digital cameras were invented for,’ she laughed.

‘Was he called George?’

‘Yes, that’s right. There he is. There’s my parents’ wedding photograph.’

I looked at the photo she was holding towards me. A boyish young man was beaming proudly beside a slightly older young woman, who was holding a bouquet of flowers very carefully in front of her as if to hide something. She was wearing a dress and jacket, the jacket was loose and stylish and fastened with a single large button …

Mrs Turnbull was struggling to say something.

‘You … bought … jacket … wedding … beautiful … jacket …’

‘What, Mum?’ said Rosemary Picton gently. ‘No, this Rosie didn’t buy your jacket for you. It was another Rosie. You were married long before this Rosie was born. I’m sorry,’ she said to me, ‘but she still does get a bit muddled.’

All my nerve ends tingled. I wasn’t going to faint, I told myself, I was
not
going to faint. But there were so many questions. So much I wanted to know, and Margaret Turn-bull was in no position to answer them. I looked quickly across at Mrs Turnbull. For a second there was a flash of knowledge, recognition. ‘Yes,’ it seemed to say, ‘you’re right. It is me.’

Rosemary poured just half a cup of tea and placed it carefully, without its saucer, into her mother’s hand. I remembered where I’d seen those cups before. It was the night of the engagement. Peggy and George’s engagement. Mrs Brown had got them out because it was a special occasion.

I felt frightened, excited. Was this old lady, drinking her tea so carefully, really Peggy? It couldn’t be. Could it?

Mrs Turnbull was lifting the cup shakily to her mouth. She took barely a sip and then set the cup on its long journey back to the saucer again.

‘Mrs Turnbull,’ said Will, ‘what really impressed me was the way you didn’t mess about, didn’t hesitate. You knew instantly what was wrong with Rosie. If you hadn’t, if you’d dithered, she wouldn’t be here now. Rosie means a lot, everything to me. So really I owe you everything too.’ He turned the full power of his smile onto her.

Mrs Turnbull smiled with half her mouth.

‘It’s quite sad really,’ explained Rosemary. ‘When Mum was young, just about the time my parents were married, she had a friend, an American girl who was lodging with them, who died of meningitis. Very suddenly. That’s why my mother recognised the symptoms. She’d seen them before and always felt guilty that she couldn’t save her friend. Always thought that if they’d called the doctor sooner, they might have saved her. She had a bit of a thing about it. Long before there was all the publicity about meningitis, my mother was always telling us the signs and symptoms to look out for. She knew speed was so important. Funnily enough, the American was called Rosie too.’

‘Rosie … saved … my … life,’ said Mrs Turnbull, ‘Rosie … and … George.’

‘She’s never told me the full story,’ said Rosemary, ‘but she always said that if it hadn’t been for this American girl, she wouldn’t be here today. And neither would I – that’s why she named me after her.’

Rosemary.

Suddenly there was a woman of fifty named after me. I poured myself another cup of tea and wished I could have poured a generous slug of the brandy into it.

Will was admiring some of George’s photos of Watergate before it was pulled down to make way for the ring road. While he and Rosemary talked about them, I took Mrs Turnbull’s hand again. ‘Peggy? Is it you? It’s me, Rosie. Rosie, the one you thought was American, Rosie who lodged with you. Rosie who came with George looking for you.’

Oh God, if I found it hard to accept that this was Peggy, how on earth would this muddled old lady realise I was Rosie? She couldn’t, of course, but I had to try.

‘Peggy,’ I whispered, urgently, ‘Peggy Is it you? Is Rosemary the baby you were expecting when I knew you? Were you happy with George? What happened to Billy and Carol? Did they move up here? Are they …’ oh God, this was seriously weird, ‘Are they still here?’

I was desperate to know. If Peggy was an old woman, now, surely Billy would be an old man somewhere. Did Carol ever get her bright house, her TV and her washing machine? Did she ever get a better job? Did she and Billy stay happy together? There was so much I wanted to know.

It was no good. Of course I shouldn’t bombard Mrs Turnbull with questions. She was confused enough. I would only make it worse. It was my dream. What was I doing trying to use her to explain it?

Mrs Turnbull was gearing herself up to say something.

‘Want to say … happy life … wonderful husband … best daughter … good sons … all thanks … Rosie … Lovely … see her … again …’

She reached for my hand again. I hugged her.

‘It’s all worked out, Peggy,’ I found myself saying. ‘Everything worked out. Everything worked out fine.’

She looked tired, but was still trying to smile her lopsided smile.

‘I think it’s probably time we went, Rosie,’ said Will, putting his hand on my shoulder. ‘We’ve exhausted Mrs Turnbull.’

We exchanged pleasantries, made our farewells and went to the door. I looked across the room and for a second I could see Peggy again, the young Peggy who was laughing when she came back from her honeymoon, her expression flitting quickly over the half-frozen, lined and wrinkled face of Mrs Turnbull.

‘G’bye Rosie,’ she said, and then ‘G’bye Billy.’

‘It’s Will, not Billy, Mum.’

‘It’s all right. I answer to anything,’ said Will as I tried desperately to see Peggy again in Mrs Turnbull, but her eyes had clouded over, the side of her face seemed to droop even more. She had switched off, didn’t even seem to know any more that we were there.

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Rosemary. ‘That’s the most lively we’ve seen Mum since she was ill. I’m sorry if she was a bit confused. She’s tired now. But you’ve done her good. You must come again.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

But I knew we wouldn’t. Peggy, Mrs Turnbull, was already struggling with words and life. Using her to sort out my dreams or the mysteries of time was not only pointless but downright cruel. We had said our thank-yous to each other. I had saved her life and her daughter’s. She had saved my life. Peggy would like that. It balanced everything up. The debt was paid. The past was over. I didn’t belong there. I had my own life to lead, here and now.

It was a perfect day. The sun shone and the garden of the Shire Hall was rich with the scent of roses. Leo and Jake, looking incredibly smart in matching morning suits, were posing happily at the top of the steps, while the rest of us waved and cheered and cameras flashed.

It had been a simple and moving ceremony of civil partnership, in which Leo and Jake had promised to love and support and care for each other, and each to help the other flourish and achieve his dreams.

‘Nice vows,’ said Will. ‘Very egalitarian. None of that obeying nonsense.’

‘That’s not in the ordinary wedding service any more,’ I said, bopping him lightly with the order of service. ‘Not if you don’t want it.’

At the end of the service, Leo and Jake had hugged and now here they were on the steps, their arms still around each other’s shoulders looking incredibly proud and happy. ‘Now to the important part!’ shouted Jake. ‘Champagne!’

A little brigade of waiters and waitresses carrying trays of champagne were strategically placed around the garden. We all took it in turns to congratulate Leo and Jake before we moved down the steps into the garden to collect a glass and then gather in little clusters. Somewhere in the background a jazz band played. The air was full of saxophone and laughter, glasses and the pop of more champagne corks.

Both sets of parents were there, the two fathers looking only occasionally bemused. Leo’s dad was deep in conversation with Jamie about the latest education proposals, happy to have something solid to discuss. A couple of Jake’s more excitable gay friends were gushing congratulations. Leo’s dad started talking earnestly about alternatives to A levels.

The two mums were talking politely to each other, each making an effort to be nice to the other for the sake of their sons. Caz was talking to an incredibly camp young man in a pink suit, who was enthusing about her dress.

‘It’s vintage,’ she was saying. ‘It’s actually a 1970s copy of a 1930s design, and I’ve just tarted it up a bit.’

‘Well, you look just like the Duchess of Windsor, only much much more delicious,’ he said.

Two little girls, Jake’s nieces, were sitting on the grass making daisy chains. We stepped around them, careful not to spill champagne on their heads.

‘Good do,’ said Will, helping himself to another glass from a tray offered by a passing waitress.

‘It’s a lovely day. A perfect day. About as far away from hospitals as you can get, thank God. I know it sounds corny, but I can’t think of any other way of putting it – I’m so glad to be alive.’

‘Not nearly as glad as I am that you are,’ said Will, kissing my nose.

There was a big contingent from
The News,
including the Vixen, in designer shades, who was holding court on a stone bench in the shade of a tree. She was explaining something to someone, then she got a pen out of her bag and scribbled on the order of service. She looked up, pushed her sun specs back up her nose, and looked from under her fringe straight at me.

Suddenly I was back at the Browns’ kitchen table. I
knew
I’d recognised her.

‘Will … what’s the Vixen’s first name?’

‘Jan, of course.’

‘Yes, I know, what I mean is, what’s Jan short for?’

‘I don’t know. Is it short for anything? Janet I suppose. No, hang on, I remember seeing something somewhere. Janice, that’s it. I remember thinking she wasn’t a Janice sort of person, but she is. Or was.’

I looked at Jan Fox in her sharp designer outfit, her gleaming hair and immaculate make-up, her style and confidence. I remembered the small and smelly girl with the broken specs and the ravenous appetite for food, for learning, for life. I couldn’t ask. I just couldn’t.

I shivered, and Will put his arm around me. ‘All right?’

‘Yes, yes. It’s nothing.’

A maître d’ was summoning us in to eat. There was delicious food, more wine, crackers with jokes and streamers. Leo and Jake both made speeches and referred to ‘My partner and I’. Their fathers started to relax. Their mothers looked proud. The magic of a wedding – or a civil partnership – was beginning to work.

‘Mind you, I could murder a decent pint of beer,’ said Jamie.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ hissed Caz.

Back out in the garden in the early evening the jazz players had been replaced by a small band playing hits from the 80s and 90s. There were jugglers near the rose bushes and a magician doing tricks.

‘Have you a note there, sir?’ the magician asked Will.

Laughing he took out his wallet and handed the guy a twenty pound note.

‘Could you just write something on it?’ asked the magician. ‘Your initials perhaps?’

Will duly scrawled his initials and handed the twenty pound note back to the magician, who promptly ripped it up and seemed to throw the pieces in the air. Will’s face was a picture. The magician opened his hands wide. No note. Shook his sleeves. No note. Turned out his pockets. No note.

Will was still smiling, but not so confidently …

Then, apparently equally puzzled, the magician scratched his ear and, lo and behold, there was the twenty pound note, complete with scribble.

This time Will’s laugh was genuine.

‘How did you
do
that?’ I asked. ‘I was watching your hands all the time, and I never saw anything.’

The magician smiled a mysterious smile.

‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth … Sometimes you cannot believe your own eyes,’ he said, and moved on to the next group.

‘But I was watching … !’

‘Clever stuff,’ said Will, examining his twenty pound note carefully, before putting it back in his wallet. ‘Just shows that things aren’t always what they seem.’

‘Now that’s something I
have
learnt.’

The party was now in a blissful mood of post-meal, lots of wine relaxation. One of the beautiful young men was dancing with one of Jake’s nieces. They both wore daisy chains like crowns on their heads. Jamie was having a bit of a bop with someone’s elderly aunt and Caz was flirting outrageously with Leo’s dad. The two mothers were sitting on a bench, their smart hats and their shoes in a heap beside them.

‘They seem really happy together,’ one was saying.

‘They are. They will be,’ said the other firmly. ‘They are good for each other. Anyone can see that they were made for each other.’

‘All I wanted was for my son to be happy.’

‘That’s all I wanted too. And look at them. You couldn’t have a happier couple.’