The Accidental Time Traveller

by Sharon Griffiths

  I longed to be with Billy, but part of me was pleased, maybe relieved, that Davy had come along just when he did. I think …

  I walked off home, striding out as quickly as possible in a bid to stop myself from crying. My plan to get Billy to myself had failed miserably – thwarted by a scruffy urchin on a bike. But, of course, he was Billy’s scruffy urchin. His son.

  Despite that magic, that electricity between us, there was nothing that could disguise the fact: Billy was a husband and father. Apart from in the office, there was no way I could fit into that equation.

  And what about Carol? She was meant to be my friend. How could I take her husband away from her? Oh! I wanted to shout in rage and frustration.

  Instead, I tried to think of something else, anything else, other than Billy and his family. I wondered what culinary delights lay waiting for me, drying inexorably under an upturned plate in the bottom oven of the range. In fact, I think Mrs Brown had mentioned making rissoles from the final remains of the weekend joint. Rissoles. And probably last night’s left-over potatoes and cabbage as a fry-up or bubble and squeak. Not a dish to lift the spirits.

  But as I pushed open the back door to the Browns’ and went into the kitchen, I knew something was up. Mrs Brown was bustling around with the best cups and saucers, white porcelain with a little blue flower, and the place was fizzing with excitement.

  ‘Oh Rosie! You’re just in time! Go on through.’

  In time for what? Intrigued, I hung up my jacket on the back of the kitchen door, dumped my bag and walked through to the sitting room.

  What a scene. Mr Brown was sitting in his usual armchair, with a bottle of beer and a bemused expression. Meanwhile on the sofa sat George, also with a bottle of beer and looking completely at home, while next to him was Peggy, smiling rather tensely. Mrs Brown came through with the tray laden with tea things, including neatly cut sandwiches, a huge fruit cake, and a Battenberg cake, with its pink and yellow squares. Gosh. That was a real sign of celebration –a shop-bought Battenberg. She placed the tray on the table then went to the dark oak sideboard and opened one of the cupboards. From it she took a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry and three small gold-rimmed glasses. She placed the glasses carefully on a cork mat and poured the sherry. She handed a glass to me and one to Peggy.

  ‘It’s like Christmas!’ giggled Peggy.

  ‘Is this a celebration? What are we celebrating?’ I asked, bemused by the sudden lightening of the grim atmosphere that had pressed so heavily on the Browns recently.

  ‘A toast,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘Shall you do it, Father, or shall I?’

  Mr Brown waved a hand in her direction. He looked too stunned to speak.

  ‘A toast? What are we drinking to?’

  ‘To George and Peggy!’ said Mrs Brown grandly, raising her glass. ‘To their future happiness together!’

  The sherry hadn’t even got to my lips and I was already choking. ‘Together? George and Peggy? You mean …?’

  ‘Yes,’ said George, beaming proudly. ‘I asked Peggy to marry me and she said yes.’ He reached out and held Peggy’s hand. He looked young and proud and there were a million questions I wanted to ask him, chiefly, ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ and, Are you sure?’, possibly followed by, ‘Are you mad?’

  But he looked so pleased with himself and so happy that they all died in my throat. Instead I raised my little glass of sherry and said ‘Congratulations! I wish you all the happiness in the world!’

  And George blushed and looked about fourteen again. Then I recognised the atmosphere in the room for what it was. It wasn’t excitement – except perhaps on George’s part. It wasn’t celebration. It wasn’t even happiness. No, it was relief, sheer unadulterated relief. A huge problem had been solved, thanks to young George.

  Peggy had found a husband. Peggy had found a father for her baby. Respectability and reputation were saved. No wonder the Browns were so pleased. Just when everything had seemed as black as it could possibly be, George had ridden to the rescue. I was beginning to understand how important it was.

  No matter that George was six years younger than his bride-to-be. That they had never gone out together. That Peggy had never considered George as anything other than a young lad in the office seemed of no relevance at all. He had presented himself as husband material and they had been only too eager to snap him up.

  Getting pregnant and being abandoned was one thing – a shame too terrible to befall any well brought-up young girl. And her child would be a living reminder. As long as the child was there and the mother was on her own, no one would ever forget that she was a fallen woman, a girl who had sold herself too cheaply. For the rest of her life, and her child’s life, she would be labelled as the woman who was loose or foolish. A few might pity her for being too trusting, and condemn the man involved, but more would condemn her for giving herself too easily, for not ensuring a proper father for her unborn child.

  And there were the practicalities … who would support her and the baby? There were benefits, but they were pretty basic I think.

  But getting pregnant and getting married, well, that was a different thing. That was just two young people so in love that they couldn’t wait. Not ideal perhaps, but understandable, forgivable. Except that it wasn’t George’s baby …

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ I had to ask as the others busied themselves with plates and sandwiches and finding the big sharp knife to cut the cake.

  ‘Never surer. I’ve loved Peggy ever since I was about fourteen, I thought she was a great girl. And when I was doing my national service, well …’ he gave Peggy a quick sideways glance ‘… I used to dream about her. She was always the one for me and now I’m the one for her too.’

  ‘But … but you’re only twenty.’

  ‘Soon be twenty-one. That’s why my mum was so easy to give her permission for us to wed. Said I could do it soon enough without her say-so she might as well give me her blessing.’

  ‘Permission?’ I was floundering here.

  ‘Yes, because I’m not twenty-one yet. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing. We’ll be fine, just fine,’ he said firmly. Already he had a different air about him. He looked confident, determined. He looked … well, grown up, I suppose.

  It turned into quite a party. The men had another couple of beers each and Mrs Brown poured us another sherry. It was very sweet, but seemed to go straight to my head. Oh God, now I sounded like my gran … Finally, Mrs Brown was clearing the dishes, gathering up the tray.

  ‘Ooh, I must write to our Stephen, tell him he’s gaining a brother. And he’s going to be an uncle. Help me with this into the kitchen, would you, Rosie?’ she said. ‘Then we can leave those two lovebirds together.’

  Lovebirds?

  In the space of a moment it seems that Mrs Brown had re-drafted the entire scene. This wasn’t a desperate wedding hastily planned to save her daughter’s name and reputation. No, George and Peggy had suddenly been transformed into a pair of devoted lovers, giggling young things who must be left to do their courting in private.

  How long, I wondered, before she managed to convince herself that the baby, now growing so obviously, was George’s, and Henfield would be wiped out of this cosy domestic picture?

  I went to bed early, and I was sitting up reading Pride and Prejudice for the umpteenth time, wondering idly how Will would look in breeches and a wet shirt – when Peggy knocked and came in. She hesitated for a moment and then sat on the bed.

  I didn’t say a thing. I waited.

  ‘I couldn’t do it on my own,’ she said. ‘I know you said you had lots of friends who did. But I can’t. I just couldn’t.

  ‘And I couldn’t give it away either. I know that. I thought I could.’ She put her hands over the little bump, already protecting her unborn child. ‘But I knew life won’t be like it was before, whatever I do. So this is the best way.’

  I still didn’t say anything.

  ‘I know George
is a lot younger, but well, he’s always had a bit of a crush on me. He’s a nice lad, a good lad. I’m fond of him.’

  It was no good. I couldn’t keep my lip zipped any longer.

  ‘Look, if George had asked you out six months ago, six weeks ago even, you wouldn’t have considered it. You would have laughed at him for his cheek. And now you’re thinking of marrying him. Marrying’s for ever, Peggy. You and George. If – I remembered something Carol had said – ‘if Gregory Peck came by tomorrow, you’d have to say “Sorry, I’m marrying George.”

  ‘And what about George? Are you being fair to him? He barely earns enough to keep himself and you’re saddling him with someone else’s baby. What if there’s a girl waiting for him somewhere? A nice young girl, who he can have a bit of fun with for a few years before they even start thinking of babies? Have you thought about that?’

  ‘Of course I’ve thought of it!’ snapped Peggy. ‘I’ve thought of so much that my head’s bursting with thinking! All I know is that this is the best way for me. It’s best for my parents too. And it’s best for the baby. And as for George …

  ‘You know I remember what it was like when I was … when I was down by the mill, when you and George found me. I know what I felt like then. Everything was black, it was the end, I couldn’t see any way out, any single little way that life would be worth living again. Even when I was in hospital I couldn’t say, I really couldn’t say that I was glad to be alive. I couldn’t. I wasn’t. Part of me still wished that you and George hadn’t bothered, that you’d just left me there to die in peace.

  ‘No listen, please. I’m not ungrateful, I’m really not. Because the one thing that kept coming into my head as I was lying in hospital was George’s voice saying, “Come on Peg, you can do it. It’ll be all right.” And his arm around me as you carried me back to the car. You and George saved me and my baby when we didn’t want to be saved. And now I’m so pleased and grateful that you did.

  ‘No, I’m not madly in love with George, but somehow, he brought me back to this life. I know he cares about me. He always has. And I’m beginning to care about him. Really. And if he looks after me and this baby, I will look after George. He’s a good man – and he is a man, although he’s only twenty – and I’m going to do my very best to make him happy. I promise that. It’s what he deserves. And I won’t forget that.’

  She looked up at me. ‘It’s the best solution, Rosie, the best there can be.’

  I clambered out of bed and reached out and hugged her. What else could I do?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Billy was ignoring me. Not nastily or obviously, but he was definitely ignoring me.

  I knew it was because he’d nearly made a pass at me. Oh God, I would love to know what would have happened next if Davy hadn’t come along. Would we have gone to the pub? For a walk? Would he have told me what he thought of me? He had already been saying nice things …

  But the moment – if moment it had been – had definitely passed. And Billy was clearly regretting the little bit he had said. He hardly spoke to me. And when he did, it was brisk and businesslike. Perfectly polite, but he was definitely avoiding eye contact. Yet sometimes, I knew he was looking at me across the office. I could feel his eyes on me. If I turned around, I’d see a tiny movement just out of eye range, but Billy would be bent over his typewriter, or the diary, or his notebook.

  It was wonderful that he cared, that he felt the same as I did. But he wasn’t going to do anything about it. I knew he wanted to, but he wouldn’t, because he was a married man, a family man.

  I admired him for that. Loved him even more. I loved his loyalty to his children. I loved the way he spent time with them, teaching them things. He didn’t try and pretend he was a kid too, fooling around with them. He was their father and he took that seriously.

  Most of all, though, I loved him for his loyalty to Carol. I knew he was falling for me, but he was trying hard not to, because of his loyalty to his wife. I genuinely admired him for that – even if it made me feel utterly miserable.

  I was sitting in the newsroom, typing up a very dull story about Bob-a-Job week (sending small boys to knock on doors offering their services. Paedo fantasy or what?) and trying not to put my head down on the typewriter and weep, when young George came bouncing in.

  ‘All ready for Thursday then, Rosie?’ he asked happily, to a chorus of comments from the men in the room.

  Word had got around about the wedding and had stunned everybody, hardly surprising since George and Peggy had never even been out together. Marje had guessed the story but I knew I could trust her to say nothing, so everyone presumed Peggy’s baby was George’s, which meant he got all the sympathy – and the rude comments.

  ‘Hey George, hear you been paddling without your boots on!’ yelled one of the young messengers walking past the door.

  George took it all, responded merely by grinning. He really did seem so pleased to be marrying Peggy. I hoped she’d make him happy.

  It was a special licence job. Bit of a rushed do.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Brown with her mouth full of pins that evening, ‘it’s not as though we’re inviting anybody. We haven’t got much to organise.’ She was busy trying to alter a dress for Peggy to wear, letting out seams, moving buttons. ‘It’s not the way I thought my only daughter would be getting married. Not the way at all.’

  ‘My friend Kate had a lovely dress when she got married, even though she was six months pregnant,’ I said chattily as I brought them a tray of tea. ‘You can get nice posh maternity dresses, even wedding dresses.’

  Mrs Brown nearly choked. ‘I never heard of such a thing! Maternity wedding dresses! Well really!’

  I could have pointed out that Peggy was far from the only girl in need of such a thing, but guessed I’d be wasting my breath.

  The wedding was going to be extremely quiet, in the register office. Just the Browns and George’s mum, and George’s friend Derek as best man. It all seemed very hole in the corner to me, not exactly a celebration.

  ‘There!’ Mrs Brown handed the dress to Peggy, who slipped it on. To be fair, her mother had done a good job. The dress, a pale silk, looked dressy and flattering.

  ‘What are you going to wear on top?’

  ‘I don’t know. My coat I suppose.’

  Oh dear. Her coat was fine, but it was very fitted. It was some time since she’d been able to do it up.

  ‘There’s no point in buying anything new just for the day,’ snapped Mrs Brown. ‘You’ve got plenty of other things you’ll need to spend your money on.’

  Which gave me an idea …

  In the window of Adcocks, I had spotted a very nice jacket. I had fancied it for myself but dismissed it as I had nothing really to wear it with. It was a mid colour blue, short, loose and fastened with one huge button. It was young and fun. It would, I thought, go perfectly with Peggy’s let-out dress, be fashionable but yet would fit nicely over the burgeoning bump, and I wanted to buy it for her.

  I would have liked her to have come with me to choose it and try it on, but until the wedding, Peggy was practically in purdah, hardly allowed out until she had that wedding ring on her finger and was respectable again. So I went back to Adcocks and faced Frosty Face and tried the jacket on. It was – as Frosty Face pointed out – a bit tight across the shoulders for me, but Peggy was narrower there than I was, so that would be fine. And it was plenty big enough in the middle to flow over the bump. So I forked out a week’s wages for it, and took it home.

  Janice was sitting at the kitchen table with her homework (railways of Canada; functions of the lungs). The room smelt of the onions in the corned beef hash bubbling on the top of the range for supper. Peggy was sitting in her dad’s chair, sewing, surrounded by huge swathes of old sheets, much patched and darned. She looked tense and tired, not a bit like a bride only days before her wedding.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Making cot sheets. These are all Mother’s old sheets that sh
e was keeping for tea towels, but I think I can manage to cut a few cot sheets out of them.’

  ‘Gosh,’ I said, ‘are cot sheets that expensive to buy?’

  Peggy laughed. ‘You don’t buy cot sheets. What a waste of money that would be. Mind you, I think I’ll be hemming sheets in my sleep. What have you got there?’

  I pushed the old sheets out of the way and placed the big box ceremoniously on the table.

  ‘For you.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Yes. Open it.’ I grinned and Peggy giggled and looked years younger. She stuck her needle carefully into the small cot sheet, put it down on the table, stood up wiping the stray bits of cotton off her, and picked up the box.

  ‘It’s from Adcocks!’

  ‘Yes.’ Peggy unfastened the string and opened the box to reveal a cloud of tissue paper. She removed it carefully, putting it on the table to be folded and used again.

  ‘Oh! It’s a jacket!’

  ‘Yes, it’s a jacket. What’s more, it’s a jacket for you to wear on your wedding day. I just hope the colour’s right.’

  Peggy carefully took the jacket out of the tissue paper and looked at it. Oh God, I thought, she doesn’t like it … Quite the opposite. ‘It’s beautiful!’ she said.

  ‘Try it on.’

  Even over the old jumper and shapeless skirt she was wearing, the jacket looked good. We took it upstairs and tried it against the dress.

  ‘It goes perfectly,’ said Janice, who had followed us up.

  Janice stroked the jacket and looked in admiration at the big button, the silky lining. ‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it?’ she said, almost in awe. ‘Very special.’