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.
Chapter Twenty-Six
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.’
With that Leo and Jake, arm in arm, came laughing up to their mothers, took their hands and danced them gently across the lawn, all four joined together, the mothers laughing at their sons’ happiness, and relief at the cool grass on their hot stockinged feet.
And suddenly they were going. Waiters came around with ice-cream cake, coffee and trays of liqueurs, and there were Leo and Jake at the top of the stairs, thanking us all for coming, blowing us all kisses and getting huge cheers.
‘I’ve got no bouquet to throw,’ said Jake, ‘but instead I shall throw you my … button hole.’
And he freed the flower from his jacket and tossed it with a flourish down into the group standing at the bottom of the steps. The lad in the pink suit reached for it, as did a few others. But, to my surprise, it was Will who leapt high into the air and grabbed it from above the heads of them all.
‘I always was great in the line-out,’ he said, amid cheers and cat calls and foot stamping.
There were even more yells when he tucked the flower into the very low neckline of my dress.
‘Your turn next!’ shouted Jake. ‘And so far I can recommend it most strongly.’
Off they went to catch their flight which would eventually take them up to the edge of the Arctic Circle where they wanted the twenty-four hours of daylight. After cheering them on their way, the guests split into little groups, some making leaving noises, others ordering more drinks, a few energetic souls planning to go clubbing, the parents and aunties by now the best of friends and beaming with happiness that the day had gone well.
‘What would you like to do?’ asked Will as I shrugged into my tiny jacket.
‘Well, I don’t want anything more to eat or drink – not for a week at least.’
‘I think we’re ready for home. Shall I call a cab?’
‘No, let’s walk.’
The Shire Hall was in the old part of town, and I knew which way I wanted to go. We slipped through the gardens and along the path through a small secluded square and along the crescent of lovely Georgian houses that are now the offices of solicitors and PR firms, until we found ourselves by the steps leading up to the old town walls. The tapas bar was bouncing, and people were overflowing up the steps and onto the walls, but after twenty or thirty yards their noise faded into the distance and we were alone.
In the soft evening light we could see along the river and across to the banks on the other side. The click click of my kitten heels echoed against the old stones.
‘The last time we walked along here I was going flump flump flump in wellies.’
‘I don’t remember that.’
‘Well no, it wasn’t you, not now.’
‘Your dream again? My alter ego?’
‘That’s it.’
There was a bench now just where there had been a bench before. New bench, old walls. We sat down and I looked across the river. All the streets of little old houses had gone. Instead there was a block of very expensive apartments, a green open space, a car park, and a neat and tidy cycle path.
‘There was a little house over there, where your alter ego lived with Caz and the children. The house was horrible, very picturesque, but dark and damp and smelly, no electricity and the only tap was a cold one in the kitchen. But you had a huge garden that stretched all the way up the hill and you had lots of very neat rows of vegetables. And a rickety old shed that you wanted to replace, and cold frames that your son helped you build.’
I remembered the togetherness of the little family and the pain of being excluded from Will’s life. I couldn’t believe that he was here beside me now. I leant against him, pleased that I had the right to snuggle up to him, to claim him as my own.
‘That reminds me!’ Will sat up suddenly.
‘What? That you have a wife and children and a passion for gardening?’ I could almost, almost, joke about my dream now.
‘No, there was something in the post this morning from the estate agent. The postman arrived just as I was going out to bring the car around and I stuffed the letter in my pocket and forgot all about it.’
He pulled out an envelope from his inside pocket and ripped it open.
‘Don’t suppose it’ll be any more interesting than the rest of the overpriced dolls’ houses he’s sent us.’ He looked. ‘On the other hand …’
I snatched the details from him and peered in the dying light. I could see a picture of a house, a square-ish no-nonsense sort of a house, solid and surrounded by gardens. I liked the look of it. It immediately appealed to me.
‘Three bedrooms … two reception … original fireplaces … needs some work … plenty of room to extend.’ Will read the details out loud as I peered over, still looking at that picture. ‘… large well-maintained garden including lawn, orchard and vegetable plot.
‘I think I could take to gardening,’ said Will. ‘I mean, I’ve grown those chillies haven’t I? I can learn. I quite fancy going out and picking nice fresh veg. Could get used to that.’ Already he could see himself as the new Monty Don.
‘Anyway, we’ll ring them tomorrow to take a look, shall we?’ he said. ‘If it needs doing up that’s why the price is almost affordable. But we can do that. We’ve got the rest of our lives, haven’t we? When I’m not growing prize marrows or whatever.’
I was laughing. ‘Tell you what,’ I said, ‘I’ll even buy you a shed.’
‘A shed! It’s a deal!’
Will pulled me to my feet and put his arm around me. The bench and the wall and the river, and the memory of that dark damp little house faded into the darkness as Will and I walked into our future together.
About the Author
THE ACCIDENTAL TIME TRAVELLER
Born and brought up in Wales, Sharon Griffiths had a free-range 1950s childhood. After grammar school, she read English at the University of Bristol, then worked for the BBC and later in newspapers. Sharon met her husband, a fellow journalist, on a press trip and they went on to have two sons. Among other journalism she now writes five newspaper columns a week.
For more information on Sharon go to
www.sharon-griffiths.com and visit
www.AuthorTracker.co.uk for exclusive updates.
Epilogue
Newspaper cuttings
Joy for journalists
Two journalists on The News were married yesterday at St Bartholomew’s church. Will West (30) was recently appointed Deputy Editor of The News, and Rosie Harford (29) writes the popular Glitzy Green column. The wedding comes a year after Ms Harford nearly died from meningitis.
Best Sellers
; Non Fiction
A Load of Balls, Footballing Lives by Clayton Silver
Nigella’s Sumptuous Suppers
Think Yourself Thin by Summer by Anna Hardy
Eat Less, Exercise More, the Ultimate Diet Book
Glitzy Green, a stylish way to save the planet by Rosie Harford
Misery, my Wretched Childhood by Belinda O’Connor
West. On 4 September to Will and Rosie (Harford) twin sons, Adam and Owen. Mother and babies doing well, Father still in state of shock.
(Pic caption) Former News journalist Caz Carter stars in her own story this week when she opens Spangles, featuring vintage and retro clothing reworked into new fashion. Caz (left) models an original 1950s full cotton skirt in a design of a Paris street scene. Her partner in the enterprise is former colleague, the columnist and author Rosie Harford who has helped make green living glamorous.
Honour for local Head Teacher
Rosemary Picton, head of The Meadows Comprehensive School, has been awarded the OBE for services to education. Mrs Picton (57) has been head of the 1600 pupil school for eight years, and is credited with its transformation. From being on the verge of special measures, it is now the highest achieving school in the area, with a waiting list for admissions.
‘I’m proud to accept this award on behalf of the children at The Meadows, whom it is a privilege to teach,’ said Mrs Picton. ‘Also on behalf of the staff who work so hard and so willingly. My only sadness is that my mother did not live to see it, for she was my inspiration. She was the one who always insisted that every child deserved a chance.’
Editor to retire
The Editor of The News, Jan Fox, is to retire at the end of the year. Since she returned to The News, the paper on which she trained in the 1960s, Ms Fox has won many accolades and awards for The News. ‘We have always tried to make the most of modern technology while retaining our traditional values,’ said Ms Fox, who had her own television shows in the 1980s and early 1990s.
The Accidental Time Traveller Page 30
