The TV Time Travellers

by Pete Johnson

‘Thanks.’

  ‘You just don’t know when to keep this shut.’ She pointed to her mouth. ‘Don’t forget, your first aim is not to get nominated.’

  I grinned. ‘You really want me to win this, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do . . . but whatever happens you’ll always be a winner to me.’

  As soon as she said that, tears started forming behind my eyes, which I blinked away furiously. I really didn’t want to walk in there bawling my eyes out.

  As the car pulled up outside the Reality Plus studios, the driver turned round and said, ‘You go in and win now,’ which I thought was really friendly of him.

  And there was a large crowd of people watching Mum and me walk into Reality Plus. A few of them cheered and waved, but most just stood there having a good gawp.

  ‘Good morning,’ murmured Mum politely to them. A couple of voices replied, but the rest only went on staring at us.

  I thought to myself, Just by going on this show I’ve set myself apart from everyone else. I’m someone different already. I rather liked thinking that.

  Inside the foyer a girl took my suitcase, gave me a name tag and instructed me to say goodbye to – well, she said my family, even though it was clear to everyone there was just one person with me.

  I gave Mum a hug, and then as I could feel those tears again I gave her a swift wave and walked quickly away. The girl said, ‘There’s a little reception downstairs for you and the other evacuees.’

  ‘Oh, groovy,’ I said. Then she helped me put on a microphone. ‘Are there cameras in this reception then?’ I asked.

  ‘There will be cameras practically everywhere you go now. Some you will see; the majority you probably won’t even notice. But they will be there. So remember – and this is very important – make sure you are always miked up. You can only take your mike off when you have our permission at night, no other time.’ She went on, ‘Three of the other new evacuees have arrived already, so I’ll leave you to get acquainted.’ Then she sprinted away while this door slid open. I was standing at the top of a very long staircase. Down below was a very brightly lit room. That must be for the cameras, of course.

  So it’s really happening. I’m about to be on the telly in some mad historical show. But what have I let myself in for?

  And as I stood there, poised between my old life and this new one, I started thinking, I can’t remember ever feeling more scared. I’m going to turn round and run back to my mum instead. Then, very fortunately, another voice in my head took over: What are you messing about on the stairs for? This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Just dive in and stop being so pathetic.

  I began walking down the stairs when something truly awful happened. Both my legs began to shake. I glared at them, absolutely furious at their disloyalty, but they wouldn’t stop. If I wasn’t careful I was going to make my entrance falling flat on my face.

  So instead I clung onto the banisters and tottered down the stairs at a speed a hundred-and-three-year-old could have overtaken. The three other evacuees, all boys, stood watching me with a kind of horrified fascination. Who was this girl who moved at the speed of a decrepit tortoise?

  Then this little boy scampered over to me. At first I thought a seven-year-old must have run in here by mistake. He came up to about my kneecap. He rubbed his hands gleefully, said his name was Zac and cried, ‘Welcome to my world.’

  ‘Your world?’ I echoed, puzzled.

  He then put on a large black hat, which completely covered his face, and proudly showed me his smelly old gas mask.

  ‘I expect you’ll be given a gas mask too,’ he said, ‘to protect you against any poison gas attacks. Can’t be too careful, can you?’ He spoke as if the Second World War really was starting up all over again.

  Surely he wasn’t one of the new evacuees. No, he must have escaped from somewhere.

  He darted off and a tall boy with thick, wavy ginger hair approached. ‘Hey, how are you doing? I’m Barney.’ He leaned forward. ‘Did they tell you there are six evacuees now, not five?’

  ‘No, they didn’t,’ I said.

  ‘They should have done,’ he said gravely. ‘He’s called Solomon. Want to meet him?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, looking around.

  But instead he pulled out from his pocket a sock which he slipped over his hand. This was no ordinary sock though. It had buttons sewn onto it to look like eyes, and little bits of cloth at the sides, which were its flippers. It also had a red, slit cloth for its large mouth, which opened and closed most impressively. Then I heard this high, shrill voice say, ‘You haven’t got any fish you don’t want, have you?’

  I said, ‘If I’d known I was going to meet you, I’d have brought you something, Solomon.’

  ‘Call me Solly,’ said the puppet seal and his head darted forward coyly. ‘Now tell me, did you walk down the stairs like that for a bet?’

  ‘Oh, I can see I’m going to have to watch you, Solly,’ I said, quickly glancing down at my legs, which to my huge relief were only shuddering very slightly now.

  ‘Yes, I can see we’re going to have hours of fun with Solly,’ said a voice behind me. ‘We won’t miss telly and the X box, not with a talking sock to entertain us.’

  I turned round to see a dark-haired boy with sparkling, mischievous eyes. ‘I’m Leo, and I’d like to welcome you to the world of wacky weirdos.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ I cried.

  ‘I am. I’m here because I’m a genius at something.’

  ‘What’s that, then?’ I asked.

  ‘At annoying people.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ I laughed.

  And then a shriek alerted us to the arrival of the fifth (or sixth, if you count Solly) evacuee.

  ‘Oh, I’m not the last, am I?’ she burbled and then danced ever so elegantly down the stairs. You could tell she’d spent a ton of money on her designer clothes. In fact, she was like a life-size Barbie doll. Even her teeth gleamed and shone as if she was someone off the telly. ‘I’m so happy to meet you all,’ she shouted as if she was talking to us all in the middle of a howling gale. ‘I’m Harriet, by the way.’ She went round all the evacuees, all breathy and thrilled. She came to me last of all. ‘Fab to meet you, Izzy – isn’t this just too exciting?’

  ‘I may pass out any second,’ I murmured.

  Then Leo whispered to me, ‘I can see you two girls are going to be super-close chums,’ and laughed loudly.

  ‘Just as you’re going to love hanging out with Shorty Pants over there,’ I whispered back, nodding at Zac, who was spinning about like a child at his first-ever party.

  But Leo kept on grinning as if everything was just one big joke.

  Then a floppy-haired young guy in a T-shirt and jeans bounded down the steps and came beaming over to Leo and me. ‘Hi, folks, I’m Sig, short for Siegfried, and I’m the presenter of Strictly Evacuees.’

  ‘Hi, Sig, what’s popping?’ asked Leo.

  ‘Well, I’m about to formally announce the start.’ Then he peered at the name tag. ‘So you’re Leo?’

  ‘Well, on the street I’m known as Leo the Legend . . . and sometimes just the Legend.’

  ‘On the street,’ I laughed. ‘You little liar.’

  Leo grinned and Sig smiled a little uncertainly. ‘Let me just shake you by the hand, Leo, and a little handshake from you too, Izzy. Excellent. Now I’d better go and mingle with the others.’

  He raced around the three other evacuees – and even had a brief chat with Solly too. Next he got us all to stand in a row for some pictures for the press. He said it so casually too, as if being in the newspapers was just a normal everyday thing. My heart started racing again until I told myself: Come on, be cool, be cool.

  Then Sig cried, ‘All right, guys, I shan’t see you again until the first eviction, but now your big moment has come. So, say goodbye to 2009 – you’re about to cross over to 1939.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘Even My Name Changes’

  Izzy
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  THE NEXT BIT was just horrible. Harriet and I were taken into this pokey little dressing room. A solemn, unsmiling woman said she was going to cut our hair. She ignored my protests – said it was in the rules – and soon it was cut in this truly awful 1939 style: so short and prim and with the most revolting bow you’ve ever seen.

  As for the clothes . . . a woollen jersey and a dress that was the colour drab. The woman saw my horrified face and said, ‘You’ve got to remember, clothes had to be used over and over, that’s why they look so faded. But let’s have no more face-pulling.’ Then she handed me some knee-high, brown socks and lace-up shoes.

  But even worse than all that was the fact I couldn’t be called Izzy any more. Apparently this wasn’t a name anyone knew back in the dark ages. So instead I had the scratchy old name of Isobel. And there was this big brown label with ‘Isobel’ scrawled over it stuck on my jersey. I was given an identity number disc to put round my neck too – and told to memorize immediately what my number was (I never did).

  Then I was handed a cardboard box which looked as if it was about to fall apart. Inside was a gas mask. I had to try it on. It had a horrible rubbery smell and made me want to cough. But I was told I must keep it with me at all times. So round my neck that went too.

  ‘Isobel,’ I muttered to my hideous new reflection. ‘Just looking at you makes me want to throw up. You look such a miserable cow.’ I turned to Harriet. ‘Don’t we look truly terrible?’

  She looked nearly as bad as me – they’d even somehow got rid of most of her fake tan and they’d put her hair in plaits. But she just laughed chirpily.

  ‘No, come on, we do,’ I said.

  She laughed again, even more irritatingly than before and said, ‘It’s all good, babe, it’s all good.’

  I knew I wouldn’t like her. I don’t like girly girls much anyway. But really iffy ones who pretend to be all happy and jolly all the time are even worse. Still, I reminded myself it was the other evacuees who decided who was up for eviction. So I had to try and get on with everyone, even Little Miss Sunshine. So I swallowed hard and said faintly, ‘Yeah, all good, that’s right.’

  Of course, we couldn’t take anything of 2009 with us. We were frisked to check we hadn’t, and we were told that anyone discovered smuggling in any illegal goods would be evicted immediately.

  We were allowed to take in one book each: they had to have been published before 1939 and a range were left on a table in case we hadn’t had time to pick one out before. Mum had given me a really old book which had first belonged to her grandmother called The Family from One End Street by Eve Garnett. Zac had brought in one of the Just William books and, to my great surprise, Leo had chosen a massive book called Arthur Mee’s Encyclopaedia. Surely he wasn’t going to read all that?

  Then the boys reappeared. And I burst out laughing. They had pudding-bowl haircuts (although Zac had that already) with their hair slicked right back. Their jeans, of course, had been banished too. Now they had on those funny, baggy trousers which only reached their knees. They wore jerseys too, over dull-looking shirts, and leather lace-up boots.

  They seemed about three and forty-three at the same time.

  Leo looked at Harriet and me and grinned. ‘Loving your new style, girls, loving it. Still, don’t be depressed, I’ve discovered something really good.’ Then he picked up his gas mask and blew hard inside it. At once this farting noise came out of it. Everyone fell about. Even Zac smiled.

  Of course Solly Seal had to see what was happening. ‘Do it again,’ he piped up.

  Leo had just started his second command performance when a voice called out, ‘Who is making such a disgusting sound?’

  A very large woman came charging towards us like a mad rhino. She had a helmet of grey hair – and thick-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Come on,’ she demanded. ‘Own up. Who is being so rude?’

  ‘It was me,’ said Leo. ‘And I didn’t know it was rude, as my dad’s always making that noise. You should hear him first thing in the morning.’

  I started to laugh and Solly let out a high-pitched squeal.

  The woman clapped her hands. ‘I shall count to one. After which all this riotous behaviour shall stop. One . . .’

  There was silence now. The woman started walking round us, as if we were on parade in the army. ‘Well, we haven’t got off to a very good start, have we?’

  ‘No,’ squeaked Solly.

  ‘My name is Miss Weed.’ She glared around as if daring us to laugh at that. No one even smirked, though I longed to. ‘And I shall be travelling with you and teaching you.’ Suddenly she sighed right in my face. ‘I don’t think I have your full attention.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you do.’

  ‘Yes what?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Weed,’ I cried.

  ‘Now pay attention, all of you, to what I’m telling you next, as it is very important. Maybe in 2009 you’ve said this to your parents or poor teachers. “You can’t tell me what to do. I know my rights.” Well, never say that sentence here in 1939, because you don’t have any rights.’

  I opened my mouth to argue. ‘But surely—’

  ‘Not one,’ she said crisply. ‘Your parents signed them all away. Now we shall set off for the station. There you will meet the controller, Mr Wallack.’

  ‘Controller?’ I echoed.

  ‘Well, headmaster,’ she said briskly. ‘But this whole series is his brainchild. And he is also the executive producer: a remarkable man. Now, our destination is Little Milton, a village in east Devon. We will be billeted at a small farm there. Are there any questions?’

  I raised my hand: I had tons of questions. ‘First of all,’ I asked, ‘our clothes, our modern clothes. What’s happened to them?’

  ‘They will be taken to the farm in Little Milton by Strictly Evacuees. If you are evicted – or when you win – you may change back into your usual clothes. Now there’s no time for any more questions. But one thing I’d advise you to remember: expect the unexpected. Now, good luck to you all – I think you may well need it.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  My Own Magic Carpet

  Zac

  IT WAS QUITE a long walk to the station and some people were grumbling about that until I explained, ‘Everyone walked far more in 1939 – as most people didn’t have cars then, and if they did there was petrol rationing. Most people didn’t have telephones either and even a train journey was a special occasion.’ I paused. ‘Sorry if I’m going on too much, but I could talk about this time for hours.’

  ‘Well, you just talk away,’ said Leo, ‘until you notice us slipping into a boredom coma.’

  Trying to be friendly, I said, ‘It’s incredible really; we’ve travelled back in time seventy years – and no jet lag.’ But Leo didn’t even smile at my little joke. And I decided I didn’t like him very much – too sneery. But Harriet laughed when I told the same joke to her. She asked me loads more questions too. I think she was highly impressed by my knowledge.

  At the station we tumbled into our carriage, which was marked: FOR EVACUEES ONLY. I gave a little shiver of delight when I saw that. There was a cameraman in the carriage too, operating a smallish portable camera. ‘Hey there, how’s it popping?’ said Leo to him.

  The cameraman put his finger up to his mouth and this voice roared, ‘You never, ever address any camera operator. Surely you have been told that.’ Someone had been sitting so still in the darkest corner of the carriage that no one had realized he was there. Now he shot to his feet and bellowed, ‘And how dare you all charge in here like that. All go out and come in again properly.’

  Even Leo looked a bit scared by this furious character. We quickly exited and came back in very quietly. The man stood watching us, still bristling with fury.

  We guessed, even before we were told, that he was the person Miss Weed had called the controller: Mr Wallack. He wasn’t especially tall, but he had an enormous bright red face with a small, neatly trimmed moustache and piercing eyes which seemed to s
tare right through you.

  He reminded me of those nervous, twitchy dogs which you approach very warily, because if you alarm them even a tiny bit, they’ll leap up and attack you.

  We sat in a rather uncomfortable silence with just the sound of the camera whirring about. Outside the window though, there were shouts and cries. A crowd was gathering. And then Mr Wallack told us they were all there to see us off. This seemed incredible to me. ‘But they don’t even know us,’ I whispered to Izzy.

  ‘They know we’re going to be on the telly,’ she replied. ‘And that’s enough.’

  Mr Wallack allowed us to go to the window to wave to them. Leo started doing his royal wave. ‘Thank you, my subjects, for coming,’ he called. ‘And feel free to bow before my mighty presence. Oh no, my mum’s here embarrassing me in front of my multitude of fans. I told her not to bother. And do you know what she’s just shouted at me: “Behave yourself.” What a diabolical cheek. Are your ’rents here?’ he asked me.

  ‘My what?’ I cried.

  ‘Your parents.’

  ‘No, they’re not,’ I said quickly.

  ‘You’re so lucky,’ he replied.

  I knew my dad wouldn’t be here, as he was in France. And I was so glad Aunt Sara hadn’t waited. It made me feel as if I’d left my old life behind already.

  But masses of Barney’s family and friends were there. They had even made a huge banner: GOOD LUCK BARNEY AND SOLLY, it said. ‘Why have you got top billing?’ demanded Solly. ‘I’m the star.’

  Izzy (she’d been given a new name – Isobel – but she practically begged us not to call her that), who had been waving to her mum, suddenly turned away and started sniffing into her hankie.

  ‘Crybaby,’ teased Leo.

  ‘I know, it’s pathetic,’ she said.

  ‘It so is,’ agreed Leo. ‘We’re only here for three weeks – maximum. And some of those evacuees were away for the whole of the war, weren’t they? Well, let’s ask the walking history book.’

  That was me, of course, so I said, ‘Quite right; they left as children and returned six years later, practically grown up. And when some children did return they found that their family had moved away.’