The Accidental Time Traveller (29 page)

‘Nearly finished,’ I called across to Brian. ‘The subs can have this in two minutes.’

There’s always a strange atmosphere in an office at the end of the day.
The News
was a twenty-four-hour operation. Yet after six o’clock, the atmosphere changed. Unlike the twenty-first century, where office and printing centre were separate, in the 1950s they were still in the same building. Evening work was done against a background of the sound of the presses rumbling away in the cavernous press room on the ground floor. Instead of the office and advertising staff in the building, you’d bump into printers in aprons and overalls, covered in ink. Or messengers carrying copy from the subs to the printers.
The News
printed five different editions – the first was for the furthest fringes of its circulation area, the last for the town and its immediate surroundings. By the time the last edition started printing at about three in the morning, the first edition had been printed and bundled up and stacked onto the first of the fleet of vans that rumbled out into the darkness through the big gates.

Although it was still daylight outside, the light had begun to fade, and by the time it had fought its way through the grubby windows of the newsroom and the pile of papers and files tottering on the windowsills, there wasn’t much of it left. I had a small light near me, but the atmosphere in the office was closer, more intimate than in day time. I finished typing my story with a very satisfying ‘ends’, pulled the paper out of the typewriter and separated it into the three copies, making one or two pencil corrections on each copy in turn. I did it almost automatically now. The thought of a computer, with spell check and direct input into the editorial system, seemed a long, long way away. Maybe I’d even dreamt it.

I could feel Billy watching me. I looked up swiftly, briefly, and saw that he was sitting at his desk reading some copy. But I knew he wasn’t really reading it. He was waiting for something. Waiting for me. No. He couldn’t be.

I checked the corrections and folded the sets of copy paper – story facing outwards – making a show of having finished.

‘I’ll take those along to the subs if you like,’ said Billy, picking up the stories with his own copy.

‘Thanks.’ I deliberately didn’t look at him. I wanted this to be casual, accidental.

And yes, I could have picked up my jacket and been down the stairs and out of that building in thirty seconds flat. It was late. I’d finished. I was ready to go home. But I wasn’t. And I didn’t.

Instead I got my jacket and left it draped across my desk – obvious to anyone that I was still in the building but about to leave – went to the loo and washed my hands. And I waited.

Billy would be a few minutes in with the subs. If I listened hard I could hear their voices, his amongst them, floating faintly down the corridors. Say five minutes, I thought to myself. Five minutes would be about right. And I counted. Sad, isn’t it? But I counted down, ‘300, 299, 298, 297 …’ standing there by the dingy little wash basin with its grey cloth, hard green soap and tin of Vim. When I got to 129 – still more than two minutes to go – I wanted to change my mind and go back to the newsroom. But I made myself wait.

And it worked. At a silent triumphant ‘One!’ I took a deep breath and emerged, back down the corridor and into the newsroom at the same time as Billy. He went to the coat stand and got his jacket. It was only natural that we should walk down the stairs together and out into the Market Place where the air seemed so clean and fresh and quiet after
The News.
Just two colleagues who happened to leave the office at the same time.

We talked about my story, laughed about it. It was the sort of conversation we’d had often enough when we’d been with Alan or Phil. But this time was different. There was a tension in the air – a wonderful toe-tingling tension, a sense of possibilities … just like the time I first met Will. Only then I wasn’t sure if he was the man for me. This time around I knew. I’d never been more certain in my life. All the time we were talking I was so aware that it was just the two of us. And I knew he was too. The conversation became stilted, loaded.

‘Well the newsroom has certainly changed since you joined us.’

‘For better or worse?’

(Damn! Didn’t mean to echo wedding vows … )

‘Oh better. We’ve never had a woman in reporters before.’

‘Billy! What about Marje? Isn’t she a woman?’

‘Yes of course, but well, she’s older, isn’t she. You’re different. You look at things differently. Think differently. It’s good. Must be the American way.’

(I had long given up explaining that I wasn’t American. After all, it acted as explanation for such a lot of things.)

He was smiling down at me. ‘When you talk, well, sometimes I don’t know what you’re on about – computers, and phones you can put in your pocket, and getting information out of the air. It’s like something out of a film, but I like to hear you talk about it.

‘And I like your ideas for the paper. You make it sound more interesting. Looking forward, not into the past all the time. It’s the future we want to be thinking of. I love to hear you talk about it. In fact …’ and he stopped and turned to face me ‘… in fact, I just love to hear you talk.’

His words hung on the evening air. The way he was looking at me, you can be sure he wasn’t thinking of work. I held my breath and looked at him, waiting to see what he would say next.

‘Rosie. Do you have to go straight home? Shall we …? Maybe a drink?’

He looked at me anxiously, nervously, and I knew this was more than a quick after-work drink with colleagues.

‘Why not?’ I said. ‘Where?’

And with that there came a shout.

‘Dad! Da-ad!’

A small figure on a battered bike was hurtling down a narrow side street and into the Market Place. Oh no, talk about timing …

‘Davy! Whoa, careful son!’

The small boy and bike had screeched to a halt with the help of feeble brakes and the toes of his shoes. Around his waist he wore a mock leather cowboy-style belt with holsters, each holding a toy gun. He sat astride his bike, face bright red, hair sticking up on end, and a huge grin on his face. ‘Hiya Dad! I thought it was you.’ He looked very pleased with himself.

Billy was caught off guard, but quickly laughed. ‘Well if it isn’t Two-Gun Tex!’ he said. ‘Howdy pardner!’ He looked at his watch and immediately switched to caring dad mode. ‘Hey, it’s time you were home. Mum will be worried.’

‘Yes, I know. I’ve been to Kevin’s, but if I’m with you, that’s all right then, isn’t it?’

Billy tried to look cross, but didn’t make a good job of it. ‘Right, then we’d better get home as quick as we can. Come on, cowboy.’

He turned to me. ‘Nice talking to you, Rosie. See you tomorrow!’

And with that he went, loping along with one hand on Davy’s shoulder as the little boy pedalled down the street. I stood there, staring after him, helpless with frustration. What had Billy been planning? He clearly wanted to be alone with me. Where could it have led to? Whatever it was, his son had gone and spoilt it. I leant back hard against a nearby cherry tree, sending a flutter of pink blossom around my shoulders. Like confetti. Well, that was a sick bloody joke, wasn’t it?

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.