with the army photographers, so when I came back Mr Henfield took me on as a proper assistant for Charlie, so I was pretty chuffed really. I think Peggy put in a good word for me.’
‘Peggy?’
‘Yes, Henfield’s secretary. Oh you know, you’re lodging at her house, aren’t you? She’s nice, isn’t she? She was always nice to me when I was a messenger. Most people just take the mick all the time, but Peggy never did. She was always kind. She always said that there was no reason that I shouldn’t be a photographer. She always makes you think you can do things if you really want to. And she’s got a lovely smile.’
I have to say this was a completely different view of Peggy from the one I saw. But then I remembered how nice she was with smelly little Janice, and I didn’t say anything. Young George clearly had a bit of a crush on Peggy, and who was I to disillusion him? Anyway, maybe it was just me she didn’t like.
‘Do you like it on The News?’
‘It’s good, yes. And I like driving the van. I’m going to get a car of my own one day. I’ll have a proper wage soon when I’m twenty-one. Then I can take my mum on outings.’
‘Do you still live with your mum then?’
‘Yes. Just me and her. Dad copped it at Dunkirk, so it’s been just me and Mum ever since.’
‘That must have been hard.’
‘No harder than for lots of folk.’ He paused, took a long drink and glanced up and out of the window across at the Rising Sun.
‘Looks like Henfield’s popped out for his lunch-time drink. That must be his car. There aren’t that many two-tone Hillman Minxes around here. Maybe he’s meeting one of his floozies.’
Floozy, what a wonderful word. I thought my grandad was the only one to use it.
‘Goes in for floozies, does he?’
‘One or two. Another drink?’
‘George, you’ve had two. You’ll be over the limit.’
‘What limit?’
‘You’re not meant to have more than two pints. You won’t be able to concentrate properly.’
‘Rubbish. I drive better after a drink or two. One for the road.’
As he was getting the drinks – and that cider was good –I was still gazing out of the window. A bus pulled up on the other side of the green, a real old-fashioned country bus. A young woman got out and hurried across the green to the Rising Sun. There was something familiar about her …
I sat up straight and had a proper look. Yes, no doubt about it. It was Peggy – who should have been in work – rushing into the pub, the pub outside which Richard Henfield’s car was parked. She vanished through the door just as George came back with the drinks.
So Henfield liked his floozies, did he? And he and his secretary just happened to be in an out-of-the-way country pub at the same time. Interesting. Very interesting.
DAY SIX IN THE 1950s HOUSE
If that’s where I am. I’m not sure any more. I’m not sure of anything.
If this is the 1950s house, why wasn’t I briefed about it? Interviewed, insured, had explanations, and introduced to it?
It’s more than just a house and a newspaper office. It’s a whole town, not to mention the countryside around it, and villages like Middleton Parva. That was no film set. And so many people! No TV company would pay for so many extras. It’s all so real. It doesn’t feel like a film set. I haven’t seen any cameras. No one’s mentioned a video room.
None of the other people seem to be competitors. Mrs Brown was expecting me. My trunk was here. Everyone seems to think I’m here for a few weeks. But where’s ‘here’?
Will and Caz. Ah. This is the really tricky one. Are they Will and Caz? If so, they wouldn’t play such a trick on me, not for so long. Not pretending to be married, with children. They’re my two best friends in the world. They wouldn’t play a trick like that, not even for a minute. They certainly wouldn’t do it for a poxy reality TV show. They just wouldn’t. No. Not even for a ‘psychological test’. They wouldn’t play those sort of sick games.
Because if they would, then how could I trust anyone ever again? And who? Billy and Carol are identical to Will and Caz. But they’re different too. They both look older for a start. What about Caz’s teeth? The wrinkles? Will’s hands? That’s not make-up. But if they’re not Will and Caz, who are they? Why is it all different? What the hell is going on?
When Lucy went through that bloody wardrobe into Narnia she knew straightaway where she was. I don’t. I don’t know where I am or why I’m here.
It’s not really the 1950s is it? That’s impossible. Isn’t it?
But what else is it?
After I’d written that, I seized up. My whole body froze and I couldn’t get air in and out of my lungs. There was just a pain, the pain of panic. I didn’t know where I was. In time or space. I couldn’t trust any of my senses. Nothing was what it seemed.
As I tried to breathe, in great panicking gulps, I tried to get my brain to work, tried to think logically, calmly. Ha!
I had thought this was a reality TV show, yet nothing, absolutely nothing backed that up. This wasn’t a single house, or even a single film set. This was more. This was an entirely different world, a world locked in the past of fifty years ago. I ran to the window and beat my hands on it as if it were the bars of a cage, because it might just as well have been.
I couldn’t have gone back in time, not really back in the 1950s. But where was I?
All I knew for certain, the one sure thing, was that I wanted Will. I wanted his arms around me and his mouth whispering in my ear the way he did when I had nightmares, because this was turning into a real nightmare. I wanted to be home. It was only eight o’clock – on a Saturday morning off, for goodness’ sake, and I’d already been awake for hours. I was still leaning with my head against the cool of the window, taking deep breaths, trying to control my fear and panic, when Peggy came in.
‘You all right?’ she asked, not unkindly.
‘Yes, no … oh I don’t know.’ But then I had a thought.
‘Peggy, you know you asked your mum if I could come and stay here?’
‘Ye-es.’
‘Well who arranged for me to come and work on The News? You’re the editor’s secretary. It must have been arranged through you.’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘Well how?’
This was it, I thought, I’m getting close to the truth now. If I knew who’d organised my trip, the clothes and everything, then I’d know just what was going on. There’d be correspondence, letters about it. If I could see those, I’d have cracked it.
‘We had a phone call from Lord Uzmaston’s office.’
‘Lord Uzmaston?’
‘Yes, you know – the proprietor. I’ve never met him, but Mr Henfield has. He’s been to lunch at Uzmaston Hall.’ She said this with a sort of pride. ‘He owns The News and quite a lot of other papers.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Oh it wasn’t him. He wouldn’t ring himself, would he? It was a man, a young man, I think. Just said that they