young Rosie,’ said Mr Brown. ‘Tell me all about America.’
‘America?’ I said, not knowing what he was talking about. ‘Well I’ve only been there twice, once to New York and once to Flor—’
‘Now girl, don’t be silly, I know you must be American, wearing trousers like that.’
I was dressed perfectly normally for work. Black trousers and a stretchy silky top. Though my jacket was a nifty little Jilly G. number that I had bought on eBay. Maybe Mr Brown recognised a style snip when he saw one. OK, maybe not.
‘Never mind about that now,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘She’s got plenty of other clothes in her trunk I expect.’
‘Well she can’t wear those to work,’ said Peggy with sarcastic satisfaction. ‘It might be all right in America but it won’t do here. No. Mr Henfield won’t stand for that. No women in trousers in the office.’
‘Mr Henfield?’
‘Richard Henfield, the editor of The News,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘Peggy’s his secretary,’ she added proudly.
Henfield … Henfield …
I remembered the Vixen’s office, the wall with the photographs of all the editors of The News that I’d gazed at in conference. Somewhere in the middle of them all I’m sure there was a Richard Henfield.
‘Does he have a moustache and smoke a pipe?’ I asked. ‘I think I’ve seen his picture somewhere.’
‘Well you would,’ said Peggy, ‘he’s very well known.’
‘Never mind that now,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘Peggy, come and mash the potatoes for me.’ Mrs Brown was bustling around dishing up supper. She took a big casserole dish out of the stove and put it on the table.
‘Well this looks special for a Monday,’ said Mr Brown, rubbing his hands.
‘Well, seeing as we have a visitor,’ said Mrs Brown, through a cloud of steam.
So I didn’t dare say that I don’t really eat red meat. I’m not vegetarian, but I’m not really a red meat sort of person. And I didn’t want to seem like one of those whingeing, whining contestants making a fuss about nothing, so I ate it up, and it was really quite good. Chunks of meat and thick gravy. Afterwards, from another compartment in the stove, Mrs Brown produced a rice pudding. I couldn’t remember when I’d last had rice pudding, certainly not one that hadn’t come out of a tin. Mrs Brown was definitely in character. Unless they had another kitchen out the back where they had a cook lined up to make everything, so Mrs Brown could just do the ‘Here’s one I made earlier’ routine.
‘So does your mother like cooking?’ asked Mrs Brown.
‘Well yes, I think so. She’s worked her way through Delia and Nigella. I’m not sure she bothers much when it’s just her and Dad, but when my brother or I go home …’
‘Oh, don’t you live at home? In digs, are you?’
‘Digs?’ I groped for a moment, trying to work out what she meant and thinking of Time Team and hairy archaeologists.
‘Digs,’ she said again, ‘lodgings.’
‘Oh, no. I have my own flat.’
‘Oh you are a career woman, aren’t you?’ said Mrs Brown, looking a bit surprised. Peggy simply looked murderous.
‘It’s quite small, but it’s in nice grounds and there’s secure car parking.’
‘You’ve got a car?’
‘Well yes, just a little one. Nothing flash.’
‘Your own flat and a car? Very nice I’m sure,’ said Peggy, accepting another helping of rice pudding. ‘All I can say is it must be very nice to be American. I hope you can manage to slum it with us.’
She really didn’t like me …
‘Look really, I’m not American.’
‘Well you talk like one.’
‘Do I?’
The Browns all had quite strong local accents. I didn’t think I had much of any sort of accent really. I wished they didn’t keep thinking I was American.
I offered to help with the washing up, but Mrs Brown was adamant.
‘No, Frank will help me tonight, for a change. You two girls go and watch the television.’ That sounded like a good idea. A bit of goofing out in front of the box was just what I needed. Some chance. The TV was a huge box affair with a tiny little screen showing a programme about ballroom dancing. It was nothing like Strictly Come Dancing. Somewhere there were a lot of tiny grey figures in grey dresses and grey suits waltzing across a grey ballroom.
Of course, they didn’t have colour TV in the 1950s.
‘Anything on any of the other channels?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Peggy.
Of course, they wouldn’t have Sky. But ITV, Channel 4?
‘This is television. There’s only this one.’
‘Haven’t you got ITV yet?’
‘The one with adverts?’
‘Yes, the one with adverts.’
‘They’ve got it in London, but we haven’t.’
Right.
I looked around the room, trying to spot where the cameras were. There were a couple of pictures on the wall, and they looked innocent enough, but the mirror above the fireplace – that could definitely be a two-way job with a camera on the other side. I looked straight at it and smiled – winningly, I hoped. Mrs Brown came in and picked up a big bag from behind the armchair and took out some knitting. This was clearly going to be a riveting evening.
‘If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to sort myself out,’ I said.
‘Of course, dear. What was I thinking of?’ said Mrs Brown. ‘Peggy, take Rosie up to her room, will you please, pet?’
Peggy clearly didn’t want to be dragged away from the grey delights of television, but, sighing heavily, she led me up the narrow dark stairs, along a narrow dark landing, up a few more steps, to a small, icy cold room. It had been quite nice in front of the fire in the sitting room, toasting my toes, but once you went out of that room, the temperature plummeted.
‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘It’s really my brother Stephen’s room, but he’s in Cyprus at the moment.’
‘Oh, lucky him,’ I said, thinking of bars and beaches and all that clubbing.
She stared at me as if I were mad. ‘Two soldiers were killed there last week.’
‘Is he a soldier then?’
‘Doing his national service, isn’t he?’ she said and left me to it.
It was a bleak little room. Lino on the floor and a rug at the side of a narrow bed with a shiny green quilt, a chair, wardrobe, a bookcase with lots of Biggles books and football annuals, and a pile of football programmes. There was a trophy of a cricketer and some model planes, and that was about it. The only clothes in the wardrobe were a school blazer and a few old jumpers. Our Stephen was hardly a style icon, unless he’d taken all his possessions with him.
I looked around for cameras. Nothing obvious. Would they give us privacy in our bedrooms? Surely they would. But they didn’t in the Big Brother house, did they? I looked around again. If there was a camera here, it had to be in the cricket trophy, I decided. Too obvious. Or maybe the model planes … I picked them up and put them in the wardrobe and shut the door. Then I picked up the Biggles books and put those in there too. That felt a bit safer. Now I could look in that trunk beneath the window.
A