Time of My Life. Sharon Griffiths
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a phone box. And I would be all right once I was out in the fresh air …
I made my way back along the hallway, leaning against the wall for support. I made it into the kitchen but collapsed back into the rocking chair. I would just sit here for a while and get my strength back so I would be able to walk back into town if needs be.
My eyes lit on a calendar on the wall. There was a picture of the Queen looking very young. The calendar didn’t look old or as though it had been sitting in a junk shop for fifty years. No, it looked new and shiny. In a 1950s sort of way.
I stood up. My head didn’t swim. Good. I went through into the scullery to find Mrs Turnbull or Brown or whatever her name was. She was standing by a big stone sink with a wooden draining board, deftly chopping potatoes into a pan.
‘Look, Mrs … er Brown. I think I’d better be on my way,’ I said. ‘There seems to be a bit of a mix-up. I was meant to be meeting a Mrs Turnbull so I think I’d better get back and check with the office. Thank you so much for the tea and cake. I really appreciated it, but …’
‘Oh you can’t go yet, pet,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘You’re meant to be staying. Anyway, Frank and Peggy will be back soon and supper won’t be long.’
Meant to be staying? What was going on? And who were Frank and Peggy?
‘I’ll just get some fresh air, if you don’t mind.’
‘Carry on, dear.’
I picked up my bag and walked back along the hall. My head felt a bit better now. I’d tried to be polite about it, but that hadn’t got me anywhere. I would just have to walk out. I hoped the front door wasn’t locked. Strange. I was sure that when I’d walked up the path there’d been a modern white door, but here was this heavy wooden thing with stained glass at the top. I turned the handle, and opened it.
It was different. Everything was different.
Instead of the wide road of The Meadows with its rows of semi-detached houses and front gardens, parked cars and abandoned vans, the door opened directly onto a narrow cobbled street. Opposite was the high wall of what seemed to be a factory or warehouse. No cars. No people. I stepped back into the house and shut the door quickly again.
Deep breaths. Stay calm.
Slowly, very slowly, I opened the door again. Still a cobbled street. Still an old factory. A light glinted as something caught the late afternoon sun.
I walked slowly back to the kitchen. That calendar. The Queen looked awfully young …
‘Mrs Brown?’
‘Yes dear?’ she was manoeuvring some pans on the top of the range.
‘Did you say my office arranged this visit?’
‘That’s right. And a young man brought your trunk around this morning. That’s why I knew you were coming. All arranged with the editor.’
The editor. I thought back to the morning conference, which seemed a lifetime away. What exactly had the Vixen said? I couldn’t remember. I’d been feeling so lousy and thinking so much about Will, that I hadn’t really been listening. Think, girl, think. Something about The Meadows, of course, that’s why I was here. And a TV programme. A reality TV programme. The 1950s House …
The 1950s House … It couldn’t be, could it? When she’d talked about people living in a 1950s house for a television programme, she hadn’t meant me, had she? She’d mentioned research. That’s why I’d spent the morning in the bound file room. But she hadn’t said anything about being here.
But she could have. I hadn’t been listening. Hadn’t heard. Wouldn’t remember if she had. I had been away with the fairies all through conference.
But she had said in that meaningful way that I would find my visit to Mrs Turnbull ‘interesting’. This is what it was all about. Was I taking part in one of those reality TV shows? I looked around for the cameras. I remembered that glint of light in the factory. I thought it had been sunlight on a window, but it could have been a camera.
A camera! I looked around. Was I being filmed now? Without thinking about it, I realised I had put my hand up to smooth my hair.
But how had they got me there? And how was outside completely different? It must have been something to do with that taxi driver I supposed. He had seemed odd and my head had been so rough I hadn’t really taken much notice of where I was. And he’d followed me up the path.
Maybe somehow he’d made me go somewhere else.
Maybe the path had been a stage set and that’s why it had sent my eyesight funny. A trick, just projected on a wall or something. Maybe it had just been a façade, a front in front of this old house. It seemed a bit over the top, but there – for I’m a Celebrity they parachuted people into the jungle, didn’t they? Walking up the wrong garden path was nothing compared to that.
And that factory. It could be the old rope works on the other side of town. There were a couple of indie TV production companies in there. The Big Brother house was in the middle of an industrial estate. This could just be in a car park. Maybe.
‘All right, dear?’ said Mrs Brown. ‘You’ve got a bit of colour back. You just sit there for a bit while I get supper ready.’
Feeling a bit calmer now I thought I’d worked this out, I sat on the rocking chair stroking Sambo, who purred quietly while I listened to Mrs Brown clattering away in the next room. So this must be the 1950s house and the Vixen must have volunteered me for it. And I was clearly staying for a while. I wondered what the rules were, who else would be there. I was just wishing I knew more, a lot more, when Mrs Brown called out, ‘There we are, here’s Frank and Peggy. Right on time.’
Frank was clearly Mr Brown, middle-aged in a thick suit, specs and moustache. He smiled at me and said, ‘Well, you must be Rosie.’ He shook my hand. A nice handshake.
‘And this is Peggy,’ said Mrs Brown.
Peggy was about my age, maybe a year or so younger. She had curly blonde hair and a pleasant open face that darkened when she saw me.
‘Hello,’ she said. That’s all, and went to hang up her coat.
‘So,’ I said brightly, ‘are we all in this together then? All play-acting in the 1950s? Did you enter a competition to get here? Or were you just volunteered by your boss, like I was?’
There was a silence. Peggy came and stood and looked at me as if I’d totally lost it. Mrs Brown came wandering out of the kitchen with her hands in oven mitts and a baffled expression. And Mr Brown took off his jacket and his tie, rolling it up carefully and putting it on the dresser, took a cardigan off the peg, put that on and swapped his shoes for slippers.
I realised I must have said something wrong.
‘Oh sorry,’ I said. ‘Aren’t we allowed to mention it’s a programme? Do we have to pretend all the time that we’re in the 1950s? I mean, I don’t even know if it’s like the Big Brother house and we’re all competing against each other, or if it’s just to see how we get on. Do you know? I mean, how did you get here?’
The silence continued. They were all still staring at me.
Finally Mr Brown said, ‘We’ve rented this house since before the war. That’s why we’re here. You’re here because our Peggy asked us to have you to stay, on account of you were working on The News. No more than that can I tell you.’
Right, I thought, that explains it. We clearly have to pretend at all times that we are in the 1950s. These three were obviously taking it desperately seriously. Like those people who dress up and guide you around museums and keep calling you ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ and pretend not to understand when you ask if there’s a cash machine. These three were clearly In Character in a big way. No sneaking back to the twenty-first century, not even for a bit of light relief.
‘I see,’ I said