Sharon Griffiths - Time of My Life

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 had a reporter who needed a temporary job and that we were to fit her in. I can tell you Mr Henfield wasn’t happy, not with the idea of a woman reporter. But you’ve got to obey orders, haven’t you? Especially when it’s the owner, and Lord Uzmaston does have some funny ways.’

‘Was there any correspondence? Any confirmation in writing? Anything like that?’

‘No. Nothing at all. It was all very strange. Most irregular. That’s why I was glad I’d asked about the rent.’

‘Rent?’

‘Oh yes. They asked if we could find her – you – accommodation. And I thought of our Stephen’s room, it being empty. But before I said that, I asked how much they would pay. And the man said “Whatever is usual. It would be easier if you pay it direct from your office.”’

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