Sharon Griffiths - Time of My Life

‘I’m sorry about this, Mrs Turnbull,’ I said.

‘Oh, I’m not Mrs Turnbull,’ she said.

‘Oh my God,’ I said and tried to stand up. ‘Then I’m in the wrong house. I thought something was wrong. Look I’m really sorry. I’d better be on my way and find Mrs Turn-bull. Is it the house next door? I must have come up the wrong path. I thought …’

‘Sit down, girl,’ she said, not unkindly. ‘I’m Doreen Brown. If you’re Rosie Harford from The News then you’re in the right place. I’ve been expecting you.’

‘You have?’

‘Yes. And anyway, your trunk’s upstairs.’

‘Trunk? What trunk?’

‘The things you’ll need for your stay, of course.’

Stay? What stay? What on earth was going on? This was so confusing. I couldn’t get my head around it. What was happening to my head? Maybe she’d slipped something in my tea. That was it. I had to get out. My mum always told me never to go into strange houses. And I reckon they didn’t get much stranger than this.

‘They sent it round from your office this morning. All the things you’ll be needing in the next few weeks.’

I gazed at Mrs Turnbull who was now Mrs Brown and tried to understand what she was saying. My mind was so confused I expected one of those warning notices to flash up, ‘You have performed an illegal operation. This program will terminate.’ And for a screen to go blank.

I felt sick. I promised myself I would never ever drink again. Too much wine, a blazing row and no sleep made a dreadful combination. Never ever again.

‘You just sit there for a moment,’ Mrs Brown said, letting me soak up the warmth of the fire and the cat. It would have been quite pleasant if my head hadn’t been in overdrive.

Where was I? Why was I apparently staying here? What on earth was going on? I took deep breaths and tried my best not to panic.

By now I’d had two cups of tea and I suddenly realised that I really needed the loo. I couldn’t deal with this on a full bladder.

‘Upstairs, along the corridor, down a few steps and on your right.’

I tottered off. It was a bit like walking when drunk, I was almost hanging on to the walls of the passage. But I made it.

The bathroom was freezing. There was lino on the floor in a pattern of big black and white checks. Quite nice really. But the bath was hideous, huge with claw feet, a small brass tap and a big chrome one. It was all a bit Spartan. It smelt cold and clean and of old-fashioned rose-scented soap like one of Mum’s aunties always used.

I got my phone out of my bag and tried to ring Will. I know we’d had a row, but this was really weird stuff. There was no signal. More than that, the phone was dead, as if the battery had gone. I sat on the loo and felt wretched. To be honest, I was frightened. Everything seemed strange. Even the loo paper was horrid. Nasty scratchy stuff. And the loo had one of those big iron cisterns and a chain. Everything was somehow wrong, unfamiliar, just not quite right.

This house seemed to belong to another age. So old-fashioned. Can’t have been touched for fifty years at least.

What was I doing here? There must be some mistake. I had to get out. I stood up quickly. Too quickly. My head swam again and I leant against the door. I mustn’t panic, I told myself. I must stay calm. Stay calm.

After a few moments I washed my hands, splashed some cold water on my face and gingerly made my way back downstairs, holding carefully on to the banisters. I would go downstairs, explain to the woman in the kitchen that, sorry, I had to go, and get out as soon as I could. Yes, that’s what I would do. And as soon as I was outside, I would phone Will and ask him to come and get me. And if my phone still didn’t work?

Stay calm. Stay calm. If my phone didn’t work, I would just walk towards town. It wasn’t that far. Even The Meadows must be safe enough in daylight. There might even be 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.