Sharon Griffiths - Time of My Life

‘This is Janice,’ said Mr Brown. ‘She’s very clever, doing well at the grammar school and she comes here to do her homework.’

I must have looked a bit puzzled by this because Janice said simply, ‘I’ve got seven brothers. Two of them howl all the time.’

‘Her mum cleans the post office where Doreen works,’ said Mr Brown, ‘so she always comes here when she’s got homework to do. I used to be able to help her but I think she’s cleverer than me now, aren’t you, girl?’

With that Peggy came into the kitchen and to my surprise, gave the grubby little girl a big smile. Peggy looked really pretty when she smiled.

‘Hiya kid!’ she said. ‘How’s the French? Mrs Stace still giving you hell?’

‘Of course. We’ve got a test tomorrow.’ Janice looked worried. ‘Will you test me, Peggy, please? Perfect tense?’

‘I have given.’

‘ J’ai donné.’

‘He has finished.’

‘Il a fini.’

‘They have gone.’

‘Aha, that takes être! Ils sont allés.’

‘Well done,’ said Peggy.

‘Do you speak French, Rosie?’ asked Janice.

‘A bit,’ I said. ‘I did it for GCSE, but not like that.’

‘Janice is smashing at it,’ said Peggy amiably, almost proudly. ‘One day she’s going to go to France and she’ll need to know how to talk to them all, order her snails and frogs’ legs and wine.’

‘It would be wonderful to go to France,’ said Janice wistfully, ‘wonderful to hear people talking differently.’

‘Tell you what,’ said Peggy – she really seemed quite nice when she wasn’t talking to me – ‘you don’t need to do any more French, you know enough for today. Shall I wash your hair for you? You can use some of my new shampoo.’

‘Oh yes please, Peggy!’ said the little scruff, bundling her books into her satchel.

Soon she was on a stool, kneeling over the big white stone sink in the scullery, while Peggy shampooed her hair and rinsed it using a big enamel jug. She wrapped it in a rough kitchen towel and then combed it out for her quite gently and carefully, easing the comb through the tangles.

‘If you like, I’ll trim the fringe a bit for you,’ said Peggy and went to get her mother’s sewing scissors. She snipped away, looked at her handiwork a bit, turned Janice’s head this way and that and snipped a bit more. ‘There, see what that’s like when it dries.’

It was already starting to fluff up in the warmth of the range. It looked so much better, shinier. There was even a hint of red in the mousy strands.

‘Now now, Janice, Peggy, time to pack up.’ Mrs Brown had come into the kitchen and was getting a cloth out of the dresser drawer. ‘This is a kitchen not a hairdressers. I need that table for the breakfast things and it’s time you were at home and in bed. Here,’ she took a scarf out of a drawer and gave it to the girl, ‘put that over you. You don’t want to be walking the streets with wet hair, you’ll catch your death.’

‘Right-o, Mrs Brown,’ said Janice, taking one last look in the mirror before gathering up her satchel. She smiled hugely at Peggy. ‘It’s lovely, Peggy, really lovely. Thank you. See you tomorrow.’ She slid out of the back door, small and scruffy and still smelly too.

‘She can’t help it,’ said Mrs Brown, noticing my expression. ‘Terrible family. Father’s out of work half the time. Mother’s a willing little woman but has no idea really. All they seem able to do is make babies. There are seven boys and Janice, and two of the boys are simple. Still, Janice is bright and got into the grammar school, so let’s hope it helps get her somewhere. She deserves a chance, poor scrap. Right. Tea or cocoa?’

I had cocoa – for the first time since a Brownie sleep-over when I was about seven – said my goodnights and took it up to bed with me. There were too many things I wanted to think about. I undressed, put on the great big dressing gown, scuttled to the bathroom, scuttled back, popped the dressing gown back over the wardrobe mirror and got into bed. Icy sheets. I reached for my notebook.

DAY ONE IN THE 1950s HOUSE

Very cold but headache better and at least I realise what’s going on. Clearly, our reactions to a new situation must be part of The Test. Initial disorientation all part of this.

Must find out how long I’m going to be here for. What about work? My life? Maybe all will be explained soon.

Find video diary room.

What’s the prize?

Find cameras. Smile at them. A lot.

Be nice to everyone.

Peggy – a test?

Have noticed that all Big Brother, It’s a Celebrity, etc TV shows are never won by the loudmouths, but by the quiet pleasant ones who win admiration and respect from all concerned, doing hard work, solving quarrels, being calm voice of reason all round. This is what I shall do. Practise being calm voice of reason.

I tried to ring Will again, but the phone was still dead. That made me feel really alone and a bit down. But then there was a knock on the door.

‘I thought you might like a hot-water bottle,’ said Mrs Brown, handing one over and giving a strange glance at the dressing gown spread out over the front of the wardrobe. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘Yes fine thank you!’ I said brightly.

The hot-water bottle was wonderful, warm and squidgy. I shoved it down between the sheets, which smelled of soap powder and sunshine and, as I wriggled down between them, with my feet nice and warm, I clutched my phone, the way I used to clutch my woolly cuddly cat when I was little. Even though my head was spinning, I was asleep in minutes.

I wished I’d been able to talk to Will, but if this was a challenge, then bring it on!

Challenge? I’ll tell them what to do with their nasty, manipulative, heartbreaking challenges. Today has been a nightmare. A glimpse into an alternative universe. I hated it. If I didn’t think it was all a TV show I don’t know what I’d do.

I never even asked to be in this. They cant just dump me here without asking, without any preparation or briefing. Shouldn’t they have had my written permission? Contracts with lawyers? Big fat fees? Get-out clauses? Insurance? Maybe I could sue them for stress and anxiety. What happens if I break my neck on the stairs at The News ? Or die of pneumonia from the damp and cold?

Or from a broken heart?

Today was my first day on The News 1950s style. It had started badly. My clothes, my proper clothes, had vanished. Someone must have taken them while I was in the bathroom. Even my own handbag. All I had left was the handbag from the trunk, a dead phone and the notebook and pen from my bedside table. I thought of going down to demand my things from Mrs Brown, but then I remembered the Golden Rule of Reality TV which is Be Nice, Smile, Don’t Make A Fuss. So after a wash – no shower, and I couldn’t even have a bath because there’s only one loo and that’s in the bathroom and people kept banging on the door – I got dressed in my 1950s clothes.

Everything itched, scratched and dug in. There was no Lycra, of course. Dressed in the skirt suit I felt trussed up like a turkey. My suspender belt (when did I ever think they were sexy?) threatened to ping at any minute and my capacious cotton knickers kept disappearing up the crack of my bum. No wonder people in old photos look miserable.

And I still couldn’t get anything on my phone … When I woke up it was on the pillow beside me, and I just grabbed it automatically. Nothing. Just a blank screen. The blank-ness of it just hit me and made me feel so dreadfully alone. Even if they were blocking the signal, you’d think they’d let me look at the stored pictures and messages on it, wouldn’t you? It was a link to my world, my proper world, and Will.