DAY SIX IN THE 1950s HOUSE

If that’s where I am. I’m not sure any more. I’m not sure of anything.

If this is the 1950s house, why wasn’t I briefed about it? Interviewed, insured, had explanations, and introduced to it?

It’s more than just a house and a newspaper office. It’s a whole town, not to mention the countryside around it, and villages like Middleton Parva. That was no film set. And so many people! No TV company would pay for so many extras. It’s all so real. It doesn’t feel like a film set. I haven’t seen any cameras. No one’s mentioned a video room.

None of the other people seem to be competitors. Mrs Brown was expecting me. My trunk was here. Everyone seems to think I’m here for a few weeks. But where’s ‘here’?

Will and Caz. Ah. This is the really tricky one. Are they Will and Caz? If so, they wouldn’t play such a trick on me, not for so long. Not pretending to be married, with children. They’re my two best friends in the world. They wouldn’t play a trick like that, not even for a minute. They certainly wouldn’t do it for a poxy reality TV show. They just wouldn’t. No. Not even for a ‘psychological test’. They wouldn’t play those sort of sick games.

Because if they would, then how could I trust anyone ever again? And who? Billy and Carol are identical to Will and Caz. But they’re different too. They both look older for a start. What about Caz’s teeth? The wrinkles? Will’s hands? That’s not make-up. But if they’re not Will and Caz, who are they? Why is it all different? What the hell is going on?

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.”’

‘Oh and do you?’

I realised, to my shame, I hadn’t actually given a thought about whether I should be paying rent out of my £8. 12s. 6d.

‘Yes, I take it out of the petty cash, and Mr Henfield signs a chitty.’

‘And no one’s come back to you? Asked anything about it?’

‘No, which was a bit worrying really. But everything seems to be fine. Why? Who were you dealing with?’

‘Tricky to explain,’ I said, which was the understatement of the year really, or maybe even fifty years. One more thought occurred to me.

‘Peggy, why did you suggest I should stay here? Was it to get your mum a bit of extra cash?’

‘No, not really – though I suppose that was part of it.’ Peggy looked embarrassed. ‘No, I thought it would be fun.’

And that really surprised me. If Peggy thought it would be fun to have me here, why has she barely said a word to me ever since I arrived? That was probably the strangest thing of all. She was still standing in the doorway with an armful of laundry. For a moment she looked almost concerned. Not surprising really, she probably thought all my questions where completely off the wall.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked again.

‘Yes, yes, fine really. Fine,’ I said, too baffled to say otherwise. But at least I had an idea now, something to do. Once I was back in the office on Monday, I could talk to the person Peggy had spoken to, and see who had arranged it. That was somewhere to start. I had a plan. I already felt I was doing something.

‘Here,’ said Peggy, ‘I’ve brought you a clean sheet and some pillow cases. We change the beds on Saturdays.’

‘Only one sheet?’

‘Put the top one on the bottom and the clean one on the top,’ she said with exaggerated patience. ‘This isn’t America you know. And if you bring the dirty sheet down and any white cotton things – knicks, hankies, I’ll put them in the washing machine.’

After she’d gone, I made the bed. Tricky job with sheets and blankets. Hard to get it nice and smooth and neat. But it calmed me down. I straightened those sheets so there wasn’t a crease or a wrinkle to be seen. If only my life could be as neat and tidy.

I gathered up the laundry and took it down to the scullery and put it into the funny little washing machine. Peggy looked scornful at the thought of my stockings and suspender belt going in there too, so I stood at the sink and washed them by hand with something called Oxydol. Like being on holidays. Funny sort of holiday.

In the background, the radio – a huge thing the size of a fridge – played children’s songs, ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’, ‘There once was an ugly duckling’ … and something about pink and blue toothbrushes. It made Top of the Pop. seem edgy.

The washing machine didn’t rinse. Well, it did, but first you had to empty the sudsy water out and put clean in. Peggy took the dirty hot water and threw it across the back yard and then scrubbed the yard with a big brush. This was meant to be a lazy Saturday morning …

All the time we were doing this, I wanted to ask her about her visit to the Rising Sun, but she was looking pretty grim-faced so I thought I’d better leave it for now. Anyway, I had too many other things on my mind.

Then we had to get the clothes out of the washing machine (at which point the radio was playing something of demented jollity and good cheer called ‘I love to go a wandering’, which somehow made me think of the Hitler Youth), and put them through the mangle thing at the top. I remembered books I’d had when I was little, Mrs Lather’s Laundry or Mrs Tiggywinkle. I was a real washerwoman. I thought fondly of my 1400 spin automatic washer-dryer. It was hard work turning that handle as it squeezed the water out.

‘Careful,’ said Peggy, ‘a girl from school went to work in the laundry and she put her hand in the mangle. Got all broken and crushed.’

‘Horrid!’ I said. ‘I hope she got some compensation.’

Peggy looked at me blankly.

‘You know, a pay-out for her injury,’ I explained.

‘Course not. She should have been more careful, shouldn’t she?’

Peggy took the washing down the small steep back garden to hang on the line, while I used the last of the water to mop the scullery and kitchen floor.

Then I had to dash as I was meeting Caz …

Town was busy. I looked around at the crowds and thought uneasily that they couldn’t all be extras. So many women, mostly dressed in coats, clutching baskets and shopping bags. Men seemed to be conspicuous by their absence. There were a few young men and one or two very bent old men on sticks, slowly making their way between the stalls, but otherwise it was a world of women. And children! There were children everywhere, many as young as seven, on their own and equally laden down with shopping bags. Little girls of not much more than ten years old were expertly managing not just the bags, but sometimes also a battered pram with a well wrapped-up baby inside, with a toddler trailing alongside as well. They stood in the queues at the market stalls and seemed to cast a keen eye over the limited number of vegetables available, confidently pocketing the change.

Was it safe for these children to be out on their own? Shouldn’t someone be looking after them? I was still wondering about it when I spotted Carol standing on the steps of the market cross.

Carol or Caz? Which was she? My steps slowed. I stopped, needing to think about this. Was she my friend from my real twenty-first-century life, playing a very nasty trick, a conspiracy against me? Or was she Carol, a young mother of three, whose life and background was half a century different from mine?

She was talking to a young boy and handing over a couple of bags of shopping to him. He was about ten or eleven years old, and the image of Will, the same blond hair and big brown eyes. He was wearing short trousers, long socks and a big hand-knitted jumper, and he glowed with health and energy. Will’s son. So that’s what Will’s son would look like. Just like the boy I’d imagined in my daydreams. He looked exactly like a picture of Will his mum has on her mantelpiece. I felt I already knew him. He gave me a quick grin as Caz greeted me.

‘Perfect timing. I’ve just finished the shopping. Right, Pete, go straight home, mind. Your dad wants you to help him this morning. And if you’re good, I’ll bring some fish and chips home for your dinner. Now scoot!’

The boy grinned and duly scooted, even though he was weighed down with all the shopping bags.

‘Right,’ said Caz. ‘Let’s go and look for some material. Will and I have got a posh do to go to next month and I must have something to wear.’

Will and Caz, posh do? I knew it couldn’t be the real Caz saying this. She couldn’t be so casually hurtful. I must stop thinking of her as Caz and think of her as Carol instead. Carol. Not Caz. It had to be.

Carol was already leading the way to the far end of the market where there was a clutch of fabric stalls. Great bolts of cloth lay out on the trestle tables, and men and women bundled up in layers of clothing casually lifted them here and there, expertly measuring out yards of material in stalls that looked almost like mini theatres. Most of the stalls seemed to have everyday-ish sort of materials, lots of wool and tweedy mixtures, ginghams and flowery cottons.

Carol darted between them and had stopped at a stall where the bales of cloth glinted with the richness of velvet and taffeta.

‘Now then, Mrs West,’ said the cheerful stallholder, ‘looking for something special today are we?’

‘Yes please,’ said Carol, putting down her shabby handbag and reaching into the mountain of material. She pulled out rolls of cloth, held them briefly against her, then put them down again.

‘Have you got something in mind then?’ asked the stallholder.

‘Yes,’ said Carol, ‘but I won’t know until I’ve seen it.’

‘Well you’re turning my stall nicely upside down,’ said the man, with only the tiniest hint of resentment.

Then I saw it. Right at the bottom of the pile was a narrow roll of taffeta in a wonderful rich colour that hovered between a deep dark red, and black. It was exactly the same shade as a dress Caz had bought in the sale at Droopy and Browns, and made her look absolutely stunning. It would be just the thing for Carol.

‘That’s the one!’ I yelled and tried to grab it.

All the rolls of material shifted slightly and I thought the whole lot would come down, when the man held them all back with one hand, while shuffling the dark red taffeta out with the other. He pushed it across at Carol, who unrolled a bit and held it up against her. Immediately it seemed to reflect hints of deep auburn into her mousy hair – the exact shade of auburn that Caz paid so much for, so often to achieve.

‘Perfect!’ I said. ‘That’s definitely the colour for you.’

Carol grinned, then unwound the fabric from its roll.

‘Not much left there,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘Don’t know if I’ll be able to make anything of that. I’ll be struggling and anyone any bigger than me would be left showing their underpinnings. No,’ she said, making a show of putting it back and walking away, ‘I’ll have to look for something else …’

‘Go on,’ said the man, ‘you can have it for eighteen bob.’

‘Hang on!’ Carol had grabbed another roll end from under a heap. It was a creamy cotton with a design – a picture really – on it in a deep pink. I couldn’t quite see what it was, but Carol’s eyes had lit up.

‘Look, here’s another roll end, neither use nor ornament to anyone.’ She looked at him challengingly, with such a Caz-like glint that I had to laugh. ‘You can throw that in buckshee, can’t you?’

‘Not on your nelly,’ said the man, ‘but go on, give us a quid for the lot and I’m a fool to myself.’

Carol had a pound note out of her purse like lightning.

‘You’re a gentleman!’ she said. ‘I shall tell all my friends and acquaintances to patronise no other stall.’

The man laughed and wrapped the material in a sheet of thin brown paper, and soon we were heading for Silvino’s, with Carol clutching her purchases.

‘Will you really be able to make that into a dress?’ I asked as we made our way through the market crowds.

‘Don’t see why not, I’ve got a pattern I’ve used before, so it should work OK.’

‘What’s the big occasion anyway?’

‘The Mayor’s Ball. Very posh. At The Fleece.’

I shivered as I remembered my ghastly experience at The Fleece.

‘But it will be lovely. A chance to dance. This is the first time we’ve been. The mayor’s president of the football club, so he gave Billy some tickets, which was nice of him. Right, here we are.’

We were in an alley and going in through a small door into a room that looked as though it had only just stopped being a store room. The walls were roughly whitewashed, but I could smell coffee, and could hear the sounds of music beating out from a juke box. A wonderful machine! Just like in those old American films.

It was smoky and crowded, with people mostly in their mid to late teens or early twenties – Carol and I must have been the oldest people there. Their faces were bright and lively, but otherwise they were a drab-looking crowd. Boys in stiff, ill-fitting jeans, or baggy grey trousers, some even with jackets and ties. A few of the girls, like me, wore trousers. Most were in knitted cardigans and tops, tweedy skirts, apart from two girls, who stood in front of the juke box. Both had black polo neck sweaters and full skirts, one with a pattern of hearts sewn on, the other with stars.

They watched as each record was lifted up and spun into place to play. Then they danced by themselves in the small space, just deigning to move slightly out of the way if anyone came to put money in the juke box.

There seemed to be no waiters in this side. Instead the kids went up to a hatch that presumably opened into the main café and placed their orders, mainly for Coke or milk shakes it seemed, which they drank almost in parody of those black-and-white films about American teenagers. It was all warm and steamy and lively and smelt a bit of wet dog.

As we ordered our coffee, the juke box started playing ‘Sixteen Tons’. That was really weird because my dad always used to sing a bit of it:

Sixteen tons and what do you get? Another day older and deeper in debt.

And I’d never heard the rest. I listened carefully to get the words. Next time I saw Dad I’d sing it to him. Next time … But now the juke box was playing ‘See you later, alligator’, and more of the kids were up dancing in the little space near the front,

See you later, alligator.

And they’d all yell back

In a while, crocodile!

The two girls in the black polo necks danced with each other, taking no notice of anyone else at all, just totally absorbed in their dancing. They certainly had style. But this was another favourite of my dad’s – and everyone was singing along. I knew the words and joined in happily. I felt part of it, I belonged. It was good. I grinned at Caz.

‘I don’t see why just the kids should have the fun,’ she said.

Then she took the package of material out and looked at it again.

‘I’ve never had anything this colour before. Do you think it will suit me?’

‘Nothing better,’ I said. ‘Trust me. Do you make a lot of your clothes?’

‘Most of them. My gran gave me her sewing machine when Billy and I moved into our own place. I make most of the kids’ clothes, most of mine. Much cheaper and I can get what I like.’

Again, she sounded just like Caz, when Caz talked about stuff she got from the charity shops or bought from eBay and added a twist that made things look stunning. Very talented. She loved old clothes. We’re talking retro or vintage here, not your average charity shop stuff. She had a magic touch with them, seeing possibilities that the rest of us never could.

She did a lot of clever things with cushions and curtains too. And she’d helped with the costumes when Jamie had produced the school play. I guess she could make her own clothes if she had to, but then she’d never had to.

Carol was drinking her frothy coffee from the shallow Pyrex cup and swaying to the music. ‘Rock, rock till broad daylight …’

‘Do you listen to much music?’ I asked.

‘Whenever I can. But you know, when we get our new house, I’m going to get a wireless.’

‘A wireless? You mean a radio? You haven’t got one?’

‘No electricity.’

‘No electricity? How on earth do you manage?’

‘OK,’ she said defensively. ‘We didn’t have electricity at home till after the war. I’m not the only one. There’s lots of people still haven’t got electric.’

‘No, I didn’t think you were, sorry.’ I was still thinking about what it would be like to live without electricity. I mean, a two-hour power cut can cause chaos. ‘Well you can still get a radio. One that runs on batteries.’

‘Do you know the price of batteries? And they don’t last more than a few hours. No, we’ll get a wireless. Maybe even a television. Billy would like a television. He loves watching it at his mum’s.’

The rock and roll had finished. Another record was lifting out of the rack and being placed on the turntable. It had a gentle jazzy intro. Not Bill Haley or Lonnie Donnegan. I recognised this. It was Frank Sinatra.

The way you wear your hat, the way you sip your tea The memory of all that. They cant take that away from me …

I thought of watching Will across the newsroom, the same pose, attitude and mannerisms I knew so well. I thought of him at home in bed, the way he slept with one arm flung out over the duvet. I could hardly ask Carol if that’s how Billy slept. But I knew it. It was strangely comforting. They couldn’t take that away from me. Not how I knew Will, and my memories of him …

The kids were crowding back around the juke box. ‘Rock around the clock’ came on again.

‘It’s no good,’ said Carol. ‘Time I was on my way. We have to have dinner early on Saturday. Billy goes to the match to do the football report for The News.’

‘Oh, right,’ I said. ‘Well I guess I’d better be getting on home.’

‘No need for that,’ said Carol. ‘Why don’t you come and have fish and chips with us? Might as well, unless’ – and she looked suddenly shy – ‘unless you’ve got anything better to do.’

‘No, fish and chips with you would be great,’ I said.

We must have walked half a mile or so from the town centre, then down into a little side street, where I could see a long queue of people standing on the pavement. We joined the end of the queue until it was our turn to wait in the greasy steam and sizzling noise for our order. The woman behind the counter wrapped them all efficiently in old copies of The News and Carol produced a string bag from her pocket and shoved them all in.

We carried on walking. I didn’t recognise this part of town. The streets were smaller and darker, many of them weren’t tarmacked but were just potholed mud tracks. On the corner of one of the streets a group of boys, about half a dozen of them maybe twelve or thirteen years old, were gathered around a lamppost. On the other side of the street was an old advertising sign that had come loose. It swung back and forth on two screws – driven by the stones the boys were throwing at it. You could hear the whistle of the stones as they flew across the street. Then the heavy ‘thunk’ as they hit the soft and rotten board.

‘Yeah! I win! I win!’ yelled one of the boys, who had managed to hit the exact centre of the board, while the others muttered and grunted and shouted back at him.

Instinctively I’d drawn in on myself. Looked down, avoided eye contact. Gangs of thirteen-year-olds are never good news, especially when they’re bored and they’ve got pockets full of stones. I was busy hurrying along, gazing at my feet, when I realised Carol had stopped. What’s more, she was challenging the boys. Was she mad?

‘Hey you lot!’ she said. ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do on a Saturday afternoon? And you shouldn’t be throwing stones – you could hit someone and hurt them. What would your mothers say if they could see you now? Or your dads? I bet they’ve got plenty of jobs you could be doing for them.’

To my utter astonishment – when I dared to look up – the boys looked abashed and embarrassed. ‘We weren’t doing any harm, Mrs West,’ said one.

‘No, not now, but you soon would be if I know you lot. Now go and find yourself something useful to do and stop making such a racket.’ And she started walking again while the boys shuffled a bit then ran off yelling down the road.

‘Little blighters,’ said Carol. ‘And they’ve all got mothers who could do with a bit of help. What makes them think they’ve got time to hang around street corners, I don’t know.’

I was lost in admiration.

‘You know, Carol, I wouldn’t have dared speak to them like you did.’

‘What? They’re only a gang of kids.’

‘Yes, I know, but where I come from, you just wouldn’t. They’d beat you up, have your purse off you soon as look at you.’

She looked at me, astonished. ‘But they’re only kids, Rosie. Surely you can deal with a bunch of kids?’

‘Well no, actually, we can’t. Somehow we seem to have lost the trick.’

‘Then you’re off your heads if you ask me,’ said Carol. ‘Come on, here we are. Home sweet home.’

We had turned down a narrow steep lane and at the bottom at the side of a stream was a derelict mill and a tiny cottage.

‘Oh isn’t that pretty!’ I exclaimed.

‘You wouldn’t think so if you had to live here,’ said Carol, and even she almost had to stoop to go in through the front door.

The rooms were small and dark, so much so that I could hardly see anything. Carol went through to a kitchen and then out into a back garden that spread up the hill. It was huge. And in the middle of it was Will.

All the time I’d been walking home with Carol, I had tried to put out of my mind the fact that Will would be here. He was, after all, her husband.

And here he was. And what’s more, gardening. Will gardening! This place got stranger and stranger. Will in baggy army trousers carrying an old window, with young Pete hanging on the other end. What if he dropped it? What if it smashed?

‘Careful now, Pete,’ Will was saying, ‘just bring it around to the side of the house, next to the other one.’ The two of them manoeuvred it carefully into place, looked at it admiringly and then Carol called out, ‘Dinner’s ready. Come and get your chips!’

Pete dragged his eyes away from the window frame and came running down the path. ‘Can we have them in the paper, Mum? Not on plates?’

‘Course you can,’ said Carol, ‘save on washing up. We’ll eat them out there, pretend we’re on holiday. Where’s Davy?’

‘Gone around Rob’s on his bike. My bike.’

‘I know dear, but it’s too small for you now, isn’t it!’ said Carol. ‘Come on, Libby.’

The small girl who’d been with her in the office was crouching intently over a small patch of earth. ‘I’m planting lettuces,’ she said.

‘And we’ve been building a cold frame,’ said Pete, jumping up onto the low wall and reaching for his chips. ‘Dad and I have built one half and we’ve got the framework and bricks ready for the second half. We just have to make them secure now. And put the hinges on.’

‘Good boy,’ said Carol. ‘Here you are, Billy.’

Will/Billy wiped his hands on his trousers and perched on the wall, looking out over his garden, as if he were still thinking about it, planning it.

I was suddenly shy with this Will, Billy, I hardly seemed to know him – a man who was competent and capable with practical things. ‘Big garden you’ve got,’ I said. The garden seemed to spread up the hillside. It was wonderfully neat and tidy, lots of rows, with small green shoots springing out.

‘I didn’t have you down as a gardener. I don’t know why,’ I said, though I did know why – because I couldn’t imagine Will gardening.

‘My dad always had an allotment. I kept it going during the war. Then the scouts had a couple of allotments too, so I had plenty of practice.’

‘You were in the scouts?’

‘Oh yes, we were always busy for the war effort – digging for victory, firewatching, collecting scrap metal. Though whether anyone’s garden railings ever did go to build Spitfires I have great doubts. But it kept us busy.’

Carol was giggling.

‘He was a good scout,’ she said, ‘but if he’d remembered to Be Prepared, we wouldn’t have had Pete, would we?’

So that’s why … Caz had been pregnant and that’s why Will had married her. That’s why they were married so young. Even as I worked it out, it hurt. Caz’s giggle and Will’s answering grin, their shared complicity – not to mention their shared lives and shared children – cut me out. They were the couple. I was the outsider. It suddenly felt very lonely.

Billy ruffled Peter’s hair affectionately. ‘Wouldn’t be without him. You’ve worked well this morning, son.’

I ate my fish and chips – growing cold and more batter than fish, to be honest – and tried to take in this new Billy. At the end of a long working week, he had spent a morning doing hard physical work and soon he was going off to work again. Yet he looked really happy.

‘Right,’ he said, screwing up the fish and chip paper. ‘We’ll just have time to get those hinges fixed before I have to go to the office. Come on, Pete.’

Pete gobbled the last of his chips And the two of them went back up the path. I could see Billy explaining the job to Pete as they fastened the old window frame to the framework on the wall beside the shed. Billy did one bit, then handed the tools to Pete who did the next while his father stood and watched approvingly, just making an occasional suggestion, or holding the boy’s hand steady, while taking the weight of the window with his other hand. Then they tested the frame, lifting it up and down and laughing, pleased with their work.

‘Tea’s made,’ called Carol.

Billy strode down the path with his arm around Pete’s shoulders and then turned off down another path into what looked like a guardsman’s sentry box. What a funny shed, I thought, and then realised, as he came out, adjusting his trousers, that it was the loo. And with no water plumbed to it. It didn’t bear thinking about.

‘I’ll just get a wash before I have that tea,’ said Billy, going into the house.

I could hear the sound of water running in the kitchen behind me. He was having a wash at the kitchen sink? And he came out, changed into his work trousers and tweedy jacket and tying his tie.

‘Right, see you later,’ he said, drinking his tea quickly. ‘Pete – make sure you put all the tools back in the shed please – in their proper place. And I’ll go and earn my corn. Or maybe enough for a new bike for somebody,’ and he grinned at Pete, whose face lit up.

‘Really? A new bike?’

‘Well, if there’s anyone with a birthday coming up, whose bike is too small for them …’

‘Yippee!’ yelled Pete.

Billy put down his teacup and picked up Libby. ‘And soon we’ll have the most delicious lettuce in the world for our tea,’ he said, kissing the top of her head. ‘But now Daddy’s got to go to work. See you later everybody.’

He nodded towards me, ‘Nice to see you, Rosie.’ He ducked back into the dark kitchen and in a few minutes I could see him striding easily up the hill. The very picture of a family man. Will as a family man … It took some getting used to.

‘He seems very grown up,’ I said, staring after him.

‘Yes, he’s a good help around the house and he loves helping his dad,’ said Carol, looking fondly at Peter.

‘Oh I didn’t mean Pete. I meant Wi— Billy.’

‘Billy? Well of course he’s grown up, you daft ha’p’orth. He’s twenty-nine years old and if that’s not grown up I don’t know what is.’

I thought of Will and Jamie playing table football, of them drooling over the motor racing. Twenty-nine? Grown up? Not always.

As instructed, Peter was carefully putting all the tools back in the shed. Libby had abandoned her lettuce planting and was busy with a battered dolls’ pram, tucking her charges in under many layers of blankets.

‘Tell you what, while they’re busy, let’s make a fresh pot of tea,’ said Carol.

I followed her into the kitchen and, once my eyes had adjusted to the gloom, took a good look around. It was quite a big room but low ceilinged, very crowded and smelt of earth and damp despite the fire burning in the range. Above it was a clothes rack covered in folded ironing, just as at the Browns’. There were two battered armchairs on either side of the fire, and an alcove full of books.

There was a table covered with a cloth, and a cheap metal cupboard with plates and cups and a few packets of food – I could see a tin of peas and a packet of Puffed Wheat, and on a drop-down shelf, a loaf of bread, and a dish of butter. Against one wall was a big stone sink with a wooden draining board, scrubbed white, with a mirror above it. And on a shelf alongside were a couple of mugs. One held a family of toothbrushes and another held a shaving brush. So this is where Billy shaved in the morning. I thought of Will and our power shower and his whole shelf full of gels and foams and aftershaves and skin care. The big tin bath I’d seen on the wall outside, I realised suddenly, that was their bath …

Beneath the sink was a gingham curtain, hiding pots and pans I presumed. And on top of the stove was a big covered pan.

‘Something nice cooking for supper?’ I asked.

‘No! Billy’s underpants boiling.’

Oh God, definitely too much information.

‘When we move I’m going to have a proper electric wash boiler, maybe even a washing machine. You can get one on the never never. It’ll be grand. No more pans of towels. No more standing at the sink scrubbing.’ She looked wistful.

‘Tell me about America, Rosie. Tell me about the things you have.’

‘I’ll tell you about my friend Caz,’ I said, ‘the one who’s just like you.’

‘OK,’ and she settled down happily, with her cup of tea, like a child having a story. Just like Caz in fact, when I have a juicy bit of gossip for her.

I told her about Caz.

‘She lives with a teacher called Jamie.’

‘What, just lives with? Over the brush? They’re not married?’

‘No.’

‘And he’s still allowed to be a teacher?’

‘Well yes.’

‘Didn’t think the parents would like that. Not a good example.’

‘Half the parents aren’t married either.’

‘Oh well. Funny place America. So what’s their house like?’

‘It’s a Victorian terraced house.’

‘What, an old-fashioned thing, not a nice new one?’

‘With four bedrooms, two bathrooms.’

Two bathrooms? Blimey, I’d be happy just to have one!’

‘And it’s all decorated in neutral colours.’

‘Neutral?’

‘Yes, you know, whites and creams and beiges.’

‘Sounds boring.’

‘Not really because Caz has made great cushions and they have wonderful paintings on the walls.’

‘Paintings? They must be rich these friends.’

‘No, as I said, Jamie’s a teacher and Caz works with me on the paper.’

‘Have they got a telly?’

‘Oh yes, Jamie’s just bought a big one, about four-foot long. The colours are really sharp.’

‘Colours? You’ve got TV in colour?’

‘Yes, almost all our TVs are in colour. And we can have over a hundred different channels to watch.’

Carol just gawped at me. I told her about Caz and Jamie having a car each, how they went skiing at Christmas and were planning to go to Thailand in the summer, but I don’t think Carol believed me. She certainly seemed unable to take it all in.

‘Have they got any kiddies?’

‘No. No. They don’t want any, not yet anyway. And I’m not sure if they ever want any.’

‘Well you get what you’re given,’ laughed Carol, ‘even if the timing’s not quite right. But I wouldn’t be without them.’

Libby had come in, sucking her thumb and carrying a doll in her other hand. She snuggled into Carol, who put her arm around her. ‘Wouldn’t be without you, would I my precious? Nor your big brothers.’

‘And what about Billy?’ I asked, my heart thumping and my voice suddenly shaking.

‘He’s a good dad,’ said Carol. ‘Works hard, brings his pay home, does the garden. No complaints.’

‘And you’re happy?’ I hesitated but had to ask. ‘You still love him?’

‘Love him?’ Carol laughed. ‘Don’t know what love’s got to do with it. But we’ve rubbed along for a long time now and he’s a good man, a decent man. Never hesitated about getting wed and been a good provider ever since. Could do worse.

‘He earns the money and looks after the garden. And I look after him and the kids and the house. And when we get our new house, we’ll all be made up won’t we?’

‘Where is your new house going to be?’

‘Up at The Meadows.’

‘The Meadows?’

I thought of that vast estate, the few good areas and the stretches of bad parts, where joyriders terrorised the streets and then made bonfires of the cars they’d stolen. The wrecks sat in the streets for weeks, blending in with the other rubbish dumped in front gardens of houses with boarded-up windows sprayed with graffiti. Litter blew in the wind and aggressive young girls, all sulky expressions, bare midriffs, cheap thongs and tattoos, sat on walls, chain-smoking, throwing insults at passersby while their babies sat ignored in buggies.

‘Yes, it’s going to be great up there. The houses are lovely, really lovely. They’ve got big windows so they’re all light and airy and we’ll have a bathroom and three bedrooms and there’s a kitchen, with a proper cooker and a sitting room with a back boiler and a little dining room as well. We’ll be so posh, won’t we Libby? And you can have a bedroom all on your own. Won’t that be lovely?’

There was a crash outside the door. A small boy came bursting through. He too looked just like Carol but with Will’s big brown eyes. ‘Hi Mum. Is there anything to eat? I’m starving!’

‘Then you should have been home for your dinner. We ate all your chips. But if you’re good I’ll get you some bread and jam – and will you look at the state of your clothes! What have you been doing?’

‘Building a den, but then Rob had to go and see his gran.’

‘Right, get out of those clothes and I think we’ll get you in the sink and wash you down.’

Time for me to leave. ‘I’d better be going and leave you to it. It’s been great really. Thanks for the chips and the tea, and everything.’

‘Will you come again?’

‘Please, if you like. Or maybe we could have a coffee again in town if I can get out of the office.’

‘Smashing,’ but she had already turned to Davy and was peeling off his filthy jumper. She was caught up in domesticity. I let myself out and walked back through town, turning over what I’d seen. How strange to see Caz with kids, and kids she clearly adored, at that. And coping with them in that small, dark, damp house. Caz!

I wondered about what she’d said about her and Will. What’s love got to do with it … It was almost like a business partnership. Yet they had three kids, so it certainly wasn’t platonic. And that look and grin they’d shared … I didn’t like to think of Caz and Will in bed together, so I hurried on, concentrating on finding my way home, thinking of this new Will I’d seen. Will as a family man.

When I got back to the Browns’ house, I was desperate for the loo. Somehow, I hadn’t fancied the sentry box at Carol’s. Doreen and Frank seemed to be out, but Peggy was in the bathroom. I waited a while, then finally I had to bang on the door.

‘Peggy, could you hurry please? I’m getting desperate!’

Eventually she flung open the door and came out surrounded by billowing clouds of steam.

‘Good grief! It’s like a sauna in here,’ I said, getting past her. I’d never known that bathroom so warm. And that was another odd thing. I could have sworn she smelt of booze. I mean, I occasionally like to lie in the bath with a glass of wine but I didn’t think that was Peggy’s thing. As I sat on the loo, I could hear her crashing around in her bedroom. She sounded almost as if she were drunk. But that was just daft. Peggy wasn’t the drinking type.