First impressions can be remarkably instantaneous and all-encompassing. Hardly did time pass before I grew confused by the look of their winter coats: the length of the garments, the cut and texture of the fabric, the large leather buttons, and the capacious pockets draped by unusually large flaps. Their shoes were unfamiliar; their hats even more so; even their scarves looked unusually unstylish and home made. They seemed to belong more to my mother’s photograph album than a substantial way into the twenty first century. The one I judged to be slightly the elder of the two spoke:
‘Are you my Uncle Gerald?’ she asked.
The brevity of the question swept the archaic clothes from my mind for a second, and a mild sense of confusion led me to hesitate briefly. And there was something uncommonly naïve about their expectant smiles.
‘My name isn’t Gerald, no, and such nieces as I have are a little older than you,’ I replied simply. ‘I think you must have the wrong address.’
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you are rather older than I expected my uncle to be. But we’ve never seen him, you see, because he lived in South Africa until three years ago. Do excuse me while I check.’
She unclipped the handbag she was carrying, took out a small piece of paper, and half turned to read it by the light streaming out from the kitchen. That was when I noticed something else intriguing. She was wearing nylon stockings with a seam running up the back, a style I hadn’t seen since my young adult days several decades earlier. She read aloud what it said on the paper:
‘Weaver View Cottage, Mill Lane, Rollston. Our mother said to get off the bus at the pub, walk half a mile up the lane, and it’s on the right. She said it was the only house beyond the few at the bottom.’
‘Well, the address is correct, but there’s no one called Gerald living here.’
She and her companion looked at one another in bemusement for a second, and then she continued:
‘Maybe she got the address wrong. My uncle is called Gerald Smithson. He’s in the RAF and is home on leave at the moment because he was wounded recently. I thought my visit might cheer him up a little. Do you know a Mr Smithson?’
I was beginning to have the most outrageous suspicion. No bus has come through this village for several years, apart from the morning and evening ones conveying pupils to and from the high school in the nearby town. And I thought it strange that she should say that her uncle had been ‘wounded.’ Why not the more familiar ‘injured’? The cold blanket of intrigue was beginning to wrap itself around me.’
‘I don’t know anybody called Smithson,’ I said. ‘But do step in for a moment. Let’s get out of this cold air and keep it out of my inadequately heated kitchen.’
‘Oh, we really mustn’t bother you any further,’ said the companion.
‘It’s no bother at all. I’m not doing anything special,’ I replied, holding back my eagerness to know more. ‘I’ll make us a hot drink while we consider the matter further.’
They assented with a hint of reluctance, so I stood back and pointed the way into my study.
‘Would you prefer tea or coffee?’ I asked.
‘Tea will do nicely,’ said the one I now presumed to be the elder of two sisters.
They moved through into the study while I grabbed three mugs and three tea bags, filled the kettle, and switched it on. I could hardly contain my excitement at seeing their reaction to the inside of my house. I’d already noticed their eyes grow wider when they’d gained a more comprehensive view of the kitchen, and the sound of the kettle failed to mask the surprised tone in their voices speaking low in the next room. I took the tea through on a tray.
‘What’s that?’ asked the talkative one. They were both leaning over my desk and regarding the computer monitor with questioning expressions.
‘Have you never seen a computer?’ I said. The reply was what I expected.
‘A what?’
‘Thought not. It’s a clever device which is commonplace now, but it would be difficult to enumerate its many functions. What do you think that is?’ I was pointing at the cordless phone. They shrugged.
‘It’s a telephone.’
‘But there’s no wire coming out of it.’
‘I know. The voice signal comes into the base it’s standing on, which is a radio receiver of sorts, and is then sent to the device you’re holding using radio waves. It enables you to wander around the house and carry on a conversation. You can even go outside and still talk, so you’re not restricted to sitting or standing by the phone.’ I thought of showing them my mobile but decided not to confuse them further. Instead I invited them into the living room where they settled themselves on the sofa and I presented the mugs of tea.
‘Is that another … erm… computer?’ she asked.
‘No, it’s a television.’
‘But where’s the rest of it? It’s so thin.’
‘I know. The latest TVs don’t have heavy valves and cathode ray tubes, you see. They’re much slimmer and more sophisticated. Now look at this.’ I switched it on and they gasped as they saw the clarity and colour of the picture. And then, as redundant and predictable as it seems to say it, I really did take a deep breath.
‘Tell me something: how many houses did you see at the bottom of the lane?’
They regarded one another inquisitively for a few seconds, and the younger sister said:
‘Four, I think. It was a row of terraced houses and I think there were four lighted windows.’
‘There should have been ten, I answered quietly.’ And then I addressed them directly again: ‘I need to ask you a question which will seem a little strange, but bear with me. What year is this?’
‘1942.’
‘And your Uncle Gerald is a flyer in the RAF?’
‘Yes, he’s a navigator in Lancaster bombers.’
That settled the matter.
‘Well, well, well. I could never decide whether I believed in time slips, but that’s obviously what we have here.’
‘Time slips? What on earth do you mean?’
‘Hard to say. Time is a mysterious phenomenon and much discussed – even argued over – by scientists and philosophers. But there are many stories of people finding themselves suddenly transferred into a different time period. It explains why so much of the way you’re dressed is unfamiliar to me, and why so much of what you see in this house is unfamiliar to you. We’ve come a long way since 1942. This is 2026.’
The two women said nothing for a while, but continued to look at me with questioning expressions. The older one began to show some signs of acceptance and said:
‘That would explain the car we saw at the bottom of your garden. We’d never seen anything like that before.’
‘Quite.’
It was evident that the senior of the two was struggling mentally with what must have seemed an unfathomable possibility. The younger seemed merely bemused and a little frightened. Both gripped their mugs of tea in cupped hands; neither seemed capable of drinking it. Silence gripped all of us for a few minutes, and then the older one seemed suddenly shocked and scared.
‘If you’re right,’ she spluttered, ‘how in God’s name do we get back?’
‘That’s my number one question too,’ I replied. ‘I’ve heard several accounts of this sort of thing happening, and at least one, to my recollection, said that if you retrace your steps exactly, you’ll pass back through what is commonly known as “the portal”. I can only suggest that you try it and hope it works. And it strikes me as possible that there’s no time to lose.’
They looked at one another. The younger one shrugged.
‘Very well. I think life would get more than a little bit complicated if we got trapped here. We’d better make tracks.’
They stood up, leaving the tea un-drunk, girded their clothes against the cold night air, and prepared to leave.
‘Let me give you a torch to light your way,’ I said. ‘I’d like to come with you, but then I might get trapped in 1942 if the portal closes at an inopportune moment.’
We passed back through my study and I rummaged through my backpack for my favourite torch. It was a modern chromium one, almost pencil slim, with LED lights. I gave it to the older girl.
‘Where’s the bulb?’ she asked.
‘Modern torches don’t have bulbs. These little circles behind the glass give more light with less battery usage. It’s something else that’s moved on. Press that button.’
She did so and was duly impressed with the brightness of the light.
‘Well, this has been some adventure,’ she said after a pause. ‘I hope it’s temporary.’
‘Me too. Don’t forget: retrace your steps as accurately as you can. Same side of the road, same relative positions, and so on. And the very best of wartime fortune to both of you. This has been quite an adventure for me, too.’
We passed into the kitchen and I opened the door.
‘Goodbye and good luck,’ I said. ‘Goodbye,’ they both answered.
I watched as the light moved down the path and turned onto the lane. The spill from the torch’s beam soon faded and the world returned to darkness, mist, and silence. I returned to my living room and regarded the two untouched mugs of cold tea standing on the carpet. I felt dazed and asked myself the obvious and pointless question: did all that really happen? Of course it did. I declined the equally pointless exercise of checking my backpack for the missing torch, and instead sank into my armchair and replayed the whole extraordinary event for what seemed like a very long time. And then I made and drank a fresh mug of tea before retiring early. Sleep did not fall easily on a beleaguered brain, but at least the two women had not returned and I assumed that the matter was satisfactorily resolved.
* * *
I should like to say that the incident faded from my mind over the next few days, but such was not the case. It became a frequent interloper as I went about my daily business, but not an obsessive one. It had more the character of a sharply defined anecdote which appeared when matters of more immediate concern were absent. I did wonder, of course, whether I should tell anybody about it. I thought it inadvisable since any talk of time slip experiences is likely to engender the suspicion of a diseased brain. I settled on treating it as a singular and mysterious encounter which I would keep safely shut up in a private corner of my mind. That decision was to be challenged a mere two weeks later.
I was working in my garden one afternoon in early November when I saw a car slow down and then stop near my gate. I saw that the driver was a woman and she was regarding me and my property with evident interest. After several seconds the car moved forward, passed through my gate, and occupied a spot on my drive. The engine fell silent and a woman I judged to be in her mid fifties stepped out. We regarded one another for several seconds until she walked boldly up the path and approached me.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘My name is Victoria Parker and I’ve been despatched on an errand which is, to say the least, a little strange. I have been charged with the task of delivering something to you, and I have no idea what it is. May we step inside?’
I sensed a hint of embarrassment in her manner, but for my part – well, who would not be intrigued by such an opening gambit? I certainly was, especially since matters of mysterious singularity were still fresh in my mind.
‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘Come this way.’
We entered my house by the same door on which the young women had knocked, and I observed the same pleasantry:
‘Can I get you something? Tea or coffee?’
‘No, thank you. I just had lunch in Washburn while I dredged up the courage to lay before you the objects of my mission, so to speak.’
We continued to the living room where my visitor settled herself on the sofa while I took the armchair. She took an envelope and a small padded package out of her bag, and after a brief pause and a short exhale of air she began her speech.
‘The contents of these envelopes were originally in the possession of my maternal grandmother. When she was in her late seventies she was diagnosed with some medical condition – something to do with her heart, I think – which, although not amounting to a clear terminal diagnosis, indicated that she wasn’t too long for this world and could go at any time. That was the point at which she gave them to my mother with clear instructions. She died in 2002 at the age of 82, and the instructions she gave were these:
‘My mother was to bring these things to this address and give them to the man who lives here, and she was adamant that she should do so in late October 2026 or very shortly thereafter. It’s now early November and I assume you haven’t moved here in the past week or two?’
I told her I’d lived here for twenty years.
‘Good. At least I know I have the right person. My grandmother was, apparently, most insistent and specific about the timing of the errand. I have no idea why, but perhaps you might enlighten me in due course. (If it’s any of my business, of course.) But to continue:
‘My mother venerated my grandmother and took the undertaking very seriously. When she was diagnosed with early stage dementia in her seventies, one of the first things she did was pass the job onto me before she became too vague. She died last year, and so here I am.’
She handed me the two packages which I saw were sealed with red wax. It seemed sacrilegious to break the seals, but the moment of some revelation had apparently arrived and I realised that I was the only one qualified to do so. I opened the paper envelope first and took out a slip of paper which I recognised immediately. It had my address written on it, as it had before, and below had been added Late October 2026. And then I removed several sheets of writing paper and read the contents. They said:
1st October 1999
My very dear Sir
I am sorry I do not know your name, but I thought you might wish to be apprised of the circumstances which accrued after my companion and I left your esteemed company. Our encounter must have been as surprising to you as it was to us.
We followed your advice and re-traced our steps down the lane, marvelling at the intense brightness of your torch in the dark mist which enshrouded us. A motor car passed us at one point and we were astonished by its appearance, and also how quiet it was compared with what we were used to in our own time. And then something interesting happened.
At a point about half way down the road the torch went out. For a few seconds the darkness seemed suddenly intense until our eyes grew used to it and the light on the outside of the public house became visible in the distance. We both remarked that the mist seemed much lighter and we took that as being possibly a good sign. And so it proved to be.
I ventured to look into the public bar in the establishment as soon as we reached it and it appeared satisfyingly familiar. I asked a gentleman sitting near the door whether he knew what time the bus to Ashburn was expected. He replied that it should be “along” in about fifteen minutes, and cautioned us not to miss it because it was the last bus of the day into the town. He said there was a later one coming back after the cinema closed, but that was the last bus of the day.
I will not try your patience or my own by expounding upon further detail; suffice it to say that we arrived home safely and with much relief (and not a little excited questioning.) I regret to admit that I constructed a falsehood for my mother. I said that we had failed to find Uncle Gerald’s address and would try again another day. And so we did – in daylight I might add.
You might be interested to know, by the way, that Uncle Gerald, my father’s brother, was invalided out of the RAF and survived the war. Unfortunately, his wound gave rise to several chronic conditions and he died in 1960. He was buried in your village church yard. His grave is close to the gate, should you ever feel inclined to see it.
For my own part, life has been relatively uneventful. I married a gentleman farmer called Drake, had two lovely daughters, and lived a perfectly satisfactory life. I never mentioned to any of them – nor to anyone else for that matter – my adventure on that strange October night. Indeed, as time moved on the whole episode took on the quality of a dream even though I knew it wasn’t.
But now I am moving into advanced dotage and the medical fraternity tells me that I should not expect to have too many more years to live. I am content with that, but a few days ago I was possessed of the desire to write to you and bring some sort of closure to our shared mystery. I intend to seal the envelope and give it to my elder daughter with strict instructions to deliver it to you in late October 2026. I will also return your property with my thanks.
Please accept my gratitude for your assistance, my good sir, and my best wishes for your good health and fortune.
Your servant,
Annabelle Drake (nee Smithson.)
p.s. The torch never worked again after that night.
My visitor said nothing while I was reading the letter, but sat watching me quite intensely while she drank her tea. When I’d finished I looked at her and smiled.
‘Am I allowed to read it?’ she asked eagerly. I’m absolutely dying to know what it’s about.’
‘Why not?’ I said, and handed her the sheets of paper.
And then I broke the seal on the package and took out what I naturally expected to find – my chromium torch, pencil slim, with LED lights. I’d been without it for only two weeks, and when I pressed the button it lit as bright as ever.
‘But I still haven’t a clue what this is all about,’ said the lady on the sofa, frustration writ large on her frowning forehead.
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ I replied, searching her eyes for evidence of an accepting nature. ‘Would you like me to tell you the whole story?’
