A Step Back in Time

I awoke feeling vulnerable and confused, my first thought being, “Where am I?” and even “Who am I, Hannah or Ursula?” Sitting up and gazing around, I saw with relief that I was Hannah and I was in bed at home, in the house that I shared with Sarah, the house that we had bought together.

Heaving a great sigh, I lay back down and closed my eyes, feeling an overwhelming temptation to snuggle down beneath the duvet and go back to sleep. But a working day awaited me and, because I’d had the previous afternoon off sick, I had a lot to do and didn’t really want to let Max down. Thoughts of that afternoon came into my mind, and I smiled as I recalled the cemetery at St. Thomas à Becket Church and the ancient gravestone that I had found. How lucky I had been to find that one special gravestone amongst so many.

I recalled the strange flashback that I’d had when being with Gregory for the first time. I’d known somehow that his mother had died and that she lay beneath a heart shaped stone in Warblington Cemetery. Frowning and shaking my head, I mulled over how I’d known that. It was strange, but I just had.

“Gregory,” I said proudly. “I have found your mother’s grave.” I felt a strange aching in my breast every time I thought of her, poor Eliza, and poor Isaac, her husband. He must have missed her so much—even the wording on her stone showed how much they’d all cared for her. She was too young to die, only thirty-two, and surely he must have been of a similar age.

I was curious as to what had happened to him, whether he had remarried or had more children. Who knew? I didn’t think Google would give me any further information. I couldn’t find Gregory, let alone Eliza or Isaac. And now Alice had come into the picture, Gregory’s sister. I vowed that next time I went back, I would ask Gregory about her.

Stretching and rousing myself, I noticed that warm sunshine poured in a narrow band through the opening in the curtains, making the room feel stuffy and airless. Clambering out of bed, I opened a window to let in some air, and peered from the window at the sky arching overhead, washed pale blue from yesterday’s rain.

The garden, totally unkempt when we’d moved in, was finally taking shape, the lawns looking smooth and green and the flower beds weed free and vibrant with the yellows and oranges of daffodils and tulips. Sarah and I had been really pleased to find that we were now not only the proud owners of a lovely three-bedroom house and a big garden, but a pond teeming with goldfish and an overhanging weeping willow tree, its long skinny branches skimming the surface of the water.

The previous owners must have kept budgies, for a large wooden aviary stood close to the pond; empty now, of course, expect for stray fluffy feathers in pale blue and green that littered the ground, along with tiny seeds and bits of cuttlebone. The proverbial shed stood right at the bottom of the garden, and then the allotment for which Sarah and I had great plans for growing our own vegetables. “Hey,” as Sarah would say, “We’re going to be living off the land.”

A voice sounded at my side and I turned my head, but there was nobody there and the voice, a man’s voice, was obviously too deep to be Sarah’s. What would Sarah be doing in my room anyway? Had the voice said something about Henry? Was I imagining things? Or, and this was quite scary, was I on the verge of taking a trip back in time? A fleeting picture of Ursula lying as if she were dead on her birthing bed flashed into my mind. I knew that Ursula hadn’t died at that time, so I was desperate to know what had happened to her, and especially to the baby.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to concentrate on what I needed to do to get ready for work. I gathered together toiletries for the shower, then went to the large walk-in cupboard that I used as a wardrobe. Two of the great things that I liked about 1950s houses was that there was always a large garden and plenty of storage space.

Stepping into the cupboard, I remembered what it had looked like when we had first moved in—just a big, black, cavernous space, dark and dirty, festooned with spider’s webs, and weirdly, a poster of a pop star from the 1960s hidden right at the back. “Hey, that’s Cliff Richard,” I remembered Sarah saying. “Hey, somebody obviously had a crush on him.”

“Some crush! Why hide the poor man right at the back of a dark cupboard?”

She’d shrugged and I’d laughed, and we’d thrown the poster in the bin and carried on with our renovations, and the cupboard was now a very swish walk-in wardrobe. Flicking through my clothes, all hung neatly in rows, I pulled out a pair of smart black trousers and a black and white top with loose bell sleeves, which teamed with a red jacket and one or two pieces of jewelry would look good for the office.

Looking through my clothes brought Claire to mind, and the inappropriate things that she’d been wearing lately. Even my family had made the odd pointed remark at tea last night when they saw what Claire had worn to work that day. Poor Dad had blushed as red as his greenhouse tomatoes when she appeared at the tea table wearing a tight low-necked top, her breasts rising out of the top like two suet dumplings.

“What’s going on?” asked Ryan, in a stage whisper that everybody could hear, including Claire, his cheeky teenage face creased in a grin. “Claire looks like that doll now, doesn’t she? What’s she called?” And when no one replied, he nudged Dad. “You know who I mean.” Dad almost choked on his broccoli while Mum, a smile tugging at her lips, kept unusually quiet.

My wardrobe also brought to mind Ursula’s first-born daughter, Dorothy, who had served as mistress of the robes to Queen Elizabeth the First. I shook my head in wonder at the thought that dealing with my clothes would be no problem for her after looking after Queen Elizabeth’s no doubt vast array of beautiful gowns.

I heard a voice close to me again, and then a tiny tap on the door brought me out of my reverie. Assuming it was Sarah, as I knew that Neil hadn’t stayed over and there was nobody else in the house, I called out, “Come in Sarah.” Silence, a deep dark silence. I glanced at the door, fully expecting it to open, and when it didn’t I walked towards it, saying, “Sarah? Sarah?”

I pulled the door open and a man walked in holding a crying baby, a man that I had seen so recently entwined in the arms of another man. He was dressed richly for the time in a short, embroidered smock pleated at the neck and wrists, his spindly legs covered in a thick hose that nowadays would be called thermal underwear.

Taking in the whole appearance of my husband, for this must surely be Henry Stafford, his long straggly hair receding so far at the hairline that half his head was bald, and glassy bulging fish eyes, I could definitely see that he was no Gregory—or Max.

“Ursula, darling, I’ve brought Henry to see you. He’s been crying for his mother. Even his moppet has not stopped his tears.” He showed me a tiny cloth doll with a round face and cheeks as red as berries.

Glancing down at myself, I saw that I no longer wore my favorite Betty Boop pajamas, but a gown, a night gown, edged in creamy lace and pink bows. I was in a sumptuous bedchamber, the wooden floor beneath my bare feet strewn with sweet smelling herbs, and the bed messy and unmade as if I’d just gotten up. A fire burned sulkily in the grate, and smoke, grey as ash, belched into the room. A wooden rocking crib stood at the bedside, and it was into this that Henry, my husband, placed the baby who, red faced, cried even louder, twisting and turning his small body in the tight swaddling clothes.

A servant came in carrying a breakfast tray of bread and spicy ale, which she placed on the bedside table. Then, after catching sight of Henry, she bobbed me a hasty curtsy and scurried out. Gently picking up the baby, I sat down on the nursing chair and, cradling his head in my palm, rocked him gently against my shoulder. His cries stopped immediately as he snuggled, whimpering, into my neck.

“Ssh, little Henry, ssh little Henry,” I crooned, breathing in deeply the milky scent of his skin, his warm skin—in fact, his very warm skin. As I put a hand to little Henry’s burning forehead, I felt a tiny pinprick of fear shoot along my spine, for there were rumors of smallpox in the village.

Also, I felt strange and disorientated because I didn’t know where I was. I wasn’t in the bedchamber where I had given birth to baby Henry, so I wasn’t in Warblington Manor. Unless, of course, I had been in this house but in a different room, a separate room that was used for lying in. I very much doubted that Henry would have allowed me to stay at my mother’s house to have our baby. I wasn’t sure, but I got the impression that there was little love between them.

“Where is my mother?” I asked.

Henry, pacing backwards and forwards across the room, his hands laced together behind his back, suddenly stopped still and, glaring at me, said sarcastically, “Your mother, Ursula? Why, my dear one, your mother is obviously at home in her own house, where she belongs. You spend far too much time wanting to be with your mother. You have your own household now, your own husband and child. You must grow used to that.”

I swallowed hastily seeing the glint in his eyes, the murderous glint in his eyes. I’d seen that look only once before, and that on the day that he’d struck me. But he had vowed never to do that again, and I would hold him to that, particularly not in the presence of our son.

“I only wondered, dear husband. She is my mother.” I felt a sudden pang at the thought of my mother being so far away in Warblington. It could take days or even weeks to get to her. And Gregory too; how would I be able see him if I was so far away.

Glancing at Henry and the harshness of his unforgiving face, I dreaded what he would do if he ever found out about my love affair with, what would be to him, the lowly gardener, Gregory Walsh.

“Wondering, dear Ursula, is for fools,” he said, coming so close that I could feel the spit from his not so fresh breath on my face. “You should be grateful that you are kept here in this sumptuous house by my family. By my father, the duke of Buckingham—a powerful man, Ursula, a very powerful man. A close confidante to the king.”

“Oh yes, husband, I know he is,” I said quickly, and then in a sudden panic, I pleaded, “But Henry, will you not feel little Henry’s forehead? He feels rather warm to me.”

“Hmm....” He laid a hand on Henry’s head, his fingers long and pale as a starfish. “I will ask for my father’s physician to wait on him, Ursula.”

“Oh, yes, please, husband. We must take no chances.”

“You do not need to tell me that, my dear. Wait here, and I will have Dr. Starkey attend.” An anxious look had come into his eyes, and I knew that for all his faults, Henry loved little Henry just as much as I did.

He hurried from the room in pursuit of the doctor, and I breathed a heavy sigh of relief as the door closed behind him. Hugging my baby close to me, I gazed at his tiny face, seeing that it burnt as if on fire, and my heart ached until it was a physical pain. I sat then on the very edge of the nursing chair, and nervously watched the bedchamber door as I waited for the doctor to come.

***

I’d seen Max and Claire together many, many times now, walking along Havant High Street, Claire’s step matching Max’s long stride and her short skirts seeming to show even more of her slim thighs than ever before. I’d watched them shopping in Woolworths and Boots and several of the tiny groovy boutiques in the arcade, taking a leisurely walk around Havant Park, and even going into the Wetherspoons pub, The Parchment Makers, for a lunch time drink.

I’d spied on Max queuing for his lunch in Smith & Vosper, and Claire serving him, smiling broadly as she passed his coffee and sandwich over the counter. It made me wonder what else she had been serving him; I couldn’t imagine that it was just coffee, sandwiches, and smiles. Rather, it probably involved something sweet and cloying, and could be either a Belgian bun or a Bavarian slice. I felt as if I was snooping around like a police officer, or like one of the private detectives that used to be on that old TV program, Charlies Angels. Although maybe one of Max’s Devils would be a better way to describe me at the moment.

I wondered what Stuart made of all this, and whether he thought that Max and Claire were acting unprofessionally. I daren’t ask him. I didn’t want him to know that I had a green eyed monster sitting on my shoulder whispering mean, jealous things about the two of them in my ear, and that all I wanted was for Sarah to come back to work and for Claire to disappear back into the clutches of Smith & Vosper for good.

I constantly asked myself why I cared so much. Why did I care that Max and Claire seemed to enjoy each other’s company and wanted to be together all the time? She was my sister; I should be glad that she’d found somebody to love, as Freddie Mercury used to sing when in that famous rock group Queen. The problem was, though, that when I looked at Max I saw Gregory, and wondered when I would ever see him again. (Although I must remember that wondering is for fools, as Henry Stafford had said). Centuries may go by before I got my wish to be with Gregory again, and how would I cope? The burden of my painful heart was becoming far too heavy already.

It’d been a couple of weeks since the last time I visited that other world—when I’d met my husband Henry—and found it so hard to believe that he’d enticed Ursula to have fourteen children with him; one of the great mysteries of the world. I found myself becoming more and more anxious as each day went by. I worried all the time about little Henry; and what made it even worse was that, through reading all the available information on Wikipedia, I knew my baby’s fate. If I had to go back as Ursula to witness that, as well as my own mother’s execution, then perhaps it was for the best if I never went back at all.

A tentative enquiring voice took me away from my thoughts, and I looked up from my computer screen—which at the moment made no sense at all, the words swimming in front of me like little tadpoles—into the kind but troubled face of Stuart Rhodes.

“Are you okay, Hannah? You look as if you’ve the whole world balancing on those narrow shoulders of yours.”

“I’m okay, Stuart. Thanks. My shoulders are a lot broader than you think.” I pushed my arms akimbo like a weight lifter, and gave him an impish grin as he shrugged into his coat and, picking up his briefcase, prepared to leave the office.

He smiled as he said, “Are you feeling better now? Max said you’d not been well.”

“Oh yeah, fine now, thanks.”

“Good. Look, Hannah, I’ve gotta dash. I’ve got to take Izzy to Rainbows tonight, and there’s a parent’s meeting at the school as well.”

“Have fun,” I shouted after him as he dashed out of the door, his long overcoat flying behind like a cloak.

I heard a vague “See you tomorrow” and the slam of the door as I prepared to go home. I turned off the computer, put away a few files, and tidied my desk before putting on my coat and turning off the lights, reminding myself that I must check to see that Max’s office was locked before I went.

I was just walking across the tiled entrance area to the tiny front door—people back in the day must have been so much smaller—when Max’s office door opened and he appeared in the doorway, making me jump out of my skin. I could almost see it, my skin, draped over the back of my chair like a coat.

For a split second I thought I’d gone back and that he was my lover, Gregory Walsh, until I saw that instead of black trousers and a tight white shirt that showed all the muscles in his chest, he looked extremely smart in a dark grey suit teamed with a thick cream shirt, a faint silver stripe running through it. He wore a tie but it was loose, and a slice of bare skin showed between the open top buttons of his shirt. I carefully averted my eyes.

“Hannah, have you got time for a quick word before you go?”

“God, Max, you made me jump,” I said. “I thought you’d gone, and was just about to check your office before I locked up.” I dangled a set of keys in front of him. “Is Claire with you?”

“Claire? No, of course not. She must have gone home.”

“Oh,” I shrugged, as I went into the office and sat down on my usual chair, putting my bag at my feet. “I’ve gotten so used to seeing the two of you together,” I giggled inanely.

“Hmm,” he replied, shutting the door and sitting down on the leather swivel chair behind his desk. “That’s one of the things I want to talk to you about.”

I must have looked puzzled, because he said, shaking his head slightly, “This is a bit awkward, Hannah, but the thing is, I don’t know how to tell Claire that I don’t want her company every lunch time—well, every minute of every day, actually.” He grinned shame faced, and when I didn’t say anything, said, “You must think me awful to talk about your sister like that, but—”

“No, Max, I don’t, but…. You seem to enjoy being with her—I thought you two were an item.”

Max shook his head, surprised. “No. No way. She’s a nice girl, and a chat and a stroll around Havant Park is great sometimes. But it’s every day, Hannah. She follows me around.”

For some strange reason my heart rose at the thought that Max didn’t fancy Claire, but all the same I said angrily, “I’ve seen you buying lunch in Smith & Vosper. You know she works there, so it looks to me as if you’re following her too.”

“No.” He shook his head vehemently. “She asked me to go in, said she would get my lunch on her discount card—as a way of saying thank you for being able to talk—you know—about London and everything.”

“London?” I queried.

“Oh, you don’t know?” He blushed—the “I’m so great” Max Reynolds blushing again—as if the thought had suddenly occurred to him that obviously I wouldn’t know.

I shook my head. “No, I know nothing about London. Well, only that she was fed up with legal work and wanted a change. What happened, Max?”

“Oh, no, no,” he said, raising his hands palms up in front of him. “She told me in confidence, Hannah. No way.”

“Max!”

“No!”

“Hmm,” I said. “Well, I’ll have to ask her myself then. I knew something had happened to bring her back here, and that it had to be something bad to make her leave legal work and get a job in a baker’s shop. That’s so unlike Claire. And her appearance has changed so much too.”

“Her appearance?” he questioned.

“Yeah,” I said. “I forgot, you wouldn’t have seen the way she looked before she went to London.”

“Actually,” he pointed out, “Maybe she needs to tone it down a bit for the office. You know, the short skirts and low-cut tops.”

Feeling quite riled up now for some strange reason, I replied, “She looks exactly like your usual type, Max. All the girlfriends I’ve ever seen you with resemble a Barbie doll!”

There was a long silence; such a long silence that I thought Max would perhaps never speak to me again. He kept his blond head down, and I noticed that he fiddled nervously with the well sharpened pencils that lay in a neat row on his desk. At long last he looked up just as a shaft of bright sunlight fell through the window, illuminating his green eyes so that they glowed like emeralds.

“Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe you’re right.” He laughed a little and grinned wryly. “I suppose there’s always been a certain look.” Then he said quietly, “I admire other looks more though, Hannah.”

There was another silence. I really didn’t know what to say to that. Did he mean my looks? Surely not.

Before I could reply, he said softly, “I know what’s been happening to you, Hannah.”

Putting on a bored voice, I said, “What are you talking about, Max?”

My heart thumped painfully in my breast, and I felt as if I couldn’t breathe as slowly he left his leather swivel chair and came to sit close to me, perched on the edge of the desk, his trousers stretched tight against his thighs.

Leaning forward, he clasped both my hands in his and, coming even closer, his breath feeling so warm against my neck, he whispered in my ear, “You know who I am, don’t you, Hannah? I know who you are.” When I didn’t reply, he pulled back slightly, his hands now clasping my shoulders, and looked at my face, his gaze lingering hungrily, for what seemed like ages, on my eyes and my lips.

I gave tiny shakes of my head, feeling like one of those Churchill nodding dogs that people sit in the back of their cars. I didn’t dare to speak or even breathe, my fingers splayed over my mouth. He knew who I was? He knew that I was Ursula? He knew that I went back and became Ursula Pole? Did he go back too, then? No, it couldn’t be true, not Max as well as Sarah. But then he spoke again.

“Hannah, why do you think I was in the cemetery that day when you came around, the day that we kissed? Come on, Hannah, you must know—it’s so obvious.” And here he paused before saying, “I’m Gregory, Gregory Walsh.”

I stood up so abruptly, pulling my hands from his, that my chair toppled back and lay prone like a dead body on the carpet. Anger like a red-hot light filled me from head to toe, and my heart beat so hard I felt breathless.

“Really, Max? Is that the best you can do?” I said scathingly. “Are you jumping on the band wagon? What are you going fob me off with next? That Stuart goes back as Henry Stafford, Ursula’s mincing husband?”

“Please, Hannah, listen….”

Max put out his hands but I ignored them and, turning, fled across the room, looking back only once to see him wincing, fingers splayed across his eyes. Wrenching at the door, I stalked through, letting it close with an almighty crash.