The Accidental Time Traveller Read Online Free PDF Page A

if there’s a cash machine. These three were clearly In Character in a big way. No sneaking back to the twenty-first century, not even for a bit of light relief.
    ‘I see,’ I said and tried to enter into the spirit of the thing. ‘Since before the war?’
    ‘Yes. Our Stephen wasn’t born and Peggy was just a toddler and now look at her.’
    I did. She glared at me.
    ‘Now then, young Rosie,’ said Mr Brown. ‘Tell me all about America.’
    ‘America?’ I said, not knowing what he was talking about. ‘Well I’ve only been there twice, once to New York and once to Flor—’
    ‘Now girl, don’t be silly, I know you must be American, wearing trousers like that.’
    I was dressed perfectly normally for work. Black trousers and a stretchy silky top. Though my jacket was a nifty little Jilly G. number that I had bought on eBay. Maybe Mr Brown recognised a style snip when he saw one. OK, maybe not.
    ‘Never mind about that now,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘She’s got plenty of other clothes in her trunk I expect.’
    ‘Well she can’t wear those to work,’ said Peggy with sarcastic satisfaction. ‘It might be all right in America but it won’t do here. No. Mr Henfield won’t stand for that. No women in trousers in the office.’
    ‘Mr Henfield?’
    ‘Richard Henfield, the editor of The News,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘Peggy’s his secretary,’ she added proudly.
    Henfield … Henfield …
    I remembered the Vixen’s office, the wall with the photographs of all the editors of The News that I’d gazed at in conference. Somewhere in the middle of them all I’m sure there was a Richard Henfield.
    ‘Does he have a moustache and smoke a pipe?’ I asked. ‘I think I’ve seen his picture somewhere.’
    ‘Well you would,’ said Peggy, ‘he’s very well known.’
    ‘Never mind that now,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘Peggy, come and mash the potatoes for me.’ Mrs Brown was bustling around dishing up supper. She took a big casserole dish out of the stove and put it on the table.
    ‘Well this looks special for a Monday,’ said Mr Brown, rubbing his hands.
    ‘Well, seeing as we have a visitor,’ said Mrs Brown, through a cloud of steam.
    So I didn’t dare say that I don’t really eat red meat. I’m not vegetarian, but I’m not really a red meat sort of person. And I didn’t want to seem like one of those whingeing, whining contestants making a fuss about nothing, so I ate it up, and it was really quite good. Chunks of meat and thick gravy. Afterwards, from another compartment in the stove, Mrs Brown produced a rice pudding. I couldn’t remember when I’d last had rice pudding, certainly not one that hadn’t come out of a tin. Mrs Brown was definitely in character. Unless they had another kitchen out the back where they had a cook lined up to make everything, so Mrs Brown could just do the ‘Here’s one I made earlier’ routine.
    ‘So does your mother like cooking?’ asked Mrs Brown.
    ‘Well yes, I think so. She’s worked her way through Delia and Nigella. I’m not sure she bothers much when it’s just her and Dad, but when my brother or I go home …’
    ‘Oh, don’t you live at home? In digs, are you?’
    ‘Digs?’ I groped for a moment, trying to work out what she meant and thinking of Time Team and hairy archaeologists.
    ‘Digs,’ she said again, ‘lodgings.’
    ‘Oh, no. I have my own flat.’
    ‘Oh you are a career woman, aren’t you?’ said Mrs Brown, looking a bit surprised. Peggy simply looked murderous.
    ‘It’s quite small, but it’s in nice grounds and there’s secure car parking.’
    ‘You’ve got a car?’
    ‘Well yes, just a little one. Nothing flash.’
    ‘Your own flat and a car? Very nice I’m sure,’ said Peggy, accepting another helping of rice pudding. ‘All I can say is it must be very nice to be American. I hope you can manage to slum it with us.’
    She really didn’t like me …
    ‘Look really, I’m not American.’
    ‘Well you talk like one.’
    ‘Do