about people living in a 1950s house for a television programme, she hadn’t meant me, had she? She’d mentioned research. That’s why I’d spent the morning in the bound file room. But she hadn’t said anything about being here.
But she could have. I hadn’t been listening. Hadn’t heard. Wouldn’t remember if she had. I had been away with the fairies all through conference.
But she had said in that meaningful way that I would find my visit to Mrs Turnbull ‘interesting’. This is what it was all about. Was I taking part in one of those reality TV shows? I looked around for the cameras. I remembered that glint of light in the factory. I thought it had been sunlight on a window, but it could have been a camera.
A camera! I looked around. Was I being filmed now? Without thinking about it, I realised I had put my hand up to smooth my hair.
But how had they got me there? And how was outside completely different? It must have been something to do with that taxi driver I supposed. He had seemed odd and my head had been so rough I hadn’t really taken much notice of where I was. And he’d followed me up the path.
Maybe somehow he’d made me go somewhere else.
Maybe the path had been a stage set and that’s why it had sent my eyesight funny. A trick, just projected on a wall or something. Maybe it had just been a façade, a front in front of this old house. It seemed a bit over the top, but there – for I’m a Celebrity they parachuted people into the jungle, didn’t they? Walking up the wrong garden path was nothing compared to that.
And that factory. It could be the old rope works on the other side of town. There were a couple of indie TV production companies in there. The Big Brother house was in the middle of an industrial estate. This could just be in a car park. Maybe.
‘All right, dear?’ said Mrs Brown. ‘You’ve got a bit of colour back. You just sit there for a bit while I get supper ready.’
Feeling a bit calmer now I thought I’d worked this out, I sat on the rocking chair stroking Sambo, who purred quietly while I listened to Mrs Brown clattering away in the next room. So this must be the 1950s house and the Vixen must have volunteered me for it. And I was clearly staying for a while. I wondered what the rules were, who else would be there. I was just wishing I knew more, a lot more, when Mrs Brown called out, ‘There we are, here’s Frank and Peggy. Right on time.’
Frank was clearly Mr Brown, middle-aged in a thick suit, specs and moustache. He smiled at me and said, ‘Well, you must be Rosie.’ He shook my hand. A nice handshake.
‘And this is Peggy,’ said Mrs Brown.
Peggy was about my age, maybe a year or so younger. She had curly blonde hair and a pleasant open face that darkened when she saw me.
‘Hello,’ she said. That’s all, and went to hang up her coat.
‘So,’ I said brightly, ‘are we all in this together then? All play-acting in the 1950s? Did you enter a competition to get here? Or were you just volunteered by your boss, like I was?’
There was a silence. Peggy came and stood and looked at me as if I’d totally lost it. Mrs Brown came wandering out of the kitchen with her hands in oven mitts and a baffled expression. And Mr Brown took off his jacket and his tie, rolling it up carefully and putting it on the dresser, took a cardigan off the peg, put that on and swapped his shoes for slippers.
I realised I must have said something wrong.
‘Oh sorry,’ I said. ‘Aren’t we allowed to mention it’s a programme? Do we have to pretend all the time that we’re in the 1950s? I mean, I don’t even know if it’s like the Big Brother house and we’re all competing against each other, or if it’s just to see how we get on. Do you know? I mean, how did you get here?’
The silence continued. They were all still staring at me.
Finally Mr Brown said, ‘We’ve rented this house since before the war. That’s why we’re here. You’re here because our Peggy asked us to have you to stay, on account of you were working on The News. No more than that can I tell you.’
Right, I thought, that explains it. We clearly have to pretend at all times that we are in the 1950s. These three were obviously taking it desperately seriously. Like those people who dress up and guide you around museums and keep calling you ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ and pretend not to understand when you ask 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
