The Time-Traveller's Choice

one weekend

I woke on Saturday morning with a smile on my face. On Monday, I was going to get into the Receiving Home, find Emma Connolly, and be on my way to getting back to my own time.

So, as I lay in bed staring up at the stained plaster ceiling, what would I want to do with my one weekend in 1920s London?

It was 1921 and my recall of GCSE History told me the '20s were not yet really "roaring", but to me the answer was obvious: the West End. Knightsbridge. Jazz Clubs.

Amy slumbered on beside me, one bony shoulder pointing up from under the blanket.

I heard Charlie walk along the hallway and downstairs, and pushed off my side of the covers. It was day three and I was feeling like an old hand at the whole washstand bathing thing--I'd been promised a bath at some point, but I was willing to give it a couple more days.

Then I pulled on knickers under my nightgown--these looked more like boxer shorts and were made of some scratchy white fabric--and dropped the nightgown so I could don the brassiere and camisole.

Mrs. Lawrence had been nonplussed by my insistence on buying bras, but even though they were really just bands of fabric that went around the breasts and sort of smooshed them, I wasn't willing to part with them. I was willing to do without my boyleg briefs, even though wearing boxers felt strangely airy, but not my bra. The camisole was a matched pair with the knickers, and buttoned to it at the waist. The stockings likewise buttoned to the knickers.

Mrs. Lawrence had now deposited all of Hannah's old clothes in a chest next to Amy's wardrobe. I fished out a blouse and put it on over the camisole, grimacing at the musty smell, then stepped into a dark green wool skirt and buttoned it up.

This being done, I fussed with my hair for a while until an amused voice behind me said, "Come here and let me do it."

Amy was sitting up in bed, her shoulder poking out of the neck of her nightgown. When I turned around, she patted the bed next to her invitingly.

I went over and sat down, my back to her, and put the brush and hairpins on the bed. She took my hair and combed through it.

"You's sweet on my brother, ain't you?" she said.

I tried to stand up, but she tugged on my hair to keep me in place.

"He's a good man," I said.

"And?"

And he's supposed to marry my great grandmother, damn it.

"And mind your own beeswax," I said crossly.

Amy snorted. "Fair nuff," she said and took the front strands, twisted them back, and added the rest into a low bun. "If mum ever asks you about it, you be honest. She's old fashioned, and Charlie's her whole world. She won't take kindly to you palavering about it." She patted the crown of my head. "Done."

I jumped up. "Thanks," I mumbled and fled the room.

Downstairs I was provided with eggs, toast and margarine, and a cup of tea. Charlie and Mrs. Lawrence were already downstairs. The conversation with Amy had made me self-conscious, so I just flicked him a quick look and sat down, concentrating on my eggs.

"I've skived off from the docks," said Charlie.

"It's Saturday," I said, looking up.

"Ships come in on Saturdays, odd 'un," Charlie replied. He leaned back and chewed placidly on his toast.

I looked back down.

"Since you've settled yourself a job, what will you do today?" said Mrs. Lawrence.

"Actually, I was thinking about going into town," I replied. "Try and see some of the sights of London. What's the best way of getting to Kensington?"

"Blowed if I knows," said Mrs. Lawrence, rustling her skirt. "I has everything I need here and no reason to go gallivanting around out west."

"That's not true, mum. You saw me and dad off at Victoria, remember?"

"How could I forget?" said Mrs. Lawrence quietly. "And then Herb two years later. And then I came to Camberwell to see you when you came back."

Charlie leaned over the table and took her hand. "You're a trooper, mum," he said.

She patted his hand over hers. "We all was sorely tried in that war," she said. "Best way to get to Kensington, luvvie, is to take the District Railway from Mile End, for 3 shillings. Elsewise the tram then a 'bus, but it'll take you all day to get there."

"Oh, right," I said. The District Line already existed. Yep, that would do the trick.

"Can't have an odd 'un like you wandering around London alone," said Charlie. "I'll come with you. We'll make a day of it."

I knew I should decline, but, well... I didn't because it would be nice to have company, and nice for that company to be Charlie.

We left just after breakfast. Charlie had changed into a brown tweed suit, polished his shoes, and attached a collar to his white shirt. His hair was slicked down with a type of hair gel that I understood was called brilliantine.

I had added a light coat and a black straw had to my ensemble and felt a bit like Mary Poppins.

We walked the short distance to Mile End Station. Inside there was a man in a wooden booth, who took our shillings and handed us back two pink tickets with "South Kensington" punched out.

Then we walked down a flight of stairs to the platform. Having spent a bit of time in Whitechapel in the early 2000s, the style of the platform was intriguingly familiar, and yet different: for one thing, it smelled terrible down here. Heavy, sooty and dirty. I had a powerful instinct to cover my nose with a handkerchief.

The train rattled into the station a moment later. Charlie guided us down to the end of the train where the doors had "3rd Class" painted on them. He pulled the door open and put his hand on the small of my back as I climbed in.

I looked around, taking in the cold steel appearance of the carriage, some of it painted brown, and the grey linoleum floor. The carriage had a long row of benches on either side, upholstered in some kind of leather-looking plastic, separated every few seats by a handgrab pole. I wondered what the first class carriages looked like.

There were a few other people in the carriage. We sat down opposite a young couple with a little boy, who was smartly dressed in shorts, knee-socks and sandals.

The train whistled and began to rattle out of the station. "So what do you want to do in town?" said Charlie, who was a patch of conspicuous warmness next to me.

"Oh, take in the sights," I said. "Go to Harrods, Hyde Park, Oxford Circus... go past the theatres on Shaftesbury Avenue..."

Charlie gave me a startled look. "We'll have to buy a map then, odd 'un because I confess I'm not up to the task of all that."

"No, let's do without," I replied. "I don't really mind where we go. I just want to see London." We sat in silence for a while. Then I said, "So you went out of Victoria when you joined up for the war?"

Charlie nodded. "Training at Tidworth," he said and clasped his hands on his knees. "I turned 18 and fixed on joining up, and dad wasn't going to let me go alone, so we shipped out together."

He was silent, but it didn't seem as though he was finished speaking, so I waited. Eventually, he said, "I was promoted to Corporal at some point and we were in different companies. At Wipers, his company was in the attack, mine in reserve. He died, I survived."

"I'm so sorry."

"About a year later, I was injured in a shell blast. Came home for good, then."

"Was it your leg?" I said. That must be the cause of his hitched gait.

He gave me a sharp look. "I'm fine now," he said, "all healed up."

"Of course."

"With my job, I gotta be steady on my feet." His jaw set and he looked across the carriage. "And I am."