Chapter 16

Standing on top of the chest of drawers was a framed photograph. She knew it very well. She saw it every day. Her wedding photograph, she in her white silk Cinderella dress, Johnny in his dress uniform, standing in front of the church in Little Morpeth.

Try as she might, she could think of no scenario where she would take her wedding photograph with her for a day out, or to visit friends.

And there was something else really odd - the curtains. They were in unrelieved black. Who in the world would have black curtains? None of her friends, surely? And if she were in a guest house, would she choose one as shabby as this? Even in extremity? Was it even likely that anyone would attempt to rent a room as awful as this? And now she thought of it, there were other things that were out of kilter. The furniture was old and shabby, but the flooring under the rag rugs was of modern rubberised tiles, like the kind they have in a hospital. And she could see the bottom of a radiator showing beneath the hideous black curtains.

Something stirred at the edge of her memory.

She looked more closely at the pile of clothes bedside the bed, clearly laid there ready for her to put on. She picked up one of the garments, a nondescript grey flannel skirt and examined the inside of the hem. Just as she suspected! A utility mark!

She held the skirt in her hand for a long time, staring at the mark and trying to decide what it could possibly mean.

Eventually she looked up again, her eyes troubled. She could think of no logical explanation. None. Utility marks and black-out curtains? Had she somehow been transported into the past? Or been kidnapped by some deranged person who was trying to disorientate her? None of it made any sense. And she was desperately worried about Johnny. They had hardly spent a night apart in over fifty years and not at all in the last five years or so, since Johnny retired. She was so frightened she could scarcely function.

Slowly, as if she was afraid the floor might dissolve under her, she got out of bed and began to get dressed.

****

There was a knock at the door. Tilly looked up, alarmed, but before she could say, "Come in", a young woman marched into the room without so much as a 'by your leave,' walked over to the window and pulled the curtains open. Harsh light filled the room. Tilly sat on the bed, clutching her chest. It had never occurred to her that it might be daytime.

"Morning!" the woman called out, without looking round. She was dressed in a 1940s style print dress and flat shoes, and her hair was done in a victory roll. There was something not quite right about both the shoes and the hairstyle, as if she were playing a part in a cheap amateur dramatics production where they'd supplied the costumes from a second-hand stall on the market and had their hair done by someone working from a photograph.

"And how are we feeling today?"

Tilly's hackles rose. The young upstart hadn't waited to be invited in, couldn't even be bothered to look at her when she spoke to her and now had the audacity to speak to her as if she were mentally deficient.

"I," she replied in a cold voice, "am quite well, thank you. Since I am not telepathic, I have no idea how you are feeling."

The girl turned round, a look of stunned surprise on her face.

"Why, Mrs Thompson, you're awake! And you've got dressed all by yourself! I'll go and get you a cup of tea."

And while Tilly was still reeling from the shock of the suggestion that she might not get dressed by herself, she marched out of the room.

"Wait!" Tilly said, in a thin little voice that was nothing like her own. But the woman was already out of earshot.

She returned moments later, carrying one of those trays with legs that invalids have in bed. Tilly was so delighted at the prospect of tea that she didn't complain, just reached for the cup and took a drink.

"Ugh! It's got sugar in!" She slammed the cup back on the saucer. The sweetness made her mouth drier than ever.

The young woman looked alarmed and confused. "But you always have sugar, Mrs Thompson. Well, as long as I've worked here anyway."

Tilly stared at her in a kind of horror, as she felt everything known and familiar slipping out of her grasp.

"And how long," she whispered, her throat almost closed with terror, "have you worked here?"

"Six months, Mrs Thompson. Look." She appeared increasingly nervous, and there was something else. Could it be excitement? "I'd better fetch Dr Jarman."

And she almost ran out of the room.

"Wait," whispered Tilly. But she had gone.

Half out of her mind with confusion and gripped with anxiety for Johnny, she decided to try the sweet tea. It made her wince, but it wasn't too bad after the first sip.

Some ten minutes later, Tilly heard the sound of footsteps coming down a corridor and urgent voices in discussion. "No, honestly, Doctor. I didn't tell her anything."

There was a discreet knock at the door and this time the visitor waited for a reply.

"Come in," Tilly called out, her voice still weak, but a little improved after the drink of tea. The sugar seemed to have stuck to the back of her throat and made it difficult to speak.

The door opened and a young man walked in. Too young to be a doctor, surely? He was dressed in a suit with a waistcoat and a double-breasted jacket and he reminded her a little of Stewart Granger.

"Mrs Thompson," he said, "you're awake."

"Of course I'm awake, young man. You needn't look so surprised. And I would like to know exactly what is going on."

"That's exactly what I've come to tell you, Mrs Thompson." He looked over his shoulder. "Gilly, could you possibly bring us both a cup of tea?"

"And could I have one without sugar?" Tilly added. Then she settled back against her pillows and glared at the doctor, hoping he couldn't see how frightened she was.