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Authors: Amanda James
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in.
‘I want you to close that bloody door for a start, and I suppose we’ll do as Sarah wants. She’s not ’erself … not ’erself at all.’
Ten minutes later they were settled in the freezing cellar wrapped in an assortment of blankets. Albert sat on an upturned bucket, looking like he’d lost ten pounds and found sixpence. Sarah and John were huddled close on a bench, and Violet, in an old chair, was holding some green yarn up to the single light bulb, trying to cast stitches on a knitting needle.
‘Why the ’ell you insisted that I stay ’ere instead of going down ’ome to Aggie I don’t know,’ Albert moaned.
‘Because you’d probably sneak off to that meeting, Albert, and our Sarah reckons it’s safer in ’ere.’ Violet sighed.
John pulled Sarah closer and kissed the top of her head. He didn’t bat an eyelid at the disapproving glower he got from Albert. A few seconds later Albert sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. ‘This is daft. I’m o—’
He was cut off by the banshee wail of the siren signalling an air raid. He closed his mouth and sat down again. Sarah closed her eyes and tried not to cry. In her mind she could see the awful fate of so many poor people that night. She squeezed John’s hand and took deep breaths. Violet put down her knitting and began to climb the cellar steps.
Sarah opened her eyes. ‘Where are you going, Auntie Violet!’
Violet threw back over her shoulder, ‘I’m off to change me vest. If I’m going to be killed, I want to make sure I’m clean.’
Chapter Six
Sarah snuggled closer to John’s shoulder and squeezed his hand. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so safe, warm and completely in love. In fact, she didn’t think she’d ever been in love quite like this. ‘I think the bombs have stopped falling now, John,’ she murmured.
CRASH, CRUMP, SQUEEEE!
‘Whoa, pull forward, Justin! You’ve only bloody reversed into three wheelie bins!’
Sarah’s heart sank. The bombs must have started again … but what was that about wheelie bins? They weren’t around in the 1940s … She felt herself rising from great depths. She opened her eyes to find that she wasn’t in the cellar, that John’s shoulder was a pillow, and that she was squeezing the paw of her old teddy, not John’s hand. Realisation hit; she was in her bed at home and the row outside was a bin lorry.
Sarah felt terrible. Her head throbbed, her stomach bobbed on waves of nausea and the light shining through a gap in the bedroom curtains fired white-hot metal rods into her eyes. This was the mother of all hangovers. She placed a pillow over her eyes and tried to get a grip on what was happening.
How could she have a hangover? She’d not touched a drop since the night she’d first met John. Thoughts of John left a huge hole in her heart. What the hell was happening to her? How could she feel this strongly about someone who was alive in 1940? She hoped to God that she’d done enough to save him – save them all. And why on earth was she back in her own bed now? Shouldn’t she be outside her classroom at school, instead?
Stop thinking, Sarah; clear your mind, have a shower and make a cup of tea, otherwise you’ll ‘go a bit funny’ as Albert would say
…
Sarah swallowed hard as she realised she’d never see the miserable old git, or Violet, ever again. Incredibly, she felt like she’d lost friends, good friends. But what about John? The Sarah of the past obviously loved him. That would explain her own feelings just before the row of the wheelie bins had rudely awakened her. She hoped that Sarah and John were safe and had been happy together.
But it was all so confusing. When she had looked in the mirror in 1940 she had seen her own face looking back … so had the Sarah of the past looked exactly like her? John, here in the present, should be able to shed light on it all. That’s if he ever pops up again, she told herself. Slowly, she put her feet to the
‘I want you to close that bloody door for a start, and I suppose we’ll do as Sarah wants. She’s not ’erself … not ’erself at all.’
Ten minutes later they were settled in the freezing cellar wrapped in an assortment of blankets. Albert sat on an upturned bucket, looking like he’d lost ten pounds and found sixpence. Sarah and John were huddled close on a bench, and Violet, in an old chair, was holding some green yarn up to the single light bulb, trying to cast stitches on a knitting needle.
‘Why the ’ell you insisted that I stay ’ere instead of going down ’ome to Aggie I don’t know,’ Albert moaned.
‘Because you’d probably sneak off to that meeting, Albert, and our Sarah reckons it’s safer in ’ere.’ Violet sighed.
John pulled Sarah closer and kissed the top of her head. He didn’t bat an eyelid at the disapproving glower he got from Albert. A few seconds later Albert sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. ‘This is daft. I’m o—’
He was cut off by the banshee wail of the siren signalling an air raid. He closed his mouth and sat down again. Sarah closed her eyes and tried not to cry. In her mind she could see the awful fate of so many poor people that night. She squeezed John’s hand and took deep breaths. Violet put down her knitting and began to climb the cellar steps.
Sarah opened her eyes. ‘Where are you going, Auntie Violet!’
Violet threw back over her shoulder, ‘I’m off to change me vest. If I’m going to be killed, I want to make sure I’m clean.’
Chapter Six
Sarah snuggled closer to John’s shoulder and squeezed his hand. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so safe, warm and completely in love. In fact, she didn’t think she’d ever been in love quite like this. ‘I think the bombs have stopped falling now, John,’ she murmured.
CRASH, CRUMP, SQUEEEE!
‘Whoa, pull forward, Justin! You’ve only bloody reversed into three wheelie bins!’
Sarah’s heart sank. The bombs must have started again … but what was that about wheelie bins? They weren’t around in the 1940s … She felt herself rising from great depths. She opened her eyes to find that she wasn’t in the cellar, that John’s shoulder was a pillow, and that she was squeezing the paw of her old teddy, not John’s hand. Realisation hit; she was in her bed at home and the row outside was a bin lorry.
Sarah felt terrible. Her head throbbed, her stomach bobbed on waves of nausea and the light shining through a gap in the bedroom curtains fired white-hot metal rods into her eyes. This was the mother of all hangovers. She placed a pillow over her eyes and tried to get a grip on what was happening.
How could she have a hangover? She’d not touched a drop since the night she’d first met John. Thoughts of John left a huge hole in her heart. What the hell was happening to her? How could she feel this strongly about someone who was alive in 1940? She hoped to God that she’d done enough to save him – save them all. And why on earth was she back in her own bed now? Shouldn’t she be outside her classroom at school, instead?
Stop thinking, Sarah; clear your mind, have a shower and make a cup of tea, otherwise you’ll ‘go a bit funny’ as Albert would say
…
Sarah swallowed hard as she realised she’d never see the miserable old git, or Violet, ever again. Incredibly, she felt like she’d lost friends, good friends. But what about John? The Sarah of the past obviously loved him. That would explain her own feelings just before the row of the wheelie bins had rudely awakened her. She hoped that Sarah and John were safe and had been happy together.
But it was all so confusing. When she had looked in the mirror in 1940 she had seen her own face looking back … so had the Sarah of the past looked exactly like her? John, here in the present, should be able to shed light on it all. That’s if he ever pops up again, she told herself. Slowly, she put her feet to the
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