Now I’m out of the water, I sit for a moment to catch my breath. It’s the middle of the night still, the air too warm, the sky moon-bright, and in my shorts’ pocket I feel the weight of the old door handle. What the heck just happened to me? Did I imagine something lurking in the water, or did I fall asleep and dream it all? Have I drowned? Am I actually dead?
I pinch my arm: it definitely still hurts. The door handle feels real enough too, as does the dried mud beneath me, and the water dripping off the end of my nose. I’m here, I’m alive, and I’m very, very confused.
I hurry back to Jessie’s in case she’s out looking for me. But I find everything just as I left it: in the garden the same big dog fox is still eating leftovers under the apple trees, and in the kitchen the clock shows it’s two in the 77morning. It’s a relief, yes, but it’s not logical or normal. Time doesn’t just stand still.
In bed I don’t for a second think I’ll be able to go to sleep. When I close my eyes I see the old village again, the main street, the ford, clear as anything, as if I’ve just spent the evening searching it on the internet. But it’s not photos I’ve seen, it’s the real thing.
Somehow, I’ve been to Syndercombe.
*
Next morning, the second I wake up I’m out of bed, checking my shorts’ pocket. The door handle is still there, though it’s in a different position: the latch is closed. When the latch is open, like last night, I’m guessing it lets me into the past. And I become a girl called Nellie Foster.
No. That’s ridiculous. I can’t believe I’m even thinking this.
Joel shouts from the kitchen, asking if I want eggs. I hide the handle under my pillow. I’m not going to tell him what happened: I’m not going to tell anyone until I understand it a bit more. One thing I do know: I’m going back to the lake tonight to see if it happens again. 78
In the kitchen, Joel hands me a plate of scrambled eggs. He’s looking happier already. Being here must be doing him good.
‘Real eggs from real chickens!’ he says excitedly, because at home when the shop’s got no eggs we have scrambled tofu, which isn’t the same thing at all.
I’m starving, I realise, as I follow Joel out into the garden. It’s already too hot to be directly in the sun, so we sit cross-legged, plates on our laps, in the shade of one of Jessie’s beautiful beech trees. She’s out on a house call, apparently: she likes to do them early, before it gets too hot.
‘They’re forecasting forty-five degrees today,’ Joel tells me. ‘That’s got to be a record, hasn’t it?’
I’m not really listening. I’m thinking about Syndercombe’s stone houses, the thatched rooftops, the churchyard, and how real it still feels.
Joel tuts. ‘You’re miles away.’
‘Just hot,’ I fib.
‘Shame you don’t like swimming,’ Joel says. He takes our empty plates and gets up to go back inside. ‘I might give the lake a go later.’
I’m hoping ‘later’ doesn’t mean tonight. I’ve a feeling there are rules to this time-travel business, and I want to do everything exactly as I did it last 79night: same clothes, same time, same being alone. I’m worried it won’t work otherwise. And if it doesn’t then I’ll never know why this has happened to me, or why I got to be Nellie Foster, or whether any of this, truly, is real.
‘What else are you up to today?’ I ask, following Joel into the kitchen. ‘Apart from staying out of the sun.’
I’m expecting the government alerts to start early.
‘Well—’ By the cheeky tilt of Joel’s head I guess he’s about to say ‘brain surgery’ or ‘ballroom dancing’ or something equally unlikely, but he’s interrupted by a knock at the front door.
As I’m the one without an armful of dishes, I go to see who it is. There’s a very old woman on the doorstep.
‘Hello, can I help you?’ I ask.
The woman is staring up at the house, then down at a little notebook in her hand. She’s wearing a tweed coat, tights and zip-up winter boots like it’s the middle of January. It makes me break out in a sweat just looking at her.
‘Is Jessie in, dear?’ she asks. ‘I think I had an appointment with her today, but I got a bit confused over the time.’
There’s no car on the track behind her, no sign of a bike. She’s walked here, then, though she must live 80nearby because she’s leaning heavily on two walking sticks. She’s probably one of Jessie’s patients.
‘I’m sorry, Jessie’s out on visits,’ I say. ‘Have you tried calling her?’
The woman shuts her eyes for a second.
‘Are you okay? Whoa!’ I catch her by the elbow as she sways, about to faint.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, shakily. ‘I’m a little warm from the walk over.’
Thankfully, Joel appears, headphones on.
‘What’s happening?’ he yells over his music.
The woman sways against me again.
‘Let’s get her inside.’ I’m worried she’s going to collapse otherwise. ‘We might need a doctor.’
He takes the woman’s other side, and together we help her up the steps. Through the sleeve of her thick coat I feel the tiny bones of her arm.
‘Who is she?’ Joel mouths over the top of the woman’s head.
‘One of Jessie’s patients, I think,’ I answer.
In the kitchen I fetch the woman a glass of water. No, she insists stubbornly, she doesn’t need a doctor, though I manage to persuade her to take off her coat, and Joel lifts his headphones to ask her name.
‘Mary,’ the woman says. 81
Slowly, she begins to look better. She sits forward, resting her elbows on the table, cupping her face in her hands.
‘Who are you two?’ she asks.
‘Jessie’s nephew and niece,’ I explain. ‘I’m Polly, and this is Joel. We’re here for the holidays.’
Mary peers at me. ‘Yes, I see the resemblance now. What do you think of the lake? Have you been swimming yet?’
Joel’s device dings in his back pocket. My brother and I both freeze. This isn’t the ping-ping that the government’s alert makes. This is one note, a bell chime, that means a new social media message. I’ve not heard it since Joel turned his phone off at Exeter station. My heart sinks, because he’s obviously turned it on again. The bad internet I’d been hoping for has been upgraded since we were last here – satellites, apparently, put up in space by some mega-millionaire – so those stupid notifications are still getting through.
‘Turn it off, Joel.’ I can’t bear to think about the film clip or the vile comments underneath.
Joel’s mood changes.
‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ he snaps.
I wince. But he does at least message Jessie before storming out into the garden. Our aunt arrives in minutes to take charge. 82
‘Oh, Mary, it’s my day to come to you, flower,’ Jessie says. ‘I wrote it on your calendar.’
Mary looks at her vaguely.
‘I think she walked here,’ I tell Jessie.
‘In this heat? Oh crikey.’ Jessie sighs, concerned, then says to Mary, ‘Let’s get you home, shall we?’
As Mary’s still wobbly, Jessie asks me to go with them.
‘It’s at the top of the track. We’ll take an arm each,’ she says.
We make our way carefully up the track, turn right at the top and there, set back from the road, is a cottage attached to an old farmhouse. I can’t imagine anyone lives in the farmhouse itself – half the roof has gone, and there’s a tree growing out of one of the downstairs windows. Mary’s cottage doesn’t look much smarter: the front garden’s waist-high in weeds, and the curtains are still drawn. The sign on the gate says ‘Shakespeare Cottage’.
Mary notices me staring. ‘Do you like the name?’
I shrug. We’ve done a few of his plays at school, and it seems to me that most people either love Shakespeare or hate him. Personally, I find him confusing.
‘D’you understand Shakespeare?’ I ask. ‘Because I don’t. It’s like a different language. Our teacher says he made some of the words up so they sounded better.’83
Mary looks startled. ‘My dear, I didn’t name the house after William Shakespeare. Its name comes from Shakespeare Beach, Dover, the popular departure point for Channel swimmers.’
I stiffen. The Channel? The English Channel?
Immediately, I’m back with Nellie, feeling her disappointment at not being picked to swim. It’s real. A coldness in my stomach.
‘You can’t just set off from any old beach?’ I ask.
‘Not if you want to make the record books,’ Mary replies, with the air of someone who knows what they’re talking about. ‘It all has to be done properly – at least, that’s the official line.’
I’m hoping she’ll keep talking, but Jessie hurries us up the path, insisting we get out of the sun. As Mary searches for her house keys, Jessie’s device starts ringing. She turns away to take the call, motioning for me to help Mary inside.
‘I’ll only be a sec,’ Jessie whispers.
After the glare of daylight, it’s dark in Mary’s hallway. There’s a smell too, like overripe bananas or a bin that needs emptying. A couple of steps along the hall, and my foot thumps into something solid.
‘Ouch!’ There’s stuff on the floor. Wherever I put my feet I seem to be treading on something I shouldn’t be. 84
‘Let me put the light on,’ Mary says, and gropes for the switch.
The light comes on, and for a moment, I still don’t know where to stand. The hall is full of black bin bags. The only way through is via a narrow gap we have to shuffle along, sideways.
The sitting room is just as messy, this time with piles of newspapers and bundles of knitting wool. Mary heads for an armchair by the window, and sits down, gladly. She’s struggling to get out of her coat, so I go to help her.
‘You’ve got a lot of stuff here,’ I can’t help saying.
She smiles. ‘That’s what happens when you’ve lived in the same house for a long time.’
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Since 1952.’ She answers, quick as anything. ‘I was just a girl when we moved in.’
I do the maths in my head: 1952 means Mary was growing up at the same time as Nellie. The valley’s not exactly big, and Syndercombe was just a village, so they must’ve known each other. They might even have been friends.