The Accidental Time Traveller by Sharon Griffiths Page A

stranger.
    I could still feel the impression of his hand in mine. But he had already turned away and was talking to Gordon about the court case he’d covered. It was as if I didn’t exist. I studied him from the back, the way his short haircut went into a little curl at the nape of his neck, how his shoulders looked so broad, yet he seemed slimmer. Must be the 1950s clothes.
    But why did he blank me like that? How could he be so cruel? I sat at my desk, a copy of The News propped up in front of me, though I couldn’t have told you a single thing that was in it, while I tried to work it out. Yes. That must be it. We were in this 1950s house, but no one must know how close we were. We must pretend to be strangers. Then we can secretly work together, be a team. Together we could soon sort out what we should be doing and do it. But we mustn’t let on.
    It was the only explanation I could think of, and I clung to it.
    I knew I had to speak to Will alone – ideally somewhere out of reach of any possible cameras, and the office was surely full of them. But I needed to stay in the office so I could watch him, catch him when he left. Looking at him bent over the typewriter instead of a computer, yet the same pose, the same frown, the same fierce expression as he thought of the next sentence, and then the half-smile as he bashed it out. That was the Will I knew. Even if here he was wearing baggy grey trousers and a rather shabby shirt, instead of the stylish suits he normally wears.
    I sat and watched and waited. Brian, the Night News Editor, came in and was introduced to me. At last he and Gordon went out to see Henfield. Will and I were alone in the newsroom and I had to seize my chance.
    ‘Will,’ I said, standing opposite him in the dusty yellow light.
    He didn’t react immediately, just sort of looked up vaguely as if puzzled about who I was talking to.
    ‘Will!’ I hissed. ‘What are we going to do? What’s this all about? Do you know what’s going on?’
    He looked at me, baffled. ‘Sorry, er Rosie, I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about. I’m nearly finished here. Have you done all your stuff? It’s time to go home. You’re not doing the late shift are you? No, you were here this morning.’
    He looked back to his typewriter, typed a few more words, looked over what he’d written, pulled the papers and carbon out of the machine and folded them over. ‘Have you sent your stuff along? If you give it to me, I’ll drop it off with the subs for you on my way out.’
    This was hopeless.
    ‘Will! We’ve got to have a plan, work out how we’re going to deal with this. Do you know who the other competitors are? Where are the cameras? And is there a video room? We’ve got to find out.’
    Now he was lifting his jacket – a heavy, shapeless tweedy sort of jacket with pens in the front pocket and leather patches on the elbows – off the back of the chair and easing into it. ‘Sorry Rosie,’ he said, politely, ‘I don’t think I know what you want. Have a word with Gordon. Or if it’s cameras you’re interested in, talk to Charlie, the Chief Photographer, or young George. Anyway,’ he said, picking up the papers off his desk – and that was another difference, his desk was absolutely immaculate and tidy, very un-Will – ‘I must be getting a move on. I promised my wife I’d be home early. Goodnight. I hope you’ve enjoyed your first day with us. See you tomorrow.’
    I didn’t reply. I stood there, leaning against the scarred wooden desk, looking at his desk, and the seat that he had left. He’d promised his wife he’d be home early. His wife ? He’d promised his wife? No. I couldn’t believe it. Will didn’t have a wife.
    I was still sitting in the office when Brian came back in. ‘Still here, Rosie?’ he asked. ‘I always knew Americans were keen.’
    ‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘Will, Billy. Is he married do you know?’
    ‘Billy? Oh yes, love, a real family man. Got a couple of