Chapter 2: Four And Elevenpence

The traffic had gone. The gas company had filled in their hole in the road until such time as they could cause a better class of disruption by opening it up again. Russ rejoined the main road. The sodium lights seemed unusually bright.

"Must be the jet-lag still, though I thought I'd be over it by now," he muttered to himself as he turned on the radio, listening to the news for a few minutes. It was the usual stuff: posturing politicians. 'Of course, this Government's measures are long overdue, but they don't go nearly far enough... ' ranted a sneering opposition spokesman. "You'll still be voting against them, though, won't you?" Russ snarled savagely, and thumbed the radio into silence. Half a second later he realised he had pressed the button for the cassette player.

My brother gets his records in America. He's with Cunard. He gets them in New York. How simply spiffing.

Something nagged at him. What else was it she had said? I hope he does lots and lots more. Recordings, she'd called them. It was okay to throw yourself into a part, young Ethel, it was quite another to transport yourself back into the 1920s. There was such a thing as letting your fantasies get out of hand.

The track stopped. Royal Garden Blues started up. Just like her record. All the same scratches as hers. In fact, even more scratches than hers. Of course, her brother had only just brought her record back from New York. It was still brand new...

The horn of the car behind jerked him back to the present. The present? The angry blast continued as the car surged past his door with a scream of over-revved engine, the driver's face a blind mask of rage, mouth open with obscenity. Russ felt a chill sweat on his forehead. His heart was thumping. He drove home at granny speed. Only when he pulled up outside the house did he remember that he hadn't brought anything home for dinner.

What to tell Claire? Everything, of course. They could have a good laugh over it. Take her along tomorrow when he collected the picture. Four and eleven. Four shillings and elevenpence. And at that moment, Russ knew he couldn't take Claire along to the shop, not tomorrow nor any other time.

Dinner was over. Something from the freezer. Honestly, you'd forget your head if it wasn't screwed on. Claire had gone upstairs for something. He slipped out into the garage. Or was it a storeroom, now? These days, the car slept outside. There was still the pile of boxes, waiting to go back to Claire's mother's place. Russ knew what he wanted. He found it, a tin box with a hinged lid, a crude representation of an old sea chest, painted black with brass-coloured hinges and a handle on top. It came open, and he picked out one or two of the coins, turning them over in the dim light. A few seconds' thought, then he upended the box and tipped the oddly heavy money into his palm. There were several pennies, shillings and florins, and at least one half crown. It didn't jingle, it almost clanked together as he slipped the handful of money into his pocket. What his dad would have called 'real money'.

It would surprise and delight young Ethel, or whatever her real name was, when he turned up to pay for his picture with real money.

Or would it? Come on, Russell. Get a grip, man! He closed the garage door and went indoors. The big overcoat, such an excellent fit, hung inside the door. He slipped the money into the pocket, the left one. The right one contained the card.

It wasn't exactly four seasons in one day, but at least the sun was shining. The gas company were digging again, but in a jaded way, as if their hearts weren't really in it. The traffic was flowing much more freely than the day before. He drove round the main inner ring road, looking for his turning into the side street. It was only when he found himself passing the church that he realised he had missed the turning somehow. It took five minutes to get round the one-way system and back to that same stretch of road again. Yet it looked so unfamiliar.

He drove slowly, looking around, to the left, over his shoulder. The boy shouldn't have been riding his bike on the footpath, but boys do that sort of thing. Russ had seen him, and registered the fact that he was there. He never expected the boy to lurch to his right, off the curb, and wobble precariously across the main carriageway. Russ caught the most fleeting of images from the corner of his eye - bike - kid - look out! He hit the brake pedal, locking all four wheels, and the car screeched to a halt. Everything slid off the passenger seat on to the floor. There was a bitter taste in his throat.

The boy pedalled on with breathtaking indifference.

But the sun chose that moment to go behind a cloud, Russ had come to an unscheduled halt, and there, just there was the turning. It all made sense now: the difference in the light made it look entirely different, and the side street actually joined the main road at an acute angle, so it was practically invisible if you were moving. He turned in and everything was more familiar. Albert Street, the sign said, and up here, round the corner, was where he had parked yesterday.

Do everything the same as yesterday, a little voice seemed to nag at him. Why? Yet was he doing everything the same? Was this the same alleyway between the leaning brick walls? It didn't look familiar. In the watery sunshine, it all looked different. Feeling unsure, he felt for the card in the overcoat pocket. There it was, oddly reassuring. Archdeacon Street, that was it.

And when he looked up, there it was. He could have sworn it hadn't looked like that five seconds before. It certainly looked like it now. Number 12a was still there, between two other buildings; the photographs still hung in their heavy frames, the glass door with the gold lettering, the door bell that tinkled, the half-remembered smell of ... it was gas. Yet not the usual natural gas they had in the kitchen. Bottled gas, perhaps? Those red cylinders you saw being delivered on lorries? There was a noticeable thumping in his chest as he punched the bell on the counter. She appeared almost immediately, as if she had been waiting for him to arrive.

"Oh, hello, sir. I was beginning to wonder..."

"Hello!" Say something, Russell, don't just stand there staring at the girl. "I came for the picture. Is it done?"

"Of course!" She laughed. Like a mountain stream across pebbles. "Here you are. I've wrapped it nicely for you in case it rains." She had indeed, the picture was neatly wrapped in brown paper, secured with hairy parcel string, tied in a bow. The word 'Russell' was written on the package in pencil, underlined twice.

"That ought to keep the rain off it. It doesn't matter, though, my car's just down the road. It was a shame to go to all this trouble, wrapping it up like this. Must have taken you ages."

"It was no trouble, sir. I mean, Russell." Her eyes fell to the parcel, then she looked up and they were bright in the gas lights.

"So it won't cost me any extra for the service? Just the four and elevenpence?" He fished in his pocket for the money. Ethel waited patiently as he sorted through the pile of unfamiliar coins in his hand. "There. I think I've got it right. Oops, not that one! 1968! Much too new." He changed the two shilling piece for an older one, then tipped the money into her hand.

Without a word, she rang up the amount on the till — 4/11^d — and dropped the money in the drawer. "Thank you." She wrote out a receipt in a careful, rounded hand, and tucked it neatly under the string of the picture. Then she giggled suddenly, remembering. "Did you say 1968? You been making your own money? That's against the law, you know!"

Russ dipped into his pocket again, found the two shilling piece and handed it over. "There you are, look. Nearly brand new."

She turned it over in her hand, then looked up, her face troubled. "Where did you get it? Who makes them? It feels real, but it's ... it can't be." She ran her fingernail around the milled edge of the coin, tossed it in her hand, then smoothed her index finger over the Queen's head. "It definitely says 1968, not 1868. It's so new, anyway, so it couldn't be. What's the point?" She looked more closely. "Who's Elizabeth R?"

Russ had to admit, the girl was a consummate actress. "She's the Queen." The girl's look of blank incomprehension chilled his scalp. "You know, the Queen?"

The doorbell tinkled, breaking the spell. A woman came in with two small boys, about ten and twelve. They wore grey flannel suits with short trousers down to just below the knees, and little round school caps. The woman was a wholly convincing young mother from the 1920s. Her hair was perfect for the era. More severely waved than Ethel's, who had a more unruly look to her.

Russ's hair was standing on end, he was sure. He flattened it down, his whole body tingling. "Please, serve this lady."

Ethel seemed to pull herself together, and the customer thanked him. In fact, all three of them did: the boys raising their caps in unison and chanting, "Thank you very much, sir!" Their mother looked at them fondly. Russ pretended to study a portrait on the wall as the family bought a roll of film in an elaborate, stilted ceremony. Then they thanked him and went out. The bell tinkled itself to silence. There was only the faint hissing of the lamps.

"You were telling me about this Queen," said Ethel, picking up the coin again. "Elizabeth. 1968? But that means ... little baby Princess Elizabeth? This is her?" She shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. "What's it all about? Tell me. Please!"

"I don't think I'd better. Something strange is going on. I'd better be going..." He picked up the picture and held out his hand for the coin, but Ethel pulled her hand away.

"No, I want it. I'll give you two shillings for it, of course." She found her purse beside the till and opened it up, found a small pile of coppers. "Here you are."

"No, I mustn't. Please, you must let me have it. You can tell it's not right. It's a forgery..."