The Time Traveller (Part One)

Somebody once said that time travel can’t be possible because, if it was possible, then someone in the future would invent it, and the world would now be inundated with time-travellers from the future. I think I may have met one once.

It was about eight o’clock last Monday evening. I know that, because University Challenge was just starting on BBC Two. Outside, the November weather had arrived, in the form of torrential rain and driving wind. I’d just battened down the hatches when the doorbell rang.

‘Who could that be in this weather?’

It was a young woman at the door, looking very wet. She started to say something.

I said, ‘Come in, please. You must be soaked.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Yes of course.’

She had big brown eyes, her skin was pale olive. She stood in the hall, dripping. She seemed confused

‘I’ve come about the advert.’

‘Advert?’

‘The advert in the Observer. The watercolour. The antique watercolour?’

When she saw my blank expression, she looked as though she was about to cry.

‘Oh dear, have I got the wrong address? The Elms?

She showed me the slip of paper. I knew what had happened.

‘Well, this is The Elms, yes, but there’s a hotel about five miles away called The Broad Elms. Different postcode of course. Often happens. It must be that one. I’m sorry.’

She looked devastated. I made her a mug of coffee and sat her in front of the fire to dry off. She was called Emily. She said she was originally from the Midlands, near Selly Oak. We had an enjoyable chat for twenty minutes. Throughout that time, she stared, wide-eyed at the TV as if she’d never seen one before. I was surprised by how many answers she knew on University Challenge. I liked her. I felt as though I’d always known her. Some strangers are like that. I was sorry to see her go.

As I stood by the door to see her off, a gust of wind snatched the door free of my grip and slammed it hard against the wall. I heard a distant thud and a tinkle of broken glass. I searched every room but found no sign of a broken vase or suchlike. Then I saw it. The watercolour, the one I’d found at a car boot sale, had come off the wall and dropped behind the settee. The glass front was shattered.

It was a view of a couple of cottages in a rustic setting and had the place and date, 1861 written at the bottom, but no artist’s signature. I’d always had a soft spot for this picture, but my wife disliked it. She often said we should try and sell it. I decided to dismantle it with a view to replacing the glass. The rear of the picture was sealed with a thin sliver of wood and some ancient brown paper. With some difficulty, I carefully pried this away to reveal the white card backing. In fact, it turned out to be the reverse side of a beautiful black and white photograph, mounted on card. It showed a lady in Edwardian dress standing on the pavement holding a pram, in front of a large Victorian Villa. There was snow on the ground. Maybe she was the nanny. What struck me about the photograph was its perfect condition. Sealed inside the frame and protected from the light and dust for all those years, there was none of the normal yellowing with age. It was as though it had just arrived from the photographer.

Remarkably, as I removed it, another smaller photograph fell out. This photograph, in equally good condition, was a portrait of a girl in her twenties standing in a garden. Her pale face betrayed a hint of a smile and her dark eyes stared defiantly at me. Old photographs are always fascinating, the way they show a single frozen moment in time, yet these pictures showed no physical evidence of ageing, as if they really had travelled through time. Why were they there?

I carefully examined the painting again with a magnifying glass. Written in pencil at the bottom left corner was

‘Near Selly Oak, Warwickshire. May 1861.’

Interesting. Something registered. I looked again at the two photographs, the woman with the pram, and the portrait of the girl. A felt a frisson of excitement. I knew I’d seen her before. It was the same girl. It was Emily.

Had I seen a ghost or a time-traveller? Perhaps she had the correct address after all - and she needed that photograph. I would never know. She had left no contact details. I felt deflated. I stared at the photograph for a long time. The rain had now stopped, and the wind had died down.

Then the doorbell rang.

To be continued…