further and further away. The more she walked, the further away it got.
Sarah halted, aware of a leaden feeling dragging her feet to the floor, as if she were wearing concrete boots. Looking down, she could see the supermarket floor disintegrating, breaking up and swirling around, as if made of gas. Misty tendrils drifted over her shoes until her feet were totally immersed in it. And then she began to sink.
Sarah tried to open her mouth to scream but an unseen pressure sealed it shut. She tried to open her hand and let go of her basket, raise her hand to the other customers in an attempt to attract their attention from their two-for-one offers and Friday night curry, but her hands remained immoveable – tightly clasped. The customers were slowly lost from view as she descended. She looked up. Sarah could see the bright lights and hear the noise and bustle of the supermarket, but after a few seconds the noises faded and the light grew smaller, until it was no bigger than a manhole cover.
Down, down she sank, trapped in an invisible, but tightly wrapped cocoon, into the thick gas. No, not gas … she realised it was fog. Her skin was coated with moisture and her nostrils were invaded by the fog’s smoky, leafy smell. And then at last her feet touched down on something solid. Rigor mortis released her body, and the fog drifted away.
Sarah blinked rapidly and rubbed her eyes. The something solid was a highly polished wooden floor. She was standing in the middle of a grand Victorian drawing room. Heavy oak chairs and settees upholstered in sumptuous crimson hulked around a marble fireplace. In high purple-painted arches either side of the fireplace stood alabaster full-sized sculptures of semi-nude maidens, arms raised above their heads with cherubs at their feet. An imposing grandfather clock marked time at one side of a floor-to-ceiling window, heavily draped in navy velvet curtains, and on the other side, a mahogany grand piano postured on lion-clawed feet.
Sarah, wide eyed and open mouthed, tried to register and process what she was seeing in her panic-stricken brain. She felt her stomach roll and her heart assume an irregular rhythm as her attention was directed towards what she held in her right hand. The basket containing a ready meal and wine had miraculously changed into a metal bucket full of coal and a box of matches.
Before she had time to think coherently, the door flew open and a tall, beady-eyed, horse-faced woman of around her own age bustled in. She wore her dark hair parted down the middle and swept into a loose bun, a high-necked, long-sleeved, lemon, calf-length dress and on her feet highly polished laced boots.
‘There you are,’ she said, pointing her finger at Sarah imperiously. ‘Get that fire made up, girl. We have the Pankhurst visit in a few hours. This room is old fashioned enough; she mustn’t be cold into the bargain.’
Sarah gawped, her stomach rolled again and she feared she may vomit. Bollocks! Just when I thought I’d got away with not being dispatched to the American West, I end up in Edwardian England!
‘Chop-chop; stop staring like an imbecile, you silly ninny, and do it!’ The woman turned on her heel and flounced out.
Sarah ran to the fireplace, tipped out the bucket of coal and then knelt. With her hands on the rim of the sooty bucket, she vomited.
Chapter Nine
Trembling like a whippet in a strong wind, Sarah pushed the bucket away and sat with her back to the fireplace. Brushing a strand of hair from her eye, she took deep breaths and tried to quell her turbulent gut. Focus on one point and concentrate, her dad had always told her when she’d been carsick as a child. Replacing the nausea for an instant, a pang of sadness twisted her belly; God she missed her dad. Was it really seven years since he’d died? She could do with his strong, dependable, eyes-front support right now.
Sarah focused on her feet. They wore the same style boot as the woman in the lemon dress,
Sarah halted, aware of a leaden feeling dragging her feet to the floor, as if she were wearing concrete boots. Looking down, she could see the supermarket floor disintegrating, breaking up and swirling around, as if made of gas. Misty tendrils drifted over her shoes until her feet were totally immersed in it. And then she began to sink.
Sarah tried to open her mouth to scream but an unseen pressure sealed it shut. She tried to open her hand and let go of her basket, raise her hand to the other customers in an attempt to attract their attention from their two-for-one offers and Friday night curry, but her hands remained immoveable – tightly clasped. The customers were slowly lost from view as she descended. She looked up. Sarah could see the bright lights and hear the noise and bustle of the supermarket, but after a few seconds the noises faded and the light grew smaller, until it was no bigger than a manhole cover.
Down, down she sank, trapped in an invisible, but tightly wrapped cocoon, into the thick gas. No, not gas … she realised it was fog. Her skin was coated with moisture and her nostrils were invaded by the fog’s smoky, leafy smell. And then at last her feet touched down on something solid. Rigor mortis released her body, and the fog drifted away.
Sarah blinked rapidly and rubbed her eyes. The something solid was a highly polished wooden floor. She was standing in the middle of a grand Victorian drawing room. Heavy oak chairs and settees upholstered in sumptuous crimson hulked around a marble fireplace. In high purple-painted arches either side of the fireplace stood alabaster full-sized sculptures of semi-nude maidens, arms raised above their heads with cherubs at their feet. An imposing grandfather clock marked time at one side of a floor-to-ceiling window, heavily draped in navy velvet curtains, and on the other side, a mahogany grand piano postured on lion-clawed feet.
Sarah, wide eyed and open mouthed, tried to register and process what she was seeing in her panic-stricken brain. She felt her stomach roll and her heart assume an irregular rhythm as her attention was directed towards what she held in her right hand. The basket containing a ready meal and wine had miraculously changed into a metal bucket full of coal and a box of matches.
Before she had time to think coherently, the door flew open and a tall, beady-eyed, horse-faced woman of around her own age bustled in. She wore her dark hair parted down the middle and swept into a loose bun, a high-necked, long-sleeved, lemon, calf-length dress and on her feet highly polished laced boots.
‘There you are,’ she said, pointing her finger at Sarah imperiously. ‘Get that fire made up, girl. We have the Pankhurst visit in a few hours. This room is old fashioned enough; she mustn’t be cold into the bargain.’
Sarah gawped, her stomach rolled again and she feared she may vomit. Bollocks! Just when I thought I’d got away with not being dispatched to the American West, I end up in Edwardian England!
‘Chop-chop; stop staring like an imbecile, you silly ninny, and do it!’ The woman turned on her heel and flounced out.
Sarah ran to the fireplace, tipped out the bucket of coal and then knelt. With her hands on the rim of the sooty bucket, she vomited.
Chapter Nine
Trembling like a whippet in a strong wind, Sarah pushed the bucket away and sat with her back to the fireplace. Brushing a strand of hair from her eye, she took deep breaths and tried to quell her turbulent gut. Focus on one point and concentrate, her dad had always told her when she’d been carsick as a child. Replacing the nausea for an instant, a pang of sadness twisted her belly; God she missed her dad. Was it really seven years since he’d died? She could do with his strong, dependable, eyes-front support right now.
Sarah focused on her feet. They wore the same style boot as the woman in the lemon dress,
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