PART OF MY COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES

28 September 1939

I stood in front of my best friend’s bathroom mirror, the afternoon sun shining through the stained-glass window.

I loved this old Federation home, with its original bathroom, stencilled ceilings, and yard big enough for fresh produce and a couple of egg-laying hens.

“Oh bugger. Those stray hairs were turning into a third eye. How long had I been walking around like Cyclops? Note to self: buy a stronger light for my bathroom. This light, though, was showing my warts and all.

Thankfully, I had carried my tweezers in my bag for those stray-hair emergencies.

“Gotcha, you stubborn thing.” The pluck felt satisfying.

“Everything okay in there?” Sophie called. “You haven’t fallen in?”

I laughed and yelled back, “Maybe I should have.”

The tweezers slipped from my fingers and pinged against the worn tiles.

“Damn it,” I mumbled, bending down reluctantly to retrieve them. My back wasn’t impressed, and neither were my creaky knees.

But when I looked at the floor, really looked at it, the small, intricate patterned tiles seemed different somehow. Polished, almost new. Even their colour was more vibrant.

Then I remembered how Soph had said she’d have the tiles professionally polished when she could afford to. Maybe she’d forgotten to mention it to me. But this was my second home, and surely I would have seen some sign of a tradie. I shrugged it off.

I found myself humming absentmindedly as a woman’s melodic voice drifted in from the loungeroom, warm and soothing, accompanied by the gentle crackle of an old radio. There was something about the sound that was different. I actually liked it.

“Hey, what’s with the music?” I called out as I turned around and reached for the bathroom doorknob.

“What the fu—?”

The door was positioned slightly left of where it should have been.

In its place stood a solid timber door I’d never seen before. It was cream, freshly painted, and somehow seemed to match the decor of the old house perfectly.

Another thing I must have overlooked.

I pulled open the door and hurried out to give her a little banter about the changes.

But as I did, everything that was once familiar had gone.

The music was coming from an old-fashioned radio in the corner of the loungeroom. It sat gracefully on a sideboard, like a proper dame, nestled beside a walnut-coloured buffet and hutch.

Even the room felt warm and cosy, as it should in early spring. But nothing was making any sense.

Heavy curtains in a muted forest green were partially drawn, soft daylight filtering around the edges.

A floral-patterned sofa and two matching armchairs sat neatly together, slightly away from the windows. A crocheted throw was draped over the back of the sofa.

Framed paintings hung from a timber picture rail. I loved its authentic appeal.

It was the fireplace that had me suddenly unnerved. It was crackling softly, its embers glowing warmly behind the grate.

Wasn’t it bricked in?

I hadn’t felt scared until now. My mind had suddenly caught up with the rest of me as I tried to make sense of what I was actually looking at.

Even the air smelled different. Tobacco and wood smoke, something savoury baking in the kitchen, and the subtle smell of gas.

A woman appeared from the hall, the sound of her heels growing louder as she approached. Her hair was gathered into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, an apron hiding the dress that fell below the knees.

I smiled politely and said, “Hi”.

She walked in my direction, giving me the impression that I’d been noticed. Then, with a slight shudder, she continued into the kitchen.

A young man appeared not far behind her, his shirt tucked neatly into high-waisted trousers. He walked straight past me, crossing the room to the radio. The music had been replaced by some drama. He reached for the dial and began tuning it, stopping when he found a song that caught his interest.

There was something strangely familiar about the song, yet I couldn’t quite place it.

No sooner had he turned up the volume than the music was interrupted by a man’s voice. His tone was serious and somewhat oddly formal as he broadcast news about the war in Europe.

It took me a while to realise there wasn’t going to be a punchline. The way he spoke sounded different from what I was used to when hearing the past played back in modern times. Something told me this was happening now.

The room felt like it was closing in on me. I could hardly catch my breath and leaned over, trying to steady myself — I felt overwhelmed by a tidal wave of panic.

This had to be a dream, because nothing was adding up. Nothing was logical.

C’mon, girl, get it together. Breathe, girl, breathe.

Once I’d finally composed myself, I realised I wasn’t scared anymore. I was intrigued.

But it was impossible. I’d heard of things like this happening to others, but I’d never believed them. Just imaginings conjured up by bored people.

There was no way this could be real, but I was standing right here amongst it all, and something told me I wasn’t dreaming.

I laughed out loud. I laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. But then… then suddenly, I felt free. It was kind of liberating. I exhaled loudly.

“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me!”

Then I remembered my phone, tucked away in the bag, strapped over my shoulder. I knew it was a long shot, but if I really had travelled through time, maybe my phone might at least show the date. But I was kidding myself. Without a mobile phone tower? Absolutely not.

To humour myself, I retrieved my phone and looked at the screen.

My stomach dropped. My phone didn’t lie. It showed one bar of signal.

Everything I’d ever believed in was suddenly stripped bare, making me question my own existence.

I had been handed a unique but impossible opportunity on a silver platter. If I’d actually travelled through time, I had to prove to Sophie that this was really happening to me.

So, I rang her.

My screen showed that it was ringing, but there was no dial tone. Then it cut to voicemail.

Seriously?

I had to leave a message before the phone died. It was unlikely she’d get it anyway.

“Hi, Soph. Soph, are you there?”

I caught my breath. “She’ll never believe me.” I laughed. “As if she’ll even receive this.

“Soph, you’re probably going to think I’ve completely lost the plot, but I need you to listen to me. I’m still at your house. But…”

I laughed again.

“Maybe I’m still at your house. Something happened. I don’t know how to explain it, but I think I’ve travelled back in time.”

I glanced at my phone.

“The date… the date on my phone says twenty-eight September nineteen thirty-nine. I know, right? I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I’m not joking. I need to get proof. I—”

The message suddenly cut off.

If I had really stepped into the past, then somehow, I’d landed in the middle of a time I’d often visualised and romanticised in this house.

I was a mad history buff who now found herself in the right place at the right time. This was my best friend’s house in another century, and it was absolutely fantastic.

With my phone in hand, I headed towards the hall, snapping photos and recording videos as I went. If I was going to convince Sophie this was real, I needed all the proof I could muster.

In the middle of the hallway was a little timber table with a small stool tucked beneath it. On top sat a clunky telephone and a thick telephone directory.

Beside the phone stood a porcelain figure of a little dark-skinned boy, his hand outstretched to take a coin. I knew it was one of those old mechanical money boxes where the coin vanished with the press of a lever. The sort of thing you wouldn’t see on a shelf today.

Just a little further up was the main bedroom on the right. It was normally Sophie’s room. I just had to poke my way in and have a snoop. I only had this one golden opportunity.

I couldn’t risk missing something. I very much doubted it would ever happen again. So, I continued to take photos.

The walls were no longer painted in that hideous terracotta. It was meant to be a warm earthy shade, but somehow it had ended up looking orange.

These walls, however, were covered in pale sage green wallpaper with a subtle cream pattern. I couldn’t resist touching it, as it had a slight velvety, raised texture beneath my fingertips.

Then there was the very dressing table Sophie had inherited with the house, still there in its exact place, newer, more polished. A matching brush and comb set rested beside a petite crystal perfume bottle. Seeing them there evoked a wave of nostalgia. I ran my fingers along the smooth bone handles and soft bristles, remembering all those times my grandmother brushed my hair and the way it soothed my scalp.

I picked up the bottle and uncapped it, its faint scent of lavender taking me to a place that was still emotionally delicate. It was the way my grandmother smelled whenever she hugged me. I really missed her and fought off a newly forming tear.

The ornate wardrobe in the corner was tall and elegant, made from dark polished timber, its doors decorated with Art Deco detailing and a large oval mirror set into the centre. I opened the doors. Dresses hung inside, with a couple of hat boxes tucked onto the shelf above.

Just off the bedroom was a sunroom. Sophie utilised it as a place to dump anything that didn’t have a home. But this sunroom was completely different. The furnishings were neatly arranged, and everything was in its place.

A small iron daybed sat beneath the windows, covered with an elegant quilt in muted pastel colours. A wicker chair and little side table occupied the corner, while soft daylight filtered into the room, falling in pale patches across the floorboards. A sewing basket sat beside the chair, with a half-finished piece of embroidery tucked inside.

The windows were partly frosted, and I couldn’t get a proper look outside. I stood there for a moment, wondering if I’d regret it if I didn’t at least try. I left the room and walked towards the front door. I opened it and just stood there.

The street was so quiet, tranquil even. A dark, rounded sedan with running sideboards passed slowly along the road, so different from the constant traffic noise I knew.

Across the road, the park was still there, but the trees were barely more than saplings. Nothing like the scene I was used to, where the trees towered over the street, their branches barely touching.

A man in a khaki uniform strode along the path, his peaked cap pulled low over his brow. I watched him pass, wondering where he was going to in fancy dress. Then I remembered where I was. He was the genuine deal. World War II had only just begun. I stole a quick photo before he looked over in my direction and smiled. Had he seen me? Maybe not. But before I could smile back at him, he was already gone.

Shit. I hope all this documented evidence survives when I return to my time. The possibilities are endless.

To my time? What if there was no return? What if I was stuck here with no idea how to get back?

That dread landed like a thud in the pit of my stomach. I remembered how I had just arrived here, without even trying. Maybe somehow, I’d leave the same way.

I had only stepped away from the door briefly when an icy gust of wind blew in, slamming it shut with a force loud enough to hurt my ears. The reverberation echoed inside my head.

“Crikey! What the hell was that?”

The young man appeared at the end of the hallway. He glanced in my direction.

The woman appeared around the corner. Her eyes met mine, and she stopped dead. The fear on her face told me she’d seen me.

She was seeing me, all right.

For a moment, neither of us moved. The woman stepped backwards cautiously, reaching slowly for the man’s arm.

“George, can you see her?”

He looked confused. “What is it, love? See who?”

The woman’s face drained of colour. “There’s someone here.”

George frowned, his eyes flitting this way and that. “Who?”

The woman pointed at me.

George couldn’t see me.

I looked down at myself. I was still wearing my jeans and hoodie. I looked completely normal. Solid. Real.

So why was she looking at me like she’d just seen a ghost?

I felt suddenly trapped, unable to move — forgetting to breathe, praying this would be a bloody good time to get back to my modern world.

The woman’s hand remained on George’s arm, gripping it tightly. She stared at me, gathering the courage to speak.

“Who are you?” Her voice trembled. “Are you a ghost?”

A ghost? Maybe I am dead after all. Besides, this type of predicament I find myself in just doesn’t happen. It reeked of so many impossibilities.

I wanted so much to answer her, but what was I supposed to say?

Hi, I’m from the future, and somehow, I’ve ended up here in your bloody house.

How ridiculous would that sound?

The woman’s fingernails were starting to dig into George’s arm. His attempts to pry her away were proving futile.

Do I just tell her I come in peace? Like they do in those alien sci-fi films?

Finally, the words “I’m not going to hurt you” left my lips.

The woman recoiled.

“Lovey, you’re starting to worry me. Are you — are you all right?”

The woman wasn’t listening to him, but I could tell by the way she straightened her shoulders and began to loosen her grip on poor George that she was becoming more relaxed around me. Maybe because I looked terrified.

She even found her smile and softened her voice.

“My name is Lucy Cummings, and this is my husband, George,” she said, pointing to him.

I smiled back at her. “I’m…”

The words caught in my throat. Before I could answer, I had the most peculiar urge to reach for the doorknob. I had no idea why. I just knew I had to. I turned towards it.

“Wait!” Lucy cried.

But this was no longer my doing. Whatever was happening, I had no control over. The moment my fingers touched the doorknob, everything changed.

I was back in Sophie’s bathroom. Everything — the tiles, the door — was exactly how it should have been. Nothing was out of place.

I opened the door and rushed out. The buffet and hutch were gone. The television was back beneath the wall-mounted sketches. Gone were the sideboard and radio. The bricked-in fireplace was back, while the heavy drapes were replaced by the blinds that Sophie had chosen years ago.

Sophie appeared from the kitchen, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee.

“What the hell happened to you?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I almost feel jealous.”

There was always something sprightly about her that I adored. It was one of her most appealing qualities, and people were naturally drawn to her. And she always rubbed off on me.

We met ten years ago in one of the most unlikely places — a cemetery. I’d taken a fall, and she was the hand that reached down to help me up.

She knew me well enough by now to recognise my expression. Her laughter was somewhere between worry and curiosity.

“What? Bloody hell, girl, are you okay? Spit it out, then.”

She handed me a mug and sat down. I took the seat next to her. I laughed awkwardly.

I remembered the name Lucy Cummings and could hardly contain my excitement. I set my mug down and took Sophie’s hand.

Staring her in the face, I said, “Soph — who lived here before you?”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Are you taking the piss, or is that a trick question?”

“Yes, yes, I know. I know it was your mother. I mean before her,” I said impatiently.

“That’d be my grandmother, Lucy.”

My heart skipped. “Was she Lucy Cummings?”

“The one and only,” was Sophie’s reply.

She raised an eyebrow. “Hey, what’s with the Spanish Inquisition? Seriously, are you okay?”

I didn’t answer her. Instead, she got up and headed back into the kitchen. I could hear her rummaging through the drawer.

She returned a moment later with an old photograph, and handed it to me.

I looked at it, yellowed with age and slightly torn at the edges. My breath caught. There she was — Lucy Cummings, pictured alongside George, her husband, on that same sofa in this very lounge room. Even the drapes behind her were exactly as I’d seen them.

Some of the furnishings had been moved around, but this was the very room.

“Soph, where’s your phone?”

I remembered the voicemail.

“It’s where it always is when I’m home — charging.”

“Can you grab it, please?”

Sophie went to retrieve it. “What’s going on?” she asked, her expression bemused.

“Okay,” I said. “Now, if this works, you’re going to absolutely love me. Listen to your voicemail.”

My hands trembled in anticipation. I knew it was impossible.

But what about that one bar? And if it was so impossible, then why had I walked through the door to nineteen thirty-nine?

“Sal, you’re scaring me.”

“I promise you it’s nothing bad. Trust me and check.”

She opened her phone but hesitated.

“What if it self-destructs on me?”

I ignored her and stared at the screen.

“Go to voicemail — quickly.”

“What?”

“Please, just tap it.” My frustration was evident.

She tapped the screen, then dialled 101.

I watched the screen, then looked up to wait for her reaction.

“Put it on loudspeaker,” I urged.

Voicemail received: Thursday, twenty-eighth of September, nineteen thirty-nine, three seventeen pm.

Then my message — or what was left of it.

“She’ll never believe me,” I heard myself laugh. “As if she’ll even receive—”

My voice came through the speaker, faint and distant, before cutting out. A big chunk of my message gone.

I let out a tremendous sigh.

Sophie’s mouth flew open. She was utterly speechless. The blood drained from her face.

“That’s your voice.”

“But — what?”

I nodded. “I know, right?”

For some reason, the voicemail had held on.

Sophie glanced down at the photograph, still resting in her hand. “Lucy?”

“What about her?” I asked.

“Mum told me something about Grandma once. A woman she saw in this house.”

My heart began to pound. “What woman?”

Sophie grimaced in thought, then spoke. “She said Grandma was convinced she’d seen a ghost, a woman who appeared in the house by the front door and then simply vanished in front of her and Grandad.”

“What did she look like?” I asked.

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember all the details. Mum and Grandma described her as wearing strange clothes and talking weirdly.”

I swallowed, the knot in my throat tightening.

“What else did she say?”

Sophie opened her mouth, but I had a habit of impatiently interrupting her.

“Did she say something? Something like she wasn’t going to hurt her?”

The room fell silent.

Sophie’s face was still flushed.

“It was me. I told her those exact words. She was scared stiff. I had to say something.”

We both looked down at the photograph.

Lucy Cummings. George beside her. That sofa. Those curtains.

The story hadn’t been a fabrication or something embellished over time.

It had been me.

I was the woman Lucy had seen in the hall by the door.

The story had been passed down through three generations.

I eagerly searched my phone for all those snaps I’d taken, but all that remained was a video replay that cut off as soon as it had begun. Even the date on that small bit of footage had been corrupted.

But that impossible message had somehow survived eighty-seven years, and I had no idea how.