The receiving room was white, the chairs were white and even the reception desk was white. It was a chilly, sterile, pallid colour that seemed to suck all life from the room. Charlotte brushed back her fringe in nervous anticipation. She knew exactly what she was getting into, but that didn’t stop her feeling apprehensive about it. When her editor had offered her this chance, she had been sceptical at first, unwilling to believe that the scenario could ever work. This, however, was just what Jack wanted. Charlotte’s critical eye matched with an objective mind would suss out the reality of the situation. But what was objective about being able to meet your three greatest heroes?  Of course, it was even more difficult to be neutral when those three greatest heroes were dead and she was being offered the chance to interview each of them face-to-face.

Charlotte’s hand shook as she clutched a mini-translator and a piece of paper. She noticed with ludicrous clarity that the translator and paper were also white. It unsettled her, that total absence of colour. Was it symbolic of heaven? An arrogant gesture that suggested nothing was permanent, that the world was only white, not black and white, or even grey?  Charlotte swallowed; her mouth dry from the artificial air in the building.

2013 was the year of breakthrough advances in science, but Charlotte couldn’t help but question if this particular advance was this a little bit more far-fetched than most.  In the ten years she had been working for the paper, she had seen many things: good and bad, truth and lies. She had seen domestic couples embroiled in bitter divorce rows, poverty in the Third World, felt bullets fly past her head in war zones and been invited to Royal garden parties.

After her years as a war correspondent were over, she had decided that enough was enough. With peace at last between the World Powers, it had been time to return home to England. Home was different now from the England of five years ago. A boom in space exploration had given birth to a new age in technology. Climate change was fought with a new solar device that was slowly closing up the gap in the ozone layer. Cars ran on energy derived from sea and wind farms.  Her job when she returned to England was to explore the latest advances in technology and report on them.

And this was the most amazing achievement of the year, possibly of all time. A machine that scientists claimed could contact the dead. There were drawbacks. In her preliminary interview with Doctor Crispin Proctor, he had explained that the machine could not enable conversations with relatives or ancestors. This had proved to be too distressing for both parties and had been abandoned. Communication techniques and reliability had also proved erratic. The machine used a particular molecule in the blood to make the contact and the less of a biological relationship with the subject, the better the results. An intense need for contact often caused the link to fail. No one knew why, but it was being researched. The doctor had told her that prominent figures stood out in history, making them easy for the program to find and ‘grab’. The urge for communication was not so passionate and yielded better results.


Charlotte had thought long and hard over who to contact for the experiment. She needed people who meant something to her and who would keep the readers interested. In the end she had decided that Queen Elizabeth the First, Jane Austen and Winston Churchill were the ideal candidates. All three had inspired her, were prominent enough for the program to find and would capture the public’s attention.

Doctor Proctor was at the door now and motioning her.  She drew a deep breath and took hold of her cynical and dispassionate frame of mind. She rose, her legs shaking slightly.




The carpet was also white, a close weave with flecks of cream scattered throughout, coarse and scratchy to her bare feet. Her arm stung slightly from the needle. They had taken only a small sample of blood, but it was enough to make her feel slightly queasy. Her stomach was full of butterflies. She was seated in a straight-backed white chair, wearing a white jumpsuit. Various wires were fixed with sticky pads to her arms, her chest and her neck. Her vital signs would be monitored throughout and there would be a constant observer to make sure she responded well to the session. An on-site psychiatrist was also on hand for any point at which she wished to have advice.

Elizabeth would be the first. Charlotte had been warned to steer away from questions relating to death, heaven, and anything to do with the 21st century. Such things made the subjects nervous and often broke the link. She had been told she did not need to modify her speech to the times. The wires were not just statistical; they would transmit an image of her in a dress relevant to the age and modify her speech accordingly. This way the subject would not be unsettled.

The air seemed to shimmer, the space around the chair opposite her seemed to split and fold in on itself like a piece of wrinkled paper.  For a strange moment, she had the sensation that the chair was both there and not there. The space seemed to roll downwards like the lines on a TV screen transmission filmed at low speed.  The chair immediately slid into focus and sitting in it was a woman. She looked about her own age, indeed very much like the pictures Charlotte had studied of her at university.  This was a woman years away from the aged lady she would become, she had not beheaded the Scottish Queen Mary, she had not fought the Armada and won. This woman was still new to her throne. Proctor had warned her, however, that time and appearance was not something that she should worry about. The image that appeared to her was only the popular perception. In reality this image knew everything from Elizabeth's earliest memories to her dying ones.

Queen Elizabeth the First, last of the Tudors, stared at Charlotte in consternation. Her skin was painted with white chalk, but smooth; untouched by the smallpox of later years. Her dress was full and voluminous in emerald green and wrought all over with rubies and other gemstones. The sleeves were slashed to show the red silk underneath. The tips of her shoes, peeking out from under the folds of her dress, were of the same shade of emerald green. On her fingers and around her neck was an abundance of jewellery. The whole effect was of magnificent splendour and lavish wealth.  Charlotte felt dazzled. “Well!” Elizabeth demanded with characteristic frostiness.

“Ma’am.” In hushed awe, Charlotte rose to her feet and gave a stiff curtsey as if she were being presented to the modern day Queen Elizabeth. “I thank you for granting me this audience.” Even though Proctor had told her to talk naturally, she could not help changing her manner of speech to fit the situation.

The Queen nodded. “You may begin.”

Charlotte cleared her throat nervously. The paper fluttered in her hand. She had prepared a list of questions, all of which seemed highly irrelevant and inappropriate. Her neutral stance and natural cynicism was deserting her. Part of her wanted to believe that this was some trick, but it all seemed horribly real.

Pulling herself together, Charlotte began the interview. “What were your feelings when you discovered that your royal father had cut you out of the succession? Did you ever lose hope that you would one day be Queen?”

There was a moment’s pause and Charlotte wondered if her question had been considered impertinent. Then the Queen smiled.  “Oh, I was angered, at first. As the years passed, and I saw his conduct with Anne of Cleves and Catherine Howard, I began to realise that he was merely acting as on the whim of a child listening to his infatuations.”

Charlotte nodded, trying to control her excitement. This was going better than she could have dreamed. “And later, when you became Queen yourself, did your perception of his actions change?”

“Yes. It became clear that his goal was to protect the succession, hence the need to move his wives and children about as if they were chess pieces. The last woman to rule brought about a devastating civil war. My grandfather plucked the crown from the battlefield and was always fearful of having it stolen away. It has become a Tudor trait to be preoccupied by the succession. As I was...” There was a pause and Charlotte sensed something in the room change. The image before her suddenly seemed vulnerable.

Charlotte had been tutored in what to do if this occurred. She steered the conversation to other things. “What did you think of your father’s wives?”

The image snapped immediately back into focus. Elizabeth hesitated for a moment, but she was merely considering the question. “You are an impudent child, but I was young and curious once. I never knew Katherine the Spanish Queen. My father forbade any mention to be made of her. Of course, my sister Mary delighted in mentioning her at all opportunity. Mary always liked to remind him of her mother; she felt it was his punishment. Katherine was a good queen, old perhaps, but she loved my father and loved the people. She was born to royalty and born to be a queen. She always behaved like a queen. She never gave up on my father and that was her downfall. If she could have accepted her circumstances, her life might have been better and far more comfortable. Still, one cannot feel too sorry for her. If my father had not put her aside, then I would never have been born.

“The people could never love my mother; they saw her as a commoner and not fit to be queen. Perhaps everyone would have been happier if she had never met my father. She would have married a lover then, my father would have been a knight or a duke and I would have been a maid at court.

“Jane Seymour, I have no clear memory of. I was too young. I understand she was pious and good. She did her duty for England. She produced an heir and then promptly died. My father grieved for her, they say that he never really got over it and that was why Anne of Cleves could not satisfy him. Anne was a strange lump of a woman, not so very unattractive, but she had no idea of court life. She lived about 10 years behind us all, in manner, dress and beliefs. She accepted her fate with grace, almost too eager to be put aside for a mere chit of a girl.

“Catherine Howard was a flighty child, I never warmed to her, or perhaps I did then. Later, I saw her for what she truly was: young, experienced and a terrible flirt.  Still, was I any different?”

There was a long pause, Elizabeth looked up as if in surprise and then her image vanished. Proctor’s voice came over the loud speaker. “Sorry Charlotte, we only have a limited time with each subject. Jane will be next and you will have about ten minutes before we move onto Winston. Do you want to take a break?”

“No, I’ll be fine.” The shaking had stopped and she was in awe. For a few brief moments, she had been in the presence of one of the greatest queens in English history. It had been an exhilarating experience, but as it was happening, she had forgotten she was interviewing a figure in history, and felt only that she was interviewing another celebrity.

Again that strange movement began in the air. When it had settled, a girl sat in the chair, legs neatly together, looking the very meaning of decorum. Where Elizabeth had been dazzling splendour, Jane was a plain and simple country lass. She wore a white linen cap on her head and small brown curls stole out to rest on her serious forehead. The eyes, dark brown, showed intelligence and wit, but also something that Charlotte recognised instantly, an ability to view the world from a detached viewpoint and make observations, whether neutral, humorous or ironic.

“Miss Austen,” Charlotte murmured with politeness.

“Miss Jane, if you please. My sister Cassandra is known as Miss Austen.”

Her face remained pleasant and Charlotte sensed that this would be a much easier interview. “If you don’t mind, we’ll begin with when you first discovered you loved writing?”

“Of course. My father ensured that my sister and I got the best education that was available to us. He instilled in us from an early age a love of the written word. I had always looked at the world from a stance different from others; I liked making observations and creating stories for entertainment. Eventually, I began to write them down. My family always encouraged me to look at the world from my own perspective, rather than that of popular opinion. Of course we often put on plays for the family and visitors. Writing became second nature. I simply transferred my thoughts from the medium of script, to that of a novel.”

“And yet you never married? Do you think this was because of your writing?”

Jane thought this over. Her small serious forehead furrowed in contemplation.  “No,” she said finally. “No, I believe my financial position prevented me from a good match. I had an offer once, but it was unsuitable. I do not believe in marrying where there is no affection and in this instance, marrying would have been a fate worse than death. There was someone once, who I might have married, but there were circumstances that could not be prevented and it was not to be. Besides, I should have made a poor wife. I was married only to my writings.” She gave a forced smile.

Charlotte opened her mouth to ask another question, but a movement in the air alerted her to what was about to happen. Sure enough Jane’s image vanished and Charlotte felt a little bereft. She had even more admiration for this sturdy little woman. She had crossed many hurdles in her life, but always remained true to what she was passionate about.

“We lost the link I’m afraid. Give us a few moments and then we’ll move onto Winston.” Proctor sounded annoyed and apologetic.

She waited for the next movement in the air and when it came, the man who sat in the chair took her breath away. He was so very real and his presence filled the whole room. He was smoking a trademark cigar with his usual amiable expression. He was stout, balding and had a drooping mouth. This man had for all intents and purposes helped save the world. She was struck dumb, a glance at the clock and she collected herself. She would have only a few moments with him and they were precious, not to be wasted with nerves.

“If I may begin by discussing the Second World War. You seemed to be aware that war was coming, before other members of Parliament would believe it. Did you really foresee that there would be another world war?”

His voice, when he spoke, was the gravelly sound that she had heard so often on television and radio speeches. Unlike Elizabeth and Jane, it was utterly familiar to her.

“I had some inkling. It was slowly becoming obvious that Germany was making moves in the wrong direction. Chamberlain’s efforts to appease them were in vain, it was clear that Germany had their own agenda. When war did eventually break out, I knew that the only way to win would be for the entire country to take part, fighting the war in their own way. I could see that every avenue would have to be explored: land, sea and air. I was determined that Good should triumph over Evil and happily, it worked.”

“Were you aware of how long the war would go on for?”

Churchill took a puff on his cigar and Charlotte could clearly smell the woody tang of smoke. “Well I remember with World War I everybody said it would be over in a matter of months, but in reality it took four years. It was clear that this would be a similar situation.”

“How aware were you of the Holocaust?”

“There were several clues of course and we tried to do everything we could for the poor souls. It was more evidence of the malevolence of Hitler. The only way to truly fight it was to make it as public as possible and generate an international outcry, at the same time throwing as much effort as possible into defeating Hitler completely. It was only when the war was won that the true scale of the atrocities really became clear.” The hand that held the cigar shook slightly. The jovial expression changed to one of brooding revulsion.

The air shimmered. Churchill faded abruptly and the chair was empty.  Charlotte sat quietly, stunned from her experience. She had not believed that it would really work, but it had. She had communed with the dead as if they were living and breathing. It had been an amazing experience and one that could never be shared with the world. Charlotte knew suddenly from her conversation with Churchill that if this was allowed to go ahead, the consequences for misuse would be too severe. She turned to look at Doctor Proctor as he opened the door with a triumphant smile.