This is my first attempt at science fiction. As with the other stories I have written, it is a mixture of real people and real happenings and things that I make up.

Saturday January 31st, 1953

Molly worried about the weather. It was so cold and stormy, and the wind was blowing much harder than usual. She found it hard to settle down with her sewing.

Malcolm, her husband was back from his work teaching at Gresham School in Holt. He said the five mile bike ride home had been very hard work and he was exhausted. After their early supper, he settled down at the table and was marking the English essays from his students – which was always quite hard work as they weren’t as talented as he might have hoped. 

Malcolm was very clever with words, and Mollie knew that he had been offered a job as an actor, shortly after he had returned from the war. However,his father had insisted that he turn it down, and get a proper education and a proper job. Malcolm had obeyed, but the thespian in him found its way out when he was teaching the children, and also by directing the plays that the school put on. Molly helped however she could, and made costumes and helped with painting the sets. She really felt the effort was worthwhile when she got the boys out of their stiff uniforms and into costumes such as those they wore for their last production, Toad of Toad Hall. She remembered how amusing the Day boys were in the play – and of course she and Malcolm always enjoy the company of Jan Day, who is the chemistry master at Gresham, while Betty, quite a powerful figure in her own right but with a good heart, who helps her husband run Kenwyn schoolhouse, planning the meals and managing the housekeeping.

Malcolm and Mollie’s children, Alice, 5 and Jon, 3, didn’t worry about the weather much, and enjoyed playing down on the beach, collecting stones and chasing the waves, despite the chilly wind and rain. But now they were safely tucked up in the top bedroom-, sound asleep.

But Mollie was restless, and felt the urge to take a walk up the loke near their house to see how the night was progressing. It was of course pitch dark outside. Cley didn’t have street lighting. Malcolm and Mollie were renting a house on High Street, more or less directly across from the Whalebone House – which was also the post office. Just next to the Whalebone House was a path, which was called a loke, that led to Fairstead – the road above. Mollie wasn’t afraid of the dark, and told Malcolm she was just going out for a quick walk, as she couldn’t settle, and he wasn’t in the least worried about her, as she often went for lone walks.

Mollie noticed as she started on her walk that water was coming down the road, no doubt the tide had breached the wall, as it often did in winter at high tide. She would have to remember to get the flood boards out when she got back which they placed behind the front door to make it water tight – packing it in with mud. She had never experienced a Cley flood, but from hearing her neighbours’ talk, she had taken the precautions that they had recommended and had a “flood kit” near by the front of the house.

Mollie was not a local girl, any more than Malcolm was a local lad. They had met at Cambridge University, which Malcolm had started attending just before the war began in 1939, and they had become sweethearts before he went off to war. And what a war he had. He was a pilot, and twice had his plane ditched in the sea – being rescued by comrades on the first occasion, but not so lucky on the second, when he was captured by the Germans and spent the rest of the war in Stalag Luft 3, but not as one of those who tried to make The Great Escape. In fact, he almost felt guilty in how much he enjoyed the war in his prisoner of war camp. They were for the most part well treated, and it was there that he became so interested in the theatre. He and his fellow officers put on regular performances of plays, a new one each week – making the costumes and sets themselves. The Germans provided the English scripts for them, and were helpful in other ways – taking photographs of the plays, providing musical instruments. At the close of the war, Malcolm had been sent a copy of a book about the prisoner part of the war, in which he in his skirts (he was usually the female lead) featured highly. Mollie’s family came from Dorset, and she had continued with her University course during the war, and on finishing, she and Malcolm had again got together. When they finally married after he graduated, this was his first job since then. However, Malcolm felt that he was not likely to spend his life teaching and was sending out feelers about getting a job with the BBC.

Malcolm and Mollie had now lived in Cley for four months – having for their first year rented a house in Holt. But the sea was always a delight for them both, and the chance to live near it was something they couldn’t resist. They loved swimming at Cley, walking the marshes, digging up cockles, picking the seaweed samphire and not only eating it for the months that it was available fresh, but all year long, as Mollie pickled as much as she could.

Cley is on the coast road and between it and Holt, were the other seaside villages of Weybourne and Salthouse, but the quickest way for Malcolm to get to work was on the roads over the back of Cley. The beach here was mostly large stones – with a little bit of sand showing at low tide. The stones which are great flints, are used in house building in this part of Norfolk, and most of the bigger and richer houses had a flint facing, a very attractive and original feature, typical in this part of the world.

The house they were now in now, was in the middle of a row – and had unadorned brickwork at the front. From the large front room with an open fireplace, there was only a small kitchen tacked on at the rear, where Mollie was pleased to say they had a Rayburn which not only cooked for them, but kept the house hot and heated their water as well. They had an outside toilet. Upstairs there were 2 large bedrooms, leading directly from the top of the stairwell, and the third small bedroom was off the largest of these. Mollie was again pregnant, so she knew the third bedroom would soon have a use of its own. Outside they had a small garden with one huge sycamore tree, but Mollie, who loved gardening intended to make use of every available space for her flowers and vegetables.

Mollie had to fight against the wind to move at all, although while she was in the loke, she was somewhat protected from the force of the gale. But when she reached Fairstead, and had started to walk towards the church end of town, she was almost blown off her feet, and as she struggled along, a huge branch which had minutes before been attached to a huge oak tree, came hurling towards her, and she didn’t see it until just before it struck her and knocked her to the ground.

It was some moments before Mollie opened her eyes again, and somebody she didn’t know was bending down to help her to her feet. Feeling totally disorientated, she looked around, and what she saw absolutely amazed her. The sea was covering the land between Cley and the next village Blakeney and as far back as the next village, Wiveton. And there were boats on the water – not little fishing boats or yachts as they often saw at Blakeney, but huge sailing ships. The woman who had come to her rescue was dressed very strangely in a long gown with a crinoline under it, covered with a long black cape and wearing a warm bonnet.

“What is happening?” said Mollie.

“I fear you have been hit by a branch from yon tree,” said the woman, in a very odd accent. Mollie had difficulty understanding the Norfolk accent at times, so different from her educated but decidedly west country accent, but this was different. It was an upper class accent, but very odd sounding, as if the person were trying to sound like people did hundreds of years before.

“I need to get back to my husband and babies,” said Mollie, but as she looked down the hill towards her house, she saw that it would be impossible to get there now. The sea had filled in the entire street and had covered the houses including her own to above the ground floor windows.

Mollie started to go off down, not knowing what she could do, but feeling she must get back to be with her family in this terrible flood, which had come upon them so swiftly.

“No chance to get back down that road the night,” said the woman, “Best you come with me to my house, where you can get warmed by the fire and have a cup of tea.”

So not willingly, but not knowing what else to do, Mollie stumbled along in the woman’s path – back up the road and into Heron House. They went into the drawing room, which was lovely and warm. The room had a beautiful old fireplace, and a window seat and French windows to the garden. The couch and chairs were beautiful and very comfortable. The walls were covered with huge oil paintings in decorated gold frames. A card table had been left set out with four chairs around it and packs of cards and scorers and pencils still in place.

“Who are you?” she asked her rescuer when she had been settled with a rug over her shoulders, near the fire. “I know you are not the current owner of Heron House. I don’t know her by name, but I have seen her many times. I am afraid when I was hit, it must have taken my senses right away.”

“I am Mrs. Rebecca Jackson and of course I am the owner of Heron House. I am a widow and my daughter Rachel lives here with me. She is a Governess at Sheringham Girls’ School. Also living here, besides the servants of courses, are Huge McGilway who is the comptroller of customs. The customs are due to move to Wells soon, as our port is sadly diminishing in usefulness with the silting up, but he is welcome to stay here as long as he likes. Mr John Steward Swan is also here with me as a visitor. He comes from Perthshire and he is an artist.  But I don’t know your name, child. I have not seen you in the village of late. Are you a visitor to Cley?”

“No, I live here with my husband and children and have been here since September. We live in Mallard House, down on High Street, across from the Post Office.”

“Post Office. The Post Office is not near Mallard House.”

“The building with the bones built into the wall.”

“Ah, yes, that is just the general store. Why ever do you think it is a post office?"

“But it is. I go there to post my letters and buy stamps and there is a baker next door, and just down the road is the general store Commerce House which the Starrs own and they also sell groceries, and then the garage just down from us.” Mollie went on and on trying to find some common ground with this woman who seemed to live in the same village and yet a very different place to how she knew it.

“Garage? What is that? I don’t know what you mean?”

“A place to get petrol and have your car mended. Do you not have a car? I would have thought with such a wealthy house as this obviously is, you would have one.”

“I don’t know these words you are using – car, petrol, I do not know what you speak of.”

“I wish I could let my husband know I am all right. Do you have a phone? But of course we don’t have a phone but maybe we could telephone the George and have them pass a message on to him.”

“What is this thing a phone? When the water receeds, we can send a servant out with a message for your man. But before that you must just be calm and try to rest yourself. It will do you no good to get in a fuss over it, as I can see you are increasing.”

“Increasing? Oh, you mean I’m pregnant. Yes, I am. Nearly four months gone now and the baby is just starting to kick.”

The woman looked embarrassed and not a little upset with Mollie for revealing these very intimate details that one never discussed in public, especially with a stranger.

The servant, Annie, brought in the tea, with very beautiful porcelain tea service, and a tiered cake plate with a selection of cakes and buns. Rebecca poured the tea, and handed a cup to Mollie and told her to help herself to the cakes. Mollie, who loves baking herself was very pleased to do so, and commented on how tasty everything is.

“What strange clothing you are wearing,” said Mrs. Jackson. “I suppose it is what you call Bloomers. I have been reading about that wretched American woman, Amelia Bloomer, in my Harpers Magazine, and these sorts of garments seem to be featured occasionally in parts of the United States. And I have seen them in cartoons in Punch. But I wouldn’t have thought to see them here in Cley.”

“Bloomers? Of course, not. These are trousers – meant to be worn outside. Bloomers are worn underneath. Lots of women wear these now. They are very practical and comfortable.”

“But not very attractive and certainly not feminine.”

“Your long dress with its crinoline, as pretty as it is, cannot be very comfortable for you to wear, but then I expect that you do not do the sort of work in the house that I have to do. I need to do all the cleaning and cooking and we have an allotment off Church Road which I tend. And I have two young children who make such a lot of work. We go down to the sea cockling and picking samphire and picking stones, and it is much more pleasant for me to be wearing my trousers than it would to wear a long skirt such as you do.”

“Well, whatever you say you do, I do not choose to do those things, and therefore do not need to wear your strange sort of garment. I can see by looking at your hands that you do much hard work. Such a shame. (Mollie self-consciously sat on her hands to  hide her large blunt-fingers with somewhat dirty fingernails.) Annie Baines is my dressmaker and tomorrow you can see her and get her to make a more suitable outfit made for you, if you are to be seen in my house.”

“I must apologise for the state of my house. I had three friends around for whist this afternoon, and have not yet had time for Annie to tidy. Perhaps you know my friends. Mrs. Ramm, whose husband owns several ships, Miss Judith Fisher and Mrs. Catharine Dingle, who are both living on their own, with servants of course."

“You say Mrs. Ramm’s husband owns a ship. Whereabouts does he sail from?”

“From here, of course. Cley is a very prosperous harbour, although nothing like it was 100 years ago. His ships mainly sail to Rotterdam with grain, although we do send some salt as well from the workings here. Cley has about 115 registered vessels within this port, and another nearly 400 fishing boats, which as you probably know prefer to moor here as they are much more protected here than they would be in their own villages in the winter. We bring back coal.”

“Who else in the village do you know?”

“Well, of course there is John Lee, the blacksmith, Thomas Doyle the baker, John Shaw, the butcher, Thomas Doyle, the grocer. I am fond of the Elsy shop where they have a hairdresser and glover, and many more of course. There are 5 public houses, the Fishermongers Arms, the George and Dragon, the Mariner’s Arms which must be near where you say you live, the Kings Head and the Three Swallows.”

“Oh, we know the George and the Swallows,” said Mollie, “But not the others. In fact our house is very close by to the George but I have never heard of the Mariner’s Arms. Perhaps that is what Miss Starr’s shop was before it was a draper and grocer.”

“Mrs. Waller runs the George and Dragon, now that her husband Ino has died.”

“On no, the proprietor is a friend of ours. He is called Mr. Burnett.”

Molly was beginning to find all this difference of opinion very confusing, but their disagreement was now interrupted by Annie who said that the bedroom that Mrs. Jackson had asked her to prepare for Mollie was now ready. Mollie knew she had no choice but to spend the night. Mrs. Jackson showed her to the room.

It was huge, almost as big as all of Mollie’s bedrooms put together, and very richly furnished, with a 4 poster bed. By the bed was a dressing table with a pretty bowl and jug, hand painted with a poppy pattern, and filled with hot water. The wardrobe, chest of drawers and bedside table were all in mahogany, very ornate and heavy looking. There was an enormous fireplace, and Mrs. Jackson had asked for a fire to be lit, so that Mollie would be warm and comfortable in the night. She had laid out a white lace trimmed silk nightdress of her own for Mollie to put on.

“I feel so silly asking you this, but do you know what the date is,” said Mollie.

“Why it’s January 31st, if I recollect correctly. What an odd question to ask.”

“No, I mean, what year is it?”

“It’s 1853, of course. Did you think we had lost a year while you were knocked silly?”

“No, I’m afraid it is 100 years I have lost, not one. You see, I live in 1953 – a hundred years later.”

“What nonsense are you about now?” the woman looked amused, but also somewhat worried as if she was perhaps harbouring someone not quite right in the head.

“I don’t know how it happened, or why it happened but somehow when I left my house it was 100 years later than you say it is now. I want to go back. I want to be with my family. I know you are very kind and I appreciate your offer of tea and a bed for the night, but I want to go to my own home in my own century.” And Mollie started sobbing uncontrollably.

“You will feel better after a night’s rest,” said Mrs. Jackson. Closing the door behind her, she certainly hoped that the new day would bring her new friend to her senses.