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Five
     
    I panicked. I
didn’t feel ready; I wasn’t at all certain what to do or how to react. I willed myself to turn and dashing
back over the road, I decided
that if I could get back to the gate where it had all started that would be my best escape. People
walking past me through the
shaded, dappled paths started to fade, as the present and past appeared to fuse for a moment, dream-like in
translucent transparency. I
could see the gate ahead, one moment in sharp focus, every detail magnified. But, in the next
second it disappeared,
just as quickly, evaporating like wisps of smoke, elusive and ethereal. As I reached out for it in
desperation, grasping at
nothing I could physically hold onto, it appeared in sharp focus once more. I held on tight, willing myself to feel
the cold touch of iron, pulling
with all my strength and at last I felt it open.
    I found myself
standing in the pouring rain at the bottom of the steps by the canal side, just as I had been
moments before I’d passed through
the gate. I must have dropped the glove at some point and couldn’t find it at first, until I
realized I was actually standing
on it. I couldn’t begin to think about my strange experience with anything approaching common sense,
but I knew I didn’t want to
go back through the gate. Deciding that my best course would be to follow the canal path, it didn’t
take long before I reached a set
of steps that led up to the main road with its hum of traffic and the sight of people going about their
business looking reassuringly
normal.
    I let myself
into the house. My first thought was that I must be brave and return the glove to its owner. It would
be rude if I didn’t introduce
myself, so I knocked, but there were no sounds from behind the immaculate, grey painted door. I’d just
have to try again later.
    Sitting by the
fire to dry out, I kicked off my shoes and watched my damp socks steam on a footstool before
the flames as I tried to
understand what had just happened. The time by the clock on the mantelpiece said half past five, which
surely couldn’t be right. I’d been
away for at least a couple of hours. But when I thought about any time travel books I’d read, time
didn’t ever behave, as it
should. Had I really visited the past and met Jane Austen and her sister? Somehow, voicing those words
in my head made it seem so
unreal. I couldn’t explain anything. It was very unsettling and I wasn’t sure how much I did want to
think about it.
    That sense of
unease, and the feeling that somehow I was not alone made me long for some other company. There were
noises in the silent flat,
which I know sounds like a contradiction. The creak of floorboards and scratching in the wainscot I put
down to the possibility of
nesting mice but, the tread of footsteps on the stairs, the rustling of silk swishing along the floor and
the click of a door shutting softly,
were all sounds that I could not easily explain. I closed the shutters as dusk fell and lit the
candles in the sconces on either
side of the huge looking glass before settling back into the winged chair. I felt my eyes grow heavy and sleep
steal over me as I gave in to the
comforting sounds of the fire crackling and the ticking of the clock. But not for long: other
noises soon had my eyes open and
staring into the darkened room. The sound of footsteps stealing up behind my chair froze my
limbs to rigidity and pinned me
to the seat. Wide-awake with a thumping heart I listened intently, trying unsuccessfully to convince myself
that all I’d heard was a noise from
the flat below or from next door. To my absolute horror, when I finally plucked up the courage to
look behind the wing of my
chair, I saw the door move as if someone had just pushed it open and heard the kind of ghastly
creaking you might only hear in the
scariest films at the cinema. Acting on impulse, I grabbed a heavy, gilt candlestick from the
mantelpiece and crossed the room
at speed to peer into the corridor