It was the smell that first struck Beatrix, yes and struck was the right word. It was almost a physical jolt, so rotten, deathly and sickly sweet. 

She slowly opened her eyes to a total blackness, the kind only miners are used to. She blinked and tried to focus on something, and gradually misty shapes began to appear. If her vision was empty of information, her hearing was bombarded by sound…human snores, shouts and distant crying, as well as a more chilling mechanical sound, faraway blasts from dropping bombs which could be felt as much as heard, together with a strange high pitched fizzing sound that temporarily lit up the blackness, only to allow the dark to regain the field after a short while.

Very carefully she reached out to try and a gain a ‘feel’ for her surroundings, and it was damp mud that her fingers explored. This allowed the final penny, in this case bearing the head of King George V, to drop. 

“Cuppa?” The voice was hushed, which seemed odd considering the noise all around. A dirty, scared hand reached up to take the chipped mug of steaming tea.

“Cheers,” said Beatrix as she took a sip. It was very sweet, but it was the warming aftertaste that was a surprise.

The bearer of the tea laughed. “I stuck a bit o’ rum in it, purely medicinal o’ course.“ 

Shaking herself awake, Beatrix could see that she was one of many Khaki clad figures standing or leaning in the trench. To call them uniforms was a bit misleading. Some wore leather jerkins, others woollen Balaclavas, named in memory of another, earlier conflict, to keep out the cold. Hand knitted scarves and gloves were also popular it would seem, gifts from worried but proud loved ones back in ‘Blighty’.

The trenches themselves were quite a sight, and Beatrix allowed herself a few moments to fully take in her surroundings while sipping on the steaming mug in her cupped hands. The sides of the walls were dug away here and there to produce a shelf on which some of the men tried to catch some rest. They reminded her of the catacombs underneath Rome, not a pleasant thought. Thick, wooden posts stood Atlas-like, holding the covered areas upright, while at the bottom of the trench timber planking fought in vain to keep back the tide of mud, with as much success as King Cnut. 

“Oy, why you so quiet?”

Beatrix turned to look at her companion for the first time since taking the tea. He was a short, rather thin man. His uniform was made for a much bigger frame, and the puttees made his lower legs look like they had been through a pencil sharpener. He smiled though, and his eyes still held a sparkle, in spite of the horror of his surroundings. He hung his Lee Enfield on a stiff grey hand that poked out of the side of the trench.  “Gawd bless you, my son,” he muttered at the decaying limb, and turning back to Beatrix he continued, “You still waiting for your missus to write? I ‘eard the post is fucked, so her letter has most likely gawn missing in action.” He chuckled to himself at the last line.

Beatrix shook her head. “Nah, just ‘ad enough of this lark.” The voice that came out of her was quiet, and weary. It sounded like the voice of an old man, not a soldier in the prime of his life. ”I want to kip in a bed, with sheets and that, drink tea that tastes like tea, not dish water, no offense.”

Her comment was met with a hearty laugh. “Leave orf, my tea is the same you’d get at the bloody Ritz mate!” The two men smiled and then silence took over again. 

Taking hold of a wooden box, much like a malt whisky box, Beatrix held it up over the lip of the trench. ”Bloody kid’s toys eh, talk about investment in the War,” she whispered to herself. The periscope worked a treat though, and she could make out No-man’s Land. Thinking back to her History lessons at school, she had a set idea of what kind of view she would get. This was not it. There were patches of green grass, not too much to be sure, but between the banks of barbed wire, shoots were beginning to sprout. The blasted trees of her imagination were also missing; instead the muddied ground gently undulated away from her, up towards a ridge in the distance, unremarkable except for the occasional glint of thin sunlight off the barbed wire that protected the German trenches. There were shell holes of course, and if you looked closely, bizarre twisted shapes like bags of old clothes carelessly dropped off in a homeless shelter. These were the real cost of war, the detritus of conflict that had littered battlefields since before the Battle of Megiddo, which had seen ancient Egyptian ‘shapes’ dotted about the sands.

She felt suddenly very weary, and the niggling bites from the huge community of parasites that called the seams of her uniform home was fast becoming unbearable. Still, bear it she would, and like all those around her, when the whistle blew, and when her officers called on her to put down the tea, and pick up her rifle and pack, she would ascend the wooden ladder that promised to take her from this world into another one.

“Dulce et decorum est,” came flooding into her mind, a memory from Fifth Form English… and she smiled.


Tony

 A German trench occupied by British Soldiers near the Albert-Bapaume road at Ovillers-la-Boisselle, July 1916 during the Battle of the Somme. The men are from A Company, 11th Battalion, The Cheshire Regiment.

“Come on honey, we don’t want to miss a good spot on the route!”

The voice was female, and was heavy with a southern drawl. Beatrix noticed at once that her perspective on her surroundings was lower than usual; she was clearly a child this time. She glanced down to see a red skirt with white socks pulled up above her ankles.

“Sorry Mom,” she said, as she reached up to grab a white jacket that hung like a limp flag on the rail.

She was aware of the clock ticking loudly, and as the door opened on to the front lawn, she squinted into a bright, sunlit day.

Good, she thought, the rain has stopped, he will appreciate our city more in the sunshine, and with a sudden laugh, the girl in the red skirt skipped out of the hallway and into the waiting car, where her mother was busy putting the finishing touches to her lipstick in the vanity mirror.

Beatrix watched the houses speed by from the window, large spacious homes, complete with picket fences and large powerful looking motor cars on the driveways. For the first time she was able to take a good look at her surroundings. One of the most disturbing aspects of the time hopping was that she was never sure where she would be next, or for how long. The historian in her led her to try and determine the time and place as soon as she could, although this was not always possible.

From what she could see as the car slowed down at intersections was a large, prosperous city, the shops complete with vast window displays. Everything seemed to be busy. The pavements were thronged with people, the women in wide and colourful skirts, and the men in suits, or casual shirts, each wearing the obligatory hat. Beatrix made a snap decision that this was the 1950’s or 60’s, but being more specific would take a bit more detective work.

In the front bench seat of the car, her mother and a female friend chatted animatedly between cigarettes. Clearly something was exciting them.

“She always looks so, so...cool!” her mother exclaimed.

“Oh yeah, almost a European style, and what I wouldn’t give for a few hours with either of the boys,” replied her friend with a wink.

“Oh Flora-Mae, you are too awful, you really are,” said her mother, smiling.

The car finally pulled up opposite a structure that bore the words “U.S Post Office Building”, and when Beatrix looked around, she realised she was standing in the shadow of what looked like a huge railway overpass. By this time other cars were pulling up, and she could see that many of the occupants were as animated as her mother had been, and the general feeling she got was one of anticipation and excitement.

A short walk along the grass that ran alongside the roadway gave Beatrix time to cast about in search of a few more clues to her whereabouts. The area around her was a curved triangle of land, bounded by roads that were edged with gathering crowds; a few tall stone buildings overlooked this ‘Plaza’, and to the left and right of the main roadways stood a pair of covered walkways, raised from the surroundings by a grassy mound. Things were starting to fall into place, and Beatrix had a very strong feeling that she had seen the red skirt and white coat she was wearing before.

Finally, they reached a tight corner where the crowds were thickest.

“This will have to do, honey,” said her mother smiling down at her, “the motorcade will come down Houston and turn right about here, we should be able to wave and cheer at the car as it slows.”

Beatrix at once knew the name of the large red brick building that stood across the road from her, and raising her eyes heavenwards she saw the Hertz Rental sign and the digital clock, counting down to 12.30. The name of the building was picked out in bold letters, “The Texas School Book Depository”.

The cheers of the crowd grew, and Beatrix was aware of people craning necks to catch a glimpse of the open topped limousine that carried the 35th President and his wife around the turn into Elm Street. She tried to focus on the windows of the Book Depository, but she was simply an observer here, and the girl in the red skirt jumped up and down with excitement. As the limousine slowed to make its turn, Beatrix began to skip and run alongside the vehicle as it slowly progressed along the street.

The sound was distinct but not immediately recognisable—a backfire from a car, a crack from a bull whip or, most likely, a shot from a gun. Beatrix felt the girl stop and turn to see where the noise had originated from. Most of the crowd seemed to miss the sound, but she noticed that the President stopped waving.

What occurred next unfolded in slow motion. The girl in the red jacket skipped alongside the road for a few more metres, and she could hear her mother call on her not to go too far. Shots rang out around her… gasps from the onlookers… the limousine began to speed up… a man standing on a plinth recording the events on a small ‘Super8’ camera… a woman dressed in bright pink had climbed out of the car onto the boot desperately trying to retrieve something… a cop on a motorbike… a man with a black umbrella… the grim sight of a faint cloud of red exploding above the head of the President…

It was over so quickly, Beatrix desperately wanted to run over to the grassed area that lay to the right of the President’s car, but she was not in control of this body, and all she felt was not horror, but confusion, and as her mother ran over and bundled the girl up in her arms, she became aware of tears streaming down her mother’s cheeks.

Tony

The light was dazzling, fractured like a migraine. The brilliant white took on a distinct bluish tinge as the shapes slowly began to develop….Rigid horizontal bars reached to the heavens it seemed, and the cross beams glowed like the halo on a renaissance painting. The bars became a framework and the shimmering light the glass panels in between. This was a building, but a building the like of which Beatrix had never seen before.

From a distance it gave the appearance of a religious house, a monstrous cathedral of glass and iron, but the gods worshipped here were those of the factory and the forge, human muscle and the hiss of steam.  This was Hyde Park in 1851, and this was the Great Exhibition.

A visit to the ‘Grand Exhibition’ was a ‘Must’ on the social calendar of the Victorian, whatever class they identified with. Special ‘One Shilling’ days were included to allow as many as possible to wander and wonder around the giant palace of glass that dominated the area for miles around.

A gaggle of children pushed and shoved each other while tickets were bought, and Beatrix made a mental note that even Victorian children could be heard and seen! Those who bought the cheap tickets were scrubbed clean, red faces glowing with anticipation as well as coal tar soap.

Upon entering, Beatrix was drawn to the centre of the nave, where stood a fountain of such fancy construction that it both amazed and slightly repelled her at the same time. The overblown intricacies of the glassblowers had made the Crystal Fountain (for such was written on a wooden board underneath it) a crowd favourite, and a place where lost youngsters could gather to be picked up by fretting parents.

The crowd flowed every which way; some stayed on the ground floor to admire the cotton fabrics that made Manchester so famous and the ornate carriage works that stood opposite like peacocks proud in their fine livery. The north side of the ground floor was also where one could fine the ‘refreshment area’ which would usually be a magnet for those with tired feet, hoping to sample the fine selection of teas from around the Empire. There was however another, more prosaic reason for visiting the refreshment court. Here you could ‘Spend a Penny’ for the first time in the public conveniences created to showcase the advances in sewage disposal, but popular because, for the cost of the aforementioned coin, you could relieve yourself and be waited on by a team of servants who dusted down your coat while you washed your hands in one of the new blue and white china basins.

The sheer scale of the place was breath-taking, the huge trees that stood inside the ‘Palace’, the echo of footsteps on the hard wooden floor, dusted in some places with saw-dust, and the tinkling of the fountains that were liberally sprinkled around the ground floor... Beatrix was struck by the seemingly haphazard way the displays were arranged! True, the British exhibits were standing proud in the western wing, while the ‘Foreigners’, American, French, German goods crouched in the area to the east of the building, but the only power source was along the northern side of the structure, so the large machinery was to be found clustered here.

Napoleon III, Empress Eugenie, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, seated on a dais with floral decorations at the base, during their visit to Crystal Palace Exhibition

The centre of the building saw the British Empire holding court, and any visitor would be struck with the power and pomp of an empire on which the sun was too busy to set.

The smell of bodies mingled with the tang of fresh paint, and the tide of humanity ebbed and flowed around the building marvelling, as one, at just what wonders this modern world could produce… a Floating Church, space heaters made to look like renaissance statues, the newest design of Locomotives, even tiny walnuts filled with hundreds of minute items… ”all in a nutshell.”

Beatrix found the excitement and the energy of the Exhibition intoxicating, and whilst waiting in front of the huge stuffed Elephant in the Indian exhibit, she overheard a slight, but well-dressed gentleman say to his male companion, “I think the first impression produced is bewilderment, It looks like a kind of fairyland. As far as you can look in any direction, you see nothing but pillars hung about with shawls. Carpets, etc with long avenues of statues, fountains, and canopies...”  She recognised the man at once, it was Charles Dodgson, and he should know what a fairy land might look like… Beatrix knew him better as Lewis Carroll.


Tony