Free A Stitch in Time by Amanda James

floor and shuffled into the bathroom.
    Slightly more shipshape after the shower, Sarah pulled on an old green sweater and jeans. Unable to face the noise of the hairdryer, she combed her hair through and left it to its own devices. The full-length mirror told her that it had seen her looking better, but that there had been one or two days after her husband left when she’d looked even worse.
    Sarah sniffed a couple of times and frowned.
Bacon? Don’t tell me my senses are mucked up now because of this time-travelling lark?
She opened the curtains and shielded her eyes from the glare. Betty Grenville, her neighbour, pulled her bin back up her path and waved cheerily. Sarah waved back. Betty was mouthing something and pointing at the window, gesturing that Sarah should open it.
    ‘You don’t look well, love; you off work?’ she shouted up to Sarah.
    Sarah’s ears begged for mercy. The volume of Betty’s voice could give a pneumatic drill a run for its money.
    ‘Err … I’m not great, Betty, I think I may have a day off, yes.’
    ‘Well, look after yourself, duck. Anything I can do, just pop round!’
    Sarah smiled, nodded, mouthed
thank you
and closed the window before her brain started to haemorrhage.
    A worrying thought presented itself as she walked downstairs. Today was bin day. Bin day was Thursday; she’d popped over to 1940 on Tuesday, so what had happened to Wednesday? Also, she’d better phone school and think of a reason for skipping school today. Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, she sniffed again. Definitely bacon; bacon and coffee?
    She walked into the kitchen and grabbed hold of a chair to steady herself.
    ‘’Bout time, sleepy head! Now sit down there; just got the eggs to finish, hope you like fried,’ John said, pointing a spatula at her.
    Sarah sat down and watched him for a few seconds. Her pulse raced and her heart mimicked a tumble dryer. Why was she so pleased to see him? Her brain seemed to have shut up shop and headed for the coast.
    ‘Drink this, you’ll feel better,’ John said, setting a glass of orange juice down in front of her. Then, placing a cool hand on her forehead, he asked, ‘Bit quiet this morning, aren’t we?’
    ‘Bit quiet?’ Sarah removed his hand and folded her arms. ‘Why on earth do you think that is, I wonder? I’ve just come back from the Blitz of 1940, feel like I’ve been run over by a truck, and appear to have lost a day of my life. And to cap it all, I get up to find you uninvited in MY house cooking bloody bacon! So, sorry if I disappoint; shall I do a few cartwheels and sing a rousing chorus from
Oliver
?’
    John laughed out loud, picked up the frying pan and slipped eggs on to a plate. ‘Well, it is one of my favourite musicals,’ he said, and began whistling ‘Oom-Pah-Pah’.
    In spite of herself, Sarah wanted to smile, but took a sip of orange juice to stop herself. There was no way she wanted John to think he was off the hook. And she needed to get any romantic notion about him
right
out of her head. The fluffy lovesick feeling that she’d had upon waking was just an aberration, an overhang from the Sarah in the past – a result of the emotional situation she’d left behind in 1940.
    This
John had much explaining to do, and she needed a clear head in order to find answers. Sarah just wished that he didn’t look so damned attractive this morning.
I could try to superimpose the head of the insufferable Gary Keynsham on John’s shoulders. At least then I could focus on the task at hand
.
    As John poured coffee, Sarah noticed her own appearance and flushed as red as the crimson coffee mugs. Not only had she shoved on the oldest sweater known to man, but she’d neglected to put a bra on first! The sweater was threadbare in places and she could clearly see the outline of her breasts and, even more embarrassingly, her nipples. Coupled with her damp, roughly combed hair and her hung-over visage, bare of make-up, Sarah had never felt so