* * *
“Miss, Miss, open your eyes.” A strong smell of ammonia wafted under her nose and she coughed, fighting to push it away from her face. She rolled over and covered her mouth with her hand, afraid the smell would make her vomit.
“Miss Wilhelmina, you didn’t half scare me to death you didn’t.”
A familiar young face framed by a mop of tight ebony curls came into view when she forced her eyes open. “Oh God, I feel sick.” She held her breath and tried to forget the sinking sensations in her stomach.
She swallowed, forcing down the bile. No longer trapped in the stairwell, she had to get hold of herself.
“Miss Wilhelmina. You right now are ya?” The thick accent of the young Aboriginal girl leaning over her was more than a little disconcerting. She glanced over the girl’s shoulder looking for Pete or the sparky.
The kitchen wasn’t like the rest of the house. Someone had been in and cleaned it up, set it ready for the opening. She pulled herself up and wiped her hands over her face, stars sparking in the corners of her eyes. A hand touched her shoulder.
“Let me get you a cup of sweet tea. That’ll see you right.” The girl fussed over her, hovering. “Missus, better you lay down, eh? That bang on the head made you all funny. Dunno what you was doing up that staircase. Not the place for the likes of you, it ain’t.”
Billie gripped her hands together in her lap. The panic sat high in her chest, breaths hitching from constricted lungs and the tears still trickled down her cheeks. She glanced around the room. A fire crackled in the old wood stove, although the heat did little to warm her chilled body. A wooden table took pride of place in the middle of the room. Bowls filled with eggs sat on one side and a large milk jug along with a platter of golden butter sat beside them. It all looked staged, as though someone had planned to bake today.
A huge sideboard held a dinner service edged in tiny red roses with a fine gold line on the border. The tea tray sat ready waiting for the pot of steaming tea that would set the scene. Over by the back door, a rack held newspapers, but they were very different to what she was used to. She scrambled to her feet and stumbled over to the door and grabbed one.
“Miss, what you want? You want the tea and newspapers? Primrose bring them to you in your room.” The maid fussed with her apron, agitated. “Them papers old ones, they is. Master have the latest ones in his study and I left one from yesterday on your tea tray this morning too.”
“This is fine and I can get it myself.” She took the top paper and searched for the date at the top beside the heading. The words flashed before her eyes. The Singleton Argus,4 July 1940. It can’t be.
“You gone all pasty, Miss. What you doing down here anyway?”
“I was exploring.” She stared out the open back door, letting the paper drop to the floor. Through the opening she could see the rich colours of a vegetable or herb garden. Roses rambled over the fence dripping their flower petals on the grass. Beyond that, white sheets flapped in the breeze, strung out over a length of wire propped up with a long wooden pole.
“Sure there’s better places to explore than the servants’ stairs or kitchen. Goodness knows you been in here more than enough to know what here and what ain’t.” She put a hand under Billie’s elbow and guided her to out of the kitchen to the front of the house. “Come on now, let’s get you up to your room and lay down for a bit before Miss Gertrude comes looking for you.” Primrose bustled her up the stairs, down past the sitting room and into a bedroom. She guided her over to the bed and pushed her back against the pillows. Then she lifted her feet, slipped off her button-up shoes and placed them under the bed before pulling up a quilted blanket and tucking it around her legs. “There now, you close them eyes and rest up. I’ll get you a pot of sweet tea after you rested. Don’t want anyone saying that Primrose not doing her job here looking out for you. You know how niggly everyone get when you have a turn.”
“Thank you. Um, Primrose, I wonder if you can tell what the date is today?”
The maid spun around, puzzlement on her face. She remained silent a moment and moved away to a small writing desk. From the top of it she took a newspaper and brought it over to her. Before she handed it over, she squinted at the top of the page, frowned and then shook her head. “Your daddy told me I got it wrong again. Reckon it was this paper today but he sayin’ it was yesterday’s.”
She thrust it at her. “Don’t right understand, but I reckon it says 16 July 1940.”
Billie blinked, swallowed down a rush of panic and reached for the paper. Her gaze went to the right hand top corner: 18 July 1940. A sob rose in her throat, no longer able to hold it back. “No!” Hot tears filled her eyes and the paper slid to the floor unnoticed. She covered her face with her hands, letting her fear take over. Pain filled her chest, an insurmountable ache hit her stomach, leaving her gasping for air and gagging at the same time.
“Miss Wilhelmina. You have
