In the Wrong Space and Time

XII

I OPEN THE DOOR TO my office and switch the lights on, flinching as the fluorescent lights' harsh glare scorches my tired eyes. With my eyebrows turned down into a grim frown, I slip the notepad and pen into my messenger bag.

The laptop, memory stick, phone and purse go in too, and I sling the bag over my shoulder, ready to leave, despite my enervation.

Shutting the door behind me, I begin to tread down the corridor with heavy steps. Suddenly, however, an unbidden thought pops into my mind.

You had better pack some casualwear just in case, my mind supplies. Uttering a groan under my breath, I wheel around almost drunkenly and head back to my dormitory.

"Why, why, why?" I mutter with annoyance, punctuating each word with the sliding of clothes hangers. "I don't want to deal with my responsibilities, I just want to sleep," I continue grumbling as I comb through my closet to find casual clothing.

My search is futile, as my closet is full of businesswear - button-up shirts, slacks, suits, you name it - but all of my casualwear is repetitive and I'm not exactly spoiled for choice in that department.

I give up searching for clothing combinations in my own closet and yank open Tyra's wardrobe instead. At long last, I pull out a yellow blouse and black jeans, and fold them neatly before slotting them into my bag. Finally, I begin my final journey to Brunel University.

I pass landmarks that have now become familiar, such as the patch of withered wildgrass at the side of the pavement, and the once-brightly coloured fire hydrant standing boldly in the middle of the street. Sighing with just the faintest tinge of nostalgia, I turn at the wrong corner, not looking where I am going.

A little bakery meets me face to face, and I contemplate on whether or not to go inside. Ultimately, the forlorn sight of dwindling amounts of bread on the racks and a rumbling stomach convince me to go with the former option.

Pushing the door open with a slight tinkling of bells overhead, I am hit first with the pleasant, roasty aroma of freshly baked bread.

Even in wartime, with limited food supplies, this little shop is still going strong. That's comforting, to say the least, I think to myself as I traipse through the aisles of baguettes and buns, trying to pick out a quick breakfast item before going to the university.

I select a packaged ham-and-cheese bun sitting on a rack and bring it to the young cashier, placing it gently onto the counter.

"That'll be eighty pence, ma'am."

"Just a moment," I mutter as I fish my purse out of my messenger bag. I finally manage to get a few coins out of my purse and place them haphazardly on the counter.

"Yeah, thanks," I grab the bun and am about to leave when the cashier's voice rings out behind me.

"Hold on, ma'am... are you Dr. Campbell?"

I fight down a grimace. Usually, when people here recognise me, they either want an autograph, a photograph, or they want to complain about how slow the pace of the war is and how much longer they'll have to suffer, I grouse internally.

Don't get me wrong, I love the fame, but I definitely am not in the mood this morning.

Turning to face the young man, I plaster a fake smile on my face, expecting the worst. "Yes, indeed I am."

What he says next floors me completely. "I believe in you."

"W-what?" I stutter stupidly.

The chestnut-haired cashier gives me an easy grin. "I believe that you'll help us win the war. You, Field Marshal Primero, Dr. Johnson, and everyone else working hard at Whittington Barracks. I salute your courage."