(At bottom of page are links to 4 more stories)
  Yusef and Tariq walked into the sweet-shop and were served by the old woman who looked as though she believed it was still 1910.  She wore a long mauve dress with an enormously wide skirt, fronted by a white apron.
  "Hurry up!" said Yusef, as she weighed one quarter pound of fruit gums out on the old-fashioned double-pan scales.
  "Don't be rude," replied the old woman.  "That will be seventy pence please!"
  They paid up.
  "This shop is dirty," said seven-year old Yusef.  "Back home in Bahrain we have an English supermarket."
  "Then why not go back there," snapped the old woman.
  "I want a kite," said six-year old Tariq.  "We'll go to Barnes Common and fly it."
  There were ten kites hanging in the window above the sweet-jars filled with sticky toffees, acid drops, peppermints and chocolate buttons.
  "That will be £20 for the kite," said the old woman.  "And what's wrong with Battersea Park.  It's nearer."
  Yusef had plenty of pocket-money that day and he bought the kite for Tariq.  He enjoyed coming to this shop, even when the old woman behind the counter was brusque with him, because it was dark and mysterious, tucked away next to a warehouse which sold surplus police and army clothing.  The sweet and toy shop, some distance from those which supplied the necessities of everyday life, was fitted out with a 1930's decor, and used the selling and storage methods of that era, not of the 1990's.
  When Yusef and Tariq got home, their mother, Aleya was disturbed to find that they had spent all their week's pocket-money.  Her English husband's contract work in Bahrain had ended.  She did not want to encourage extravagance in her children.  And the goods they bought were so old-fashioned.

  Meanwhile, the old woman saw that her grandfather clock stood at 6 o'clock.  She noticed how the embers of the coal-fire behind the counter stood out in the dying light of that March evening.  She knew that she had been snappy with her customers that day and was worried about it, for business had been declining. With a tired sigh she put the closed sign in the shop door and retreated into the kitchen where a child was waiting patiently.
  "What about tea?" said eleven-year old Angela.
  "It won't take a few minutes."  Janet changed her old-fashioned clothes for jumper and slacks before slipping the prepared meal into her modern electric oven.  In contrast to the shop, everything in the kitchen was spanking new.
  "It's only foreigners coming to your shop now," said Angela.
  "What do you mean, foreigners?"
  "Oh, American and Japanese tourists with cameras."
  "That's what we want."
  "But, mum, the children at school are talking about you.  They've found out that you're not really my granny."
  "The local kids have stopped coming here, haven't they?" said Janet.
  "They'd come if they could afford our prices."
  "Oh, pipe down.  Here's your tea!"
  Angie tucked into the hot meal, then said, "Can I go next door and play with Julie?"
  Janet was quite pleased to let her go.  Yes, it was true that her shop was charging high prices.  But she was selling dreams, not just sweets and toys.  Her shop had an authentic 1930's air, and entering it was like going back fifty years.  Every morning, she had put on her old woman's make-up and long dress.  When she had first set up the business, the local kids had been pleased to be able to walk down the hill to her old-world shop and buy, but just lately she had been attracting an up-market clientele, as she told her bank manager.  She was bringing up Angela on her own.  She remembered with horror the five years on social security after leaving college, finding herself a liability on the employment market because she had a young child.  Finding a small terraced house to rent cheaply, with a disused shop on the ground floor had been a godsend.  She had patiently cleaned and furnished it.  A small legacy had gone a long way towards setting up her own business.  Janet had overpriced her sweets in order to pay for the modernisation of the house, and at first, her customers had not appeared to notice.  Dressing up as an old woman each day had been a trial, but as well as giving an old-world air to the shop, she had presented a respectable front to her neighbours.
  "A grandmother bringing up an orphaned child," Mrs. Barnes had remarked to the milkman when she moved in. "But we never see her without those theatrical 1930's clothes.  I wonder what she's really like?"
  Later on, the neighbours noticed how hard she worked and how quickly she moved about and had guessed the truth.  The local children believed in the old woman for just a wee bit longer.

  On that particular day, a new consignment of sweets had arrived.  Janet could not remember ordering them, but that evening had unpacked them.
  "Magic sweets," said the label.  The pale green boiled sweets looked good.
  After tea, Angie spotted them.
  "Let me have one," she said.
  Janet gave her one from the jar.  She watched Angie disappear into the back room where she kept her toys, and settled down in the front room by the television.  Later on she went to find her daughter but she was gone.  After hunting everywhere and going round to the neighbours, she phoned the police.  She was frantic.  Two uniformed constables soon arrived, and after asking a few questions, told her that the search had already started.  But she had to work next day as usual.  Amazingly, she sold all the magic sweets, except one which she absent-mindedly put in her apron pocket.  That evening a detective called and told her that it was not just her daughter but twenty of the local children who had disappeared.  She went to bed and for a few hours, tossed restlessly.  She got up for a drink of water and put the last of the pale green sweets into her mouth.  It calmed her and she was soon asleep.
 ----------
  The previous evening when Angie had eaten her sweet, she had also fallen asleep instantly.  She thought she had only had five minutes sleep, when someone said, "Wake up, Angela!"

  She found herself in a schoolroom.
  "These are tadpoles," the teacher was saying, standing by the fish-tank.  "When they are older they will turn into frogs.  First they lose their tails and become newts."
  "That's wrong!" said Angie loudly.  "Newts are a different kind of animal.  We had someone called Ken Livingstone telling us about them on the radio."
  "Who is Ken Livingstone?" asked the teacher.
  "He is an M.P. but was head of the Greater London Council until it was abolished a few years ago," answered Angie.
  "You mean the London County Council," said the teacher.  "At County Hall.  That's where those of you who have passed the exams will have to go for a medical exam."
  "No, we won't.  County Hall has been sold to a private firm. It still says LCC on some of the old buildings, and I asked my mother what this meant. She told me that it meant London County Council which was replaced by the GLC and in 1986 the Greater London Council was also abolished.

"But this is 1939," said the teacher.
  "It's 1998," said Angie, and turned to her class-mates, who all shouted, "it's 1998."
  "Are you all ill?" asked the teacher.  "This is Granville Road School.  You are living in West Kensington.  Soon, I'm going to take you all on the school journey to the Isle of Wight.  Try to keep well or you'll miss it.  Well, the class can go home now."
  The bell rang.
  When Angie got outside, the street she knew in Battersea had disappeared.  Yet somehow she knew where to go.  59 Adam street.  Her mother would be waiting.  But when she got home no-one answered her knock.  She opened the side gate leading to the garden and found the back door open.  The coal fire in the downstairs kitchen had gone out.  A sheet from "the News of the World" covered the table, which was littered with egg-cups and tea-cups from breakfast.  It was still daylight, so after eating a piece of bread and jam which had been left on the table, she went into the back garden.
  She started playing a game, which involved getting into and out of the Anderson Air Raid Shelter in the quickest possible time.  She did not worry very much why the shelter had been put into her back garden, but gave her undivided attention to the game, which she had often played with a friend.

  When it got dark, Angie went into the large upstairs bedroom which she shared with her mother.  There was a sleeping form in the large bed.
  "Mum, wake up!"
  Janet sat up and rubbed her eyes.
  "Angela, thank God I've found you."
  Janet leapt out of bed, went downstairs and warmed up an apple pie she found in the cupboard.  Her surroundings were strange and she found everything by instinct, but knew that Harry, the young man who lodged upstairs would come home from work and want a hot meal.  She put a fish pie into the oven for him.
  That evening, after Harry had eaten his meal, he said, "There'll be a war soon and I'll have to join the army."
  "Don't talk about it," said Janet.
  She remembered that her husband was working in the North of England, and noticed a letter from him on the mantelpiece, but she could hardly remember what he looked like.
  She said, "I suppose John will have to go into the army too."
  Next morning she remembered that she had to clean both the lodgers' rooms.  There was Ethel, a quiet secretary who had been with her for eight years, as well as Harry.  Meanwhile Angie went back to school.
  When Angie came home at dinner-time, which was in the middle of the day, she said to her mother, "When I got to school, I remembered that all the children used to live near us in Battersea.  We've all come from 1998.  Now we're in 1939."

  Janet could not bear to talk about it.
  "Here's some money for some sweets," she said.
  Angie, quite happily, scampered down the street.
  "Cosy Corner," said the shop-sign.  Angie found some old-fashioned pennies in her pocket, and saw that a stick of toffee cost only a half-penny.
  "Hello, Angela!" said the plump woman behind the counter.
  "Who are you?" said the eleven-year old child cheekily.
  "You know me.  I'm Cosy.  Cosy of Cosy Corner.  Look, there's a new jar of boiled sweets which arrived today.  Why not try some?"
  ""yes, please!" said Angie, and paid two old pennies for a quarter pound.
  "Don't eat one until you get home," said Cosy.
  "Why not?"
  "Your mother would like to see them first."
  "All right," said Angie.  Anyway she had to spend the afternoon at a desk in Granville Road School.
  At four o'clock she went home again.  She was not hungry and did not feel like trying a sweet.  She walked slowly home, playing a game of marbles in the gutters of the street with Lois from No:51.  There were no motor cars parked in this road.  She missed them, then remembered that it was 1939.  There were only a few cars on the road; the ordinary family did not have one.  She knew what would happen next, roughly - not the details, but she knew the routines of everyday life.  She was fast forgetting what 1998 was like.  That evening, after tea, she brought out the pale green sweets and offered one to Harry the lodger.
  "Not for me," said Harry.
  But Janet snatched one.  "Yes, we must eat them now," she said.
  Harry was holding the bag of sweets in his hand and smelling them.  He said, "Just a minute, don't eat them.  I think there's something wrong with them."
  "What makes you think that?"
  "I was talking to someone down the road, and she said that her six-year old was taken ill after eating them.  He fell down in a feint and had to be rushed to hospital.  Maybe they're poisoned."
  Janet still had her sweet in her hand but Harry had disappeared with the rest of the bag of sweets.
  "Where are you going?" Janet called after him.
  "I'm taking them to the public analyst.  You can't be too careful."
  "They're mine, don't take them," shouted Janet, but Harry was half way down the road.
  "We have to eat them," said Janet.
  "Why?" said Angie.  "If we eat them we might be poisoned like Harry says."
  "But you remember our shop in Battersea, don't you?  We belong there.  We've got to get back."
  "I don't want to get back," said Angie.  "It's better here.  The other children think I'm one of them.  But in Battersea, they were always teasing me.  They know your shop's a fraud and that you're not really my granny."
  "Angela, I promise you, if we go back, or should I say forward to 1998, I'll change things."
  "But I don't want to go back," said Angie.
  Janet sighed and turned on the wireless.  It was running down because the accumulators needed recharging, but she was able to catch the announcer saying, "People are collecting gas-masks from Air Raid Precautions Depots.  Make sure you have yours."
  At school next day, the other children in the class showed Angie more of the pale green sweets.  She swopped a marble for one of them.
  In the evening Janet showed her daughter the gas-masks she had collected from the ARP.
  "If the warning goes for gas, you'll have to wear this, otherwise you'll be poisoned," she explained.
  Angie tried on the gas-mask.  At the same time, she fingered the pale green sweet in her pocket.
  She hesitated and stuttered, "Let's go.  Let's have a sweet now.  I'm frightened of the gas."
  "There's only one sweet left," said her mother.  "Which of us shall have it?"
  "Oh, I've got another one, Mum.  I got it at school."
  "right," said Janet.  "I'm not sure what will happen, but let's take a chance now."
  Janet waited until Angie had eaten her pale green sweet before she put her own into her mouth.
  They heard Harry say, "You're both getting nervous about the war," just before they fell asleep.
  The next thing they knew was that they were both standing in the street near the old-fashioned shop in Battersea.
  "I've had a funny dream about going back to 1939," said Angie.
  "So did I," said Janet.  "But things are all right.  It's all over."
  Then they looked at the shop.  Fire-engines were pulling away.  It had been burnt to cinders.
  "Never mind," said Janet.  "I was tired of dressing up as old woman.  We'll start again from scratch.  An ordinary sweet-shop will do.  We'll find one.  Business will be even better next year."

Copyright Joan Hughes 2000

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(Above are links to 4 more stories)
This picture of a Victorian Sweet Shop was painted by my great granfather, John Martin.