A/N- killerqueenbex- Thanks for the review. I was wondering if anyone was interested and I hope this next chapter adds to yours and anyone else's intrigue.
Chapter Two
Holmsford, West Riding Yorkshire November,2013-
As the subject lay unconscious in the hospital examining room and everyone was alarmed at the octogenarian's prognosis.
"Come on! Wake up! Wake UP!" she heard being screamed in her ear.
"Don't want to wake up. Nothin' fer an old crone here," she sighed.
"What're ye talkin' 'bout, Girl?" a middle aged man with greying blond muttonchop whiskers under a stovepipe hat asked as she opened her eyes.
She knew the place. It wasn't where she'd last been in – not to mention it was no longer when.
.
.
Hull, East Riding, Yorkshire- August, 1943-
She looked at her hands and saw that they were tiny as ever but completely smooth and unlined and she knew that she was seventeen.
" Thee're a pokey girl! What thee doin' in this house?" the man asked.
"I. . .I live 'ere," she stammered.
"That's a laugh. What would a factory gal be doin' livin' in a grand spot as this once were?" the man scoffed.
"I was on a break before the sirens wailed. I like to walk in this street to think of what it'd be like to. .. Wait a minute! What would an old mutt like you be doing inside here?" she protested –as she dusted some of the plaster off her blonde locks.
"Same as thee, taking shelter from the bombs," the man with fingerless woolen gloves sighed as he lifted her off the darkened stairwell while she raised herself on her feet.
"At least I'm a Hull gal but you don't fit in the city- or this century! What were you doing? Looting?" she scoffed as they still could hear NAZI bombs dropping in the distance.
"Looting? Mercy no, Girl! I was doing a service to these fine folks by relieving them of extraneous sundries they'd not have to sort out upon their return here," the man scoffed.
"An old doll an' a trumpet? You wouldn't get 5 quid for that," she protested.
"Only to folks who don't know the value of fine merchandise, " the man opined.
"You really think you can sell this junk ?" the girl scoffed.
"'Junk'? Haven't thee ever 'eard it said that one man's trash is another's treasure? It's what's been me bread n' butter almost ever since I could walk," the man sighed.
The girl saw that he had a pegleg sticking beneath his sooty, threadbare woolen tweed left pant's leg.
"You're goin' to tell me you got that in the Great War?" the girl asked.
"Nah, thee seem brighter than most folks in these here parts. Shouldn't thee be gettin' back to your real home?" the man asked.
"The All Clear's not been sounded and I can still hear bombs exploding. Besides, I don't think you've got a real home yourself," the girl protested.
"Cheeky Gal! What d'ye care if I do or not?" the man asked.
"Well, you're someone interesting to talk to," the girl offered.
"Thee sure know how to flatter a fella, " the man scoffed.
"Well, as long as we have to be stuck here together, shouldn't we talk?" the girl asked.
" 'Spose so. Have thee got a name?" the man asked.
"It's Lydia. Lydia . .. Grubb, " Lydia sighed.
"That's a pretty name- at least the first part," the man shrugged.
"Well, no one's used the first part since I was a wee one," Lydia sighed.
"They call thee Grubb?" the man asked.
"Me factory cronies an' the boss call me 'Grubby'. Same as my cousin who sent me there as soon as she thought me old enough ," Lydia sighed.
"Your own kin don't act like kin're s'posed to. I can relate," the man sighed.
"Do they hate your name?" Lydia asked.
"Nah, just me, " the man scoffed.
"So what's your name?" Lydia asked.
"The real one or the others?" the man asked.
"Your real one, of course. Don't worry. I won't tell the Air Raid Wardens or cops about you," Lydia insisted.
"It's Wainwright. Alfred. . . Wainwright," Alfred Wainwright admitted.
"What's so bad about . ..?" Lydia asked.
"I ain't exactly s'posed to have that name," Alfred admitted.
Lydia wondered what Alfred meant but before she could ask further.
At that moment, the All Clear Siren sounded.
" I guess I should be getting back to the factory so they won't count me dead and give my spot to some other rootless girl," Lydia asked.
"Yeah, well, I better get some of this gear to the countryside an' see if I can sell it," Alfred sighed as they walked outside and Lydia noticed a small handcart already loaded with all kinds of odd items obviously picked up from the rubble of the ruined city.
As he walked away, Lydia realized she hadn't thanked him from saving her life when she'd gotten knocked out from the bomb- and, as she made her way back to the factory [and could see that it was still working despite yet a few more craters in the roof and wall from this latest air raid], Lydia couldn't help but hope to see Alfred Wainwright again.