The TV Time Travellers (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

How It Started

Izzy

NEARLY
.

Isn’t that the most horribly annoying word ever? It can stab you right in the heart too. So my dream
nearly
came true. I was
nearly
on
Britain’s Got Talent.

Mum and I waited in the queue for over five hours. Then I had two minutes in front of the show’s researchers. They decide if you’re good enough to appear on the telly
.

I’d learned by heart this funny poem (which I’d also written). And afterwards the researchers asked me to stay behind. ‘Such a good sign,’ whispered Mum. My
heart
was thumping away now and Mum kept smiling at me so hopefully. Until this amoeba burst onto the stage and started shouting, ‘Chitty, Chitty, Bang, Bang.’ He had a great pair of lungs on him, I’ll give him that. And of course everyone went, ‘Aaah’, and cried for a week and they chose the amoeba to go on the show rather than me, didn’t they?

Just as I was leaving though, one of the researchers, trying to be kind, said to me, ‘You did well, Izzy, you nearly got on to
Britain’s Got Talent.’

Yet what good was that? I think I’d rather have been hopeless and missed it by a mile. I was just crazy with disappointment
.

And then, outside the studio, some girl thrust a leaflet into my hand. ‘Just to let you know,’ she said, ‘there are some other auditions going on.’

‘What for?’ I asked
.

‘Strictly Evacuees,’
she cried
.

‘Never heard of it,’ I muttered
.

‘Yeah, a few people seem to have missed our adverts. But we’re a brand-new TV
channel
called Reality Plus and we’re holding auditions right now.’

Then Mum and I read the leaflet. It didn’t sound at all the kind of show I’d be interested in. But neither Mum nor I wanted to go home. So we hopped into this taxi, which we really couldn’t afford
.

And I went into that interview in such a bad mood. I slouched back in my chair and didn’t smile once. And when they asked me what I knew about the Second World War, I was totally honest. I said, ‘Not a lot really. I know we won which I’m pretty pleased about. But I’m not big on history, because the past is rubbish, isn’t it? And I’m so glad I wasn’t a child in the war, because I’d just be waiting all the time for someone to invent computer games and mobile phones and
Hollyoaks
 . . . I really couldn’t stand it.’

Afterwards I thought, Well, I’ve totally blown that one. But it wasn’t my sort of show anyway. Yet I got called back for a second interview. And do you know what they said? – this girl from Reality Plus rang me – they liked my attitude
.

Now that was just incredible as I’ve got
a
terrible attitude. Ask anyone. I can get into strops over such silly little things too
.

In fact, at school I got into so much trouble I actually had my own desk in detention. No, don’t smile, because it was awful really. I was awful: loud and mouthy just about sums me up. And I’m always saying stuff I really don’t mean. Don’t ask me why, but something just gets into me
.

Anyway, there I was back at Reality Plus and two people interviewed me next time. A youngish guy with the mightiest sideburns I’d ever seen, who kept leaping about offering me biscuits and laughing at every single thing I said, and this woman who just sat staring at me. She didn’t speak once until right at the end when she suddenly said to me, ‘I suppose you’d like to be famous.’

And I replied, ‘Well, I’m not too fussed about that, as it happens.’

She looked a bit surprised at this and said, ‘So why do you wish to appear on
Strictly Evacuees?’

‘Two reasons,’ I said. ‘Firstly, the holiday – brilliant – and secondly, the
money.
I know you’re not giving away any cash,’ I added hastily. ‘But I can get rich off the fame, can’t I? And extra money would be so handy right now.’

We’d never been exactly flush with cash in our house. And then my dad walked out on us. Yeah, one day he just packed his bags and left. But let’s be fair, he did leave us a cheery little note behind the clock. He explained that he’d met someone else, but he’d try and get in touch again soon. What a lovely, caring dad!

Well, I didn’t want to see such a hopeless excuse for a human being ever again (and I haven’t). But poor Mum really did have money troubles now. So she had to work even more hours at the supermarket – as well as extra cleaning in the mornings just, as she put it, ‘so we can keep our heads above water’. I had to do something to help. I couldn’t leave it all to her. And getting on TV was the obvious answer, wasn’t it?

So when
Strictly Evacuees
rang again to say they wanted me to be in the show, I thought, This is definitely the best thing that’s ever happened to me. They told me
there’d
be a ninety-minute programme of highlights every night and people could also watch it all day on their computer. And the whole time they were talking, I kept saying to myself that this couldn’t really be happening to me. Only
five
kids on the show – and I was going to be one of them!

And when I put the phone down, I was shaking. Mum was at work and she didn’t like me ringing her there. So in the end I called all my friends and, of course, not one of them answered their phones. And I desperately wanted to say my news aloud to someone to make it real
.

Finally, Mum came home and I thought she might jump about a bit and cry, ‘Well, this proves you’ve got star quality,’ or something. Instead, she fell into a chair looking totally bewildered and muttering, ‘But why on earth have they picked you? I just don’t understand.’

‘What’s to understand, Mum? I’m special and I’m through,’ I said wearily. But she went on looking highly puzzled. And the next day this huge form came along from the TV company
.

Mum started reading it and calling out things like: ‘What do they mean when they say young people must be prepared to accept the tough discipline of the Second World War? And how is this a social experiment?’

‘Oh, who cares? Just sign it,’ I said
.

But Mum shook her head. ‘Something doesn’t feel right – and no one’s even heard of this TV company.’

‘That’s because it’s new. People hadn’t heard of the BBC once. Now, will you stop squawking about like a wet hen and sign the form – or have I got to forge your signature?’

‘You do know you can just walk out of this show anytime you want,’ she said
.

‘Yes, yes . . . now come on, get writing.’

And finally she did
.

CHAPTER THREE

The Journey Begins

Izzy

‘JUST REMEMBER, WATCH
your temper.’ Mum had said that to me every day since I got that phone call from
Strictly Evacuees.
But now she was saying it to me for the very last time. We were in the taxi (paid for by Reality Plus, of course) and she went on, ‘If you’re tempted to say something, stop and bite your tongue. Now, you’re not a bad girl really . . .’

‘Thanks.’

‘You just don’t know when to keep
this
shut.’ She pointed to her mouth. ‘Don’t forget, your first aim is not to get nominated.’

I grinned. ‘You really want me to win this, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do . . . but whatever happens you’ll always be a winner to me.’

As soon as she said that, tears started forming behind my eyes, which I blinked away furiously. I really didn’t want to walk in there bawling my eyes out
.

As the car pulled up outside the Reality Plus studios, the driver turned round and said, ‘You go in and win now,’ which I thought was really friendly of him
.

And there was a large crowd of people watching Mum and me walk into Reality Plus. A few of them cheered and waved, but most just stood there having a good gawp
.

‘Good morning,’ murmured Mum politely to them. A couple of voices replied, but the rest only went on staring at us
.

I thought to myself, Just by going on this show I’ve set myself apart from everyone else. I’m someone different already. I rather liked thinking that
.

Inside the foyer a girl took my suitcase, gave me a name tag and instructed me to say goodbye to – well, she said my family,
even
though it was clear to everyone there was just one person with me
.

I gave Mum a hug, and then as I could feel those tears again I gave her a swift wave and walked quickly away. The girl said, ‘There’s a little reception downstairs for you and the other evacuees.’

‘Oh, groovy,’ I said. Then she helped me put on a microphone. ‘Are there cameras in this reception then?’ I asked
.

‘There will be cameras practically everywhere you go now. Some you will see; the majority you probably won’t even notice. But they will be there. So remember – and this is very important – make sure you are always miked up. You can only take your mike off when you have our permission at night, no other time.’ She went on, ‘Three of the other new evacuees have arrived already, so I’ll leave you to get acquainted.’ Then she sprinted away while this door slid open. I was standing at the top of a very long staircase. Down below was a very brightly lit room. That must be for the cameras, of course
.

So it’s really happening. I’m about to be on the telly in some mad historical
show.
But what have I let myself in for?

And as I stood there, poised between my old life and this new one, I started thinking, I can’t remember ever feeling more scared. I’m going to turn round and run back to my mum instead. Then, very fortunately, another voice in my head took over: What are you messing about on the stairs for? This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Just dive in and stop being so pathetic
.

I began walking down the stairs when something truly awful happened. Both my legs began to shake. I glared at them, absolutely furious at their disloyalty, but they wouldn’t stop. If I wasn’t careful I was going to make my entrance falling flat on my face
.

So instead I clung onto the banisters and tottered down the stairs at a speed a hundred-and-three-year-old could have overtaken. The three other evacuees, all boys, stood watching me with a kind of horrified fascination. Who was this girl who moved at the speed of a decrepit tortoise?

Then this little boy scampered over to
me.
At first I thought a seven-year-old must have run in here by mistake. He came up to about my kneecap. He rubbed his hands gleefully, said his name was Zac and cried, ‘Welcome to my world.’

‘Your world?’ I echoed, puzzled
.

He then put on a large black hat, which completely covered his face, and proudly showed me his smelly old gas mask
.

‘I expect you’ll be given a gas mask too,’ he said, ‘to protect you against any poison gas attacks. Can’t be too careful, can you?’ He spoke as if the Second World War really was starting up all over again
.

Surely he wasn’t one of the new evacuees. No, he must have escaped from somewhere
.

He darted off and a tall boy with thick, wavy ginger hair approached. ‘Hey, how are you doing? I’m Barney.’ He leaned forward. ‘Did they tell you there are six evacuees now, not five?’

‘No, they didn’t,’ I said
.

‘They should have done,’ he said gravely. ‘He’s called Solomon. Want to meet him?’

‘Of course,’ I said, looking around
.

But instead he pulled out from his pocket a sock which he slipped over his hand. This was no ordinary sock though. It had buttons sewn onto it to look like eyes, and little bits of cloth at the sides, which were its flippers. It also had a red, slit cloth for its large mouth, which opened and closed most impressively. Then I heard this high, shrill voice say, ‘You haven’t got any fish you don’t want, have you?’