A Second Chance

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Jump initiated.’

  And the world went white.

  We were tucked away in some smelly alleyway off Trinity Street, so I was able to give Professor Penrose the traditional two minutes to get his head around when and where we were. He stuck his head out of the door, exclaiming, ‘Bless my soul. God bless my soul,’ over and over again, while his senses got to grips with the sights, sounds, and, especially, the smells of 17th-century Cambridge.

  He pulled himself together eventually.

  ‘Sorry, Max. That was unprofessional of me.’

  ‘Not at all, Eddie. On my first jump I was turning cartwheels.’

  We set off for Trinity College, where a young Fellow named Isaac Newton was, with luck, about to make an appearance.

  Cambridge was every bit as wet and dreary as I thought it would be. I shivered inside my cloak as we picked our way carefully along Trinity Street, easing our way through the crowds. The place was packed as students, townspeople, tradesmen, and livestock noisily shoved their way along the uneven cobbles.

  Eddie was staring around. ‘Do you know, I think the Tourist Information Centre might be just down there. One day.’

  I didn’t reply. I was picking my way through something pink and blobby. Apparently well ahead of its time, Cambridge had implemented proper street-cleaning services as far back as 1575. God knows what it had been like before, because today we were up to our ankles in piss, rotting vegetables, dog turds, unidentified innards, vomit, puddles of dirty water, horseshit, mud, and things I didn’t even want to think about. Even more alarmingly, packs of foraging dogs roamed everywhere. I wished I’d brought a stick. The town itself had been described, I forget by whom, as low-lying and dirty with badly paved streets and poor buildings. I had no argument with any of that.

  Trinity Street, with its inns and merchants’ houses, was handsome enough, but, behind the main streets, a network of squalid alleyways and dirty yards led down to the river. As always, the pod was parked in one of these squalid alleyways. Show me a squalid alleyway – any squalid alleyway – and I’ll point to the pod parked in it.

  As we drew closer to Trinity College itself we could see a number of people streaming in and out of the Great Gate. Worryingly, none of them were women.

  We stood quietly in a doorway and watched the crowds go past. I wanted to take some time before actually entering the college. There shouldn’t be any difficulties at all with this jump; we were, after all, about to visit one of the world’s premier colleges, not the Battle of Waterloo. But we’re St Mary’s and we have been known to have the odd problem occasionally. Eventually, I gave the nod to a quivering professor and off we trotted.

  Eddie went first, neat and respectable and scholarly in black. I was dressed as his servant and also in black. I walked one step behind him at all times, so I could keep an eye on him.

  He marched confidently through the smaller doorway in the ornately decorated Great Gate. I looked up at the statue. Henry VIII clutched his sceptre. At some point in History, students would substitute a chair leg. The current whereabouts of the sceptre are unknown.

  ‘It’ll turn up one day,’ said the professor confidently, following my gaze. ‘You know what colleges are like. It’ll be somewhere, propping someone’s bedroom door open. Or someone’s using it as a poker.’

  We knew Newton’s rooms were off to the right, between the gate and the Chapel. A wooden staircase led from his rooms to the enclosed garden and there was no other exit so he had to leave through the front door. We were fortunate not to have to penetrate too far into the college. Accordingly, we looked around for somewhere quiet to tuck ourselves away and wait.

  I’d never even visited Cambridge before, far less Trinity College, and I was gobsmacked at the size and scale of my surroundings. It had been called the finest college court in the world and I could easily believe it. The buildings were magnificent. Time to look later. First, we had to park ourselves somewhere out of the way while we waited.

  I pulled up my hood and kept a respectful pace behind the professor. I saw no other women on the premises and had no idea whether I should actually be here at all. This is where a too-hasty briefing gets you. However, I’d had what seemed at the time to be a brilliant idea and brought a small mirror so I could stand inconspicuously behind the professor, keep my eyes averted so as not to contaminate any men, and still be able to see what was going on around me.

  I don’t know why I ever thought that would work.

  We were prepared to wait for several hours, although with luck we wouldn’t have to. We wore stout shoes and warm, waterproof cloaks and could stand all afternoon, if necessary. The air was wet, but it wasn’t actually raining and the afternoon was mild enough for early autumn. Away, in the distance, I could hear crows calling in the still air.

  There were plenty of people around – all of them men – mostly dressed in black. Everyone was either wearing or carrying a hat. I saw a variety of wigs, mostly of a dull brown colour. The grey afternoon leached all colour from the scene, but, even so, I doubted it was ever a riot of colour. They walked to and fro in small groups, heads bowed, discussing, presumably, the secrets of the universe. Everything was exactly as I had hoped it would be – quiet, peaceful, and non-threatening.

  My plan was to wait quietly, watch the great man walk past, either on his way in or out of his rooms, restrain Professor Penrose from accosting his idol, and then return him, safe and sound, to Dr Bairstow and St Mary’s for a celebratory drink.

  Things didn’t turn out that way at all.

  Eddie, who had been here before, pointed out the various buildings and their functions to pass the time. From there, it was only a small conversational step to discussing other and (according to Eddie) lesser colleges. Queens, for instance, founded by the Lancastrian queen, Margaret of Anjou, whose sharp tongue and high-level paranoia were two of the reasons for the Wars of the Roses.

  Since Eddie was a Yorkist and I had Lancastrian leanings, we whiled away the time with a discussion that was brisk and not always to the point. I was busy slandering the entire Yorkist line when the door opened and a tall, thin figure slipped out. I’d been a little worried we might not know him, but, trust me, the Newton nose was a dead giveaway. He pulled the door to behind him, settled his papers more firmly under his arm, and stood for a moment, looking up at the sky. Given his habitual vagueness, he was probably trying to work out where he was.

  Professor Penrose stiffened like a pointer scenting a game-bird and involuntarily took several steps forward.

  The movement attracted the figure’s attention and he turned towards us. My first thought was that he was far too young to be our man. Mid-twenties at the latest, with a long pale face, a wide mouth, and a determined chin. A very modest wig hung down either side of his face – like spaniel’s ears.

  I was completely taken by surprise. The three of us froze – Professor Penrose with his arm outstretched as if to shake his hand, me with my mirror, and Isaac Newton still clutching his thick sheaf of papers tied with ribbon.

  We all stared at each other for a long moment.

  Completely forgetting my careful briefing – this is why we don’t let civilians do this – Eddie stepped forward, saying, ‘My dear sir. This is an honour, a very great honour …’ and stopped as it became apparent his idol was ignoring him and looking at me.

  Oh God, I shouldn’t be here. They probably had very strict rules about letting in women and I was about to be burned at the stake. Or stoned. Or flogged. Or impaled. Historian on a stick. I knew this would happen. This was why Peterson had originally been selected for this assignment. There was no doubt the sight of a woman within these hallowed halls of learning had seriously discomposed the great man who stood, open-mouthed, staring at me.

  Confused, Eddie turned to look as well. ‘What …?’

  I was conscious of the harsh sound of the crows again, ominous in the silent court. What sort of trouble were we in now?

  The two of them stare
d at me and I still hadn’t a clue what was going on. Nothing new there, then. I actually looked down at myself to check I was correctly dressed. What was happening here?

  Isaac Newton made a hoarse sound and stretched out a trembling hand. I still didn’t get it. He was obviously in the grip of some strong emotion, but what? Slowly, the truth dawned. It wasn’t me at all. It was the mirror. He was staring at the mirror. Why? Did they have some rule about mirrors? I know it sounds odd, but clump together large numbers of male academics unleavened by a little female intelligence and practicality, and all sorts of bizarre behaviour patterns and phobias can emerge.

  ‘Of course,’ he said and I was startled at the strong, rural burr in his voice. His appearance was quiet and gentlemanly and I suppose I’d expected his voice to be the same.

  ‘Of course,’ he said again and it was apparent he wasn’t talking to either of us. ‘A mirror.’

  And before I knew it, he’d taken several long steps forward and snatched the mirror from me, turning it over in his hands.

  ‘Yes … yes … of course … replace the lens …’

  He backed away, turned, and before I could stop him strode swiftly towards his rooms. With my mirror. Isaac Newton had stolen my bloody mirror!

  Now we were in trouble. That was a modern mirror and there was no way I could leave it here. This was more important than Professor Penrose and certainly more important than me. I’d be breaking every rule in the book if I left that here. It’s not that as a mirror it was anything special, but you just can’t go littering the timeline with anomalous objects. History doesn’t like it. That’s History as in Kleio, daughter of Zeus and immortal Muse of History. Or, if you prefer, Mrs Partridge, PA to Dr Bairstow and pretty formidable in either incarnation. I’d have to lead a team to get it back. And if we couldn’t find it … or he’d already incorporated it into something important … like the bloody reflecting telescope … there would be hell to pay.

  If I was going to get it back, it would have to be now, before he could re-enter his rooms. But I had Professor Penrose to think of as well. I couldn’t just go off and leave him to his own devices.

  Newton was several yards away and picking up speed. I said to Eddie, ‘Stay here. Don’t move.’

  Too late. The professor had already started after him in a kind of lurching hobble that still wasn’t bad for someone his age. So I set off after the pair of them.

  Isaac Newton, looking over his shoulder and seeing us racing towards him, did what anyone would have done, shouted for help and broke into a run.

  I muttered some dreadful curse, hurtled past Professor Penrose, and, before he knew what was happening, tried to snatch the mirror back from an astonished Newton. Who wouldn’t let go. For long seconds we tugged back and forth, both determined not to relinquish our hold.

  People were turning to watch. I cursed again, offered up a silent apology to the greatest mathematician the world had ever known, and kicked him hard on the shin. I think he let go of the mirror out of sheer surprise. I turned, grabbed the professor’s arm, shouted, ‘Run!’ and we set off for the gate.

  I heard a voice behind us shout, ‘Stop. Stop them. Thieves.’

  Oh, shit. Our little incident had been witnessed by others in the Great Court, wrong conclusions drawn, and now we were in trouble.

  It’s that easy.

  The cry was taken up by other voices and the next moment half a dozen burly young men were on our trail.

  Bloody bollocking hell! How could so much go so wrong so quickly?

  I cast caution to the winds, shouted, ‘Come on, Eddie. Move!’ and we shot out of the gate and into the busy street.

  If I’d had Peterson with me, we would both have slowed down so as not to attract attention, split up, and discreetly made our way back to the pod. But I had Professor Penrose, so that was out of the question. We put our heads down and buffeted our way through the crowds. Cries of protest marked our progress. We apologised and excused ourselves as best we could, but the young men pursuing us showed no such restraint, pushing people aside in their eagerness to get to us. They were gaining.

  Help came from an unexpected source.

  I didn’t notice, to begin with, but our progress became easier. People stepped aside to let us pass and then closed again behind us. I thought I was imagining it to begin with, but, no, the noise behind us increased as the crowds hampered our pursuers.

  I knew there was no love between town and gown. In 1630 the colleges had refused to give aid to victims of the plague, even going so far as to lock their doors against the sick. Maybe relations between them were still a bit iffy.

  For whatever reason, we were drawing away from them and slowed down. What a pleasant change to have someone on our side for once. I began to regret my possibly too-hasty opinion of beautiful Cambridge and its lovely inhabitants.

  I could still hear uproar behind us. A familiar sound. People shouted at us, at the pursuing students, at the barking dogs. The pursuing students and the dogs barked back. You never heard such a racket.

  Definitely time to go.

  I picked up my skirts and ran again. Beside me, Professor Penrose ran quite nimbly for someone his age. I fumbled inside my cloak for my pepper spray, just in case.

  A group of scruffy young men lounging outside The Black Bear, alerted by the shouts behind us, turned and, seeing us running, spread out across the road to prevent our escape.

  Avoiding this bunch of alcohol-soaked ne’er-do-wells – or students, as they’re generically known – we turned right. Bloody students. Why were they always hanging around pubs when they should be at their studies? I never did that. We swerved down an alleyway, fortunately going in the right direction. Because I knew where we were. We were behind Holy Trinity church, somewhere in the maze between Sidney Street and Trinity Street and luckily hurtling the right way. A hand grabbed my cloak. I turned, closed my eyes, and squirted. He fell back with a cry, both hands to his face. The shouting intensified.

  At the bottom of the alleyway, we should go right. I could see a corner of the pod, just to the left of an archway.

  Someone seized me again. The professor spun around and delivered a left hook that sent him reeling. My assailant fell sideways onto three stacked boxes of fruit. They and he fell across the alleyway.

  ‘College boxing champion in my day,’ panted the professor.

  The alleyway was full of people, all shouting at us. But our way ahead was clear. I pulled over two barrels, fortunately empty, and sent them rolling down the alley.

  ‘Go, Professor, go.’

  He didn’t argue, he knew he was the slower. I could catch him up later. The alleyway was lined with all sorts of useful detritus. Broken chairs, crates, piles of rubbish, the odd dead dog … I threw everything I could in my wake. Anything to slow them down. I’m not a bad sprinter and all I had to do was stay ahead of them.

  A huge, red-faced man wearing a stained leather apron stepped out ahead of me, his mighty arms outspread. He should be so lucky. I gave him a quick squirt and he bellowed with pain and, as he covered his face, I managed to squeeze between him and the wall.

  Eddie stood by the pod at the end of the alley. Bless him, he’d armed himself with a stick and, from the look on his face, was prepared to use it. Ignoring Major Guthrie’s careful training, I cast a quick glance over my shoulder. Not a good idea. I could hear the Major’s voice now. ‘Never mind what’s going on behind you. You’ll find out soon enough if you stop to look.’

  There weren’t as many of them as I had thought from the noise. But they were close. I couldn’t afford to be caught. Without me the professor wouldn’t be able to get into the pod. And in the seventeenth century the penalty for theft was hanging. In my case, they’d probably chuck in a few charges of witchcraft as well. I really should get an office job.

  Something whizzed past my ear. Great! Now they were throwing stones.

  No, they weren’t. Professor Penrose was throwing stones. And old vegetables, bits o
f wood, pots, anything he could lay his hands on. He’d probably bowled for his college as well. The threatening shouts behind me became warning shouts.

  Ignoring everything going on around me, I ducked my head and raced for the pod.

  And then, just as I thought we were safe, two more men appeared from behind the pod and seized the professor’s arms. He struggled. They weren’t gentle and I feared for his ancient bones.

  Time to bring out the big guns.

  I reached behind me for the stun gun under my cloak. We’re really not supposed to do this. I zapped one man and he fell backwards, twitching.

  I tossed the pepper spray to the professor, shouting, ‘Point it away from you, Eddie,’ because he was a physicist and you never know.

  Hands seized me. I twisted away and zapped blindly. I heard another cry and clatter as someone else crashed to the ground in a convulsing heap. It was only a matter of time now – yes, here we go – ‘Witch! Witch!’

  You couldn’t blame them, I suppose. From their point of view, I stretched out an arm and a man fell to the ground. Predictable, but given that this was supposed to be a world-famous seat of learning in the Age of Reason, I was a little disappointed. On the other hand, I’m a Thirsk graduate myself, and nothing other universities do surprises me very much.

  We were within about ten feet of the pod. So near and yet so far. Some citizens had drawn back, leaving four or five of their braver brethren to tackle the woman and the old man.

  If I’d had Peterson, or Clerk, or Van Owen, or any of them, it would have been a piece of cake. This sort of thing happened so often it was practically the standard end to most of our assignments.

  I heard the professor shout, heard another shriek as someone got a face full – with luck not the professor himself – jabbed an elbow into someone’s midriff, swung a fist, and caught something hard. And, once again, I’d forgotten to untuck my thumb, and, once again, it hurt.

  It really wasn’t one of those nice, clean, carefully choreographed Hollywood fights where the stunningly beautiful heroine – that would be me – tastefully attired in skin-tight black leather and impractical heels, destroys an entire platoon of heavily armed opponents without even breaking a fingernail.