A Second Chance

by Jodi Taylor

  Everyone wailed. Every person was important.

  The woman on the end let go of her staff, struck out and seized his arm. Two men splashed past me and into the sea. One of them was Peterson.

  An excellent swimmer, he reached them first, pulling the man to the surface, just holding him and the woman above the water, nothing more, until other rescuers arrived and they all struggled back as a group, helping each other before collapsing, exhausted onto the sand.

  The old man’s eyes were closed and it wasn’t looking good. Peterson lay face down on the wet sand, shoulders heaving.

  Everyone else was crowding around the old man and he wasn’t moving.

  In a bad situation, the secret is to make it worse. As far as History was concerned, we were dead men walking, anyway.

  I moved a woman gently aside and went to look.

  He was still alive. My relief was overwhelming. I pulled him carefully into the recovery position, feeling his birdlike bones under my hands, cleared his airway and just left him to rest. He had a pulse. He was breathing. He coughed up some seawater. And then some more.

  I stepped back and looked up the beach. Everywhere, people were wading through the shallow waves. Many were collecting up bundles, staffs, everything that had been washed up with them. Nothing would be wasted.

  They hadn’t all made it. I could see bodies, face down, being swirled this way and that in the current as they were pulled away from land. Some of them were very small. But a good two hundred people had pulled themselves out of the sea and taken those first steps out of Africa.

  Since we’d rather blown the concealment side of the assignment, we stepped back and both sides appraised the other.

  They weren’t tall, but they were upright, with the natural, graceful deportment that walking all day can bring. Nor were they skinny. They were lean and well-muscled. Men and women were similarly dressed in short hide loincloths with a kind of apron at the front. At this moment, their feet were covered in wet sand, but if their calloused hands were anything to go by, they would be covered in thick skin.

  And their skin was beautiful. They were black but a black made up of many colours. I could see olive-green and purple shadows under their eyes and a glistening gold where the sun caught their cheekbones. They painted their bodies and although the sea had washed off most of them, I could see the remains of dots, squiggles, lines – complex patterns all carefully drawn in a thick, white pigment.

  They adorned themselves with necklaces of shells and feathers. Nearly all the adults wore at least one strip of hide tied around their wrist. Many had several, and one, a large man, wore them nearly up to his elbow. A mark of status. Maybe he was their leader. Or the most successful hunter, with a strip of hide awarded for every kill.

  Their closely curled hair was mostly dark, although many showed threads of white. They all, men and women, wore it piled up on their heads and held in place with what looked like thick mud, which even immersion in the Red Sea hadn’t been able to shift. Eat your hearts out, L’Oreal. Some even had bedraggled feathers and braids still in place.

  A number of dark, watchful eyes quite openly surveyed us, taking in our strange garments and our much less stylish hair. Not a few smiles flickered in amusement. I wondered what they were making of us.

  Still, no one seemed particularly hostile. Curious, yes – I suspected natural good manners prevented them from touching us, exploring our strange hair and light-coloured skin – but not hostile. We’d helped them, after all.

  I was wondering what would happen next when one of the old men and some of the children we’d fished out of the sea turned up. There was a great deal of communication and not all of it was language. After a while, I noticed certain sounds accompanied certain gestures. The position of the head seemed to be important. And only those actually speaking looked at each other. Everyone else respectfully dropped their eyes.

  I was quite fascinated. These were our ancestors and they were as intelligent and articulate as we were ourselves. Although switching on the TV and catching a glimpse of the antics of our political, financial, and religious leaders would almost certainly revise my opinion. And not in our favour.

  As the sun started to sink below the horizon, they busied themselves gathering their possessions together, lighting fires, and searching the waterline and rocks for seafood and fish. We dined well that night.

  All down the beach, small fires blazed. Their only protection against the terrors of the night. Little circles of light to guard against what must sometimes seem to be overwhelming darkness.

  Since, if you wanted to be accurate, we were the hosts, we felt we should bring something to the feast. Peterson disappeared back to the pod, returning a few minutes later with my entire chocolate supply, which he broke into tiny squares and distributed. They hesitated. Both Tim and I took a small piece each and ostentatiously put it in our mouths, chewed, swallowed, and smiled.

  Heads swivelled towards an old woman, sitting quietly by the fire. She stared at it suspiciously. I suspect that small, brown objects closely resembling coprolite were not on the menu every night. Heaven knows what she would have made of fruit and nut.

  Fascinated, we watched her examine the chocolate closely, turning it repeatedly in her hands, then she sniffed, apparently finding it harmless. Of course by now, in the warm night and so close to the fire, her little lump was getting soft. Slowly, she raised one smeared finger to her lips and tentatively licked it.

  Everyone watched closely.

  She made a small sound and licked another finger. Surviving this, she popped the rapidly melting square into her mouth. We watched her face. As did everyone else. They had an official food taster. I’d heard of this. Encountering new plants and fruits every day, one member of the tribe took it upon herself (or himself) to taste leaves, seeds, berries, unknown fish, or animals, while everyone else watched to see if it was safe. She must be very good at her job to have lasted so long. A young girl sat beside her, watching her every move. I wondered if she was the apprentice.

  Anyway, the chocolate passed muster and soon everyone was munching away. Sounds of enjoyment floated across the fire.

  ‘Now you’ve done it,’ I said to Peterson. ‘It’s you who’s responsible for mankind’s insatiable desire for the brown stuff.’

  Our hair fascinated them. Even Peterson’s, which, admittedly, looks like a badly made haystack on a windy day. I pulled out my hairpins and let it fall. Immediately, three or four women surrounded me and began to braid it.

  Despite his protests, the same was happening to Peterson.

  ‘Relax,’ I said. ‘Just go with the flow.’

  And so we sat under the slowly darkening sky, listening to the waves wash the shore as our relations – and they were our relations; we were their children – laughed and chatted and arranged our hair into this season’s fashionable look. It took a great deal of mud to keep mine piled on top of my head and the weight of it was astonishing.

  ‘Never seen you look so tall,’ said Tim, from the other side of the fire.

  While this was happening, all around us songs and chants drifted across from the other fires. They had a culture. Our own hosts joined in, clapping their hands and making odd clicking noises with their tongues. We did our best, but I’m tone deaf and Peterson has all the rhythm of a paralysed stoat. They laughed again, but it wasn’t unkind laughter.

  To show willing, Tim and I sang “Stairway to Heaven”, the only song to which we both knew most of the words. They were very unimpressed, but very polite.

  I tried to get their names. Several times I pointed to myself and said, ‘Max,’ and then, ‘Tim.’ They responded, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Did they make names for themselves? Or did they just call each other tall woman who hunted with me last year when we killed the antelope at the water’s edge?

  But some things are universal. A sense of friendship. Of kindness. Of welcoming. You don’t need words for any of that.

  Star
s came out and dotted the sky. I watched their faces in the flickering firelight . Large, clear eyes regarded their world without fear or hostility. Their faces were unlined and their smiles stretched from ear to ear.

  I wanted to learn so much from them, but they were settling themselves down for the night and I could feel my own eyes growing heavy. Rather like my head. I looked forward to the next day and the chance to spend more time with them.

  Completely ignoring rules and regs about returning to the pod, I made myself comfortable, spent a little while listening to the gentle rhythms of sea and speech around me, and then fell asleep.

  I opened my eyes to an empty beach.

  They’d gone. They’d left us.

  The sun wasn’t up and yet they’d gone.

  We weren’t anything like as important to them as they were to us. They’d risen, packed up their gear, and departed without even waking us. I struggled with the disappointment.

  I stumbled to my feet and staggered a little, as my arms and legs sorted out which was which. Peterson stood at the top of a sand dune, staring into the far distance.

  Shading my eyes, I could just make them out in the dawn mist. Walking into the future.

  ‘Well,’ said Peterson, quietly. ‘There we go.’

  ‘Do you think that’s the group that makes it?’

  ‘Yes, yes I do.’

  I found I couldn’t speak. I had a huge lump in my throat as we watched them walk off into what was yet to come for all of us. They’d split up into groups of fifteen or twenty, walking single-file down the beach. This group wouldn’t go that far, but their children would go further and their children further still. Until one day …

  We watched until the last figures disappeared into the haze. There we went, indeed. A young race, with its entire future ahead of it. I envied them. I wondered if they’d been as impressed with us as we’d been with them. Somehow, I doubted it. Not impressed enough to wake us before they left. For one last look at each other. I’d wanted so much to … and they’d just departed. Without even a farewell.

  I was struggling not to cry.

  Peterson turned away and walked back to the fire. Smoke drifted across the beach.

  ‘Max. Come and look.’

  Wiping my eyes, I scrambled down the dune.

  ‘They’ve left us a gift. Look.’

  They had. They’d left us one of their shell necklaces, carefully placed nearby on a flat rock and weighed down with a small stone so it wouldn’t blow away.

  My heart soared. They’d left us a gift. They hadn’t just walked away after all.

  I would have loved to take it back with me, but I couldn’t. Peterson photographed it while I found three flat stones, placed one carefully on top of the other and laid the shell necklace on the top. A gift to the gods of this place with a request to keep them all safe.

  Today, it’s a hundred feet or so beneath the sea.

  We stood for a while, each with our own thoughts, and then Peterson said, ‘You and me. Are we all right?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes. At least, I hope we are. You were right to stop me. I nearly made a terrible mistake.’ I stopped, swallowing hard.

  He sighed. ‘They didn’t need us at all, did they? We’re nowhere near as important as we think we are. A lesson we needed to learn, I think.’

  ‘Well, I certainly did. I should say thank you.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Every need, I think, Tim.’

  He smiled slightly. ‘I wonder what they thought of us.’

  ‘Not a lot, I suspect.’

  I saw us through their eyes. Over-dressed. Over-fed. At odds with the world around us. Vain. Noisy. And that was just me …

  How much less impressive than those quiet, assured people who fitted so perfectly into the world around them and who strode off into their unknowable future with less fuss and drama than most of us make just going to the shops.

  I looked along the beach. Already the wind and sea were dispersing the ashes and blowing away the footprints. In less than a day there would be nothing to show they’d ever been here. That any of us had been here.

  ‘Tim, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Hey, I told you. No need to apologise.’

  ‘Yes, there is.’

  ‘It’s OK. No harm done.’

  ‘Thanks to you.’

  I went to turn away but he pulled me back.

  ‘Sit down a moment. I want to talk to you.’

  We sat at the top of a low rise and I listened to the sounds of the sea.

  ‘Are you leaving?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you leaving St Mary’s?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Well, I heard the Chancellor offer you a job and I know you’re not very happy at the moment. Can I do anything?

  ‘You just have.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything and you didn’t answer the question. Are you leaving?’

  Was I? Was I really going to leave St Mary’s?

  ‘No, of course not. In what other job do you get to see the face of your ancestors? I couldn’t do another job even if this one kills me. Which it probably will.’

  He was silent for a while, poking the coarse sand with a stick.

  ‘Glad you’re staying.’

  ‘Me too.’

  He put his arm around me. First time ever.

  We sat in silence while I had a bit of a think.

  ‘Tim, did he do all this just to keep me here?’

  ‘Dr Bairstow? Wouldn’t be at all surprised.’

  ‘Tim …’

  ‘Yeah, I really wouldn’t mention that to anyone, if I were you. Let’s get our stuff. We should be getting back. Mission accomplished.’

  ‘And we didn’t really interfere that much.’

  His face brightened.

  ‘That’s right. This time, we’ll hardly have to fudge the report at all.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Six months later, I was in my office getting ready for one of my favourite tasks. This was when I sorted out the assignments for the coming year.

  Forget computers, data-stacks, and high-tech. The easiest way to plan for the coming year’s assignments is to push the tables together in a U-shape, send your bitterly complaining assistant out for three rolls of lining paper, and get stuck in.

  Miss Lee had marked off the centuries and I started laying things out.

  Firstly, on pink sheets, there were the assignments from Thirsk. Since they paid our wages, they had priority.

  Secondly, on green sheets, anything carried over from the current year. This didn’t happen often, fortunately.

  And thirdly, on blue sheets, suggestions and requests from people at St Mary’s. And what a varied lot there were. Major Guthrie wanted Bannockburn. Again. He never seemed to realise he’d stand more chance if he selected a battle that England actually won. There was a request for The Great Exhibition at CrystalPalace. That would be from Kal, impervious to my argument that anything that recent was practically yesterday and didn’t actually qualify as History at all.

  I’d got as far as the Famous Assassinations assignment. This was one from Thirsk. In no particular order, we had Archduke Ferdinand at Sarajevo, whose death was a major cause of the First World War, Abraham Lincoln, and Julius Caesar. I rather fancied that last one for myself. One of the worst things about my job is that I don’t get out and about in History as often as I used to. One of the best things about my job is that I can cherry-pick. I definitely fancied Caesar. I wondered if Peterson did as well. A nice little trip out for the pair of us.

  There was a tap at the door and Markham and Roberts sidled through. Miss Lee, scenting entertainment, abandoned whatever task she was engaged upon, and I braced myself.

  ‘You asked for suggestions,’ said Markham, ‘but we were out on assignment and missed the deadline. Is it too late?’

  Technically, yes, but I couldn’t be bothered to argue.

  ‘Show me what you’ve come up with.’ />
  Roberts stepped forwards. Smart, alert, and polite – I was instantly suspicious.

  ‘Well, we thought we’d go for something a little different. You know, less battlefields and blood and more refinement and culture. So we’ve given the big boys a miss and put together three nice, quiet jumps that encapsulate the rich origins of –’

  ‘Just get on with it,’ I said.

  ‘OK. Bohemia, 1265. Belgium, 1366 and Munich, 1385. As you can see, not the most obvious choices, but areas which, we feel, would benefit from a rigorous and thorough examination into the –’

  I said, flatly, ‘Bohemia, 1265. King Otakar sets up the new town of Budweis and grants them a license to brew. 1366, the Stella Artois brewery is founded, and 1383 is, I believe, a very important date for lovers of Lowenbrau everywhere.’

  Markham stepped back in astonishment. ‘Good gracious. What an extraordinary coincidence. I had no idea. Did you?’

  Thus appealed to, the other musketeer shook his head and indicated his own surprise.

  I tried hard not to laugh.

  They regrouped.

  ‘Well,’ said Roberts, ‘what about 1374 – the Dancing Mania of Aix la Chappelle?’

  I was tempted. Who wouldn’t be? A massive and widespread outbreak of spontaneous dancing. Probably caused by ergot poisoning, but nevertheless …

  I looked at the two beaming, guileless faces in front of me and couldn’t find it in my heart to reject them.

  ‘Leave the details and I’ll consider it.

  They scampered from the room.

  I laid out the last sheets and stepped back, frowning. There were the usual clumps around Ancient Greece, Egypt, and Rome. Someone wanted the Battle of Hastings. That might be a good one – sort out the controversy over the arrow in the eye, once and for all.

  There was another clump in the sixteenth century. The Tudors and Stuarts were always popular. I’d have to be careful whom I assigned. Schiller, Peterson, and I had already been there, sorting out Mary Stuart.

  And I had various search and rescue operations to fit in around this lot. The Great Fire of London in 1666 and the destruction of St Paul’s Cathedral. We would nip in, (well, I wouldn’t – I was in Mauritius in 1666, but someone would), save what treasures we could find – and nip back out again. With luck before an entire cathedral fell down on top of us. If the god of historians was with us.