by Jodi Taylor
I excused myself immediately afterwards and went back to my office. The tables were still laid out exactly as I had left them. When he’d still been alive. Filled with uncomfortable energy, I set up the schedules and assigned personnel. That done, I turned to my in-tray. I worked my way steadily through everything. Even the dross at the bottom, some of which had been there for months. I built data stacks, dictated reports, and caught up on my emails. I even did my filing because I was as sure as hell Miss Lee wouldn’t.
When that was finished, I turned my attention to my desk. Rarely opened drawers were turned out and ruthlessly dealt with. I rearranged my working area. I tore down old or out-of-date papers from my notice board.
When I finally finished, dusty and worn out, it was very late. Well past midnight. The building had fallen silent. I’d been at it for hours and hours. There was a mound of stuff on Miss Lee’s desk for her to deal with. Dr Bairstow was going to get a hell of a shock when he saw the number of reports I’d sent him, but my desk was clear and my in-tray empty.
I switched off the light and made my way along dim corridors, back to my room.
Tomorrow was a new day. A new beginning. A whole new life.
Chapter Fifteen
I threw myself at my work. I threw everyone else at their work, as well. I don’t think anyone sat down for a month.
We cleared the old schedule and embarked upon the new. Tim and I earmarked Julius Caesar for ourselves.
Dieter became the new Chief Technical Officer. I was pleased for him. Tim came to me and told me they’d offered him Leon’s old room and how did I feel about that? I don’t know how he thought I would react, but I’d always knew it would go to someone, and knowing that it would be Tim on the other side of the roof was – acceptable.
Helen dragged me in for my six-monthly medical, sat on the windowsill, and lit a cigarette. I stared up at the smoke detector and then realised I didn’t care any more. There would be no more battery battles.
She told me to slow down, that I’d lost too much weight too quickly. I pointed out she’d been telling me to lose 10lb ever since I walked in through the gates, and told her to make up her mind. Views were exchanged, culminating in instructions to sleep more and do less. We both knew that wasn’t going to happen.
She sighed heavily, chucked her dog-end out of the window, and continued with the questions.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Absolutely fine.’
‘Getting out much?’
‘Julius Caesar coming up and Dr Dowson says he has something for us next week.’
‘Not what I meant.’
‘I know.’
‘Anything even remotely resembling a social life?’
‘Talked to Kal on the phone last night.’
‘Still not what I meant.’
‘I know.’
‘Any sort of sex life?’
‘She’s not my type.’
She sighed and came right out with it.
‘Are you sexually active?’
‘No. I usually just lie back and think of the Spartans.’
‘Ticking the box marked ‘extra enemas’ and moving on …’
I should have been researching Caesar and Ancient Rome. Instead, I’d spent the last twenty minutes in the library, alternately looking out of the window or staring blindly at the half-completed data stack swirling in limbo in front of me.
‘Cheese-rolling,’ said Dr Dowson taking the seat opposite me as I struggled to get to grips with the day.
‘What?’ I said, confused. Understandably, I think.
‘Cheese-rolling,’ he said again.
Enlightenment failed to happen.
I dragged my thoughts back from where they’d been and said again, ‘What?’
‘I need details for my current project. I’m looking into the Phoenician influences in early Britain.’
I decided to stop saying ‘What?’
‘Why?’
‘Tin mines,’ he said, with the air of one making everything crystal clear. ‘Trading links with the west country. They took tin – what did they leave behind?’
A whole generation of half Brit/half Phoenician offspring was the most likely answer to that one.
I sighed and flattened my data stack.
‘Cheese-rolling?’
He nodded, pleased at my lightning grasp of the subject in hand.
‘Yes, it happens in several areas around the West Country, but the main event is in Gloucester.’
‘Is?’
‘Yes. Since the early 1800s at least.’
‘There weren’t that many Phoenicians around then, surely?’
‘That’s when they started keeping records. It’s been going on since the 1500s. Probably even long before that.’
‘So, just to be clearing – this cheese-rolling – you want us to investigate?’
‘Yes.’
‘When? Ancient British cheese-rolling? Sixteenth-century cheese rolling? Nineteenth-century cheese-rolling? Current cheese-rolling?’
‘Oh, Nineteenth century, I think. Current is no good. The authorities have been trying to put a stop to it for years on health and safety grounds. Unsuccessfully, I’m happy to say, but I don’t think they use a proper cheese any more and there are always delays while they have to wait for the ambulances to return from ferrying casualties to the hospital and we want to be in and out as quickly as possible. So, I thought if we go back a couple of centuries, we could experience the authentic cheese-rolling …. experience. Any Whit Sunday will do.’
‘We? Are you intending to accompany us, Doctor?’
‘Of course, Max. It’s my project. Sadly, the old fool upstairs wants to come as well. We’ll have our work cut out making sure he doesn’t break his neck, of course.’
‘Hold on. How can cheese-rolling break his neck?’
‘Oh, dear me. Have you never …? This is from last year. Watch this.’
He brought up a data stack and I sat and watched. Appalled. And fascinated.
I suppose I had imagined – in my innocence – a couple of elderly ladies gently laying aside their parasols and decorously tossing a pretty little cheese – underarm, of course – at a row of girlie skittles while possibly wearing bonnets decorated with flowers and ribbons. I should have remembered fertility rites don’t really work like that. Fertility rites involve blood …
This particular rite involved some kind of enormous, homicidal wheel of cheese, rolling and tumbling down a one-in-three hill – or cliff, as those outside of Gloucester would probably call it – obliterating everything in its path and closely pursued by similarly rolling and tumbling young men in proud possession of a death wish St Mary’s could only stand back and admire.
A row of burly men were stationed at the bottom of the cliff – sorry, hill – to catch those still on their feet and prevent them from crashing into each other, the scenery and – in extreme cases – Cheltenham.
A couple of years ago – maybe even last year, I would have sat back in amazement and said, ‘Cool! Is there a ladies’ race? Where do I sign up?’
Now, aware that at my age the bones don’t heal always heal quickly, I wasn’t so sure.
‘Dr Dowson, is Dr Bairstow aware …?’
‘Oh yes. Have no fear. It’s all been cleared. Just a brief jump, of course, since we don’t have a client and this one is for our own personal consumption, so to speak.’
I replayed the data stack and watched the devastation again. Dr Dowson insisted on slow-motion replays in case I missed some of the finer points of bone-breaking.
‘Marvellous, isn’t it? You can see the primitive influences. Fascinating. Quite fascinating. I thought you could put together a small group and we’ll pay them a visit.’
I’m an historian and a regard for personal safety has never figured that prominently in my working life but I do have an occasional twinge of conscience about the personal safety of others. I called a meeting and showed them the data stack – every bone-
busting moment of it before calling for volunteers.
Several hectic minutes later, Guthrie restored order.
We had to limit the contestants to six, but compensated with unlimited spectators.
‘What about you, Max?’ said Peterson. ‘Are you going?’
‘Of course. I’m the still, small voice of sanity.’
I could hear Guthrie laughing all the way down the stairs.
Once they’d all gone and just the history department remained, we held a meeting to discuss strategy. Which took about twelve seconds.
‘Right,’ said Peterson. ‘The honour of the department is at stake. We’re not having some techie or security oik win this. Right Max?’
‘Absolutely. Your instructions are clear, gentlemen. Come back with your cheese – or on it.’
In the end, we took the big pod, TB2. It was ridiculous – everyone wanted to go. I did wonder, briefly, if the Boss had lost his mind, but, as usual, he knew exactly what he was doing. This was a St Mary’s day out.
The history department was represented by Peterson, who’d pulled rank, and Roberts, who had medals for running. Why we thought that might be useful is a mystery to me. Security was fielding Markham and Weller, and the techies had entered Dieter (who was big enough to flatten any and all opposition – and possibly the 9lb Double Gloucester cheese as well), and Cox.
Helen headed medical support. Dr Dowson and Professor Rapson festooned themselves with recording equipment, all of which I knew they would forget to deploy once the races started.
And we were ready.
‘Right,’ I said as we assembled at the door of TB2, prior to unleashing ourselves on 19th-century Gloucestershire. ‘Standard rules apply. No one goes anywhere alone. Don’t drink the water. Try out the gurning, by all means. Many of you have a natural advantage there. Watch out for pickpockets and cutpurses. Gentlemen, raise your hats and bow if speaking to a member of the opposite sex and ladies should bob a curtsey. Any questions?’
I stepped aside lest I be trampled and off we all went.
The fair was great fun. We watched the gurning, and the shin-kicking, and the wrestling, inspected the goods laid out for sale, avoided some of the more dubious-looking booths, refused the offer of a tasty animal-product pie, evaded the more obvious con artists, and slowly followed the chattering crowds to the site of the main event.
I nearly killed myself getting up that bloody cliff. Or Cooper’s Hill, as I should probably call it. Quite honestly, Edmund Hillary himself and a team of Sherpas would have nearly killed themselves getting up that bloody cliff.
I gave it up half way, telling everyone I’d get a better view from here rather than the top – which was true, because in addition to being nearly vertical, Coopers Hill is concave so the only thing you can see from the top is the bottom.
We – Schiller and I – settled ourselves in the sunshine, on a moderately comfortable tump of grass and discovered we could only maintain stability by clutching at a handy tree root and hanging on for grim death. Around us, happy families all dressed in their Sunday best were doing exactly the same, clinging on to saplings, odd fence posts, each other, and busily unpacking their refreshments. A good many flagons were being passed around.
We smiled at our neighbours, straightened our mobcaps, rearranged our shawls, and primly tucked our skirts around our ankles.
Mrs Mack had provided pasties and we got stuck in, because, as far as I could see, given the lack of safety procedures, health and safety restrictions, medical provision, or organisation of any kind, the event would only take just long enough for the four races to be run, the dead and dying scooped up and the cheeses awarded.
At the top of the hill, a large number of stalwart but possibly not too bright young men had assembled. I could see our guys among them, blending in nicely with their leather breeches, stout shoes, gaiters, and thick frieze jackets. They seemed undaunted. We’re St Mary’s. We don’t daunt.
It is important, they told me later, to watch the cheese until it passes you, because cheeses don’t care and often bounce into the crowd, maiming the innocent and those too slow-witted to duck. Once the cheese has gone past, then you switch your attention to the hill and can fully appreciate the carnage occurring there.
The first race was excellent. The cheese was unleashed and a second later so were the contestants. Most of them managed to stay on their feet for nearly two or three giant strides and then gravity won and down they went, tumbling down the steep slope, head over heels, to the cheers and jeers of their supporters. They pulled themselves to their feet, got their bearings, and set off again. And fell again. And rolled again. Some cartwheeled spectacularly through the air, arms and legs flailing, receiving a special roar of approbation. Some fell and didn’t get up. The hill was littered with young men in various states of dilapidation. Coats were ripped or had come off altogether. Shoes lay everywhere.
‘Good God,’ said Schiller, awestruck.
I have no idea who won the first race. The survivors limped away, all with foaming tankards to aid convalescence. Several young men lay sprawled on the ground and had to be carried away. Astonishingly, deaths were rare.
Our guys were in the second race. St Mary’s spectators, distributed evenly around the battleground, waved and cheered as they lined up with the other competitors. They waved back. Precariously. The slightest movement caused people to lose their footing. The Master of Ceremonies, bright in his red coat, called everyone to order.
‘One to be ready,
Two to be steady,
Three to prepare,
Four to be off!’
The crowd roared encouragement and I woke up in SickBay.
What the hell?
Helen was going ballistic. I could see her mouth opening and closing. If I bothered to listen, I would probably be able to hear what she was saying as well. Whatever it was, it can’t have been that serious, because Hunter was bashing away at her scratchpad with a huge grin on her face.
Finally, I said weakly, ‘What happened?’
Helen unhooked the chart from the bottom of the bed and held it up. I focused with some difficulty.
‘CBBC? What the hell is CBBC?’
‘Concussed By Bloody Cheese.’
Hunter gave up the struggle and snorted her way out of the room. Such unprofessional behaviour. She was definitely off my Christmas card list.
‘What the hell …?’
‘You forgot to duck.’
‘When?’
‘Five seconds before a 9lb Double Gloucester smacked you between the eyes would have been the best time.’
The bloody cheese-rolling!
Peterson stuck his head round the door. ‘Hunter says she’s awake. Can I come in?’
‘If you must.’
First things first. ‘Tim, did we win?’
‘Inconclusive, sadly. The cheese veered off into the crowd, causing a certain amount of consternation and was never seen again. Two farmers carried you down the hill. They dropped you twice. The crowd loved it. Almost as good as the race itself. You joined the heap of St Mary’s incapacitated at the bottom.’
‘Oh God. What’s the damage?’
‘Three broken bones,
Two gammy knees,
And a particularly painful dislocated shoulder, ’ he warbled to the tune of “The Twelve Days of Christmas”. ‘Oh – and a nasty case of CBBC. Don’t you remember anything?’
‘No. Not after the first race. Didn’t any of you stop to help me?’
‘How? Trust me, once you start, you can’t stop. A bit like you and chocolate. I had a vague glimpse of you on your back, legs akimbo and then I’m afraid I had to concentrate on my own personal difficulties. Dieter took you off the farmers and carried you back to the pod and we laid you out with the other casualties. You were the only one who actually lost consciousness. I should warn you – Markham took photos. Oh, and you’ll be thrilled to hear, Dr Dowson, although too excited to remember to record the first race, defin
itely got the second – what little there was of it – but it quite clearly shows you head-butting a giant cheese and falling flat on your back and showing your drawers. There’s talk of putting it on YouTube. Unless you cough up. I believe the going rate is about £50.’
‘What?’
‘Per head.’
‘ But that’s … daylight robbery.’
‘No, it’s revenge.’
‘For what?’
‘You know, the butter incident. Oh – and there’s a T-shirt as well. I’ve chased the cheese. Except for yours. Yours just has a large duck on it. Because you didn’t. Duck, I mean. You do know you’re never, ever going to live this down, don’t you?’
‘You bastard!’
I threw back the covers but Helen had him out of the room before I could get to him.
I cursed them all, but there was no choice. I paid up. Several charities did very well out of St Mary’s that year. And once again, Dr Bairstow had known exactly what he was doing. The Great St Mary’s Day Out was a huge success. Unless you were suffering from post-CBBC trauma, of course. Even I felt my mind lighten as we put Troy behind us and moved on.
Chapter Sixteen
I was hanging over the gallery, waiting for Peterson and watching my department argue their way through the day when Rosie Lee approached, waving a yellow telephone message.
‘Can you see Mr Strong at the stables, this afternoon? About three?’
‘Do you know why?’
‘What am I? Psychic?’
‘Did you even ask?’
‘What am I? Your assistant?’
‘Would you like to be? I don’t actually have one.’
‘It was a bad line and he was in a hurry. I could barely make him out. Have you let your side-saddle hours lapse again?’