Lies, Damned Lies, and History

by Jodi Taylor

  Blinking and squinting, I managed to focus. I couldn’t see very clearly. A black figure crouched beside me, half hidden in the swirling snow. It was Leon – but he was older. His hair was almost completely silver and he wore it brushed back from his forehead. He had a fresh scar on one cheekbone and another smaller one on his chin. One of the big blasters was slung across his back. He wore body armour. He had a battered look about him. Snow was settling in his hair and on his shoulders. I struggled to make out what was going on. Why was he here? Why wasn’t I in bed? Why did he look so different?

  My lips felt stiff and cold. I mumbled, ‘Leon?’

  He heaved me to my feet. ‘Come on. Up you get,’ and I realised I’d been almost buried in snow. He brushed me down with one hand, holding me upright with the other. ‘You were lost in the snowstorm.’

  He crouched again and I realised the two snowy lumps at my feet were Peterson and Markham. He heaved Markham out of the snow and slapped his face a couple of times. ‘Wake up! Open your eyes!’

  Markham staggered slightly, ‘Wha…? Where’m I?’

  ‘Asleep in the snow,’ he said tightly. ‘Give me a hand.’

  We all pulled out Peterson, who stood swaying.

  ‘Listen to me, all of you’ he shouted, over the noise of the wind. ‘I can’t stay, but you must get back to the pod. Get out of the cold.’

  He turned us around. ‘You were going in the wrong direction. The pod’s over there. Less than one hundred yards. Stay together. Go now, before you freeze to death.’

  ‘How did you …?’

  He touched my face with his gloved finger. ‘Good to have seen you again, Max. I’ve missed you.’

  What did that mean? Was I … not around for some reason? Was I dead?

  He paused, bent his head, and kissed me very quickly, and that was when I knew he was real, because his lips were as cold as mine were.

  ‘Leon, wait. What did you mean?’

  He was already stepping back into the swirling snow. No, he was becoming part of the swirling snow.

  His voice drifted back on the wind. ‘Get back to the pod.’

  Then he vanished completely, leaving us alone.

  I was shivering uncontrollably. The last thing I wanted to do was turn into that icy wind again. I remembered the comforting warmth of the snow. Then I remembered Leon.

  Beside me, Markham’s legs sagged.

  ‘No,’ I said sharply, pulling his arm. ‘Back to the pod. Back to the pod or we’re dead.’

  He mumbled something. I linked an arm with him, he did the same with Peterson, and we struggled into the wind.

  It wasn’t far. Fifty yards – no more. We had been nearly there. Why hadn’t we made it? I struggled to reassemble memories that were flying further and further apart with every second.

  Markham muttered something.

  ‘What?’ I shouted, above the wind.

  He lifted his head. ‘Rescued by a bloody technician. The shame of it.’

  ‘If you feel you can’t live with it, we can always leave you here.’

  And then we were at the door.

  We took care of each other, helping each other strip off our soaking gear and wrapping ourselves in thick, warm blankets. I kicked the heaters up to full blast, and Peterson rummaged in the rations pile for hot soup. We sipped slowly, warming our hands on the mugs. I inhaled the glorious rich smell of oxtail soup.

  Finally, Markham said, ‘Was that Leon?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Why wouldn’t he stay?’

  ‘Just a guess,’ I said slowly, ‘but I think he was on his way to somewhere else.’

  ‘He looked older,’ said Peterson.

  I nodded again.

  ‘Well,’ said Markham, ‘tell him I owe him a pint.’

  We waited two days and three nights for the snow to stop and then we gave up. The world outside was just a featureless landscape. Everything was white. Barrows and tumuli were just so many lumps in the snow. The outer stones on the north-east side were almost completely covered in long smooth drifts of windblown snow. The temperature stayed below freezing and chilled the blood no matter how much clothing we wore. Stepping outside entailed cracking the icy crust which had formed over the surface of the snow. It was as if someone had dumped the contents of the North Pole on to Salisbury Plain.

  ‘Told you,’ said Markham, packing up his gear. ‘Never mind Death Valley or the Namib Desert. Never mind whether it’s then or now – Salisbury Plain is the most inhospitable spot on the planet.’

  No one disagreed.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  So that was my last jump. Not the spectacular success I would have wanted to finish on, but at least we all survived. I might have looked somewhat bedraggled on my return because Leon, waiting for me outside the pod as he always did, took one look and said quietly, ‘Max. Enough.’

  I didn’t even think about arguing with him.

  We all spent a day in Sick Bay.

  Markham recklessly presented Hunter with a very short list of all the areas of his body he claimed were suffering from frostbite and should be massaged with warm oil before irreparable damage set in, and subsequently spent the remainder of the day hiding out in the women’s ward.

  ‘I’m claiming sanctuary,’ he announced. ‘Like that bird at Ephesus. You know. Wossername.’

  ‘Arsinoe,’ said Peterson. ‘Legend says she had her hands cut off so she couldn’t keep a grip on the altar. Do you really want to give Hunter ideas?’

  ‘He’ll be lucky if it’s just his hands,’ I said, and there was a thoughtful silence.

  They had the tact to take themselves off when Leon turned up. He sat on the bed because I think he’s the one person at St Mary’s not terrified of Dr Foster, and we smiled at each other.

  We talked about my leaving date, the cottage in the village, everything under the sun. I told him about seeing an older version of him at Stonehenge, and how he’d saved my life. All our lives. And that Markham owed him a beer. The only thing I didn’t mention was the sentence that was running round and round my head until I wanted to scream.

  ‘Good to see you again, Max. I’ve missed you.’

  I tried to push it aside. It could mean anything. It could mean that he’d missed this younger version of me but I didn’t think that was it. It could mean that we weren’t together any longer. It could mean he’d left me. Or I’d left him. It could mean I was dead.

  And, finally, came my last few weeks at St Mary’s. We’d signed the lease on the cottage in the village and ferried most of our bits and pieces to our new home. It was a pretty place, not large, but directly opposite the pub which more than made up for the lack of a third bedroom. It would be our home for six months, and afterwards – I had no idea. I had no idea whether I would return to St Mary’s or not. I think I was just drifting through the days … waiting …

  I did very little during my final weeks, ignoring Peterson’s comment that I’d done very little before my final weeks, but it was pleasant to slow down and take some time just to talk to people. I spent a wet afternoon sitting with Mr Strong in his cosy cubbyhole in the basement, drinking tea and munching my way through an entire pack of chocolate digestives. He told me some very interesting stories about Dr Bairstow and the early St Mary’s. I listened carefully and took mental notes.

  I had afternoon tea with Dr Bairstow and Mrs Partridge. She laid out the best china – the good stuff with the pretty floral pattern. I was honoured.

  And, of course, I had to endure the increasingly frequent antenatal check-ups.

  Helen didn’t mince her words. ‘I can’t believe it Max, You’re overweight …’

  ‘I prefer the expression underheight.’

  ‘Your diet’s appalling …’

  ‘Brown food is good for you.’

  ‘You’ve been terminally constipated for most of your life and especially the last nine months, and yet, unbelievably, you and young Farrell are sound and healthy. What are your plans?’
>
  ‘Well, I’m pretending not to notice they’re organising my leaving do. Or that the History Department have clubbed together and bought baby furniture. Or that Wardrobe has made a huge number of little baby jumpsuits, tactfully in both blue and orange. Or that R&D have made a rocking horse … Are you listening?’

  She was rummaging in a drawer, paused awkwardly and then thrust a package at me. ‘Here.’

  ‘What’s this?’

  She looked away. ‘Just a small present. You might never notice it among all that other grand stuff.’

  ‘Can I open it?’

  ‘If you want to. It’s nothing special.’

  She was wrong. It was very special. I gently pulled the paper apart so Leon and I could open it together later, to reveal a soft lemon blanket, carefully edged in matching ribbon.

  ‘Helen, it’s beautiful. Where did you get it?’

  She hastily lit a cigarette. ‘I … knitted it.’

  ‘You can knit?’ I said, in much the same tones as people might say, ‘You sided with the Fascists?’

  ‘Why not?’ she said, puffing smoke out of the window.

  ‘I don’t know. I just never thought …’

  The only thing I knew about knitting was that old women did it as they sat at the foot of the guillotine watching the heads roll. Personally, I would have thought that was a bit of a splash zone, but knitters are obviously made of stern stuff. Clearly, one of Helen’s ancestors had sat there, shouting out the score as she flapped her needles, and now her descendent had harnessed that need to witness violence, pain, and fear, and become a doctor.

  ‘Well, it’s beautiful, Helen. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Why are you still here?’

  I spent a couple of days in the Library, writing up my overdue reports, tidying things away, and chatting with Dr Dowson.

  And spending a lot of time with Leon. We didn’t do a lot, just sitting quietly, enjoying the peace and just for once, having the time to talk. We sat in our room, or walked around the gardens, or lazed away the afternoon under the willows by the lake. In the evenings we would sit in the bar for what wasn’t always a quiet drink.

  One evening, we entered the bar to find a small crowd in one corner, where, it turned out, Markham was proudly displaying the reason for his constant scratching. Apparently, and no one was quite sure how he’d managed it, he had ringworm.

  ‘Does it move?’ asked Bashford, giving it a prod.

  ‘What?’

  ’Does it move? Does it wriggle around under your skin? Will it burst out of your chest?’

  ‘No, no, and no.’

  ‘Well that’s disappointing. Exactly what does it do then?’

  ‘Don’t know. I suppose I could teach it to do tricks.’

  ‘It’s massively contagious,’ said Helen, appearing from nowhere.

  ‘What?’ said Bashford, stepping back in a hurry.

  ‘It will multiply overnight and its offspring will spread throughout your entire body. They will burrow into your vital organs. They will infiltrate and consume your brain, excreting it out through your ears. They will eat your eyeballs from the inside out. You will be riddled with pus-filled sores. Gangrene will set in, resulting in multiple amputations. You will be racked with excruciating pain and die in screaming agony.’

  Markham was suddenly at the epicentre of an expanding circle.

  ‘It’s probably too late to save you, but you’d better report for treatment anyway.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To get rid of it, of course.’

  He clutched himself protectively. ‘Not Oscar!’

  ‘You named your ringworm Oscar?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘In God’s name, why?’

  ‘He’s a boy. You surely didn’t expect me to call him Janet.’

  ‘Treatment! Go! Now!’

  He scuttled off.

  Peterson grinned up at her. ‘Really? I didn’t think ringworm was that serious.’

  ‘It’s not. I just couldn’t resist. It was a little joke. I thought I’d show my human side.’

  And so my last day arrived.

  I rolled out of bed, showered and dressed. I took my time partly because today I could, but mostly because at this stage of my pregnancy, I didn’t have a lot of choice. I pottered around our room, conscious of more than a little sadness. I don’t know why – it wasn’t as if I would never see any of them again. Our position opposite the pub would make us a convenient crashing place for those who had left their legs in the bar.

  I sat on the bed, slowly combed and plaited my hair and pictured happy domestic scenes. Playing with the baby in our bit of garden. It would be midwinter, but I’m an historian and never let boring facts get in the way of a good fantasy. Leon bustling around the kitchen producing something delicious while I drank wine and watched him. Sunday mornings in bed with tea and toast crumbs everywhere.

  Of course, it wouldn’t be like that at all. It would be a screaming hell-hole of wet nappies, a crying baby, and tired and frustrated parents. Our cottage would cease to be cosy and become cramped. Leon would find excuses not to come home, staying later and later at work, until finally he would sleep at St Mary’s, and we would drift further and further apart. Then one day we would decide it wasn’t working and it was time to go our separate ways, and I’d spend the rest of my life cursing myself for having abandoned my principles and embraced domesticity. I would die old and alone, in a cardboard box in a shop doorway somewhere. Boots, probably, or Dorothy Perkins.

  You see, this is what comes of having so much hair. If I had a bob, I’d have stopped at the Sunday morning tea and toast crumbs and shot happily off for breakfast. Never grow your hair past shoulder length.

  My last afternoon was lovely. I was gossiping with Mrs Enderby when someone telephoned me to go down to the Hall. Everyone was gathered there. I clattered down the stairs demanding to know why I was the only person actually working and informing Dr Bairstow that the place was going to the dogs.

  He ignored this provocation. There were speeches, presents, terrible jokes, and embarrassing stories and I did a really bad job of not crying in public. I looked at the little pile of gifts and thought about the solitary girl who’d stamped up the drive all those years ago with equal amounts of qualifications and attitude. I’d had no idea what I was getting into – and that applied to more than just the job.

  I looked up to find Dottle standing before me, smiling nervously. She thrust a package at me. ‘I made this for your baby.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  I set down my glass and unwrapped the package. She’d made a small, pale blue teddy with endearingly lopsided cross-stitched eyes. I smiled down at it.

  Every child should have a bear to watch over them. Even I’d had one. Until he was lost. I searched and searched but I never found him. These days, I had Bear 2.0, a treasured possession – a gift from Leon, brought to comfort me in dark times. I shook myself a little. Now my child would have a bear as well. I would settle him at the foot of the cot where he could sprawl, wonky and unbalanced – just like the rest of us. He would watch over my child as Bear had done for me.

  ‘Thank you, Lisa.’

  She was scarlet. ‘It’s the least I could do,’ and scurried off.

  Mrs Mack served champagne. I allowed myself a few celebratory sips, quite enjoying myself until Markham told me the celebrations were about having finally got rid of me. I tried to sulk but that’s actually quite tricky when you’re grinning from ear to ear.

  Leon and I wandered from group to group. I was sipping tonic water from a champagne glass – which doesn’t make it taste any better, believe me – and saying goodbye to everyone. Mrs Enderby put her arms around as much of me as she could manage and gave me a big hug.

  I said goodbye to everyone, carefully packed everything in a box, and escaped upstairs to pick up the last of my stuff from my old office. Rosie Lee was there. Yes, I was surprised too, but I suppose if it came to a
toss-up between working and going downstairs and being nice to people then working came an easy first.

  Most of my stuff was long gone, but I pulled the last few things out of my bottom drawer. There was a bottle in there – in the event of an emergency, drain contents, smash bottle, and tidy the body away afterwards. I left it for Clerk. He’d need it.

  I packed up the last remnants of my working life, adding it to the gifts already in the box. Dottle’s teddy peered cheekily over the top.

  Miss Lee watched me in silence and then, just as I was picking up my little cardboard box and preparing to depart, she said, ‘Here,’ and put a package in front of me.

  I said, ‘What’s this?’ and she rolled her eyes at my stupidity.

  ‘It’s for you,’ she said. ‘Everyone buys presents for the baby, but no one ever buys anything for the person who’s about to do all the work. I thought I would.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, touched. Now I came to think of it, she was right. Although I wasn’t going to tell her so because that wasn’t a precedent I wanted to set, but she was right. I’d been laden with little knitted bootees, shawls, toys, teddies and so on, because suddenly, you stop being a person and become a mother and the two are not the same at all. For some, of course, it’s a voluntary and welcome transition. For others – not so much.

  She turned away to her desk and I pulled off the paper. Inside was one of those mugs with ‘World’s Greatest Boss’ written on it.

  I looked over at her, her back defiantly towards me, ears bright red. It was important I didn’t say too much.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Still with her back to me, she nodded.

  I took a deep breath. ‘After … you know … when we’re settled … it would be nice if you and David … and Benjamin, of course …’

  She nodded again. I nodded back, realised she couldn’t see me because I was still standing behind her, and cursed myself for an idiot. Intellectually speaking, being pregnant had done me no good at all.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you soon, I hope.’

  She turned, her arms full of files. Every inch the busy assistant. My heart went out to Clerk. She was going to eat him alive. Her flush had faded to acceptable levels. ‘Good luck.’