Plan for the Worst

by Jodi Taylor

  And yes, I know I’m being a hypocrite. I’ve juggled with History on more than one occasion but I have never, ever, ever gone off and deliberately left one of my people behind. In fact, not just left them behind, but taken a conscious decision not to save them. You can’t do that. The one belief that keeps us going through thick and thicker is that someone will always come back for us. We never leave our people behind. Never.

  I didn’t know where the Time Police had come from and so bloody-minded was I feeling at that moment that it was hard to be grateful to them. In fact, I was fast approaching the point where I thought I should have drowned and that would have served everyone right. I had a brief and very satisfying picture of everyone sobbing over my grave. And then I thought of Leon and Matthew and Peterson. Even Markham, holding my hair out of the way as I threw up, gently wiping my face afterwards and asking where the carrots had come from.

  Dr Bairstow stood up. That was obviously it. As far as he was concerned, the matter was closed.

  ‘And the Time Police?’

  ‘Ah – you remember that?’

  ‘Markham mentioned it,’ I said.

  ‘It became imperative that Mrs Brown and I concentrate on the young boy. I passed a message to the Time Police outlining the situation and requesting assistance. It would appear they complied with my request.’

  He paused. Was he expecting me to thank him? I was luckier than I realised. The Time Police could well have just ‘filed’ his request and left me to drown. That would certainly have solved a lot of their problems. And mine, too.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘not a hugely successful assignment.’

  He turned to go. ‘Well, we now know at least one of the boys found a refuge with their aunt, but perhaps we should just chalk this one up to experience.’

  I’ve been winding up authority since the day I fell out of the cradle.

  ‘I disagree. I think something can still be salvaged from this. It’s a pivotal event in English History and I’m unwilling to let it go. I think we should consider sending in another team. We now know where and when to point them and I’m certain Mr Sands and Mr Atherton would appreciate the opportunity to investigate further.’

  There was a very long silence. I looked up at him, wondering what his response would be.

  Eventually, he said, ‘No, I don’t think so, Dr Maxwell. I do not agree that this is an area warranting further investigation. In fact, I think a complete embargo on that particular event would be helpful to all.’

  Now what did I do? Did I protest? Or did I let it go? We were both lying to each other and we both knew it. Was he challenging me to disobey him?

  I gave a one-shoulder shrug – the matter wasn’t important. ‘As you wish, Dr Bairstow,’ and picked up my book, hoping he wouldn’t notice my hands were shaking.

  He stood for a moment and then limped out. I watched him go through my eyelashes. He never looked back.

  23

  Markham came back in and flung himself on his bed. ‘And the good news is that Dr Stone says if you can keep your dinner down this evening, they’ll let us go tomorrow.’

  ‘How is your release contingent on me keeping my dinner down?’

  ‘No idea,’ he said, rifling through his fruit bowl to stave off the pangs of hunger until lunch turned up in half an hour. ‘Perhaps they don’t want to deal with you if I’m not around to assist. Let’s face it, Max – I pulled you through.’

  ‘Through what?’

  ‘Your recovery. Who passed you your sippy cup? Who held the basin ready just in case? Who waited outside the bathroom door in case you never came out again? Who cut up your toast for you? I’ve been bloody wonderful.’

  While not going quite that far, he had a point. He’d been pretty good. If I woke in the night, he helped me to the bathroom rather than bring in Nurse Fortunata. He reminded me to drink regularly. And he’d done the thing with the basin when my toast had thrown itself into reverse and I hadn’t been able to get to the bathroom in time.

  ‘Well, I shan’t be sorry to go. It’ll be nice to see Leon and Matthew without a pane of glass between us. Did you see the card that Matthew made me?’

  We both looked at the hand-drawn and coloured card with his name carefully inscribed inside.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The Time Map.’

  He squinted. ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘He never draws anything else. And we can have a proper lunch with Peterson as well.’

  ‘Yes, God knows what sort of bad habits he’s developed in our absence. You know what he’s like. I never say anything because I don’t want to hurt his feelings but he really needs us to keep him on the straight and narrow, you know.’

  ‘Can I gather then that your tests all came back negative?’

  ‘You can,’ he said proudly. ‘Except for the ones that were supposed to. Completely clean bill of health.’

  ‘Well, you look better.’

  And he did. Very much better.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Just one of those things, I suppose. I think sometimes we forget not everything we catch is the result of investigating major historical events in contemporary time. Sometimes a stomach bug is just a stomach bug.’

  We were released the next morning. Markham had just shot into the shower when Dr Stone turned up, clutching a sheaf of papers and a scratchpad. Markham was singing his lungs out so I was quite glad of the distraction.

  Dr Stone dropped the whole lot on my bed and pulled up a chair. ‘People often get the wrong idea, you know.’

  ‘Do they?’ I said, baffled, although I think we’ve established it doesn’t take much.

  ‘Yes. People often think that in organisations where the medical services are provided by their employers, that medical confidentiality flies completely out of the window and that’s just not true.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  He was rummaging through his papers, not looking at me. ‘Oh no. For instance, if someone had something that was particularly troubling them – something that related to another member of the organisation, perhaps – they sometimes feel they can’t discuss it without that something getting back to that particular member of the organisation.’

  He began to divide the papers into two piles while I struggled to work out his last sentence. ‘I mean, obviously, if they were experiencing psychotic breaks or something of that nature . . .’ he paused and stared vaguely into space, ‘. . . although I’m not sure how anyone would notice that here – I certainly wouldn’t – anyway, obviously I’d have to report that, but everything else is completely confidential. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this place can be a bit weird sometimes and the opportunities for someone to discuss something safely and without fear of reprisal aren’t quite the same as in the outside world. But they do exist, you know. Just saying.’

  He signed something with a flourish. ‘Your release papers. Off you go and never darken my door again.’

  Leon was waiting for me. And Matthew. I thought of that little boy struggling in the river and gave Matthew an extra hug, which he didn’t appreciate at all. And then an extra one for Leon as well, just in case he felt left out.

  He smiled down at me. ‘I’ve heard of Typhoid Mary – should we be calling you Cholera Max?’

  ‘Not unless you want to be known as One-Legged Leon.’

  ‘So relieved to discover near-drowning has rendered you gentle and amenable.’

  ‘I’ve always been gentle and amenable.’

  ‘Should I have said “more gentle and amenable”?’

  ‘You could try, but it’s too little too late, buster.’

  He smiled again and dropped a kiss on top of my head. ‘Welcome back.’

  We had a nice quiet lunch with Markham – because, as he said, you couldn’t have too much of a good thing – and Peterson. The conversation mostly rev
olved around what Markham persisted in referring to as the Grand Project – or Uncle Markham’s robot, as Matthew referred to it.

  Matthew, who obviously gets his single-mindedness from his father, chattered and ate simultaneously. Markham revised his spec every other sentence and Leon intervened occasionally in his role as person with the strongest grip on reality. Peterson made the occasional unhelpful contribution and I concentrated on my lunch. It was good to be back.

  I took the rest of the afternoon off, doing not very much at all, and returned to work the next day. I sat in my office, surrounded by all the Crete stuff – which I could and should now get on with – and had a bit of a think. Rosie Lee bustled about. I ignored her which really got on her nerves. At 11:30 she requested a lunch break and I said yes, go, and don’t come back before 2:00 p.m. She immediately sat back down again and glared at me.

  I sighed. She was never going to go now, was she?

  ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘while you’re here, can you wash that mug of . . .’

  The door slammed behind her.

  I swivelled my seat, put my feet up on the radiator and stared out of the window. For a long time.

  Then I got up and wandered down to the Library, spoke briefly to Dr Dowson, and wandered back out again with pretty much everything he had on the Duchy of Burgundy, the Palace of Mechelen and Margaret of Burgundy.

  Most people are aware of Burgundy as a part of France, but in the 15th century, the independent Duchy of Burgundy was an extensive area in its own right and the Duke of Burgundy was a force to be reckoned with. In 1477, however, the last Duke, Charles the Bold, had died, and the Duchy was annexed by the King of France. Charles left a widow, Margaret of York, sister to Edward IV and aunt to the Princes in the Tower.

  Margaret, an intelligent and attractive woman, played an active role in the politics of the time, safeguarding Burgundy’s interests as best she could. There had always been rumours that her nephews had been sent to her for safekeeping. At the time in question, she was living in the political and administrative city of Mechelen in what is today’s Belgium. Under her husband, Charles, the city had flourished, becoming a centre for the cloth trade. She’d moved into the former bishop’s palace and was still a person of considerable influence.

  I studied such medieval maps as I and Dr Dowson had been able to find. Between the former palace and the cathedral of St Rumbold’s lay a tangled maze of little streets and alleyways. The sort of place where they’d never notice a small, apparently stone-built hut suddenly appearing overnight. I sat and calculated the coordinates, double-checking all the way, because if this went wrong there would be no one to bail me out.

  So that was the where. Now how about the who?

  I would be a solitary woman and a stranger, which was certainly not ideal, but there was one role that not only covered that but would give me a certain authority into the bargain.

  I collected up the Burgundy material, shredded my notes, returned everything to the Library and then wandered off to see Mrs Enderby.

  I crossed my fingers, requested a nun’s habit and she didn’t bat an eyelid.

  ‘Yes, I think I can help you, Max. Come back in . . .’ she looked at the clock on the wall, ‘. . . two hours.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘Well, I assumed time was important.’

  ‘There’s one other thing, Mrs Enderby.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you have an altar cloth? Or something similar?’

  ‘I have several altar cloths. From the chapel. We repair and store them here.’

  ‘I’d like your biggest and best.’

  ‘I have one in the finest linen and embroidered with gold silk.’

  ‘May I borrow it, please?’

  ‘Borrow is the word on which I would like you to focus, Max.’

  ‘I shall do my best.’

  She looked at me closely. ‘Seven o’clock, then. Early enough for you still to be working late. Not so late that wandering around the corridors will arouse suspicions. Now let me get on.’

  Not for the first time I pondered on the rumour that Wardrobe recruits its personnel from the criminal classes.

  I told Leon I would be late for lunch because I had a lot of catching up to do – which was true – and set off for the paint store to make my preparations for stealing a pod. I rehearsed my story as I went, just in case anyone should stop me, and tried to remember if there was anyone I wasn’t lying to these days.

  Fortunately, I met no one in the Long Corridor because everyone was at lunch – seriously, if you ever want to invade St Mary’s, any meal time would be your best bet – and slipped into the paint store.

  A word of explanation here, I think, before anyone thinks I was planning to paint my way out of the situation.

  Leon has his own pod. It’s a tiny affair – a single-seater. It’s not part of our official . . . I suppose fleet is the word I’m looking for. I don’t know what the collective noun for pods would be. In fact, I think pod is a collective noun but pod of pods doesn’t sound right, so we’ll go with fleet.

  Anyway, back to Leon’s pod, which lives an independent life of its own, concealed in the paint store. And before anyone says, ‘Well, that’s not much of a disguise,’ it has the best disguise of all. It can’t be seen. It’s not invisible – apparently that’s impossible – but thanks to a number of high-def cameras and a pretty sophisticated computer programme, it can just . . . merge . . . into the background. Plain backgrounds are best, obviously, deserts or grasslands or similar. According to Leon, leafy jungles can be a bit of a challenge.

  We don’t have this camouflage system installed in our own pods. There are enough challenges during our working day without a bunch of panic-stricken historians racing around in circles, shouting, ‘Where is it? I know I left it here somewhere,’ as the crowd closes in for the kill, or the volcano erupts, or whatever. To say nothing of the hazards of a contemporary unknowingly walking into it and knocking themselves out cold. Trust me – that has happened, although I’m not allowed to mention it.

  I checked up and down the corridor. No one was in sight. I squeezed in through the door. Leon’s pod was in the back corner, behind the shelves of Battleship Grey and Sunshine Yellow.

  It only took me a moment to check over the power levels, the console and so on. Not that I was worried. This was Leon’s pod and everything would be in tip-top working order. And it was. There were rations in the lockers, the water tanks were nearly full and the batteries charged. I could ask no more. I let myself out, shot off to a late lunch and then to spend what was left of the afternoon in my office complaining about the amount of work I had to do and being completely normal.

  At ten to seven I shut down my data stack, switched out the light and closed my office door behind me. Peterson’s office was empty. Everywhere was empty. I didn’t see a soul.

  For those who are thinking things were going unusually well – they were. Right up until I crept into Wardrobe. The place was deserted. Half completed Cretan costumes littered the place but squarely in the middle of Mrs Enderby’s work table lay a neatly folded nun’s habit. The altar cloth lay alongside. This was great. I could grab and go.

  I had to be careful crossing the room – there was stuff everywhere and I didn’t want to knock anything over. I squeezed between the tables and was just about to lean over and grab the costume when Mrs Partridge said, ‘Dr Maxwell?’

  I did not jump, scream, faint or run away – although it was close. Slowly straightening up, I said, ‘Oh, hello, Mrs Partridge. What brings you down here?’

  When there are awkward questions being asked, always get your own in first. Of course, that doesn’t always work. She said, ‘I am surprised to see you here, Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘Just picking something up,’ I said, full of the righteous glow of truth-telling. Of course, if she asked what, I’d be stuc
k because I could just feel the ingenious-excuses area of my brain shutting down.

  ‘You look tired,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long day for someone only just back to work.’

  Have you ever noticed whenever someone says, ‘You look tired,’ you immediately just want to lie down and go to sleep? I fought off a yawn. ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

  She pulled out a chair. ‘Why don’t you take a moment to sit down?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I’ve actually just finished up and I’m on my way back to my room and then it’s an early night for me.’

  ‘In that case, Dr Maxwell, you should sleep well.’

  I changed in the pod because although it was just after seven in the evening and most people were in their rooms having had dinner, and were thinking about what to do next, someone would have been bound to notice a short nun wandering the corridors.

  I had a bit of a struggle with the robes. I can only assume nuns dress in pairs. Mrs Enderby had added one or two small pieces of Velcro which were a big help – do modern nuns know about Velcro, do you think? – but there seemed to be a lot of strings to tie and the headdress was particularly complicated.

  I started with the underskirts, two of them, followed by the tunic – black, obviously – waving my arms around until I found the head hole, followed by the scapular, the long apron thing that hangs front and back. I tied the scapular round my waist with a cord. Some orders tie the tunic under the scapular but I’d opted for the other way because it provided a useful storage pouch.

  I’d asked for tight sleeves in this get-up too. Traditionally, there are two sets of sleeves and although the larger outer ones can be folded back out of the way, I’d dispensed with those. My sleeves were a little more practical.

  I pulled the mirror off the bathroom wall and got to work on the headdress. A white cotton cap first, then the white wimple, struggling to tuck all my hair inside. I covered everything with the white under-veil and finally, the long black one over that. Velcro strips were a massive help here too.