An Argumentation of Historians

by Jodi Taylor

  She nodded and he took her away for a damp half hour of tea and tears.

  Mrs Midgeley shot the idiot Halcombe a look which sadly failed to incinerate him on the spot, and departed with her towels. The rest of us ignored him and after a minute he drifted off whence he came.

  I said to Markham, ‘You’re right. He’s got to go.’

  Obviously, we tried to carry on as normal. When I say normal, you know what I mean. But the bloke was everywhere. You couldn’t have a private conversation without him turning up at your elbow demanding to know what was the subject under discussion. We took to meeting in my office. Rosie Lee would lock the door and pull down the blind and we would hold the meeting in whispers.

  We tried everything to get rid of him. We ignored him. We were downright rude to him. Nothing seemed to have any effect.

  Two days later there was an all-staff briefing from Dr Bairstow. As if I didn’t have enough to do preparing for Persepolis, liaising with Thirsk over the crown, not worrying about Leon or Matthew, and dodging the idiot Halcombe. I kid you not, some days I barely sat down.

  I was in the front row with Peterson on one side and Markham on the other, all of us wearing expressions of rapt enthusiasm. Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson were on the end. Our days of sitting at the back and playing Battleships were long gone.

  Dr Bairstow opened the briefing.

  ‘I would like, officially, to welcome Mr Halcombe, who returned to this unit a few days ago after a long absence.’

  He paused. Traditionally there should have been a round of polite applause. After a moment, when it became clear that, on this occasion, tradition was being ignored, he continued.

  ‘In a not-unrelated item, I should make it clear that from this moment onwards, the practice of walking in front of Mr Halcombe, ringing a handbell and shouting “Unclean, unclean,” is to cease forthwith. Have I made myself clear?’

  St Mary’s swallowed its disappointment and nodded.

  I sat back in my chair and watched the dust dancing in the sunlight shafting through the big glass lantern above Dr Bairstow’s head. I usually go on to describe how it picked out the highlights in his hair but those days were gone as well. Along with most of his hair, although the little bit around the back was hanging on for grim death.

  Peterson nudged me and I lurched back to the here and now.

  ‘… and so,’ Dr Bairstow was saying, ‘in the light of this recent legislation, it is necessary for you all to present proof of life. In other words, for bureaucratic purposes at least, you need to prove you are not dead.’

  Someone somewhere snorted and tried to turn it into a cough.

  ‘Normally,’ he continued, ‘I would simply request you to present yourselves before me in my office where I could use my own skill and judgement to decide your existential status, but Mrs Partridge informs me that, as with everything government related, things are not that simple. You will, therefore, be required to complete the forms she will distribute at the end of this session and return them to her by 10:00 tomorrow.’

  I nodded. I could do that. Easy-peasy.

  He raised his voice slightly. ‘Together with some form of photographic evidence. I shall then compare photograph to document, keep my inevitable reflections to myself, sign and stamp where appropriate, and forward to the relevant government department where it will be lost, misfiled, challenged, queried, denied, eaten by their computer, lost again, and finally returned to me in three or four years, by which time, no doubt, most of you will have achieved your apparent ambition to end your lives in a flamboyant and spectacular manner, and I shall have to begin again.’

  I don’t know why he was looking at me, but I beamed anyway, just to reassure him that none of the above was anything to do with me and, for some reason, he didn’t look reassured at all.

  Markham raised his hand. ‘Photographic evidence, sir?’

  ‘Yes, anything will do. Driving licence …’

  Bollocks – by popular demand, I’d cut mine up. There had been a bit of a celebration afterwards.

  ‘Passport …’

  Bollocks – I didn’t have one of those, either.

  ‘What about our St Mary’s ID cards?’ I said hopefully.

  ‘No. Only an official government document is eligible.’

  ‘But I work for the government.’

  ‘Yes, but they don’t know that.’

  All around me, I could hear the buzz of conversation and much rifling of wallets.

  I raised my hand again. ‘Would a marriage certificate do, sir?’

  He sighed. ‘Is there a photograph attached?’

  ‘I could enclose one of me and Leon cutting the cake.’

  He stared at me coldly. ‘No.’

  ‘Then I might have a problem, sir.’

  Several other people said, ‘Me too.’

  We’re St Mary’s. Our lives are full of files and forms and paperwork of some kind or another. We see no reason to burden ourselves with even more of it in our private lives.

  The buzzing rose to a clamour.

  Dr Bairstow held up his hand. ‘Mrs Partridge has informed me that those of you unable to comply can get around this obstacle by presenting any photographic image no more than six months old.’

  I was surprised the sighs of relief didn’t bowl him over but, as usual, he’d left the kicker right to the end.

  ‘These images must be presented to Mr Halcombe, who will, if he feels like it, countersign and date them, thus ensuring their validity.’

  Another of the Boss’s brilliant moves. Presenting the correct paperwork for anything is always a challenge for St Mary’s and when you add photographs as well … and to a stickler like Halcombe … the ensuing struggles would keep both him and us occupied for weeks.

  I caught Dr Bairstow’s eye and grinned. He ignored me.

  ‘And if he doesn’t feel like it?’ enquired Markham, cautiously, obviously seeing difficulties ahead. Many of the handbell ringers had come from his section.

  ‘Then I suppose you will have to reconcile yourselves to eking out the remainder of your lives in a state of official non-existence. As far as the government is concerned, you will be dead. I’m sure that many of you would be happier if things were the other way around but, as we so frequently discover, this is not a perfect world.’

  ‘Well, that’s not so bad,’ said Cox. ‘I could quite happily live a life of official non-existence.’

  Dr Bairstow smiled thinly. ‘I should perhaps advise you now that a state of official non-existence will lead to a corresponding state of official non-existence regarding your salary. While, as director of this unit, I welcome and applaud the thought of so drastically reducing the wages bill, as a caring human being,’ – he paused but no one seemed willing to challenge him on that point – ‘I advise you to approach Mr Halcombe, offer him whatever inducements you feel appropriate, and get it done, Mr Cox.’

  He scowled. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Not that the idiot Halcombe looked any happier at the thought of every member of St Mary’s trudging through his door armed with incorrectly completed paperwork, inappropriate photographs and a ton of attitude.

  ‘Moving on. Professor Rapson informs me that what I believe has become known as The Great Battering Ram Experiment will take place this afternoon after lunch. All personnel wishing to participate are to assemble behind the stables at 15:00 hours. I have no doubt that most of you will wish to do so, thus rendering much of what I have said concerning proof of life irrelevant. More prudent members of staff are advised to remain inside, don protective clothing, and stay well away from the windows. Are there any questions?’

  We were already getting our stuff together, prior to going back to work. There were never any questions. And then a voice said, ‘Actually there is just one thing …’

  The idiot Halcombe was on his feet. ‘While we’re on the subject of paperwork, I wonder if I might have a word?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dr Bairstow pleasantly, limped
down the stairs and seated himself alongside Peterson.

  Halcombe took his place on the half landing, fussing with various sheets of paper. Finding what he needed, he held up a blue flimsy. ‘What is this?’

  We peered. My heart sank. It was blue so it had originated from the History Department. The large blob of chicken shit in the top right-hand corner designated it as one of Mr Bashford’s efforts.

  ‘Well,’ I said, standing up and taking it off him, ‘it looks to me like Mr Bashford’s report on the 1536 assignment. Bashford, you don’t spell “caparisoned” like that. Learn to use the spell check.’

  ‘Not that. This.’

  I peered artistically then took out my specs, carefully wiped off the worst of the greasy fingerprints and peered again. He was pointing at the blob of chicken shit. Obviously, Angus had assisted Bashford with his report.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Did you sick up something while you were reading it – because that has happened.’

  ‘It’s chicken excrement,’ he said, outraged.

  ‘No,’ I said, astonished. ‘Is it? How on earth did that happen? Were you reading it in a chicken coop?’

  ‘Or in the farm down the road?’ said Sykes

  ‘Or that dreadful battery place on the other side of Rushford?’ enquired Mrs Mack. ‘You shouldn’t have anything to do with them. We only have free range here.’

  A dozen other voices piped up, all apparently eager to solve the mystery of the unexplained chicken shit. The briefing began to deteriorate somewhat.

  I think we might have got away with it except that, with the lack of self-preservation for which all of St Mary’s is so renowned, Angus chose this moment to wander down the stairs, presumably on her way from Bashford’s wardrobe to the stables where she would enjoy luncheon.

  Well, I say ‘wander’, but she hasn’t quite got the hang of stairs. The first two or three were fine, as she jumped inelegantly from step to step but, as usual, gravity was not her friend and she tumbled the last half dozen steps, feathery arse over plumy tip, to land with a faint squawk at the bottom.

  No one moved.

  I cast an anxious glance at Dr Bairstow, but he appeared to be immersed in the file Peterson had opened and, unfortunately, neither seemed aware of circumstances around them.

  Halcombe pointed a finger. ‘What is that?’

  ‘What’s what?’ enquired Markham, staking his claim to be first in the ensuing Halcombe-mocking programme. ‘Are we still talking about your little pile of poo?’

  ‘That!’ He pointed at Angus who had picked herself up, smoothed her ruffled feathers, crooned her love to Bashford and was now sashaying down the Hall en route to the kitchen where she could bum a tasty treat from someone, give Vortigern a serious beaking, and make her way to the stables for a substantial repast.

  ‘What,’ said Markham, cleverly peering at the spot where Angus had last been.

  ‘That. That chicken.’

  St Mary’s began to look up, down, around, in, out, left, right and inventing several new directions that had yet to be named. People began to look under chairs, pat their pockets …

  ‘Have you got the invisible chicken?’

  ‘No, I thought you had the invisible chicken.’

  ‘I had the invisible chicken yesterday. It’s your turn today.’

  People began to wander vaguely around calling, ‘Here, chicken. Here, chickie chickie.’

  The briefing appeared to be descending into noisy chaos.

  Dr Bairstow closed his file with a snap and stood up. ‘Enough.’

  The noise subsided immediately.

  Unwisely, Halcombe opened his mouth to have another go.

  Dr Bairstow began to climb the stairs, pausing long enough to pat his arm gently. ‘I’d leave it there if I were you, there’s a good chap.’ And continued on his way.

  With a face of thunder, the idiot Halcombe returned to his office.

  Peterson turned to me. ‘He’s got to go.’

  I had a lovely lunch with Leon. We sat by the windows at one of the quiet tables and just for once no one disturbed us. We chatted about Matthew and his impending visit – things we could do together and so on. I enquired whether he would be participating in the professor’s little soirée that afternoon and he laughed. ‘I’m infirm, not insane. I shall visit Ian this afternoon and we’ll watch from the safety of Sick Bay. From where, of course, we’ll have a first-class view of all the casualties being carted in.’

  The Professor Rapson’s Great Battering Ram Experiment – or The Great Professor Rapson’s Battering Ram Experiment as he persisted in referring to it – is actually a bit of a misnomer because it wasn’t all Professor Rapson’s show. At least 50 per cent of it could be laid at Dr Dowson’s door and the whole thing was the result of a long running … debate seems too sensible a word for some of the really quite energetic discussions they’d had over the years. Anyway, the whole thing had come to a head during a recent showing of The Lord of the Rings trilogy in the Hall a couple of weeks ago.

  Because of the Clive Ronan threat, we’re not allowed out much these days – to the endless relief of the outside world, says Dr Bairstow – so we have to amuse ourselves. Hence Dr Bairstow giving permission for the battering ram thing this afternoon. Anyway, every other week or so we have a big cinema experience in the Hall, with popcorn and hotdogs and so on. We’d dragged out the chairs, put up our feet and had a LOTR marathon. Things had been fairly sedate – for us – until the Battle of Minas Tirith and the appearance of Grond, the battering ram, and the old argument had surfaced again. There had been shouting and arm-waving, a lot of it considerably more dramatic than what was happening on screen. And with fewer orcs, too. Unless you count the Security Section, in which case delete that last sentence.

  The argument was this. Modern movies and holos always show the castle gates opening inwards – thus rendering themselves vulnerable to battering rams and the like. Professor Rapson’s longstanding and dearly held theory was that all gates opened outwards. Like lock gates, he says, so the pressure from the water or the force from the battering ram simply pushes them even more tightly closed. Dr Dowson was vigorous in his disagreement, although whether that was from conviction or just because he always opposed everything the professor said was unknown.

  Anyway, as Dr Bairstow had said, they were about to test their theories on our old barn. No, I know it’s not a castle, but it was a substantial structure and possessed two very large, outward-opening wooden doors. According to Miss Lingoss, who had been enthusiastically bending my ear about this for days, it would be an ideal opportunity for the professor to test his theory.

  I refrained from pointing out that the last time we’d tested one of the professor’s theories we’d had to take cover under the furniture, caused massive devastation to a number of rocks, and very nearly killed a leading member of the British film industry. It had been quite a lively afternoon.

  I had mixed feelings about this one. Not the experiment itself – I had a small wager with Peterson that the doors would hold. He was maintaining they wouldn’t – but I hadn’t been near the barn for some time. Not since Isabella Barclay had shot me there and I’d nearly died. They say that smell is the most evocative of the senses and the familiar smells of wood, earth, oil and straw brought back memories I didn’t want to relive, so I made sure I kept my distance. Today, I was planning to make sure everyone kept their distance. When it came to this sort of thing, both Professor Rapson and Doctor Dowson had form.

  Under the professor’s careful direction, R&D had built a sturdy wooden frame from which, on some hefty-looking chains, was suspended a carefully shaped tree trunk, finished with a pointed metal cap. Someone had painted ‘Grond’ along the side in blood red paint.

  I could see Lingoss trotting around checking various bits and pieces and I thought how much Matthew would have enjoyed this, which brought Leon to mind. I turned and stared back at St Mary’s. I was pretty sure I could see Leon and Ian sitting at an upstairs wi
ndow. I waved and turned back to this afternoon’s bone of contention.

  They’d mounted whole thing on modern wheels because the point of the experiment was to establish the ram’s effectiveness, not its mobility. Twenty or so people, ten to a side, were heaving the contraption across the grass towards the barn. While one or two of them had remained faithful to the medieval aspect of the experiment, wearing chainmail and moderately accurate helmets, the vast majority had gone for the orc look, sporting leather and worryingly realistic warts, scars and metal prosthetics. Sauron would have enlisted them on the spot.

  Reaching what the professor referred to as the optimum ramming position – a phrase wilfully misinterpreted by most of the Security Section who had their own inaccurate ideas as to ramming and the optimum positions to be assumed for the purposes of – they ground to a halt – or Grond to a halt, if you like – and stood awaiting further instructions.

  Step forward that misguided missile, Mr Bashford, bright and alert for once, who had blagged himself a leading role in the proceedings by acquiring a drum nearly as big as he was and booming out the beat. He had dressed for the occasion by removing his upper garments to grant an unimpressed St Mary’s a glimpse of his spindly physique. He looked like a very malnourished Hulk. His beloved Angus perched nearby. I assumed her function was that of mascot. Leon, had he been here, would have said her function was that of Most Intelligent Person Present. She was observing the proceedings with bright-eyed interest and her resemblance to Sykes was quite unnerving, although it would be a brave man who pointed that out to any one of that interesting trio.

  For the record, no one had painted themselves blue. As the government is so fond of saying at the press conferences called in the wake of its latest catastrophes – lessons had been learned.

  Having achieved optimum ramming position, our stalwart volunteers threw their weight against the chains, chanting, ‘Grond. Grond. Grond.’ I despair sometimes.