The Long and Short of It

by Jodi Taylor

  He waited politely, but so did his guest. Eventually, when it was clear Dr Bairstow was not going to speak, he continued. ‘However, since you have made it perfectly clear that nothing in History can be altered or removed, I have to ask you again: what is the point of –’ he coughed and said with some embarrassment, ‘– time travel?’

  Dr Bairstow frowned. ‘You might find it easier to think in terms of an organisation that investigates major historical events in contemporary time, rather than actually undertaking –’ his face wrinkled in distaste, ‘– what you refer to as time travel.’

  ‘Does it actually matter what we call it?’

  ‘We have been over this several times already,’ interrupted his colleague – the one sitting on the right, and known as Mr Brown. ‘I think that what Dr Bairstow is saying – without actually being so presumptuous as to put words into your mouth of course, sir,’ he added, ‘is that if nothing else, the value arises from possession. If we have it then no one else does. I’m sure I am right in thinking that should we say no to this extraordinary proposal, there are many out there who would say yes.’

  Silence settled heavily. Whether it was the effect of the heavy curtains or thick carpet, sound died very easily in this room.

  Dr Bairstow smiled thinly. ‘You won’t say no.’

  Mr Black seemed to bridle. ‘You seem very sure of that. I have to tell you, that given the current state of the economy, those whom we have consulted are far from convinced of the prudence of committing large – no, I beg your pardon – colossal sums of money to this endeavour.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I should perhaps have said, “You don’t say no.”‘

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘My dear sir, I invite you to contemplate the nature of the … enterprise … I have placed before you. I know you don’t say no.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Mr Black tried again. ‘But the cost…’

  ‘Astronomical, I should think,’ said Mr Brown, cheerfully.

  Dr Bairstow appeared to choose his words very carefully.

  ‘There is about to be a new renaissance. New ideas are sweeping aside the old. Political thinking in this country has changed forever. There is, at present, a power vacuum waiting to be filled. New leaders are emerging at every level. I believe a new young Chancellor has been appointed at the University of Thirsk. I intend to involve her fully in this project.’

  Mr Black looked up sharply. ‘Do I understand that you support Dr Chalfont’s politics?’

  Dr Bairstow smiled slightly.

  ‘I do not support anyone’s politics. I generally find that governments are more than capable of making their own mess without any help from me. What I want to say is that for the protection of everyone, my organisation will be politically neutral. It will be written into our contracts. We will surrender our right to vote or partake in political activity of any kind. We will voluntarily disenfranchise ourselves. In return, no government will seek to influence us or our findings. We will not submit to such actions.’

  ‘What sort of people will you employ? How will you recruit them?’

  ‘I shall look for people who took part in the recent uprisings. Who fought for and value the peace and freedom we enjoy today. They will, I’m afraid, be people who will not appreciate the virtues of committees or debate. They will be people who get things done. They will be accustomed to overcoming difficulties and obstacles. They will be brash. They will be loud. They will be very disrespectful of authority in all forms. However, they will be dedicated. They will get the job done.’ He smiled at Mr Black. ‘You will get your money’s worth.’

  ‘But of what use will it be?’

  Dr Bairstow frowned. ‘The truth is always important. It may not be popular, or fashionable, or convenient, but it is always important. Somewhere there must always be a record of events as they actually occurred. Not the politically airbrushed record, or religious wishful thinking or the socially acceptable version, but the often inconvenient truth.’

  ‘My dear sir, you are describing a powder keg. What on earth would we do with this inconvenient truth?’

  Dr Bairstow shrugged. ‘That is entirely up to you, sir. For example, one day, the events of the last years will be considered History. How important is it for people to know what happened? Or why it happened? And why it should never happen again?’

  Mrs Green, the third part of the colourful trio, who had so far remained silent, turned her head. She had light, honey-coloured hair and the eyes of one who has seen too much happen, too quickly. ‘Will it ever happen again?’

  Her voice was quiet.

  Dr Bairstow regarded her for some time before replying.

  ‘Madam, I cannot say.’

  ‘I think you could say very easily. So tell me, please – will it all happen again? Should we be taking measures to prevent such events ever reoccurring?’

  ‘Madam, I cannot say because I am not allowed to say. If it helps, however, I can say that if you take sufficient steps to ensure that similar events never happen again within your lifetime, then similar events will never again happen in your lifetime.’

  ‘But the cost,’ persisted Mr Black. ‘Where’s the return?’

  Dr Bairstow regarded them silently for a few seconds and then rose to his feet. ‘I have made all my arguments. Perhaps, now, a small demonstration might be in order.’

  No one rose with him.

  Mr Brown said warily, ‘What sort of a demonstration?’

  Dr Bairstow gestured at the prints around the walls. ‘You have an interest in the events of June 1815? Or are these rather fine prints just office furniture?’

  Mr Black bridled slightly. ‘An ancestor of mine fought at Waterloo and these are from my own personal collection.’

  ‘Then, madam, gentlemen, I invite you, please, to come with me.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I think “when?” might be a more appropriate question.’

  Mr Brown, half-risen from his seat, stopped in mid-movement. ‘Are we…? Are we actually…?’

  Dr Bairstow nodded. ‘I can think of no quicker or easier way to ensure your enthusiastic support – and funding, obviously – than a small demonstration. I have, therefore, programmed in what I consider to be a most appropriate destination.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Yes?’

  Mr Black moistened his suddenly dry lips. ‘Where to? I mean, when to?’

  He paused and mentally reviewed the sentence.

  Dr Bairstow smiled faintly. ‘Yes, the rules of grammar do need to be bent occasionally. The phrase “a long time ago in the future” can take some getting used to. Along with that old favourite, “he will die a hundred years ago”. I thought you might enjoy a short but educational visit to Waterloo, 18th June 1815. The Stirrup Charge. When the Scots Greys broke Napoleon’s square. Thirty minutes. No longer.’

  They gaped at him. ‘But you can’t expect us to just – get up and go.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘There are committees before which your proposal must be put. Working groups to be set up. Risks assessed. Benefits calculated. Safeguards installed. Security implemented.’

  ‘Dear me,’ commented Dr Bairstow. ‘No wonder it takes so very long to get anything done here. Do you think they had time to set up committees on the Barricades?’

  Silence followed as this remark was contemplated with incomprehension.

  Dr Bairstow relented. ‘If it makes you feel more comfortable, we can certainly include that rather formidable-looking young major who escorted me here. He seems very capable and I’m sure is more than equal to any threat I might – inadvertently, of course – represent. Shall we go?’

  The weather had not improved. Such streetlights as were working had come on early and sleet could clearly be seen amongst the drizzle. No one else was on the streets.

  Dr Bairstow, stick tapping on the paving stones, led th
em across the car park to the shack still parked in the far right-hand corner. Both the cat and the pigeons had disappeared.

  The small party halted outside the scruffy shack appropriately parked in the disabled space. There was an air of unspoken disappointment.

  ‘You were, perhaps, expecting something a little more … science fiction based?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Brown. ‘Yes.’ He smiled, mischievously. ‘Perhaps it’s bigger on the inside?’

  ‘Alas…’

  Major Guthrie pushed his way forwards. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll go first.’

  ‘By all means,’ said Dr Bairstow. ‘Door.’

  Producing a gun, Major Guthrie covered the doorway, angling the gun up, down, around, leaving no area unchecked.

  Dr Bairstow stood quietly, leaning on his stick, apparently unconcerned. ‘You might want to check the toilet. Yes, that door there. Don’t bother with the lockers – there really is no room even for life’s essentials, let alone a concealed miscreant.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, sir,’ said Guthrie politely, and proceeded to subject the toilet, every locker, and even the area under the console to ruthless scrutiny. Finally, and with some reluctance, he holstered his gun and stood aside.

  ‘If you would be so good,’ murmured Dr Bairstow, ushering his passengers in through the door.

  Somewhat reluctantly, one step at a time, his guests entered, gazing about them. Their faces gave nothing away, but then they had been government officials for a very long time. They were almost certainly the descendents of a long line of government officials. Cartwheeling with excitement had probably been bred out of them round about the 14th century.

  To the right of the door, a console with an incomprehensible array of read-outs, flashing lights, dials, and switches sat beneath a large, wall-mounted screen, currently showing only a view of an empty car park in the gathering dusk.

  Bunches of cables ran up the walls to disappear into a tiled ceiling. Two excruciatingly uncomfortable-looking chairs were screwed to the floor in front of the console. A row of lockers ran along the back wall, and in the far corner, a narrow door led into the toilet.

  The tiny space smelled of stale people, chemicals, hot electrics, damp carpet, and cabbage.

  ‘I have room for one passenger to sit alongside me in relative comfort,’ said Dr Bairstow. ‘Perhaps, madam, you would like to take advantage of our meagre facilities. I’m sure I don’t have to impress upon you the importance of not touching anything.’

  Somewhat gingerly, Mrs Green seated herself and looked around.

  ‘It’s a little bit…’

  ‘Cramped?’

  ‘Yes, but that wasn’t what I meant.’

  ‘Ah. You mean the smell.’

  She smiled slightly. ‘Well, I didn’t want to be rude…’

  ‘Yes, my profound apologies, but it is a complete mystery to us. We have no idea whence the cabbage smell emanates. We have, in the past, constructed new pods and the next day we are overwhelmed by the aroma of cabbage. One of the great unsolved mysteries of the universe, I’m afraid. You will soon grow accustomed.’

  As he was speaking, his hands were moving over the console. Lights flashed. ‘Computer.’

  The computer chirped acknowledgement.

  His passengers, as one man, looked apprehensively towards the door.

  Dr Bairstow said, in what he liked to think of as reassuring tones, ‘Please do not be alarmed. In the unlikely event of anything going wrong, we will certainly never know anything about it.’

  Mrs Green gripped the console with both hands.

  ‘There really is no need to hold so tightly. I am rather good at this. Computer, initiate jump.

  The world went white.

  Inside the pod, complete silence reigned.

  ‘You can open your eyes, now,’ said Dr Bairstow in some amusement.

  Four considerably shaken people opened their eyes.

  Major Guthrie said hoarsely, ‘Did something happen? We didn’t move.’

  ‘I told you I was rather good at this. Allow me to activate the screen.’

  Four people stared speechlessly at the screen.

  Thousands of tiny figures moved purposefully around a vast landscape. In silence. Cannons fired puffs of silent white smoke. Charging horses thundered silently across the screen. Chaos reigned quietly.

  ‘Dear … God,’ said Mr Brown, unable to tear his eyes away.

  Mr Black, however, was made of sterner stuff. ‘I don’t believe it. I don’t believe we’ve moved at all. This is just some holo projection and…’

  Dr Bairstow said, ‘Door.’

  The door opened, letting in the sights, sounds, and smells of one of the major battles of the 19th century. Thousands of voices rose over the sound of cannon fire. The thunder of hooves caused the ground to shake. The sulphurous smell of gunpowder hung in the air.

  As if in a dream, arm outstretched like a blind man, Mr Brown moved slowly towards the open door.

  ‘Everyone please remain where you are,’ said Major Guthrie sharply, drawing his weapon.

  Dr Bairstow closed the door and rose from his seat. ‘Major, I must ask you to surrender your weapon.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m quite unable to do that, sir.’

  ‘I accept your instinct and training make it difficult for you to comply, but one of our cardinal rules is that no harm must ever come to a contemporary at our hands. I cannot emphasise the importance of that rule too strongly. If your life is in danger you may take steps to protect yourself with pepper spray, or a stun gun of some kind, but you must understand that killing a contemporary can have the gravest consequences. Please remember it is well known that the act of observing changes that which is being observed. We always, therefore, try to keep our interaction with contemporaries to an absolute minimum. Our primary function is to observe, record, and document. Nothing else. Therefore, Major, I must ask you, in the interests of everyone’s safety, to surrender your gun to me, please.’

  He held out his hand as he spoke.

  Still Major Guthrie hesitated. ‘My priority, sir, is the safety of my employers.’

  ‘As is mine. The people here are the potential source of my funding. I would be very distressed if anything should happen to them and I had to begin again.’

  Unseen, Mrs Green smiled faintly.

  Dr Bairstow continued. ‘Major, I understand your reluctance, but if you attempt to shoot a contemporary, then History will act to defend itself and you will be dead before such a thing can happen. And possibly your employers will be as well. And if you shoot me you will, all of you, be here for the rest of your lives because only I can operate this pod. So, again, Major – your gun, please.’

  Reluctantly, Major Guthrie removed the clip, broke open the gun, and passed it over.

  ‘Thank you, Major. I appreciate your good faith. As you can see, I shall simply place it here in this locker for safety. You can access it at any time. I trust you not to do so. And now, with the assistance of Mr Black, shall we endeavour to make sense of what is occurring here today?’

  He indicated the left-hand seat as he spoke and after only the briefest pause, Mr Black took his place.

  ‘You can angle the cameras, and zoom in and pan out by toggling these control keys here.’

  Mr Black visibly swallowed and then, tentatively at first, but with growing confidence, began to range the camera back and forth, making some notes on a pad of paper that Dr Bairstow found for him. Eventually, he cleared his throat and said, in an artificially high voice, ‘Napoleon Bonaparte has escaped from Elba and, in another attempt to make France the most powerful nation in Europe, he has resumed war against the European powers.’

  He stopped, cleared his throat again, and continued. ‘A coalition is formed, consisting of Britain, Prussia, the Netherlands, Hanover, Nassau, and Brunswick, under the joint command of Field Marshals Wellington and Blücher.

  He stared at the screen for a while. Dr Bairstow, who had s
pent some time studying this event thoroughly and who could have enlightened him, remained silent.

  ‘I believe, yes … I believe we are witnessing … yes … there…’ he pointed at the screen. ‘That’s the 92nd – the Gordon Highlanders. General Pack ordered them to charge, but they’d already lost nearly half their strength in a prior engagement at Quatre Bras. They’ve fielded less than three hundred men today.’

  They watched in silence as the Highlanders moved up, four lines deep, to close with the enemy some thirty yards away, advancing into a hail of French fire.

  Mr Black said quietly, ‘There’s rather a difference between reading the reports that say they were badly knocked about and actually seeing that happen in front of one’s eyes. Things are rather bloody down there, aren’t they? You can see, they’re falling apart in some disorder. Poor devils … they’re certainly taking a bashing.’

  There was silence in the pod. The Highlanders were indeed taking a bashing. On the screen, without a sound, men hurled themselves at their enemies, bayonets fixed, mouths open in silent screams, advancing without hesitation into a barrage of fire. Tiny puffs of smoke bloomed and it was as if they had run into a wall. Simultaneously, the front row flung up their arms and fell. Then the second row. All in complete silence. Everywhere the eye looked, men were dropping to the ground and not getting up again. Huge holes opened up in the lines as soldiers fell by the score. Desperately, the Highlanders struggled on but, inevitably, the moment came when they could go no further.

  Dr Bairstow, who had stepped back to make room, was watching them all very carefully; waiting for the moment when it would dawn on them, as it must, that these were not pages in a History book, or even prints on an office wall. These were real people – struggling, striving, and dying. Here was fear and pain and mutilation and death.

  Under heavy fire, the Highlanders were retreating over the bodies of the fallen.

  ‘And not a moment too soon,’ murmured Mr Black.

  More French forces burst through the hedge behind which they had been concealed and fell upon them. Caught in a deadly crossfire, their attempt to retreat in good order was abandoned. Officers screamed their orders. Sustaining even heavier losses, the Highlanders were routed.