by Jodi Taylor
‘London,’ he said, piling on the narrative tension.
He began to flick through various images, inching painfully along the information highway before finally arriving at his destination.
‘Ladies and gentlemen – the Globe Theatre.’
Oh, wow! A chance to see the Globe Theatre. The real Globe Theatre, I mean. Not the very excellent replica we see today, but the actual Globe itself. Shakespeare’s Globe. Performing Shakespeare’s plays. In a contemporary setting. By contemporary actors. Watched by a contemporary audience. You get the drift.
But which play? 1601? I racked my brains – but not for long.
‘We shall, I hope, be attending a performance of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, with…‘
Sensing he was building up to his big finish, a stir ran around the Great Hall.
‘…with William Shakespeare himself taking the role of the Ghost.’
An even more stunned silence greeted this remark. He paused, leaning on his stick, well pleased with the sensation he had created. And rightly so. We would be seeing Hamlet – the famous production starring Richard Burbage as the dithering Dane … and with Shakespeare himself as the Ghost. This was just … I groped for a word more amazing than amazing, failed to find one, and resurfaced to find Markham and Peterson gabbling with excitement. And they weren’t the only ones.
‘Participation is voluntary,’ continued Dr Bairstow, cutting across us, because we’re a bit of a gobby bunch sometimes, and if he waited for the noise to die down then we’d all be there forever. ‘So, if those wishing to participate in this treat could give their names to Dr Maxwell by close of play today, please. Report to Mrs Enderby for costume fittings, collect your background research tapes from Dr Dowson, read up on the play itself, and report to Hawking Hangar at 11:00 two weeks from today. Any questions?’
I really don’t know why he bothers with that last bit. He was already halfway up the stairs and picking up speed. Popular opinion has it that once every couple of years Thirsk University compels him to attend a series of seminars on Modern Management, through which he sits, unspeaking and rigid with disapproval, until their nerve fails them and they return him to us, possibly even less modern than he was before he set out. However, since he can’t bear to waste the money, he forces himself to implement one or two very minor changes every year, such as remembering to command us to sit down – especially if we’ve been wounded – or asking if anyone has any questions. It is always clearly understood that no one ever will. Have any questions, I mean. He did once utter the memorable phrase, ‘Please remember my door is always open,’ and it would be hard to say who had been most traumatised by this remarkable statement.
However, as usual, there were no questions and we were left to discuss what amounted to a works outing amongst ourselves.
‘I’m not going,’ said Bashford, firmly. ‘I suffered enough at school. Long boring afternoons reading endless verse. Even the flies on the ceiling died in self-defence.’
‘Me neither,’ said Clerk. ‘Couldn’t stand it at school; hated it on TV; see no reason why it should be any better in the rain, sitting on seats designed to numb your bum in seconds. Not my idea of a holiday.’
‘Philistines,’ I said, turning to Markham. ‘What about you?’
‘Are you serious?’ he said, his eyes shining and his hair even spikier with excitement. ‘Course I’m going. Who wouldn’t?’
Peterson stared at him. ‘You like Shakespeare?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ he said with enthusiasm. ‘Hamlet‘s not my favourite, of course. I prefer A Midsummer Night’s Dream or The Tempest, but that bit where he stabs Polonius in the arras…’
He mimed stabbing Polonius in the arras.
‘When did you ever read Hamlet?’ demanded Peterson.
‘At school. Didn’t you? And I’ve seen several versions of the play. Not live, of course. Can’t afford it on my wages.’ We all looked nervously over our shoulders, but Dr Bairstow really had gone. ‘Olivier, Tennant, Branagh, all the greats, and now I’ll get to see Burbage. And Shakespeare himself. Although as the Ghost he’ll probably be all muffled up so I won’t be able to see his face at all, but even so … I must see if Hunter wants to go as well,’ and he disappeared.
‘He never fails to astound me,’ said Leon, watching him elbow his way through crowds of chattering people.
‘Nor me,’ I said. I pulled Leon to one side and lowered my voice. ‘Did you ever discover his marital status?’
Not so long ago, we – Leon, Markham and me – had been having a perfectly normal conversation about whether Peterson would survive his proposal of marriage to Dr Foster, or whether the worryingly long silence from her office was due to her having murdered and possibly eaten him, when Markham had suddenly let slip that he himself was married. To Nurse Hunter. They’d been married for years. He said. We didn’t know whether it was true or whether he was just winding us up and, so far, all our efforts to pin him to the wall and beat the truth out of him had been unsuccessful.
Leon shook his head. ‘These are deep waters in which I’m not prepared to swim. He said he was married so he probably is. Even he couldn’t get that wrong. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?’
I smiled in what I thought was a winning manner. ‘You could ask Hunter.’
He remained unmoved. ‘Or you could ask Hunter.’
‘Or we could get Peterson to ask Hunter.’
He grinned. ‘These days, I’d be astonished if Peterson even knows what day of the week it is.’
‘I know. Who’d have thought she would say yes?’
‘Do you think people are following our good example?’
‘I’m surprised they don’t regard us as a horrible warning.’
He looked down at me. ‘I thought you quite liked being married.’
‘Yes,’ I said, considering. ‘Some days it’s not too bad.’
He folded his arms. ‘That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? “Some days it’s not too bad”?’
‘I thought you would prefer that to “Some days it’s really not good at all.” Anyway, can we please stop talking about matrimony? Will you be taking part in this cultural jaunt?’
We don’t both go on the same jumps – that was the deal. We’d shaken hands on it. Because if anything horrible ever happened – and it usually does – then our baby son would be an orphan.
He shook his head. ‘Not if you want to go.’
‘Do you want to toss for it?’
‘No. You take this one. I’ll have first refusal on the next.’
‘Deal.’
We shook on this too.
People were in and out of my office all day. I got no work done at all.
‘Nothing new there then,’ said my assistant, Rosie Lee.
I regarded her coldly. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I work here.’
‘Really? When did that happen?’
‘If you were ever here, you’d be able to answer that question yourself.’
I decided to ignore this. ‘Could you get me the King Alfred file, please?’
She regarded me with some hostility. I hastened to make things easier for her.
‘A file is a collection of documents. In a blue folder. Blue for the History Department.’ I plucked at my blue jumpsuit to make my point.
The hostile stare did not waver.
‘And it will have Alfred the Great and the file reference in the top right hand…’
‘Just like that one on your desk there?’
‘…corner, just like this one on my desk here.’
I picked up the file and opened it.
She stood up. ‘Comfort break.’
‘Make my tea first. You know the rules.’
She sighed loudly. ‘If we had union representation here then I wouldn’t have to do this.’
‘If we had union representation here then you’d never have been employed in the first place.’
She banged the kettle down. ‘I should be paid
what I’m worth.’
‘You’d better hope you never are. Where’s my tea?’
She changed the subject. ‘So who’s going then?’
I scrabbled through my bits of paper. ‘A mixed bunch. Dr Bairstow, of course, which is nice because he doesn’t get out much. Peterson, Markham, Guthrie, North, Sykes, Atherton, Mrs Enderby – costume research, she says – Mrs Mack, because she wants to check out what people are eating, Evans, Keller, Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson – obviously because the 17th century isn’t a time in which they’ve blown something up yet and they want to rectify that situation as soon as possible – and Lingoss.’
She stared at me. ‘Aren’t you going? I was hoping to be rid of you for a whole day.’
‘And me. I shall be leaving you a list of tasks to accomplish during my absence, although I don’t know why – it’s not as if you accomplish any tasks during my presence. And I shall be locking up the chocolate biscuits, of course.’
My mug of tea was banged down in front of me with quite unnecessary force.
* * *
Since Clerk wasn’t going on this one, I was the designated driver. Or mission controller if you want to give me my correct title. Which no one ever did. I had to endure many enquiries as to whether I could remember what to do.
We assembled outside TB2 – our big transport pod. I’d calculated that we’d need at least four smaller pods to fit all of us in and that many would make us conspicuous. Besides, with so many inexperienced people on the assignment, I preferred us to jump together. I didn’t want anyone being left behind if we had to leave in a hurry, and all the evidence to date suggested that we would.
I ran my eye over the group. We were dressed as lower middle-class citizens. Unimportant but relatively prosperous. Our clothing was dark and respectable, but the material was as good as the Sumptuary Laws allowed. This was an age where clothing defined social status – and vice versa. Peterson had suggested Markham wear a small sack.
I wore a linen chemise, high at the neck, with a dark brown woollen dress over the top, belted at the memory of my waist. My bum roll gave me that authentic wide-hipped Tudor look, although strictly speaking, the bum roll might not have been necessary. I’d covered my hair with a coif and looked every inch the respectable Tudor matron. All the women wore variations on the same theme in shades of brown and russet. The men wore linen shirts and doublets with leather or woollen sleeveless jerkins over the top, trousers to their knees and shoes and stockings. And beards. Well, as much beard as they’d managed to assemble in a little under a fortnight. Which in some cases wasn’t very much at all. There had been general mocking and ridicule.
Bearing in mind the length of the performance, I was carrying a broad-weave wicker basket containing bread, cheese, a small pasty, two apples, a flask of water and a toilet roll. I’d covered all the contents with a heavy cloak in which I had secreted a bar of chocolate the size of Plynlimon.
‘It’s June,’ said Peterson, in amusement, looking at my cloak.
‘June can be very chilly at this time of year.’
We landed in Bankside, at the back of the Bear Garden, which, mercifully, appeared to be closed for the day. The Bear Garden was synonymous with noise, confusion, turmoil and unruly behaviour. Hence the expression – noisy as a Bear Garden. According to Leon, it’s only a matter of time before Bear Garden is deleted and St Mary’s inserted instead. I wondered if perhaps they didn’t open on Globe performance days – too much competition. Whatever the reason, the massive wooden structure – actually very similar in shape to the Globe – was silent today.
We walked quickly past. Southwark is not a respectable area, being full of taverns, bear pits, whorehouses and the like. And the Globe, of course – actors being considered the dregs of society and best kept outside the city walls.
The day was overcast, with heavy clouds, but warm enough. ‘Hope it’s not going to rain,’ said Markham, glancing up at the sky.
I had split us into three groups of five. Not feeling that either Miss Sykes or Dr Bairstow were yet ready to spend several hours in each other’s company, I’d lumped her in with the other two weirdos, Dr Dowson and Professor Rapson, with Keller from Security and sensible, steady Atherton to keep them in order.
The next group – the Respectable Team as I’d named them in my head – consisted of Dr Bairstow, Miss North, Mrs Enderby and Mrs Mack. It was hard to see how any of that lot could topple off the rails, so they had only Major Guthrie to keep them in line.
I’d spent a great deal of time trying to achieve this happy mix of departments – ‘happy’ being a more appropriate word than ‘balanced’. And more accurate, too.
My group consisted of Peterson and me – historians – Evans and Markham – security – and Miss Lingoss, whose purple hair was currently being restrained by copious amounts of hair gel and an industrial-strength wimple.
We had a few hours to kill before the performance started. Dr Bairstow doled out the spending money with all the reluctance of Scrooge handing a penny to a starving orphan in a snowstorm, and the other two teams disappeared. The Weirdos were off to the docks because Professor Rapson was passing through one of his nautical phases and wanted to check out the ships moored below London Bridge. Under Elizabeth, England was a powerful maritime nation. Sir Francis Drake had circumnavigated the world, English ships were trading everywhere, and piracy was the career of choice for many adventurous young men.
The Respectable Team were off to investigate the markets. Mesdames Mack and Enderby were practically frothing at the mouth in anticipation of investigating Tudor food and haberdashery. It seemed safe to assume that in the company of Major Guthrie and Dr Bairstow, nothing much could go wrong there, either.
Our beat was Borough High Street and London Bridge.
‘Max and I have been here before,’ said Peterson to the others. ‘We’ll show you around if you like.’
We emerged into the crowded, noisy high street and looked around.
Peterson inhaled deeply. ‘Don’t you just love the smell of History in the morning?’
I stood for a moment, lost in the past. Yes, even more in the past than 1601, because Peterson was right – we’d been here before, back in the 14th century, and almost nothing had changed. Some of the houses fronting Borough High Street were larger and more modern, but not many. The road was still more than ankle deep in dust, old vegetables, rotting straw, animal shit, human shit and some evil-smelling, greyish pink tubes that smelled so bad that even a passing dog left them alone. People still yelled at each other at the tops of their voices. Women shoul-dered their way through the throng with baskets over their arms. A goose-girl struggled to keep her flock together. Occasionally a dust-covered rider on a lathered horse would force his way towards the bridge, possibly carrying a message for the Queen. One nearly knocked us over and Peterson pulled us back against the wall out of the way.
We brushed off the dust of his passing. ‘Hey,’ said Peterson, staring over my shoulder, ‘St Thomas’s Hospital is just down there. Remember?’
‘How could I ever forget?’
‘I got bubonic plague.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘And then I peed on you.’
‘Yes, I remember that too.’
‘We should erect a plaque.’
‘In that case, there should be one on Westminster Abbey too, because you peed on me there, as well.’
He smiled at me fondly. ‘Nothing but the best for you, Max.’
We wandered along Borough High Street, down towards London Bridge.
‘It doesn’t actually look that different from the last time,’ said Tim, staring about him.
‘How would you know? You were unconscious for most of it.’
‘Self-defence. I took one look at you aiming that knife at my privates and chose unconsciousness.’
‘You fainted, you wuss.’
‘He should be so lucky,’ said Markham. ‘I remember going to Egypt with her once. One mi
nute everything’s fine and the next minute she’s ripping off my clothes and chucking me in the Nile.’
‘For your own good,’ I said, indignantly.
‘Yeah, well, don’t get any ideas today.
‘This was a voluntary assignment. You didn’t have to come.’
‘Like two historians and her…’ he nodded his head at Miss Lingoss, ‘are likely to get more than ten feet without needing the help of the Security Section.’
‘He does get agitated these days,’ said Peterson, thoughtfully. ‘Do you think married life is getting him down?’
We waited hopefully.
‘What gets me down,’ said Markham, heatedly, ‘is being out in the field with you three without a battalion of marines, a couple of tank regiments and air cover to back me up.’
Time to change the subject.
‘Anyway,’ said Peterson, looking up and down the street, ‘the buildings are much the same, the church is still here. The Tabard is still up there. Shame we missed Chaucer.’
‘Well, if you hadn’t contracted the plague then we wouldn’t have, would we?’
‘Are you ever going to let that drop?’
‘I wonder what happened to Brother Anselm.’
Brother Anselm was the monk who had given us shelter while Peterson recovered from what he still referred to as his ‘slight twinge of bubonic plague’. I remembered his bright, bird-like gaze and his gentle kindness.
Peterson smiled at his own memory and then said, ‘I’m sure he spent his days busily and happily and reaped his just reward in the end.’
‘I hope so.’
We walked down to the river, which was heaving with boats. In these days, the streets were so narrow and badly paved that the Thames was the major thoroughfare. Water boatmen ferried people around in wherries or skiffs. Up and down as well as from one side to another. Their boats ranged in size from flimsy-looking coracle-style craft to substantial boats that could take up to ten people. They were all doing a roaring trade because London still only had the one bridge and that was packed with people as well. It was obviously easier and quicker to move by river.