The Long and Short of It

by Jodi Taylor

  This one showed no signs of winding down. She looked about a hundred and eight, which meant she was probably around forty and she was as skinny as the broom handle she was waving around in front of him. In front of Alfred, her king. I wondered if I should do something.

  To shouts of laughter and encouragement from the villagers, she fetched him an almighty great buffet around the ear that nearly knocked both of them into the middle of next week. I had no idea what she was carrying on about, actually, I was just glad it wasn’t me.

  ‘Well, I’ll be buggered,’ said Peterson from behind me. ‘Will you look at that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That.’

  We all looked at that.

  In all the legends of Alfred and the cakes, you get the impression they were just a bit singed. Alfred burnt the cakes it says. The unspoken implication being you could just scrape off the black bits – much as Max does when she makes toast – and carry on as before. Not this time.

  These cakes weren’t just burned. They were completely incinerated. Pure carbon. A couple of dozen little black nuggets smoked gently on the scorched hearthstones, and she really wasn’t happy about it. Not happy at all. Alfred was giving ground, trying to defend himself from the blows raining down upon him. Everyone seemed to think it was extremely funny. Except the goodwife, of course. Alfred dodged around the other side of the fire. Still shrieking, she pursued him.

  At this point, even I wouldn’t have blamed Alfred if he’d turned and pointed at me. You know – blame the slave. In this case, of course, quite justifiably. But he didn’t. He covered his head as best he could and tried to dodge the blows. People were still laughing and shouting advice.

  And he’d burned the cakes. The legend was true after all. Well, I’d burned the cakes and he’d got the blame – which makes a change. In my case, it’s usually the other way around. Dr Bairstow often makes quite spirited attempts to blame me for things that happened even before I was born. Or even before they’ve happened. Like the reindeer thing…

  Speaking of which…

  I plucked at Maxwell’s sleeve. She nodded. ‘Yes, we should go. While we still can.’

  We discreetly gathered up our stuff. No one was paying any attention to us in any way and we quietly left the village. I glanced back. The flames had settled down a little. Pans and cauldrons were being righted and filled with water again. Normal life was resuming.

  Alfred, now minus the goodwife, resumed his position, elbows on his knees, watching the fire. Just as I was about to turn away, he looked up at me. For a moment, we looked at each other. He raised a hand – whether in farewell or thanks, I’d never know. I waved back and then turned to follow Max and Peterson, who could be heard falling off the path some way ahead.

  I nipped off to retrieve the blaster. The fizzer had fizzed itself to a standstill without igniting the tree in which it was lodged.

  We hurried on towards the pod. It would be dark in an hour. Time to go. Job done. Alfred had fulfilled his part of the legend. And I like to think the whole afternoon had cheered him a little. Given him some hope, perhaps.

  In seven weeks, around Whitsuntide, he would ride to Ecgbrihtesstan – Egbert’s Stone – to rally the men from Somerset and Wiltshire and Hampshire to his banner. They would go on to beat the Danes, Alfred would be king again and Guthrum would accept defeat and baptism. England was saved. For the time being.

  It was darker in amongst the trees, and, to tell the truth, just a little bit spooky. Mists curled up through them and now, far from echoing with birdsong and sounds of small creatures in the undergrowth, everywhere was completely silent. Something white – an owl, I hoped – drifted soundlessly past at head height.

  I stopped and looked back. Apart from a faint glow visible through the trees, there was no sign anyone lived nearby. I could see why Alfred had chosen to hide out here.

  We hurried on, splashing our way back to the pod. Which, contrary to historians’ dire predictions, had not collided with an iceberg and sunk. A small amount of smelly water washed in with us as we opened the door, but as Peterson said, the smell of old cabbage was so bad that no one would notice anyway.

  St Mary’s, in contrast to the dark, damp woods of the 9th century, was lit up like a Christmas tree – appropriately enough. We decontaminated, tidied ourselves up, and made our way to Sick Bay where Hunter, disappointingly no longer dressed as Tinkerbell and now clutching a scratchpad, didn’t hang about.

  ‘Right – which of you is most injured?’

  ‘None of us,’ said Maxwell. ‘Can we get a move on?’

  ‘What have you eaten or drunk?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m starving and desperate for a pee. Can we hurry things along, please?’

  Hunter thrust a small container. ‘Fill that.’

  Max regarded it in silence. ‘You’d better let me have a couple of those. Or possibly a small bucket.’

  ‘Do you have one in blue?’ said Peterson, not helping.

  I smiled winningly and waited for her to wilt beneath the Markham charm.

  Fat chance. She rounded on me. ‘What are you doing? Stop that. You’ll frighten the children.’

  ‘They’re here already?’ I said, panicking a little because you can’t just scramble into a reindeer costume. There are antlers and flashing noses and poo distribution systems to set up. To say nothing of keeping my face out of Evans’s backside. I needed to get a move on.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ I said, taking the container. ‘I can’t let anything get between me and the back end of a reindeer,’ and as the words left my mouth I realised they could be open to misinterpretation, but only by people with nasty minds. Which is all of St Mary’s and especially those standing in front of me.

  ‘I’m not going in the scanner after him,’ said Peterson in pretended horror, stepping back. ‘He’s a pervert. God knows what he’d leave lying around in there.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Maxwell and the two of them pulled rank and I had to wait. I made myself a cup of tea, because I don’t live in a world where nurses make it for me, and called up Evans.

  The History Department disappeared eventually, bickering away, and then it was my turn.

  Usually, when it’s just Hunter and me, these things can take ages because she says she has to be thorough and, believe me, she is. There have been times when I can barely … yes, well, never mind about that now. Sometimes, and for God’s sake don’t tell anyone this, because I don’t think anyone’s noticed, but sometimes, after everyone’s been scanned, Hunter and I – well, you know. Which is why I always made a point of wearing my best CKs, because even though she worships the ground I walk on – or will one day, I’m sure – there are occasions when the old tightie-whities just won’t cut it.

  This was not going to be one of those occasions, however, because I knew Evans was waiting in the lift with the reindeer outfit, so I patted her on the shoulder, told her I’d see her later, and pushed off. I’d pay for that later, of course, but I was betting she’d be so thrilled by the reindeer routine that she’d just melt into my arms.

  We changed in the lift – and that’s not as easy as it sounds. We did Evans first, carefully tying on his antlers and manoeuvring his nose into position. Then me, with the poo pouch dangling between my back legs. I think I can confidently say that’s the first time that phrase has ever been used in English Literature.

  We had a quick practice – Evans flashed his nose a couple of times. It was dazzlingly bright. We might have over-egged the pudding a little. He was quite blind afterwards. I popped a couple of olives in the poo pouch and wiggled my hips. Distribution successful.

  ‘I can’t see a bloody thing,’ muttered Evans, bouncing off a wall.

  ‘They say that flashing makes you blind,’ I said, to cheer him up, which didn’t work at all, and he told me he’d had egg sandwiches for lunch, and I said he’d better not have and what had I said about that, and he said, sorry, he forgot, but it would probably be OK, and there was rather a te
nse silence between us, broken only by the sound of someone summoning the lift back up to Sick Bay.

  ‘Quick,’ I said, and we exited in a hurry. The doors closed and we waited.

  ‘Five, four, three, two, one,’ said Evans.

  ‘WHO THE BLOODY HELL HAS CRAPPED IN THIS LIFT?’

  The words reverberated around the building.

  Oh, swiving hell. Swive is a word I’d learned in the 17th century and which has been standing me in good stead ever since. I’d thought it would be Hunter in the lift and we’d have a bit of a giggle, only we’d got Dr Foster instead and believe me, she doesn’t giggle. We could hear her stamping down the stairs. The Footsteps of Fear on the Staircase of Misery.

  ‘Run,’ said Evans, and we did.

  It’s not a job for the faint-hearted, being the back end of a pantomime reindeer. After only a few minutes, I had neck ache, back ache, and knee ache. It was bloody dark in there and I couldn’t see a thing. Not that I could have seen much anyway. Evans has a backside the size of a small pony.

  We trotted down the long corridor towards the Great Hall where the festivities were scheduled to take place. The plan was that someone would put their hand to their ear and say, ‘Oh. I think I can hear someone coming. I wonder who that could be?’ and Father Christmas would appear.

  I mean – seriously? It’s hardly Shakespeare, is it? And trust me, I’ve met him.

  And then Dieter – sorry, Father Christmas – would make a spectacular entrance, pulling up in his sleigh. He would ho ho ho his way through the front doors, followed by his entourage of Ice Queens, Fairies, Elves, Santa’s Little Helpers and all the rest of them, into which we would, with skill and cunning, insert ourselves. Small gifts would be distributed and then, in the lull between that and everyone sitting down and gorging themselves on Mrs Mack’s festive offerings, we planned to do our little show.

  Naturally, we needed an accomplice to work the music, and after careful consideration as to levels of technical skill – which ruled out the entire History Department – and sense of humour – ditto the Technical Section – we’d selected Miss Lingoss for the honour, on the grounds that anyone with fairy lights in her hair couldn’t be all bad, and she’d agreed. To do it I mean.

  The initial comments were not encouraging.

  ‘Oh, look – are Mary and Joseph here? Have they brought their ass?’

  There followed a lot of rude banter which, given the festive season and the age of our waiting audience was not, I felt, appropriate.

  Evans tried propitiating people with his nose and that didn’t work at all.

  ‘You. Reindeer,’ said Santa, sternly. ‘Up front – with me.’

  We sidled delicately into place and prepared to dazzle the room.

  ‘OK, people,’ said Santa. ‘This is it.’

  The doors were flung open and we were on.

  It all went horribly wrong. We hadn’t practised climbing steps. I couldn’t see where I was going. Evans tripped. Then I tripped. We lurched into Santa who staggered into the Great Hall, belatedly trying to retrieve the situation by bellowing, ‘Ho ho ho. Merry Christmas everyone,’ at the top of his voice.

  Three kids burst into tears there and then, and there were only twelve of them anyway, so that was twenty-five per cent of them crying their eyes out. Wasn’t it? Yes, one quarter. Twenty-five per cent. And we were only thirty seconds in.

  The parents, unsure of what to expect from the nutters at St Mary’s, who had therefore insisted on accompanying their children, bristled and began to gather offspring to their bosoms, prior to a hasty departure.

  I’d banged my nose on Evans’s bottom (again, not a phrase often used by Jane Austen) and was beginning to have second thoughts about the whole thing – traumatising kids at Christmas just doesn’t feel right somehow – when I heard our music. We later discovered that Lingoss – a bright girl, and I’m not just saying that because her head was glowing – in an attempt to stem the stampede, had started our music. Suddenly, we were on.

  We opened with me cocking my leg against the Christmas tree – you know, just to give them a flavour of the sophisticated entertainment in store for them.

  ‘Daddy, he’s doing a wee on the Christmas tree.’

  ‘Hush, dear. Look at the pretty lights.’

  ‘Ready?’ muttered Evans. ‘On three…’

  I know the can-can isn’t a particularly festive piece of music, but it is jolly jolly. Someone somewhere started to clap in time to the music and two seconds later everyone had joined in. Except for Dr Foster – still miffed about the poo in the Sick Bay lift, I suspect – and Dr Bairstow, who just doesn’t do that sort of thing. He’s not so much laid back as bolt upright. In fact, he’s slightly more vertical than a plumb line.

  It was quite an easy routine. One two three kick. Left right left kick. Wiggle the bum. Flash the nose. Trot in a circle and do it again. We thought we’d incorporate a bit of ‘business’. That’s a show-biz term by the way. I’m an actor, you know. I’ve appeared in Hamlet. So we sidled up to Bashford, and Evans pretended to sneeze and squirted him with green goo at the same time. The kids loved it.

  ‘Daddy, why is that man all covered in snot?’

  ‘Hush, dear. Look at the pretty lights.’

  Bashford took it quite well in that he didn’t thump either of us. Not there and then, anyway.

  And then we sidled back the other way and I sat on Chief Farrell’s lap. I was aiming for Psycho Psykes, because she’s always up for a laugh, but not being able to see, I missed. Everyone thought it was hilarious. I could hear Max and Kalinda Black shrieking like washerwomen.

  Something told me it wouldn’t be a good idea to linger long on that lap, so we got up. We did a lot of creeping up behind Peterson, who was amazing. The kids would shout, ‘Look out – he’s behind you,’ and he would whirl around at just the right moment to miss us. Pure gold, as we in the acting profession say.

  Evans flashed his nose like something out of the Blackpool Illuminations and – the big moment – I activated the poo pouch. A hundred olives delivered with pin-point precision.

  ‘Daddy, he’s done a giant poo. Look.’

  ‘Hush dear. Look at the pretty lights again.’

  I don’t want to boast, but our big finish was a huge success. Everyone clapped and cheered.

  I poked Evans. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ Because you should always leave them wanting more.

  We’d planned a cracking exit – because appearing as a pantomime reindeer is a bit like robbing a bank – you should always have your exit planned. We moonwalked backwards out of the Hall into the Library. Evan’s nose went into overdrive and there were olives skidding everywhere. The kids were cheering, trauma forgotten. We were the heroes of the afternoon.

  Lingoss closed the door behind us and everything suddenly went quiet. Evans pulled off his head and gasped for breath, and I straightened my creaking back, breathing in the welcome smell of dust, damp and books.

  Evans stiffened. ‘Look out. He’s behind you.’

  I closed my eyes.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Dr Bairstow.

  Oh yes he was.

  We pulled ourselves together – a phrase which, when you’re the two halves of a reindeer, has a whole new meaning.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  I did feel we were on firmish ground here, because he hadn’t actually forbidden us to do the reindeer thing. And we had just saved the afternoon. If it wasn’t for us, every social worker in Rushfordshire would be converging on St Mary’s at this very moment, accusing us of God knows what. As it was, the guests had had a bit of a giggle, pressies were being distributed, and soon they’d all sit down and stuff themselves stupid. Where was the problem?

  It turned out I might have misread the situation slightly. It wasn’t Rudolph he wanted to discuss.

  ‘It would appear,’ he said, ‘that the legend of Alfred burning the cakes is not completely accurate, after all.’

  I suddenly remem
bered. The cakes. I’d completely forgotten about Alfred and the cakes. Had Peterson and Maxwell grassed me up? That’s historians for you.

  I remained calm, in the best traditions of St Mary’s. ‘Not quite sir, no. It was bread – not cakes. As I shall say in my report. Which I shall go and write now.’ I made for the door.

  I swear he never moved, but somehow my feet lost momentum and I trailed to a halt. On the other side of the door, everyone was having a lovely time, singing Christmas carols and distributing the presents, while in here, King Herod was gearing up for the Slaughter of the Innocents.

  He waited.

  I felt compelled to fill the silence. ‘Not really my fault, sir. And the people were pretty desperate. It was getting dark, and everything was so wet, and they just couldn’t get the fire re-lit, and even though it wasn’t my fault the fire went out, I did feel we should do something. Obviously, I was very discreet about the whole thing.’

  ‘Discretion is not a word I normally associate with your modus operandi, Mr Markham.’

  ‘Well, no sir, I take your point, but it was only the one fizzer as a distraction, and then a quick blast while everyone was looking the other way. Job done, sir.’

  He said nothing.

  I sighed. ‘I’m sorry about the cakes, sir. I only had a few seconds to get the thing re-lit and I’m afraid the cakes were a victim of friendly fire.’ I beamed at him because that was rather clever. ‘Get it, sir?’

  Apparently he didn’t, staring bleakly at me from across the Library. Evans was demonstrating true Security Section loyalty and melting back into the woodwork.

  ‘Not so fast, Mr Evans,’ Dr Bairstow said, without turning his head, and Evans melted back again.

  ‘Was it Maxwell who told you about the cakes, sir?’

  ‘Why no, Mr Markham. You did. Just now.’

  Dammit. I’d just fallen for the oldest trick in the book. This is what happens when you spend the afternoon with your head up Evans’s bum. Brain-cell failure on a massive scale.