No Time Like the Past

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘I wonder if you could ask Professor Rapson to call in and see me. When he has a moment to spare, of course. No rush.’

  I grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’

  At the door, I looked back. He was sitting at his desk, staring back down the years. Back to the time when he was young and handsome. To when he was a brilliant historian with his whole future ahead of him. Back to the time when he had two good legs. Back to when Annie was still alive.

  I let myself out quietly.

  Chapter Six

  Now that we had an important assignment under our belts, we really felt we were up and running and I no longer had any excuse not to get to grips with Dr Bairstow’s blasted Open Day. I assembled my carefully selected victims and once they were all present, got Miss Lee to lock the door. By exercising my fabled management skills, I alternately teased, bribed, threatened, called in favours, drowned them in tea, and refused to release them until I got what I wanted. I really can’t understand why some managers find it so difficult to motivate their teams.

  Four long hours later and after a prolonged and much needed unit-wide comfort break, --I was able to present the Boss with a rough outline.

  There would be, as they say, something for everyone. The Boss himself would kick things off with a short speech of welcome before declaring the proceedings officially open.

  Peterson and Schiller had volunteered to give an archery demonstration, and with luck, no one would be punctured – or at least, not until after they’d parted with their money.

  Professor Rapson was dusting off his trebuchet and would be firing missiles into the lake. What could go wrong with that?

  Miss Lee would hire a marquee in which Polly Perkins from IT would show our legendary dinosaur holo. (When, eventually, the programmes were printed, a misprint informed us a marquis would be erected on the South Lawn. We all looked forward to seeing that.)

  Messrs Clerk and Roberts from the History Department and Messrs Evans and Guthrie from the Security Section would dress as medieval knights and give us a demonstration of sword fighting. It seemed fair to assume that the opportunity to settle old scores and invent new ones would be enthusiastically seized. The medical team would be on high alert.

  Miss Van Owen was to give a sidesaddle demonstration, along with Dr Maxwell, who had better get some practice in if she didn’t want to make a complete arse of herself in public.

  There would be static displays, too. Mrs Enderby was to mount a display of Costumes through the Ages along three sides of the Gallery, featuring the award-winning costumes she and her department had supplied for the BBC’s latest Sunday-night historical bodice-ripper.

  Dr Dowson, in addition to manning the public address system – for which he had enthusiastically volunteered and them become distressingly deaf to our attempts to dissuade him – would give guided tours of the suitable bits of St Mary’s, pointing out areas of architectural interest. His team nodded wisely. I suspected they would go their own way and by the time they’d finished, the walls of St Mary’s would run with blood and echo to the screams of tortured souls. There was talk of setting up a dungeon complete with skeletons and rats. Traumatised kids wouldn’t be able to sleep for a week. Good stuff!

  Mrs Mack was in charge of refreshments. There would be a pig roasting on a spit. There would be burgers, ice cream, jacket potatoes, exotic sausages, and an enormous tea tent. A picnic area would be set up by the lake, and in the evening, there would be a medieval banquet in the Great Hall for ‘selected guests’, the definition of which was either people from whom we wanted to extort large sums of money, or those with whom we needed to mend a few fences. The Parish Council, for instance. And the Chief Constable, who, for some reason, persisted in regarding us as a bunch of irresponsible nutters, despite all the evidence to the contrary. And, of course, SPOHB. The Society for the Protection of Historical Buildings with whom we did not enjoy a close relationship. Apparently, they have a kind of blacklist, and of the twelve organisations that figure prominently, St Mary’s is five of them. Which is, I think, not only a little unjust, but mathematically incorrect as well.

  Schoolchildren would be invited to draw a picture of their favourite moment in History and prizes would be presented by Dr Bairstow. It was really very remiss of me not to mention that to him. Apart from the joy of watching him deal with a sticky six year old, it meant all the schools would show up with proud relatives to view their talented offspring’s work, which would be exhibited in the library.

  There would be bouncy castles. The donkey sanctuary people would bring half a dozen of their most adorable guests. The nutters from the Castle Hendred re-enactment society would mount a display. Various local traders had been persuaded to rent space. A display of vintage cars would line the drive. There would be a crafts tent and a small local farmers’ market for anyone who wanted to buy a small local farmer. It was looking good.

  Mrs Partridge was handling the publicity. Posters would be designed, along with adverts to be inserted in the paper. A reluctant Dr Bairstow was to be wheeled out to give a TV interview. It didn’t have to be him – I could have done it – but the temptation to make him a star was too great.

  Mr Strong was to organise car parking. The plan was to let people in for free and then take them for every penny they possessed once we actually had them. Someone suggested charging to let them out.

  All members of the History Department were to wear historical costume. I had charged Mrs Enderby with the task of making sure they were all clean, authentic, and decent. I didn’t want Mr Roberts turning up in his Lady Godiva gear.

  Markham, who reckoned he had a gift for this sort of thing, would set up a small tent and tell people’s fortunes. He had two already prepared. Women would meet a tall dark stranger and travel across water towards the sun. Men would have a lucky encounter at the time of the full moon, which would lead to money. It all sounded very dodgy to me, but apparently he’d already procured a crystal ball and in his new incarnation as Madame Zara, All-Seeing Daughter of the Gods, was prepared to dispense enlightenment and confusion in equal quantities.

  The whole thing was to be rounded off with a spectacular outdoor fireworks display – which caused Dr Bairstow some concern until I was able to reassure him that the fireworks were being procured from a reputable source and not in any way manufactured by R & D, and that the manufacturers themselves would be in charge of the display. I didn’t actually say so, but I definitely gave him the impression that Professor Rapson would be locked in the basement for this part of the entertainment.

  ‘I’ve chosen the first Saturday in August, sir. The start of the summer holidays, so we’re not competing with other Bank Holiday events at the end of the month. It will be St Mary’s who kicks off the holiday season and sets the standard for everyone else to beat.’

  ‘I want spectacle, Dr Maxwell, excitement, thrills, crowds of people, and most of all, I want their money.’

  ‘We could dress Markham as Dick Turpin and he could hold them up at pistol point. “Your money or your life.”‘

  He frowned. ‘I don’t think we need go that far … yet …’ He tailed away.

  I paused from putting my papers away. ‘Problem, sir?’

  He sighed. ‘The cost of rebuilding St Mary’s is frightening. Small countries have been invaded for less expense than it took to put us back together. The expenditure has been remarked upon, and after we rescued part of the Great Library at Alexandria with all the fame and fortune that brought to Thirsk, they’re clamouring for a repeat performance. To justify the cost. So I shall be looking to you to address that issue later this year, Max.’

  I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut, could I? When I think of the grief that could have been avoided if I’d just gone quietly away at that point …

  ‘Actually, sir …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Actually, I’ve had a brilliant idea.’.’

  He regarded me warily. God knows why. ‘Continue.’

  ‘Well, I’ve be
en thinking about another salvage assignment and I thought – what about Old St Paul’s. The one destroyed in the Great Fire of London.’

  ‘Go on.’

  This was encouraging. I ploughed on.

  ‘Well, I was thinking, we nip back and rescue what we can in terms of artefacts, regalia, documents, bury it all safely, inform Thirsk and let them make another spectacular discovery. That and the stunning success of our Open Day should ensure funding for at least the next couple of years.’

  ‘An excellent idea on the face of it, but I’m not sure we could guarantee that anything buried in London would will be undisturbed long enough for us to retrieve it.’

  I allowed myself to smirk. ‘Ah, but that’s the beauty of it, sir. We don’t bury it in London. We bury it here. At St Mary’s. We know it’ll be safe and we’ll get a share of the publicity too, when it’s discovered.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Indeed, sir. It was our little adventure with the Laceys that gave me the idea. By 1666, Charles II is king; young James has grown up and is busy restoring and rebuilding St Mary’s. And the gardens, too. How easy it would be to bury something in the grounds then, to be dug up by us some four hundred years later. We could even arrange for the Chancellor and some of the Senior Faculty “coincidentally” to be present for the discovery. For authenticity and respectability. Funding problems solved, sir.’

  ‘Why on earth would treasures from Old St Paul’s end up here?’

  ‘Why not, sir? We’ve already dug up a lost Shakespeare play. Why not religious artefacts as well?’

  He sat back for a while, drumming his fingers on his desk. Always a sign of deep thought.

  ‘Why is it, Dr Maxwell, that the more outrageous your scheme, the more natural and logical you manage to make it sound?’

  I grinned. ‘No idea, sir.’

  ‘Very well. If you can find the time, draw me up a mission plan.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I handed over the St Paul’s assignment to Van Owen and Schiller for two reasons. The first was that I had my hands full with this bloody Open Day and it was taking over my life. The second was that I wouldn’t be able to go. St Paul’s burns on 3rd September 1666, and on that date, I was in Mauritius chasing dodos, and you can’t be in the same time twice. Yes, I know I hadn’t been in this world then, but I’d checked the records, and a Maxwell had been in Mauritius on that date and no one was prepared to take the chance. So sadly, this one would be happening without me.

  I handed over all my notes and data stacks. Van Owen took the London part of the assignment. Schiller liaised with Dr Dowson on the treasures we were likely to be able to retrieve and the best methods of preserving them for the four hundred years it would take for us to find them again.

  And I was relegated to organising this bloody Open Day.

  The next bit was nothing to do with me.

  It was all Dr Bairstow’s fault.

  Just for once, I was completely blameless.

  Actually, that should be made perfectly clear. I was completely blameless. It was – all of it – Dr Bairstow’s fault.

  Thirsk University had come to visit. They wanted to inspect the repairs. As they were perfectly entitled to do since, since they’d paid for most of it and, in their minds at least, they were our employers. They had a quick tour. I reported on the progress with our Open Day. They were graciously pleased – it was all going well and the Boss, sensibly wanting to get them off the premises as quickly as possible, took them into Rushford for lunch. It probably seemed a good idea at the time. They all waltzed off and we breathed a sigh of relief and carried on with the working day.

  They were pretty late back, and noisy with it. We could hear them shouting and laughing and the car doors slamming as they drove away and then peace descended. But not for long.

  I was settled nicely in the library, building my data-stack and doing no harm to anyone when Mrs Partridge tracked me down.

  ‘Dr Bairstow would like to see you at your earliest convenience.’

  By which she meant at his earliest convenience, which meant now. I searched my conscience. There were a few things, but he couldn’t possibly know about any of them, so I entered his office with the confident tread of the very nearly innocent.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  He sat bolt upright in his chair. The curtains were half-pulled across the window. He looked like a silhouetted vulture.

  ‘Ah. Dr Maxwell. Sit down please.’

  I sat, yanked out my scratchpad to show willing, and waited expectantly.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Somewhere, a new galaxy formed.

  The door opened behind me and Mrs Partridge, exuding disapproval from every pore, placed a tray containing a coffee pot, cup, and saucer on his desk in a very meaningful manner. I wouldn’t have thought it possible to pour coffee with a snap, but she managed it, no problem at all, and the manner in which it was placed in front of him spoke volumes.

  There was nothing for me. Was I in the outer darkness of her disapproval again? It was very possible, although as far as I was aware, I hadn’t done anything very terrible recently. Maybe I was about to and this was pre-emptive action. After all, as Kleio, the Muse of History, she’d know better than anyone would. But no, it wasn’t me. Not this time.

  The silence went on. And on.

  Mrs Partridge cleared her throat menacingly, and he appeared to make an effort.

  ‘I’ve just returned from lunch with the Chancellor.’

  ‘That’s nice, sir. How did it go?’

  ‘The Red Lion.’

  I ran that answer past the question asked and picked my way carefully.

  ‘I hope it went well, sir.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes. Very well indeed. They are most interested in the Old St Paul’s assignment. They are even looking forward to attending our Open Day.’

  ‘Excellent news, sir.’

  ‘Dr Black appears to have the entire Senior Faculty either bemused, bewitched, or just plain terrified.’

  Kal never has any difficulty getting her own way. She simply states her desires and waits for the universe to arrange things accordingly.

  Silence fell again. The clock ticked. The coffee cooled.

  ‘Was there anything else, sir?’

  He pulled open a drawer and took out a bottle and a glass, tipping a good measure into the glass for me and an even better one into his coffee.

  Mrs Partridge looked at me. I felt like Odysseus caught between Scylla and Charybdis.

  ‘Your very good health, Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘And yours, sir,’ I said, sipping something fiery.

  And from that moment on, it probably became my fault as well, because I really shouldn’t drink in the afternoon. Actually, I probably shouldn’t drink at all. No good ever comes of it.

  The silence from Mrs Partridge was deafening.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, briskly, tapping the desk. ‘To business.’

  I grinned at Mrs Partridge who compressed her lips in such a way that made me glad she wasn’t compressing them at me.

  ‘So – the Chancellor and her gang have gone back happy, sir?

  ‘It would appear so, yes. However, I fear I may have allowed myself to be – ambushed.’

  ‘You, sir?’

  He pulled himself together. ‘I won’t bore you with the details, but it would appear that I – we – have accepted a challenge.’

  I had a blurred vision of the really rather pleasant Chancellor leaping from her seat and slapping his face with her glove. Pull yourself together, Maxwell.

  ‘To what have you been challenged, sir?’

  ‘We, Dr Maxwell. To what have we been challenged?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I wasn’t there.’

  ‘What?’

  I raised my voice a little in case he was becoming hard of hearing. ‘I wasn’t there, sir.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘What?’

  Mrs Partridge cou
ghed. She probably had an afternoon she wanted to get on with.

  He continued. ‘There was some discussion over lunch – a variety of opinions were expressed and a challenge offered.’

  He breathed heavily. I was enjoying myself so much that I gave no thought as to where all this might be leading me.

  ‘It would appear that last year, during a week of fund-raising activities, the University of Thirsk enjoyed considerable success in an event concerning the propulsion of aquatic vessels along a body of water. The first one to arrive at a designated finishing point is deemed the winner. Although apparently, in terms of crowd entertainment, it appears the journey is more important than the arrival. A great deal of horseplay must occur before what one can only describe as “the surviving team” reaches the finishing post. The Thirsk entry was joined in this adventure by boats designed and manned by the local police force, a branch of the Royal Engineers, and the Rugby Club. They still managed to emerge triumphant, so we can, I think, draw the conclusion that they are a force to be reckoned with.’

  His enunciation was perfect. His movements perfectly coordinated but I realised at that moment, that Dr Bairstow was as drunk as a skunk. As a newt, even.

  ‘A raft race? Sir, that is so cool!’

  I could see I had joined Dr Bairstow under the cloud of Mrs Partridge’s displeasure.

  ‘According to an inappropriately self-satisfied Chancellor, they swept all before them. Of course, up there in the Danelaw, they’re all descended from Caledonian cattle robbers, invading Vikings, and whippet-racing black-pudding eaters, so that probably doesn’t amount to much.’

  I heard an unwise voice say, ‘The University of Thirsk attracts staff and students of the highest calibre, sir, and its reputation is internationally recognised,’ and realised, with some concern, that it had been me.

  Fortunately, he wasn’t listening. ‘And when I say swept all before them, I mean just that. Apparently they affixed some sort of contrivance to the front of their – craft – that simply swept aside all opposition and they cruised to victory – literally – waving to the crowds and broadcasting a ditty, entitled “We are the Champions” to the detriment of ear drums, glass edifices, and music lovers everywhere.’