by Jodi Taylor
I met with Peterson while we discussed what we were going to say. He offered me a drink, but I declined. I wanted one quite desperately, but I needed to be stone cold sober for this. There was no dodging reality today.
My chest heaved in a dry sob. I couldn’t help it. Peterson, who didn’t look much better than I did, took my hand. ‘Not your fault, Max. You weren’t even on the assignment. In fact, if it wasn’t for you and Markham, we’d all have died there.’
‘I know. I’m thinking of Van Owen. She was just beginning to lift her head and come to terms with losing Schiller. And now – this. Can you imagine anything more cruel? To leave that gloating note. Where they knew we’d find it. What are we going to do now?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘We don’t know where they are or when. There’s nothing we can do until we encounter them again. In the meantime, we get on with the job.’
‘I’m off to talk to my people now. Van Owen’s under sedation. I’ll see her tomorrow.’
‘Thank God we don’t have any trainees,’ he said, draining his glass. ‘They’d be stampeding for the hills even as we speak. Come on. I’ll go with you, even though you don’t need me. They’re a good bunch.’
They were. I let them talk. I let them vent their hopeless, helpless anger, pouring a drink or two where I thought it would help. I listened. I put in a word here or there when I thought they’d listen. Gradually, things subsided.
Finally, Clerk said, ‘What happens now, Max? Not only do we not have anything for Thirsk, they’ve just witnessed our greatest disaster.’
‘First,’ I said, ‘we bury Miss Schiller with full honours. Then we take a bit of a rest. The Open Day is almost upon us. I know most of us don’t feel like it at the moment, but we’re St Mary’s and we can do this. I’ll start looking for a salvage operation so brilliant that Thirsk will forget all about this. It’s going to be a rough couple of weeks, but we’ll get through them. Miss Van Owen will probably return within a day or so. She’s now our only Senior Historian and I know I don’t have to ask you to do what you can to make things a little easier for her.’
I was sitting in my room, hugging my knees and trying to pull my thoughts together when Leon appeared.
‘What are you thinking about?’
We had promised we would always talk to each other, so I answered honestly. ‘About death and loss.’
‘Come here.’
I shunted across the sofa and we sat together. I rested my head on his shoulder. As always, he felt warm and solid. Today, he smelled of fresh earth, fabric conditioner and soap. Slowly, I felt some of the tension drain away.
‘Tell me.’
‘I was thinking of everyone I’ve lost here. Kevin Grant. Remember him? And our baby. Our little baby who never even lived at all.’
He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it. I turned his hand around and held it to my cheek for a moment then continued.
‘And Tom Baverstock. And you.’
Leon himself, lost and then miraculously restored to me as I had been to him.
‘Jenny Fields. Karl Ritter. Robbie Weller. Young Esterhazy. The list just goes on and on. And now Mary Schiller.’
I remembered the work she and Van Owen had done on Mary Stuart – how they’d burst into my office, faces alight with triumph and excitement because they’d found the answer. Schiller had gone with us to 16th-century Edinburgh. I remembered the two of us giggling because she’d tied my bum roll on upside down and back to front. I looked like a pregnant frog. She couldn’t move for laughing and then we couldn’t get the knots undone, which hadn’t helped at all, and finally she had to go off for a knife.
She’d stood beside me, quiet and alert at the court of Mary Stuart, whispering names and brief descriptions in my ear as we negotiated that social minefield. She’d fought at the Battle of St Mary’s. I remember her being shoved around by the Time Police – hot, angry, and dirty. And now …
‘They killed her and stuffed her into a box for us to discover now. Today. Leon, she’s been here for hundreds of years and nobody knew.’
‘Shh,’ he said, tucking stray bits of hair behind my years. ‘For what it’s worth, she died instantly. I suspect they grabbed her at the top of the steps to the crypt and she never knew anything about it. Then they locked the door on us and jumped away. I know – I know – it’s no consolation but she didn’t burn to death. Nor was she trapped somewhere waiting to be engulfed by flames. She died doing what she loved. The fault does not lie with you, who planned the mission. Nor Dr Bairstow who authorised it. Or with me because I provided the pods. Nor with Ian Guthrie who provided the security. The fault lies with Clive Ronan and Isabella Barclay. Blame them, not yourself.’
He was right.
‘I mean it, Max. You must do that, because you have to get out there and pull your department together. You have to help them pick themselves up without seeming uncaring. You have to move them on without pushing them too far or too fast.’
‘It won’t be easy.’
‘No, it won’t. Good job you’re exactly the right person for the job, then.’
He dropped a kiss on top of my head. ‘Use me, Max. Whenever you want to shout or scream or cry or kick the furniture – use me. I’m always around.’
‘Have I told you …?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he said, quickly. ‘You’re always boring on about how wonderful I am. Actually, it’s becoming a bit of a drag.’
I never thought I would say this, but thank heavens for the Open Day. It gave us something else on which to focus. I allocated responsibilities, imposed deadlines, and chased them all ruthlessly.
Van Owen returned, quiet but functioning, and I watched my department close ranks around her. I know Dr Bairstow had offered her a transfer to Thirsk should she wish it, but she had declined with thanks.
For myself, I needed to give some thought to my ever-shrinking department. We were down to just five historians. We’d had fewer – back in the day, it had been just Kal, Peterson, and me, but we’re established for twelve. I also needed to consider whether to replace Schiller as Senior Historian. Peterson and I were Chief Officers. Van Owen was the other Senior Historian. I didn’t want to be in a position where we had more chiefs than Indians. Our manpower shortage was becoming serious.
Two weeks later, I had an update for Dr Bairstow, who questioned me closely on the progress of our ship. Boat. I was pleased to report the flat bit was completed. Or the deck was laid. One or the other.
‘I am requested by Professor Rapson to invite you to crack a bottle over the front bit the day after tomorrow, sir.’
‘Ah – the launching ceremony. Excellent. I like to see these old traditions kept up.’
‘Well, if you really want traditions, sir, I believe the established procedure is to launch the boat over the living body of a virgin, thus propitiating the gods and anointing the boat with sacrificial blood. To bring it good luck.’
‘Well, we could certainly do with some at the moment.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I wonder …?’
‘Sir?’ I said, not completely convinced he was joking.
He sighed. ‘You’re right. So, what of the race itself?’
‘Across the lake, sir. There and back again. That way, everyone gets a good view. I understand Thirsk will be bringing a number of supporters whose dastardly schemes will, we hope, be neutralised by the Security Section who will be keeping a very close eye on them.’
‘And what will the other members of my unit be doing while this takes place?’
This was not knowledge with which he should be burdened. It’s always vital for Senior Managers to be able to maintain plausible deniability. I hastened to distract him.
‘Cheering on their team, sir.’
‘What? All of them?’
No – was the answer to that one. Apparently, small but carefully selected groups of St Mary’s personnel would be posting themselves at strategic points around the lake, all the better, they said, to facilitate the St Mary�
�s Path to Victory, which would have worried me considerably if I hadn’t known that Thirsk themselves would post similar numbers of evil-minded saboteurs – sorry, students – for exactly the same purpose.
‘A substantial number of people intend to indulge in the art of “cheerleading” as I believe it’s known.’
He blinked. ‘Cheerleading?’
‘Yes, sir. An American custom, I understand.’
‘And of what does this custom consist?’
‘As far as I can ascertain, sir, it consists mainly of hurling young women through the air to the accompaniment of a rhythmical chant.’
He blinked again. ‘Exactly how far through the air are these young women hurled? And of what does the rhythmical chant consist?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, sir. Something along the lines of “Go, Beavers, Go”.’
‘Go where?’
‘I don’t think they’re being directed to a physical location as such, sir, it’s more a kind of generic encouragement.’
‘And exactly who are these … er … Beavers?’
‘A hastily chosen example of a typically named American team, sir. I believe they’re very fond of naming themselves after animals – Rams, Lions, Dolphins …’
‘Marmosets, Prawns …?’
‘Exactly, sir.’
‘And are these cries actually uttered by the airborne young women? Are we sure they are not simply ejaculating in fear?’
‘Probably not, sir. The cries are generally uttered by those with at least one foot on the ground.’
‘Astonishing.’
Mrs Partridge coughed again and in the interests of sparing him mental disquiet, I veered away from the promising subject of pom-poms and their implementation.
He emerged from his reverie. ‘This is an American custom, you say?’
‘Yes sir. Of quite recent introduction, I believe.’
‘So the early settlers did not, in fact, throw their young women around in this manner?’
‘Just accused them of being witches and hanged them, as far as I can see, sir.’
He sighed. ‘With some trepidation, I enquire as to the possibility of this unit remembering that its behaviour should, at all times, reflect the gravitas and decorum of an internationally renowned academic establishment?’
‘Oh, I think we both know the answer to that one, sir.’
We attended Dr Bairstow’s pre-Open Day briefing, in which he ran over final details and timetable. It seemed to take forever. I suspected the Normandy landings were less complicated. Bearing in mind the way he’d ambushed me in the first place, Peterson and I were giving him our full attention.
He finished with a typical instruction.
‘Please bear in mind there will be a large number of undergraduates attending our event and many of them could be potential members of St Mary’s. I would be grateful if the benefits of working at this particular establishment could be made clear to them on every conceivable occasion.’
‘I’d be grateful if they could be made clear to me,’ murmured David Sands, behind me.
I turned and fixed him with my best ‘I’m your head of department and don’t you forget it’ look.
‘Is there a problem, Dr Maxwell?’ asked Dr Bairstow. A little unfairly, I thought.
‘On the contrary, sir. The entire History department, motivated by the inspirational words of its director, has just indicated its enthusiasm by volunteering, unanimously, to undertake the clearing-up process afterwards. However unpleasant a task that may be.’
‘Ah. Excellent,’ said Dr Bairstow, nobody’s fool. ‘Are there any other volunteers for this valuable though undoubtedly lengthy and messy undertaking?’
Total silence at St Mary’s is such a rare thing.
Chapter Ten
All right – here we go. Open Day 101. Watch and learn, people.
At exactly 2.00 p.m. – or 1400 hours for the more military minded – the Boss opened the proceedings with the traditional ear-splitting howl as the sound-system registered its protest. We got that sorted out and he made his speech of welcome. Wisely, given the attention span of his audience, he made it brief. Very brief. I timed him at seventeen seconds and five of those were applause.
Duty done, he made himself scarce, (rumour had it he’d prepared an underground bunker for this very event), and the crowd scattered, hopefully to avail themselves of the many opportunities to spend vast amounts of money.
Apart from the sidesaddle demo, I hadn’t tied myself to anything in particular and spent some time wandering around the place and trying to stay out of trouble. There was plenty of excitement around – some of it planned and some of it not.
Professor Rapson had set up his trebuchet at the eastern end of the lake; the purpose of which was to hit the floating targets. Members of R&D were loading up with small rocks and simultaneously fighting off a not-inconsiderable number of small boys who were volunteering to be human missiles. I moved hurriedly on.
Screams and shouts emanated from the marquee where the IT crowd were showing our dinosaur holo. I could see the shadows of fighting reptiles jerking on the sides of the tent. Ear-splitting roars rent the air and that was just the audience. The queue for the next performance stretched all the way to the tea tent.
Over on the football pitch, a medieval tournament area had been set up. The Security Section’s colours were green and white. They’d tossed a coin, lost, and were relegated to the area near the toilet tent. The History department, wearing blue and green, had, for some inexplicable reason, chosen the end next to the beer tent. The participants were warming up for their sword fighting demonstration. I’d warned them all – ‘It’s a demonstration, not a war. Understand?’ and they’d solemnly nodded and ignored me. There would be four individual bouts and then a rest period during which volunteers from the audience would be invited to brandish a dummy sword or two. On strict instructions from Dr Bairstow, no one was to be maimed. Helen had uttered a snort of disbelief over that one and gone off, presumably to mug up on every type of sword wound, up to and including but not necessarily limited to, decapitation. Good luck to her. After the individual bouts, the four of them, uttering blood-curdling cries, would indulge in the closest thing four people could get to a melee and then the last man standing would limp away to the beer tent, job well done.
Another enormous queue was forming for Dr Dowson’s tour of St Mary’s. His working title had been ‘A History of Country House Architecture from the 17th Century to the Present Day.’ Sadly, this had crumbled beneath the weight of overwhelming indifference, been renamed, ‘Blood, Disease, and Torture through the Ages,’ and risen, phoenix-like from the ashes. Several members of the Security Section (with suspicious alacrity) had covered themselves in gore and volunteered to be chained to the walls at strategic points of the tour. Evans had gone the extra mile and glued a stuffed rat to his chest. Naturally, at the end of the day, it refused to be unglued, and after losing painful amounts of chest hair, he’d given up and named it Archie. I was later told that for several days afterwards, members of St Mary’s were treated to the sight of Archie peering coyly over the top of his T-shirt, until eventually, he (Archie) dropped off of his own accord.
Streaks of wet ‘blood’ splashed artistically up the walls and a soundtrack of agonised screams echoed around the building. The whole thing was rather similar to one of Dr Bairstow’s lengthier all-staff briefings. (I had an unfamiliar fit of self-preservation and did not, in any way, mention this resemblance to the Boss.)
Back outside, several people had fallen into the lake. Hunter was keeping a careful tally. Bets had been placed on the final total and a lot of money was riding on this.
I spent some time trying to avoid SPOHB, who wanted to talk at me, the Chancellor and her crew who wanted to boast about their boat, and Dr Bairstow who wanted me to assist at the prize-giving in the Great Hall. Like that was ever going to happen.
Since I was somewhat conspicuous in my blue velvet riding habit, I stood quiet
ly at the back and watched him present the prize for Best Picture of an Historical Event to Class 5 of Whittington Junior School for their picture of the Black Death wiping out nearly every living thing in their village in 1348. They’d put their hearts and souls into depicting, in enormous detail, the scabs, sores, buboes, gangrenous limbs … it was an amazing piece of work. I was very impressed.
He presented the prize to an angel-faced tot who, apparently, was responsible for the bloodstained rat climbing out of a skull’s left eye. I didn’t mind betting we’d see her here at St Mary’s one day. Either as an historian, or, more likely, a member of the kitchen staff.
I left before he could summon me to do something I didn’t want to do and bumped into Helen, busy dealing with injuries relating to overenthusiasm on the bouncy castle. She seemed to be disentangling two fathers, a mum, and a frisky septuagenarian. I know there was an age limit of fourteen, so God knows what had been going on there.
By way of a change, I went to visit the donkeys from the local sanctuary. They’d been tethered in the shade, looked incredibly cute and in contrast to the human-induced mayhem all around, doing no harm at all. I could have happily stayed there all afternoon, handing them the odd carrot and twitching my skin to keep the flies off. Mr Strong, when not enthusiastically directing the traffic with two table-tennis bats, was rushing to and from the compost heaps with buckets full of donkey-related product.
Comforted and calmed, I made the mistake of walking past a small blue and red striped tent and was pounced on by Madame Zara, All-Seeing Daughter of the Gods, who, apparently, just knew I would be walking past at that moment.
I told him I had no silver with which to cross his palm and he indicated, cheerfully, that this was no problem – he took all major credit cards.
I asked where, in a tightly fitting-blue velvet riding habit he expected me to keep a credit card, and would have moved on.
‘Oh come on, Max, just for a minute. Then you can stand outside and say loudly that I’m the best fortune teller you’ve ever been to.’