by Jodi Taylor
‘I don’t understand.’
‘What I’m saying is that if you had a man in your life, you wouldn’t be sitting cross legged on the floor in the early stages of electrocution.’
It was going to be interesting to see just how far a screwdriver could be inserted up someone’s nose before encountering a sinus.
To the relief of all present she put the screwdriver down.
‘Seriously? A man? I think we both know that even if I was stupid enough to possess such a thing he would, at this very moment, be stretched out on a sofa somewhere, beer in one hand, himself in the other, watching Match of the Day. And I’d still be here trying to fix my stupid hairdryer. By myself.’
He picked up the hairdryer and threw it out of the window.
‘Sorted. I’ll buy you a new one. Morning, Max.’
The rest of the meeting proceeded peacefully. Miss Lee took notes and did not, even for one moment, lift her eyes from her scratchpad.
This was the trainees’ final assignment. We were entering the home stretch. All I had to do was get them through this last jump without major loss of life or limb. Not that difficult, surely.
I formally appointed Hoyle controller of this mission and at last, there it was. A flicker of reaction. He turned hastily away and strode off. I let him go. He’d had to wait a long time for his assignment. It wasn’t his fault if his stiff upper lip was having a bit of a quiver.
This final assignment was more in the nature of works jolly. Part of a long-term and continually ongoing industrial history assignment. We already had Stevenson’s Rocket under our belt, including the unfortunate death of the MP, William Huskisson, who had somehow, at some point in the proceedings, managed to get himself run over.
Now we were off to see if one of us could manage to fall off the Clifton Suspension Bridge. Any takers?
We assembled outside Number Five. Atherton, Hoyle, North, Sykes, Markham, and me. I spared a thought for Peterson who should have been with us on this one. He was slowly recovering the use of his arm, thanks, he said, to constant and dedicated physiotherapy. Although Nurse Hunter had warned him that if he tried it on her he’d lose the use of another appendage.
We checked each other over. I couldn’t help comparing this occasion to their first jump, nearly six months ago. How much more assured they all were. More confident. More of a team. Atherton, North, and Sykes stood around like old hands, exchanging jokes and laughing at each other’s costumes which, since we were off to the Victorian era, were pretty laughable.
As usual, we women had come off worst. While the blokes were able to get away with sack coats, waistcoats, and trousers, sadly, we’d arrived at the age of the crinoline. And colour. The invention of mauve and magenta shades had caused a minor sensation and, being Victorian, the fashion industry had picked up these colours and run with them. In addition, our crinolines were stiffened with gauze, under those, we had starched petticoats, and under those, of course, the inevitable corset.
‘Not too tight,’ I’d pleaded. ‘I really like to be able to move occasionally. And bend down. And breathe.’
Mrs Enderby had done her best but I’m short and this was yet another occasion when my width far exceeded my height and yes, my bum really did look big in this.
In fact, everything was big. Pagoda sleeves over wide undersleeves, a big lace collar that was supposed to make me look demure and failed. And as if none of that was enough, over everything, I wore a knee-length fitted jacket heavily trimmed with purple braid, and a matching bonnet.
Sykes and North emerged, similarly encumbered, in vast pink and purple skirts, with three-quarter-length capes over the top. I’ve never seen so many ribbons.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Sykes, ruining the demure Victorian maiden effect, ‘this lot weighs a ton. Why do my skirts look like those Austrian blinds?’
‘Looped up to keep them out of the mud,’ said Mrs Enderby. ‘I beg of you, please try to keep them clean. And most importantly, please don’t bleed on the material. It’s very difficult to shift blood sometimes.’
I pulled on my gloves and picked up an umbrella. It was England. Of course it would be raining.
‘Will we be able to get you all in?’ enquired Atherton, looking at our skirts. ‘It’s not a big pod, you know.’
‘If we can’t then you and Mr Hoyle can draw lots to decide who to leave behind,’ said Sykes, cruelly.
‘What?’ said Hoyle sharply, from inside Number Five. ‘What did you say about leaving me behind?’
‘Nothing,’ I said reassuringly, stepping through the door. ‘No one’s being left behind.’
He certainly needed some sort of reassurance. Far from recovering himself, his hands shook as he moved them over the controls, checking everything.
I took him aside and said quietly, ‘Mr Hoyle, are you all right?’
He made a huge effort to smile reassuringly. ‘Yes. Oh, yes. Sorry. Just a little nervous. This is a big moment for me.’
I was so relieved to see he could actually experience some emotion that I took this at face value and carried on with my own checks. I wasn’t concerned over this one. We were going to witness a glorious festival celebrating a stupendous engineering feat. The Bristol Riots were long since done. No civil disturbances of any kind were reported. It would be a happy, family day, full of civic pride. Nothing could possibly go wrong.
The opening of the Clifton Suspension Bridge is well documented. On Wednesday 8th December 1864, the city of Bristol did not so much push the boat out as fire it from a cannon. Events would kick off around half past nine with a military display in Queen’s Square, after which the troops would march along Broad Quay Park and up to the Downs.
Meanwhile, the Trade and Friendly Societies had assembled in the Old Market, to display samples of their workmanship and products before joining in the procession which, by now, was about half a mile long. There can’t have been anyone in Bristol who didn’t have a relative or know someone who was taking part in the parade, and was there to cheer them on with enthusiasm and, above all, volume.
We were up near the Downs in a position carefully chosen to enable us to experience the maximum enjoyment from the parade and still witness the opening ceremony. And have our eardrums perforated, of course.
By the time it reached us, the procession was nearly three miles long and comprised several thousand people. It would take nearly forty-five minutes to pass.
We joined in with huge enthusiasm (with the exception of Mr Hoyle, of course, from whose dictionary the word enthusiasm was definitely missing), clapping and shouting ourselves hoarse as each individual exhibit passed by, striving to make ourselves heard over the sounds of more than twenty brass bands.
Bringing up the rear to enormous admiration and applause was a vast float pulled by eight huge, glossy black horses, all decked out in red, white, and blue ribbons. The float depicted a seated Britannia, surrounded by figures representing Europe, America, Asia, and Africa. Possibly, at the beginning of the proceedings, she had been as quiet and demure as society demanded, but by the time she got to us, she was flourishing her trident at the crowd, and waving and smiling fit to bust. The crowd, appreciating her commitment, roared and waved back again.
And all this time, the rain was pouring down. Umbrellas became entangled. I couldn’t believe no one lost an eye. The streets were slippery. Drains and gutters were clogged with straw, litter, discarded flags, and the occasional drunk. Giant puddles of muddy water were slowly spreading across the roads. My petticoats were sodden and splashed with mud nearly to my knees. I was enveloped in the smell of wet people and wet horses.
The records say there were around one hundred and fifty thousand people on the streets that day and I was convinced that every single one of them stood on my feet at one time or another. We were so tightly squeezed together that we could barely lift our arms to wave the little Union Jacks Markham had procured for us. He didn’t say where he’d got them from and I didn’t ask. The crowd was very good-
natured and cheerful despite the awful weather, but trust me, there’s only so many times you can take having your bonnet knocked over your eyes before you contemplate wielding a hatpin.
It wasn’t just the clamouring, cheering, shouting people. All across the city, church bells rang, seemingly in some sort of frenzied ecumenical bell-ringing competition. Multi-coloured flags and bunting criss-crossed the street to the alarm of horses in general. Crowds of shouting people hung from every window or clung precariously to roofs and gables. As far as I know, unbelievably, no one died that day.
After an hour or so, with my legs and ankles feeling as if they were on fire, I stepped back a little to watch the trainees. Sykes, her face alight with excitement, was waving her flag with wild abandon. Even North was politely applauding each exhibit as it marched past, her head inclined as Atherton attempted to shout something into her ear. Hoyle was staring down the road, his arms wrapped around himself, although whether for protection or not, I had no idea.
We followed the procession, attempting to get as close to the bridge as possible. Actually, we had very little choice – we were carried along rather like salmon being swept upstream by their uncontrollable urges. Speaking of uncontrollable urges … I looked around. There were people from here to the horizon. There was no chance. Plait your legs, Maxwell.
There was an enormous amount of milling around as the procession halted for the ceremonial opening of the bridge. We clung together as best we could, because if we were separated now, it could be a good twenty-four hours before we saw each other again. We were far too far away to hear the actual speakers – hardly anyone was close enough to hear the speakers – but such small details didn’t stop the crowd applauding and cheering each one as if they’d heard every word.
The Downs – that lovely open space at the top of the Avon Gorge – had been packed with people since early morning. A large area was lined with stalls selling foodstuffs that wouldn’t taste anywhere near as good as they smelled. Markham counted out some enormous copper pennies and purchased a pie.
He and Atherton took a turn at one of the shooting galleries. I’d have liked to have a go myself, but it was generally reckoned that such things were too much for the gentle sensibilities of women. Both of them scored badly and retired, affronted and muttering about the sights being crooked. We patted their arms in a soothing manner, which, for some reason, annoyed them even more. We watched acrobats and tumblers, and did our best to avoid pickpockets, cutpurses, and ladies whose affection could be purchased by the minute. There was also a large number of small boys, all hiding behind the observatory, and apparently trying to kill themselves on cheap cigars.
I was quite surprised to find I was really enjoying myself and I wasn’t the only one. With the exception of Hoyle, who obviously didn’t know how, everyone was relaxed and happy and apart from bruised toes and minor crush injuries, we were all having a great time.
Below us – far below us, actually – the River Avon was filled with gaily decorated steam ships all the way back to the Cumberland Basin, all sounding their whistles as hard as they could go. It was all quite a sight.
Around about noon, the rain stopped and the sun came out and the serious business began.
The military marched into position. The civic dignitaries approached in stately procession, the Lord Lieutenants of Gloucestershire and Somerset, the Mayor of Bristol, a couple of bishops, the company directors, everyone who had even the remotest connection with the bridge was there. The bands played. The four cannon set up in Leigh Woods fired a twenty-one gun salute, which made me jump out of my skin and caused ladies everywhere to scream. The crowd roared approval for every shot. Music, cannon fire, and huge cheers. St Mary’s itself couldn’t have made more noise.
The procession marched across the bridge and then, to everyone’s amusement, turned around and marched straight back again.
‘Just like the Grand Old Duke of York,’ said Markham.
They raised the flags. The soldiers presented arms. All twenty bands played “God Save The Queen” to which the crowd sang with enormous gusto and enthusiasm – and finally, the bridge was open.
‘Dear God,’ said Markham, still waving his Union Jack. ‘I’ve seen battles won and lost with less fuss.’
‘Oh come on,’ said Sykes, her bonnet askew. ‘You loved every minute of it.’
They all had. They were damp, dirty, hungry, thirsty, but just for once, everything had gone completely according to plan and we had some great footage. I smiled at them. ‘Job well done, guys. It took us a while, but we finally got it right.’
‘I’m desperate for a cup of tea,’ said Atherton, proving that they were indeed, true historians.
All the important people were disappearing fast for a bit of a civic knees-up and we were free to find ourselves a watering hole. And nobody did high tea like the Victorians.
‘No,’ said Hoyle. ‘We should get back. It’s dark, the wind’s getting up, and every tearoom for miles around will be packed. Let’s go back to the pod.’
He was a killjoy but he was right. And some of us were desperate for a bathroom break as well. The crowds were beginning to disperse and so did we, but slowly, so we could enjoy the fireworks on the way.
Hoyle walked in front, arm in arm with North. They didn’t appear to have much to say to each other. I walked in the middle with Atherton, and Sykes and Markham brought up the rear. I could hear them chattering away to each other.
The rain began again and the pod was further than we thought. Hoyle quickened his pace. It was all very well for him; he wasn’t encased in four and a half miles of starched petticoats. I could hear North complaining at him. Atherton was silent and I whiled away the time wondering who would pair up with whom. Normally, on a training course, you get an idea of who gets on and who doesn’t. People are naturally attracted – or repelled – by their fellow trainees. Relationships are built that can last a lifetime – however long that may be – but I had no clues with this bunch. The traditional pairing is one man and one woman, because there are always places women can go and men can’t – and vice versa. We had two of each, but how they would divide themselves up was a puzzle. Usually, we don’t interfere. We don’t assign people to each other. The best and strongest partnerships are between those who choose each other. If asked to hazard a guess – and Dr Bairstow would almost certainly ask me to do so – I would pair North with Hoyle because then they could cancel each other out, so to speak, and Sykes with Atherton. I tried to imagine Sykes and Hoyle together and gave that up. And Sykes and North would probably kill each other. I’d just have to wait and see.
The pod was warm and welcoming after the crowds and the rain. We stamped our wet boots and divested ourselves of soggy capes. There was a stampede for the bathroom, which is not something you ever see in movies or holos about the glamorous life of time travel. Those who had to wait argued over whose turn it was to make the tea. Or coffee, in Hoyle’s case.
We dried ourselves off a little. I seated myself at the console and a strange little silence fell, broken only by the sounds of the kettle coming to the boil.
‘What?’ I said, suddenly uneasy.
There was some shuffling and then Atherton stepped forwards. Interesting. Not North, despite all her best efforts to become their leader. Not Sykes, with her easy, breezy confidence. Definitely not Hoyle, who had seated himself alongside me and was scanning the readouts. Atherton. Quiet, capable Atherton. Good choice, guys.
He cleared his throat. ‘On behalf of all of us, we’d like to thank you for everything you’ve done for us and to present you with this.’
With a flourish, he produced two envelopes – one big, one small.
I didn’t know what to say.
Behind them, Markham grinned at me.
I said, ‘Um, thank you. This is very unexpected.’
They urged me to open them.
The first contained a card, signed by all of them. Even Lingoss. ‘She didn’t want to be left out,�
�� said Sykes. ‘And she’s coming to our celebration tomorrow night.’ She paused shyly. ‘You’re invited, too. And Mr Markham, of course.’
‘I’ll be there,’ he said quickly.
‘And Dr Peterson too, if he’s well enough.’
‘He will be if there’s alcohol involved,’ said Markham, with confidence.
‘Open the other envelope,’ instructed North.
The second envelope contained membership to an organisation known as ChocAss. The Chocolate Association.
I laughed. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘It’s great,’ said Sykes, enthusiastically. ‘I’ve been a member for years. Every month they send you a selection of chocolate. You have to eat it –’
‘Obviously,’ said North.
‘You have to eat it,’ continued Sykes, throwing her a Look, ‘and then there’s a questionnaire for you to complete. You know, flavour, appearance, texture, whatever, and then you send the paperwork back for them to evaluate the products. So you’re carrying out valuable and important work.’
‘If you can be bothered,’ grinned Atherton. ‘Alternatively, you pursue the Sykes method of research which is to sit down, scarf the whole lot in one evening, and then throw the paperwork in the bin. They don’t really care.’
I was truly touched. To cover my emotion, I opened the card again, read the signatures very carefully, and then examined the small certificate, which said I was indeed now a member of ChocAss and carrying out valuable scientific research in the exciting world of chocolate. I thought about how Leon would laugh when he saw that.
‘Thank you,’ I said, eventually. ‘It’s the perfect gift. You shouldn’t have. I’m not sure we haven’t transgressed some rule or reg here, but I’m very glad you did. Thank you so much.’
Markham handed me a much-needed mug of tea and we all slurped busily.
‘So what happens next?’ said North, making herself comfortable on the floor, her skirt billowing elegantly around her.