A Symphony of Echoes

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Surely there must be a simpler way.’

  ‘Yes, probably, but there’s a certain symmetry to this. And, it’s more fun, I think. Don’t you?’

  One lovely sunny afternoon, Guthrie took teams from each section up on to the roof, for our Flying Machine Competition. He was there to ensure fair play. And that no one fell off the roof. Peterson was with me on the ground to ensure things went according to plan. Wings of various shapes and sizes had been cobbled together by the different sections, including a monstrosity from R&D, which looked to be about as aerodynamic as the Isle of Wight.

  ‘That’ll never fly,’ said Evan scathingly, stroking the history department’s offering, lovingly constructed and painted in shades of blue and purple.

  ‘It had better not bloody fly,’ muttered Peterson. ‘If it does, you’re in trouble, Max.’

  It didn’t. Accompanied by cheers from R&D and jeers from everyone else, it slid down the roof like public confidence in the banking system and crashed heavily onto the steps below. St Mary’s personnel scattered. Large lumps of stone and wooden shrapnel shot in all directions, and two of the steps were badly damaged.

  ‘You’re up, Max,’ murmured Peterson.

  I moved smoothly into Irate Director Mode, shouting up at the roof.

  ‘What is the point of me knocking myself out putting this bloody unit back together if you lot are wrecking it even before the bloody glue’s dry? Someone get down here and check out the damage. Now, please.’

  Members of R&D hung over the edge of the roof. Laughing historians inspected the steps. Someone pointed. Others bent over and peered. Someone else shouted and waved an arm. The doctor strolled over.

  ‘Oh! My goodness! Has something occurred?’

  ‘Jesus,’ muttered Tim.

  ‘Good heavens, whatever could it be?’

  ‘Kill me now,’ said Tim. ‘Max, stop laughing and get going.’

  I joined the crowd on the steps. ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘Never mind that, Director,’ said someone. ‘There’s something under there.’

  I stepped back and made way for the Regalia and Monuments lady, who was actually very sweet and certainly deserved better than she got from us.

  ‘Perhaps, Miss … um … you would like to see …’

  She knelt, tilted her head and peered. ‘Yes, there’s certainly something there. This is most exciting. This won’t be the first time something remarkable has been found here at St Mary’s.’

  ‘Goodness gracious,’ said Peterson. ‘How remarkable. I had no idea.’

  ‘Yes, yes and I believe a member of our organisation was present on that day too. We were SPOHB then, of course, the Society for the Protection of Historical Buildings. I think it only fair to say that then, as now, the Institute of Historical Research was not always as careful with the fabric of this wonderful old building as it might have been.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be exciting,’ said Peterson, clasping his hands to his chest like a Victorian heroine, ‘if something similar occurred on this occasion? Although now, you are in your … Regalia and Monuments … incarnation, rather than SPOHB, of course.’

  I shot him a look.

  ‘Well, yes, it would,’ she said, wistfully, polishing her glasses. ‘It would certainly be one in the eye for our critics. It’s hard to believe, but there are many who question our relevance and importance.’

  I suddenly felt quite sorry for her. It can’t have been much of a job, arriving regularly at St Mary’s to view the results of our latest careless … incident.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘we certainly hope you’ll stay around for this one. Imagine the additional prestige if this artefact can be witnessed and verified by such a reputable organisation as …’ my voice wobbled.

  Peterson moved smoothly up a gear. ‘Yes, indeed. An important body such as SP … yours … can only enhance the reputation of this artefact, whatever it is. I am hoping very much that you will supervise its removal and assist in conveying the artefact to a safe place, pending inspection and verification.’ He smiled down at her and she blushed.

  Guthrie turned up. ‘Oh! Goodness me! It would appear the apparatus slipped from their grasp, Director, and rolled down the roof, generating enough velocity and mass to shatter the third and fourth steps thusly. Oh! Is that a hole? Could something perhaps be concealed beneath?’

  ‘It would appear so,’ said Peterson, quickly, before I could take Guthrie away and shoot him. ‘Fortunately for us, the lady from … the monument society is present and has agreed to supervise the extraction, so we really have no need to keep any of you from the rest of your day. I believe you may safely leave this to us. We will report as soon as we can.’

  He took her arm, she blushed again, and we were home and dry.

  I went to see Mrs Partridge.

  ‘That seemed to go well,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, it was quite plain sailing really, although I’ve seen less ham on a pig. Are the press releases all prepared?’

  She passed them over. ‘On behalf of this unit, Director, may I thank you?’

  ‘Not me,’ I said, skimming through them. ‘Dr Bairstow is the one to thank. He’s the one who actually reburied the sonnets for you to find. I just had the idea.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it’s a very generous gesture which will certainly solve our financial problems for more than the foreseeable future.’

  ‘Well, my St Mary’s still has The Play.’

  Yes, we still had a more-than-dodgy Shakespeare play based on the life of Mary, Queen of Scots – or the Tartan Trollop, as I always thought of her – in which they executed Elizabeth by mistake. Something else I was going to have to sort that out when I got back.

  Busy, busy.

  Chapter Nine

  We were off. On a proper team-building exercise, no less. Just like a real organisation.

  St Mary’s on the move is a terrifying sight.

  ‘I’m not sure the world’s ready for this,’ said Guthrie, watching as they piled into the big transport pod, TB2. The cages were stacked along one side, with a pile of nets by the door and several sacks full of fruit that should have been eaten last week. It was a bit whiffy, but, with luck, not for long. Wisely, he, Tim, and Leon had elected to remain behind. Now it was my turn. I had Mrs Partridge to lend moral guidance and support.

  We landed gently and they assembled in their teams. Historians in their blues, techies in orange, security in green and R&D in what they fondly imagined was woodland camouflage.

  I had no idea how this was going to turn out. I’d considered (briefly) a paintball day. That’s what normal organisations do to promote team building. In reality, of course, it’s just an excuse to stick it to the bastards in Management. There was no way I was going to give this lot that opportunity, hence – The Great Dodo Hunt. We had arrived at Mauritius in 1666. In London, the Great Fire was raging and the Lord Mayor was saying dismissively that the blaze was so small a woman might piss it out. He probably wasn’t re-elected. Bet he got an earful from the missus as well.

  I had sent Tim back to St Mary’s to accomplish two tasks. The first, burying the sonnets for us to find in this time, had gone remarkably well, considering it was St Mary’s. The second part was to bring Dieter’s Dodo House designs back with him. He, Ian and an increasingly mobile Leon had supervised the building of our rather nifty looking Dodo Research Centre, which had been knocked up alongside the stables, out of main view. Consisting of indoor and outdoor quarters and a sizeable run, complete with running water, we were confident it would appeal to even the most discerning dodo.

  A quite accidental discovery last year had shown us that objects facing imminent destruction could be removed from their own timeline and relocated elsewhere. That was how we’d managed to save some of the Great Library of Alexandria. Now, we were going to have a shot at saving a few dodos. I had no idea how this would pan out – standard St Mary’s methodology – but the presence of Mrs Partridge, part-time PA and full-time Muse of Histo
ry, was reassuring. We would not be jiggering the time continuum. Not this afternoon, anyway.

  Since we’d been unable to complete the Flying Machine competition and to spice things up a bit, I had a small cup to award to the most successful team, and a huge wooden spoon and unit-wide ridicule for the losers. In the normal St Mary’s spirit of free and fair competition, all teams were now regarding each other balefully, waiting for the off. There would be tears before bedtime.

  We’d decided on twelve birds, altogether. Any twelve. No one had any idea how to tell the sexes apart so we’d take anything we could get. The optimum male to female ratio was unimportant. Twelve neat cages stood ready. It was time.

  I read them the guidelines again, making sure I included the long list of disqualifying acts. Deep down, I had no real expectation of seeing any dodos, let alone capturing any. Their date of extinction was around 1681 and, even by this date, they were very scarce. They might even be gone already. If we did catch a glimpse, we might be the last humans ever to do so.

  Still, it kept the children out of mischief. Team building at its most bizarre.

  ‘Remember,’ I said, wondering when I’d turned into such a nag, ‘no harm is to come to any of these birds on pain of instant death and disqualification. They’re scarce, they’re stupid, and I don’t want the last one dying because someone even more stupid has sat on it. All right? Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines.’

  They seized their nets and whatever dodo-capturing equipment they’d come up with and stood at the top of the ramp.

  ‘You have two hours,’ I said, pretty confident that: a) they’d never see a dodo; and b) they’d certainly never catch a dodo. ‘Three – two – one – go, go, go.’

  And off they went, went, went.

  I turned around to Mrs Partridge, impeccably attired in holiday gear, cream chinos, and a crisp white shirt, making Mauritius look scruffy by comparison.

  We stepped outside. The day was warm and muggy and to some extent reminded me a little of the Cretaceous. Without the giant carnivorous lizards, obviously. I stood listening to the sounds of the forest and watching the sun filtering through the foliage, making golden patches on the forest floor. It was astonishingly peaceful.

  ‘Tea, Director?’

  She’d procured a table – with a cloth – and laid for afternoon tea.

  ‘Mrs Partridge,’ I said, laughing.

  She smiled. ‘It’s been a busy time for all of us and I know how fond you are of afternoon tea.’

  I sat and she produced a plate of tiny triangular sandwiches. ‘Let me see, ham, egg, and salmon and cucumber. Please help yourself.’ She passed me a pretty, floral plate and a napkin. When Mrs Partridge does afternoon tea, she really doesn’t mess about. The sandwiches were delicious.

  I sat back in my chair and sighed. ‘This is very pleasant, Mrs Partridge. Thank you.’

  ‘Your tea, Director, with lemon and three sugars.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  In the distance, I could hear raised voices growing closer. Team History erupted out of the undergrowth and with substantial amounts of Mauritius in their hair.

  Evan was gently rebuking his team.

  ‘I told you, stay left, you pillock. You let it get away.’

  ‘I was left.’

  ‘My left.’

  ‘You didn’t say.’

  ‘It should have been obvious, you moron. How could you not see it?’

  ‘Well, I can see it now. It’s behind you. Tally-ho!’

  The clearing grew silent again.

  ‘So, how are you, Mrs Partridge?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’

  ‘And your sister, Mrs de Winter?’

  There was a slight chill to her voice. ‘Bolivia.’

  ‘Bolivia?’

  ‘Bolivia.’

  ‘But …’ I said, bewildered, although it doesn’t take much.

  Mrs de Winter was my former teacher, recruitment officer for St Mary’s and Sibylline Oracle. What was she doing in Bolivia?

  ‘This happens – occasionally,’ said Mrs Partridge.

  ‘What does?’

  ‘Bolivia.’

  I wasn’t getting any clues at all. Bolivia could be a country, an event, a person, a cat …

  I opened my mouth to frame a careful question and had another sandwich passed to me. I took the hint. Even so – Bolivia?

  ‘Well,’ I said carefully. ‘Please pass on my best wishes when she returns from – Bolivia.’

  She inclined her head graciously. ‘I shall certainly do so. She will be sorry to have missed you.’

  I was conscious of a low drumming sound. Teacups rattled. Were we having an earthquake? The drumming drew closer. Hoof beats?

  Nearly right. From around the corner galloped Team Security, going flat out, muddy faces set with determination.

  ‘Don’t let it get away.’

  ‘I’m not. Get the nets ready.’

  ‘We’re ready. Just tell us when. We can’t see from back here.’

  ‘Now! Quick!’

  Three tablecloth-sized nets sailed gracefully through the air, floating slowly but surely over the entire team who, suddenly, were using the sort of language you would expect from a bunch of people who had gone from a flat-out gallop to a dead stop in less than a second. There was an enormous amount of flailing. Eventually, words were discernible.

  ‘Get off me. Bloody get off, will you?’

  ‘I can’t. You’re on my arm.’

  ‘Ow. Bloody hell. Watch your elbow.’

  ‘I swear, Russell, if you touch me there again …’

  ‘I can’t help it. And you can talk. Get your face out of my …’

  ‘Oh my God, is that your …? Oh, gross!’

  Someone got an arm free. ‘I’ve got an arm free. Just keep still, the rest of you.’

  ‘Get me out of here.’

  ‘I’m trying. Just bloody keep still, for God’s sake.’

  There was the sound of a ringing slap.

  ‘Ow! What the hell was that for?’

  ‘I warned you.’

  ‘Not my fault!’

  ‘Look. Look, over there. It’s by that tree.’

  ‘We’re in a forest, for crying out loud. Which tree?’

  They heaved themselves to their feet, more or less extricated themselves from their own nets and set off in pursuit of something apparently only they could see.

  Silence fell.

  ‘Would you like a scone, Director?’

  ‘Oh, how lovely. Do we have jam and cream as well?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I spooned copious amounts of jam over my scone, being careful to snag a strawberry and finished it off with a small mountain of cream. Cholesterol holds no fears for me. I should live so long.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ she said. ‘How is Dr Bairstow these days?’

  ‘He’s very well. Completely on top of his game. There’s a rumour he laughed last month.’

  She smiled to herself and her eyes softened.

  ‘Do you miss him?’

  She didn’t answer immediately. Whoops. However, it was she who had raised the subject. She picked up her tea and stared into the cup.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do. I miss him very much.’

  I watched her, sitting quietly in the shadow of the forest, staring into her cup, remembering …

  ‘Sometimes, it’s not easy,’ she said, not looking at me. ‘I try to remember people are a renewable resource, but sometimes … sometimes there is someone special. Sometimes, it nearly breaks my heart.’

  There was a scream, a noise of tearing branches, and Team Technical dropped suddenly from above. To give her time, I strode over and said in tones of enormous restraint, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘We thought we’d look for a nest.’

  ‘They’re flightless, you imbeciles! Have you never heard the word research?’

  Sheepishly, they took themselves off and I threw myself into my seat. ‘I’m worn out
. Can I have another scone, please?’

  ‘Of course.’

  It was as she was leaning forward for the plate that I saw them over her shoulder.

  ‘Mrs Partridge, please could you keep very still?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Dodos. Over there. Just at the edge of the clearing.’

  She leaned back slowly in her chair and turned her head. There they were. We’d found them.

  Well, they’d found us.

  The first thing that struck me was that they were absolutely enormous. If I stood up, they would reach well past my waist. The second thing was that they were really bloody ugly. One of their names had been Dodaar – knot arse, probably because of the knot of plumage on their backsides. At the other end, their heads were completely naked. Being dodos, they’d probably been facing the wrong way when feathers were being allocated. They weren’t even a pretty colour. On an island filled with jewel-like bird life, they were a kind of grey-brown. Some were a kind of brown-grey. Their most colourful feature was their great nine-inch green, yellow, and black beaks. They looked like a cross between a turkey and a compost heap. And they were fat. I may be unjust; it was possible they stocked up on fruit in the wet season to get them through the dry season. But all the same, these puppies were fat.

  Nobody had moved. It dawned on me that it wasn’t us they were eyeing – it was our afternoon tea. The same thought had obviously occurred to Mrs Partridge. She picked up a slice of Victoria Sponge, broke it into large pieces and tossed them in their direction. I hadn’t had any yet, and could not suppress a small whimper.

  ‘It’s for science, Director,’ she said. ‘We must all make sacrifices.’

  Two or three of them bundled over and inspected the cake, heads on one side. One nibbled with its beak, let out a cry of ‘Grockle,’ and made a grab for another. Immediately there was a free for all as they milled around, hoovering up Victoria Sponge as fast as they could go.

  ‘Quick,’ I said, struck with inspiration. ‘Lay a trail.’

  We began to break up the remaining sandwiches, cake and scones and backed towards the pod. The phalanx of dodos watched us silently – just like that scene from The Birds. Suddenly, with no signal given that I could see, the whole flock attacked, stubby wings and necks outstretched, grockling away for dear life. We turned and fled.