by Jodi Taylor
‘Oh, that’s disappointing. I thought you could regale us with tall tales over dinner.’
‘I can still do that, if you like. How’s everything here?’
‘Absolutely fine,’ he said, which is St Mary’s speak for absolutely bloody awful but don’t ask.
‘Jolly good,’ I said carefully, and dropped my gear on a bed.
Matthew had barely glanced at me, keeping his distance.
Leon looked from me to him and back again.
‘Well, I can see you’re busy,’ I said, ‘and so am I. Reports to write, historians to chase. Don’t let me interrupt you.’
I sat at the other end of the ward, making sure to keep out of their way. I dictated my report, harried the others for theirs, viewed their footage, signed and initialled everything and packed it all off to Dr Bairstow.
By the time I’d finished, it was dinner-time. We sat around a small table. Leon had made some small progress with Matthew’s table manners and at least we didn’t have to duck low flying cutlery this time, although he still fell on his food like Theodosius’s troops fell on Thessalonika.
I turned away to say something to Leon and when I turned back, from the corner of my eye, I saw Matthew stuff a bread roll into his dressing-gown pocket. He was hoarding food. Because he couldn’t believe that this would last. He was hiding food against the day when, for whatever reason, there wouldn’t be any. I bet if I looked in his locker, there would be any amount of foodstuff stashed away there. Slowly going stale or bad. But he couldn’t help himself.
I could say something or I could let it go. I let it go. For the time being.
Since it seemed to make very little difference to Matthew whether I stayed or went – I went. The very next morning, as soon as Dr Stone discharged me. I said goodbye to Leon and promised to be back for lunch. I said goodbye to Matthew, ignored him ignoring me, and set off for the Boss. Who was pleased. We both took a moment to savour this phenomenon.
‘Satisfactory work,’ he said, so he was actually very pleased. ‘I see the two teams will remain the same throughout the assignments.’
‘Yes, sir. I thought each team could become an expert on their particular protagonist, which will make it easier to spot anomalous behaviour or predict how their subject will react to events around them.’
I thought he looked at me strangely for a moment before he nodded.
‘If you are certain, then very well. When is your next assignment?’
‘Next Wednesday, sir. The oath taking at Bayeux.’
He paused and shuffled a few files. He does this when he has something difficult to say. About Peterson, I guessed.
‘Dr Peterson has indicated his eagerness to return to work. On Monday, he will take up the position of Deputy Director. You will still report to me regarding assignments, but for admin and personnel matters, you will now report to Dr Peterson. Do you anticipate any difficulties with this arrangement?’
I didn’t give myself time to think about it. ‘None, sir.’
‘Very well. There will be an all-staff briefing tomorrow to announce this.’
He paused again.
‘And how is your son?’
‘Very well, thank you, sir. I’ve just come from Sick Bay. His injuries are healing. He looks considerably cleaner, although some of the dirt is so ingrained there’s still some way to go. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with his appetite.’
‘Excellent news. Max. I appreciate you are, at the moment, more concerned with his physical condition, but I have been speaking with Dr Stone about the future. Matthew is, apparently, around seven or eight years old.’
He paused again. I waited.
‘This is difficult to say, Max. I had not anticipated having this conversation with you for a few years yet. When Matthew was a baby, this was of no concern. And, of course, you planned to live in the village so security concerns might never have arisen. But, we now find ourselves in a position where a young boy will be running around the building and possibly seeing all sorts of things he should not be seeing. And then going on to tell others. At school – at play – whenever. The opportunities for him to say something unfortunate will be enormous.’
‘Are you asking for my resignation, sir?’
‘Most definitely not. I regard you as one of the key members of this unit. And with Clive Ronan out there, I cannot allow anyone to leave, anyway. For how long this situation will continue, I don’t know. But Matthew is growing. He has needs now and these needs must be met. I am consulting Dr Stone and Dr Dowson, and together with you and Leon, we will put together a learning programme for him. He must learn about this world and the people in it. He must learn basic maths and to read and write. He can learn all that here, together with a little history and geography. We can handle this. What we cannot provide is the company of his contemporaries. I am sure you do not wish him to have a solitary existence with no friends or contact of any kind with other children.’
He paused yet again. I still said nothing.
‘At my request, Dr Dowson has been researching educational establishments. There is a special school – not too far away – especially for children whose early years have been difficult. Trauma, severe illness, any reason why a normal education has proved impossible. Dr Dowson has all the information, which I would like you and Leon to study. There is no possibility of him attending any outside establishment while Clive Ronan is still at large, but with Captain Ellis and Major Guthrie on his tail, I hope that problem will resolve itself soon. When it does, with luck, Matthew will be able to avail himself of their quite exceptional facilities.’
I still said nothing.
‘I should say, Max, that even if Ronan were not in the picture, there would be no question of sending him away to any sort of school until you and Leon have established a happy family relationship, and he has become accustomed to our world and can operate easily within it. I mention all this only for you and Leon to consider. Please be reassured that all decisions will be made by you and Leon – and to some extent, Matthew – alone. I and other staff members are happy to advise and discuss, but every decision will be yours.’
He paused again. I couldn’t have said anything to save my life.
‘This silence is concerning me. I shall, of course, deny this in any future conversations, but I always feel much happier when you are waving your arms around and arguing with me. Please reassure me by uttering at least one small sentence. Shall I ask Mrs Partridge to bring in some tea?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, please sir.’
‘That will do nicely.’
I divided my time between Sick Bay and the History Department. My personal life and my professional life. I’d never had to do that before.
Peterson was duly installed as Deputy Director. He stood beside Dr Bairstow as the announcement was made. Like the Boss, he now wore the formal black uniform instead of his usual blue jumpsuit. He looked pale, remote, and unfamiliar. And he’d gone back to wearing his arm in a sling. The dreadful wound to his upper arm was healed, but some of the muscle damage was permanent, and whenever he was tired or unwell the old ache would return, and he would be back to the sling again.
Mrs Shaw would continue to be his assistant and he would keep his old office, which meant he was almost next door to me. Well, we’d just have to wait and see how that worked out.
I turned up the next day with pod schedules and personnel rotas for his approval. He scanned them briefly and thanked me. I thanked him for thanking me and that was it.
Everything was just … awful. Even the weather was awful. It was spring, but every day was darker and windier than the last. The rain never stopped. I remember listening to it lashing against the windows throughout the entire Bayeux briefing. I turned up the heating, topped up my mug of tea – my talisman against everything unpleasant – and we got stuck in.
I’d asked Sykes to prepare the background briefing on this one.
She assumed what she fondly imagined to be an American accent. ‘Previously on Wi
lliam and Harold – The Road to Hastings…’
North tutted and I frowned at the pair of them, but in a way, Sykes was right. Nothing happens in isolation. Everything is connected to everyone else. The build up to Hastings started some fifty years before the battle itself.
Sykes as usual, was bright and breezy, speaking without notes, and bringing up images as required.
‘OK, people – the story so far. William has “rescued” Harold Godwinson from the clutches of Guy of Ponthieu. We last saw the two of them riding off together – not into the sunset as you might think, but off to another adventure. Conan II of Brittany has rebelled and at William’s invitation, Harold joins William in putting down the rebellion.
She brought up an image of the Bayeux Tapestry. ‘As you can see here, not only do William and Harold fight side by side – and no doubt sussing out each other’s technique as they do so – but Harold wins a few hearts and minds by single-handedly rescuing two of William’s soldiers from drowning in quicksand.
‘They go on to chase Conan to Dinan, where he surrenders. William presents Harold with armour and weapons and knights him. A friendly gesture on the face of things, but actually binding Harold to him even more closely than ever.
Because nothing has changed. Harold is still under polite house arrest at William’s court. And it’s been made very clear that he’s not going home unless he swears an oath relinquishing his own claim to the English throne and supporting William’s.
‘Harold’s problem is that the king, Edward the Confessor, is ill and can’t last much longer and if he, Harold, isn’t in England when Edward dies, then he’s probably lost all chance of the crown. Events are closing in around him. If he doesn’t take the oath, then he’ll never be released and never be king. If he does take the oath and keeps it, then he’ll never be king. If he takes the oath and subsequently breaks it – as he will do – then he stands before Christendom, a perjured man.’
‘But he would still be King of England,’ said Bashford.
‘Yes he would. He will claim the oath was extracted by trickery and therefore invalid. England stands with him. The rest of the world will not.’
She looked at me. ‘Over to you, Max.’
‘Thank you, Miss Sykes.’ I stood up. ‘Firstly, thanks again to our Pathfinders, Mr Atherton and Miss Prentiss, who have successfully located the time and place.’
‘Yes,’ said Prentiss. ‘It’s as the Bayeux Tapestry shows – the oath is taken in the cathedral. Not at Rouen. Or Bonneville. IT has the coordinates. We can go anytime you’re ready.’
‘Next Wednesday,’ I said. ‘The oath will be in Latin so brush up your linguistic skills. Same teams as before. Same pods as before. We will take opposite sides of the cathedral. In the event of any difficulties, Mr Markham and I will act as sweepers and go where needed. You all know the drill. Footage of the cathedral, inside and out; the people inside, who belongs to whom and stands where; the oath itself and, most importantly, what happens afterwards. Team William – I want close-ups of William as the oath is being taken. I doubt if even a flicker of emotion will cross his face, but if it does, I want it recorded. Team Harold – we all know that Harold is making what he, and the rest of the world, consider to be a very minor promise, but that actually William will trick him into making a much more serious oath. One that can’t be broken. I want close-ups of his face as he realises he’s been duped and that, whichever path he chooses, whether to keep the oath or break it, he’s in very serious trouble. Any questions?’
People shook their heads, picked up their scratchpads and files, and slowly dispersed.
As the door closed, I turned to Rosie Lee. ‘I need your help.’
She looked wary.
‘I suddenly find myself the proud owner of a young lad very similar in age to yours. He can’t run around in an old T-shirt and dressing-gown for much longer. Any recommendations?’
Measuring him wasn’t much fun. He obviously didn’t like me being so close but whatever old Ma Scrope had done to him had rendered him obedient, if not cooperative. I jotted down his measurements and opened up my laptop.
I’ve no idea what colour his original clothes had been. Leon said everything had been a kind of grimy grey. I suspected there had never been much colour in his life. And they’d been stiff with dirt and soot and dried urine, chafing wherever they touched and letting the cold in wherever they didn’t. So warm, soft and colourful were my first priorities.
I ordered a red sweatshirt, half a dozen T-shirts, a couple of pairs of jeans, a blue hoodie, another green sweatshirt (just because I liked it), some new pjs, a blue dressing gown to replace his too large St Mary’s one with the sleeves turned back, two or three bright and baggy shirts, a blue sweatshirt (because I liked it even better than the green one), underwear, and some brightly coloured socks. I chucked in a couple of pairs of slippers, a pair of yellow wellies, and a bright, warm coat.
And then I had a brilliant idea.
I entered the search terms, found what I wanted, and placed the order.
I paid a fortune for overnight delivery for all of it, and sat back to await arrival.
*
Mr Strong brought it all up the next morning.
I pulled everything out of the packaging and took it in to Matthew.
‘I’ve brought you a present,’ I said, laid it all out on his bed, winked at Leon, and went and sat at the table as if I wasn’t interested.
Matthew’s face was a picture. He’d only ever seen Leon and me in our jumpsuits, or me dressed as a Norman matron, and probably had no idea what modern clothes looked like. The medical team wore scrubs; Miss Lingoss in her Goth gear wasn’t a good example to anyone; and yes, all right, Professor Rapson wore the right clothes, but usually in the wrong order. This was the first time Matthew had ever seen modern kids’ clothing.
I could see he was entranced by the colours, but I think it was the softness that really held him spellbound. He kept stroking the red sweatshirt, and when he picked it up and held it to his cheek, I had to look out of the window.
Leon helped him with zips – which fascinated him – and all the fastenings, and then it was time for The Big Finish.
I held out a shoebox. I didn’t take it to him. He had to come and get it. Inside was a pair of light-up trainers. I’d picked the best I could find. Not only did one flash red and the other green – which I thought would be useful teaching him right from left – but they had fluorescent laces as well. We drew the curtains and switched out the lights.
His face was a picture. His eyes brighter even than the flashing lights.
‘If he hadn’t been tongue-tied before,’ said Leon, amused, ‘he certainly is now. Bet you didn’t think to get me a pair.’
Dr Stone had warned us we might have some problems getting him to wear shoes. That he’d probably gone barefoot all his life and would refuse to wear them. We never had that problem. Our problem was getting him to take them off. We finally compromised with him agreeing to take them off to go to bed or have a bath. Otherwise, they were pretty much welded to his feet.
He slipped them on – Leon tied the laces for him – and we were good to go.
We packed up his stuff for him, pretending not to notice as he stumped up and down the ward in his new gear, admiring himself in the mirror. Leon took one hand – I took the other – and, at last, we were able to take him home.
Not that I was around for long. As part of my role as absent parent, I was off to Bayeux.
It was yet another dreary day in Normandy. Theoretically the sun had risen, although the sky was dark and overcast. The rain hammered down. Surely the sun must shine here sometimes. No wonder they all wanted to move to England. And it’s not as if we’re famous for our lack of rain.
Architecturally, the town had everything, from wattle and daub huts with scruffily thatched roofs, to the magnificent cathedral still under construction, and every type of building in between. The town was bigger than I had imagined and had spread out
from beyond its walls in a series of small villages to the north-east.
Rainfall ran off the roofs and splashed into the streets below. Rivers of water gurgled along the gutters, such as they were, paused briefly to swirl around our feet – my hem was soaked in seconds and wet wool is very heavy – before running down to the river, itself swollen and brown with heavy rain.
People scurried along with us, heads down, heavily cloaked and hooded, all heading to the cathedral, that scaffolding-encased monster dominating the town. No one was working on the building itself today – nothing must distract from the approaching ceremony – but behind the scenes work had by no means ceased. Masons and their men swarmed everywhere. I could hear the incessant chink of metal tools on stone. Hefty horses were pulling great blocks of dressed stone.
As far as I could see, the building was intact – we wouldn’t be dodging any leaks in the roof – but there was still a way to go before it was finished.
We’d turned up early to be sure of getting in and it wasn’t much past dawn when we arrived outside the cathedral, but already the building was packed. I stared in dismay. No one ever mentions this in stories about time travel. You identify and locate your destination, defy the laws of physics to get there, somehow manage to avoid as many as possible of the huge number of hazards History has littered around the place, manage not to lose or break your very expensive equipment, you’re poised to record the History-changing event of your choice, and then you find you can’t bloody get in.
On the other hand, we have the Security Section who, just for once, could justify their presence. I said to Markham, ‘Get us in, if you please, Mr Markham.’
He nodded and we formed the traditional St Mary’s battering ram. Security at the front, historians at the rear, pushing. It works. People weren’t happy but we were well dressed and, in those days, people were perfectly accustomed to being shoved aside for their betters. We did it as gently as we could – eventually arriving, breathless, a little dishevelled, and probably hugely unpopular, at the entrance.