And the Rest Is History

by Jodi Taylor

  I shook my head. ‘It’s only fair I should tell you, Commander, that I am not inclined to accept. I can provide him with an education here. There’s no need for the Time Police to be involved. And your other main point – that the Time Police can keep him safe – well, there’s no need now, is there? Clive Ronan is dead. The threat is removed. There is no reason why Matthew shouldn’t live a normal life. Here. With me.’

  The silence went on just that little bit too long.

  I didn’t like this. I didn’t like this at all.

  I said sharply, ‘Is there?’

  She said, ‘Of course not. But I had the feeling that wasn’t what she had originally been going to say.

  More time crept by. We worked our way through all the Beaurain, Bayeux, Stamford Bridge and Hastings data, and wrote the presentations. In the end, North, Sykes and Bashford took them to Thirsk. Lingoss went with them. The Chancellor received them kindly, they were on their best behaviour and everything went well which, according to Dr Bairstow, went a long way towards reconciling them to the cost of St Mary’s restoration.

  Of course, our supply of work dried up. The techies were the only people employed at the moment, busy rebuilding Hawking, repairing the pods that had survived and cannibalising the ones that hadn’t.

  SPOHB – the Society for the Preservation of Historical Buildings turned up, all of them wearing their traditional combination of drab knitwear and expressions of rigid disapproval. We continued the St Mary’s tradition of ignoring them. They fired off a series of punitive memos, heading each one with their logo and the information that this communication had originated from the BDSM department. Everyone got really excited. Speculation was rife as to what they were wearing under those cardigans until we discovered the letters stood for Building Design and Site Management.

  There wasn’t anything for us historians to do. The more technically minded among us were allowed into Hawking in an unskilled capacity – holding tools, carrying stuff around, suffering the occasional mild electric shock, making tea. The rest of us assisted Dr Dowson to re-catalogue the Archive, or indulge in a little extreme gardening under the watchful eye of Mr Strong.

  Months passed. Spring turned into summer and probably wished it hadn’t bothered. I’ve never seen so much wind and rain. They had real problems getting the roof back on Hawking. Summer began to turn into autumn. Leaves fell early from the trees and lay in soggy piles everywhere. Mr Stone raked them away and then there were frosty cobwebs every morning. Leon had been gone for nearly six months. Matthew had almost stopped asking where he was. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and just getting through each day and I wasn’t the only one.

  Morale was at an all-time low. We’re St Mary’s. We tend to be reasonably cheerful even when things aren’t going well because things not going well is our default state. It wasn’t that people were gloomy, but somehow, the spark had gone. Despite all our efforts, there were mutterings. I was concerned enough to mention it to Dr Bairstow, who said nothing, but looked thoughtful.

  And then, one day, about a week later, he sent for me. I thought, initially, that he wanted to ask me again about my plans for the future – something he had heroically refrained from doing since our interview with the Time Police – but this was something completely different.

  ‘Hello, Max. Come in and sit down.’

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  ‘How are things out there?’

  ‘Not too bad, sir. The Technical Section is working like stink and the rest of us are going slowly mad looking for something to do. I’m pleased to be able to report – possibly for the first time ever – that everyone’s reports are written up, all filing up to date, the Archive re-catalogued, and all side-saddle hours completed and logged.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, and then stopped.

  I sat and waited. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do when I got there. That was my life now.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Max. I have an idea, which I’d like to run past you.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Out of respect, I have waited a while to say this, but I think the time has come for us to draw a line under past events. This does not mean we forget what has happened, or those who have gone, but I think it’s time to move forwards again. The work in Hawking is nearly complete and we should have four, if not five, working pods very soon now. I have been thinking that, as a reward for everyone’s hard work, we should have a small event to celebrate. Something for people to enjoy. I do not, however, wish to seem insensitive, and I would, therefore appreciate your thoughts.’

  What did I think?

  I sat quietly in that familiar room, looking at the patch of sunshine on the faded carpet. He’d had his clock repaired. The old familiar tick was back and in some small way, I felt comforted. I heard myself say, ‘I think that’s a good idea sir. You’re right. It is time. Did you have anything specific in mind?’

  He leaned forwards. ‘Actually, yes. I am concerned at our current lack of impetus. What this unit needs is a little healthy competition. Nothing too strenuous, of course,’ he said quickly, possibly remembering that the St Mary’s response to anything even remotely competitive is to form the appropriate number of teams, spend ten minutes hurling insults around, and then knock seven bells out of each other. Quarter is neither expected nor given.

  I ventured to express a few misgivings. ‘An excellent suggestion, sir, but I can’t help remembering last year’s trebuchet versus ballista tournament, when Mr Keller broke his arm and we inadvertently demolished Mr Strong’s potting shed. It was only due to the greatest good fortune and the call of nature that he wasn’t in it at the time.’

  He waved this aside as irrelevant. ‘No one is more aware of the competitive nature of my unit than I, Dr Maxwell, but I hope to neutralise our more savage instincts by proposing a pleasant, gentlemanly game of croquet. In authentic costume, of course. To be followed by afternoon tea on the terrace.’

  I blinked. ‘Are you giving us the afternoon off, sir?’

  ‘I believe that is what I said. Thursday next, I think, if the weather holds. See to it, Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Obviously, despite his best intentions, it was never going to end well, but I don’t think any of us realised quite how bizarre the afternoon was going to be. Even by our standards. But I’m always being told off when I run ahead of myself.

  I made sure I got to Wardrobe ahead of the crowd, snagging myself a rather pretty tea-gown in pale blue and turquoise. I didn’t intend to play, but I didn’t intend to burden myself with corsets either, and the loose tea-gown was perfect. Matthew immediately defected to the Security team, where they decked him out in knickerbockers and a cap. I wasn’t sure whether his function was first reserve or mascot.

  I’m not familiar with the rules of croquet – or indeed any game that involves hitting a ball with a stick. Golf, tennis, hockey, cricket – they all look the same to me. It’s only the shape of the stick that’s different. Unless you’re the Queen of Hearts, of course, when you get to play with flamingos instead. Interesting idea, but difficult to organise at such short notice.

  We set up tables and chairs along the terrace. A croquet … pitch? … court? …whatever … had been laid out. We had six teams and the smart money was on the Wardrobe Wanderers, who were generally reckoned to be unstoppable and led by Mrs Enderby herself, decked out in a high-necked blouse and long, full skirt. Her bustle was assumed to be weaponised and was being given a wide berth.

  There would be a number of preliminary heats, then we’d pause for afternoon tea – the word sumptuous had been used several times – before the Grand Final. A small cup was to be presented to the winners by Dr Bairstow himself, stunningly attired in a crimson and cream striped blazer and crisp cream trousers. He sat with Mrs Partridge, who looked cool and elegant in white and carried a pink parasol.

  Everyone, competitors and spectators alike, had made an effort with their
costumes. I was wearing my pretty tea-gown with my hair coiled up in an elegant knot. And no corset. You can’t eat afternoon tea in a corset.

  Nearby, Miss Sykes wore a saintly expression and a pretty pink dress with more ruffles than was probably legal. Miss Lingoss, always different, had chosen a striking crimson affair, with her corset worn over the dress, which, I have to say, was a huge improvement on the way Victorian and Edwardian ladies wore them. Her hair was teased up to a height that Marge Simpson would envy. Even the men had shown willing, all of them in crisp white shirts and flannels, tied around the waist with old school ties. One or two souls not sensitive to public opinion wore straw boaters.

  We arranged ourselves at the tables. I sat with Peterson, Lingoss and a blushing but delighted Dottle. We poured ourselves glasses of lemonade, made from an authentic recipe – Peterson surreptitiously added something from a small flask – and we watched the bloodbath begin. It was a knockout competition – sometimes quite literally – and the last two teams standing would slug it out on the green velvet perfection of Mr Strong’s beloved South Lawn.

  The History Department crashed out in the first round, but Miss Sykes’s parting shot had led to Mr Evans staggering from the field, temporarily hors de combat and vowing future retribution, so we didn’t feel all honour had been lost.

  Peterson and I took advantage of the lull caused by the medical section getting people back on their feet again to take a walk around the lake. We paused by the willows and looked back at St Mary’s. Just for once, it wasn’t raining, the building glowed in the afternoon sunshine, the birds were singing, the swans were all safely at the other end of the lake. It was a lovely peaceful scene. Even the wounded had stopped bleeding.

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’ he said, as we slowly skirted the willows. In this dress, I had to do everything slowly.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, quite surprised to find I was. ‘Are you?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s good to do something just for fun, don’t you think?’

  ‘I do. I’d almost forgotten what fun is.’

  ‘Me too. It’s nice to see you smile again. Max, I wanted to ask you…’ He stopped.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wanted to ask if … if you’ve made up your mind about letting the Time Police take Matthew.’

  I wasn’t sure that was what he had originally meant to say.

  ‘No. I mean, no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Do you mean you haven’t made up your mind or you don’t think you’ll send him.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I tried to keep my voice steady. ‘I honestly don’t know. I only know he’s all I have left of … of Leon.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said, and we walked in silence for a while. ‘On the other hand,’ he continued, struggling for a lighter tone, ‘if you do send him then his drinking from the toilet will become someone else’s problem. That’s got to be a temptation.’

  ‘It certainly is.’

  He touched my hand. ‘Is everything all right with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it is. Everything is absolutely fine.’

  ‘Good. Now tell me the truth.’

  We walked a little further. ‘I’m not sure I can put it into words, Tim. When I first came to St Mary’s, I was alone. A solitary unit – and happy to be so. And then, over the years, things got … switched on. I learned to trust people. I met Leon. There was love. Marriage. Family. I was all set for a life I never thought would be mine, and I was right. Nothing ever came of any of it. Look what happened. Everything is gone. Just ripped away. But I can’t go back to the way I was. I’ve opened myself up. Made myself vulnerable.’ I swallowed. ‘It’s … painful.’

  ‘You still have Matthew.’

  ‘But not for long, I suspect.’

  ‘You don’t have to do it. They can’t take him against your wishes.’

  ‘They’ll give him an education. He’ll be safe. He can be himself. He’ll never have to pretend or lie. And he doesn’t like me, Tim. Oh, he tolerates me and sometimes, in the evenings, we have a bit of a chat, but he’s not warming to me. He probably never will and I don’t know what to do about it. And the non-mother half of me says to let him go. He’ll be happy. Even the mother half of me suspects it’s a good idea.’

  ‘But what do you want to do.’

  ‘It’s not what I want. That doesn’t really come into it. I can’t keep him here just to make me feel better.’

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘I haven’t asked him yet.’

  ‘But you will.’

  ‘Yes, I will. I promised I would. I’ll have to pick a moment when he’s not too displeased with me, otherwise it looks as if I’m sending him away out of spite. Sadly, those moments are few and far between.’ I smiled a wobbly smile. ‘I’m not a very good mother.’

  ‘I don’t agree,’ he said. ‘You’re not a conventional mother but that’s not to say you’re a bad mother.’ He stopped walking. ‘Actually, Max, I was going to ask you if perhaps…’ and he stopped, staring over my shoulder, apparently struggling for words. ‘Bloody hellfire! … What? … What?‘

  Long dress notwithstanding, I swung around. Now what?

  It takes a lot to catch St Mary’s off balance. Over the years, we’ve been attacked, blown up, gassed – several times actually, because Professor Rapson just can’t work out where he’s going wrong – mobbed by swans, crushed and drowned by a runaway monolith, the list is long and we’ve risen above all of it. We’re St Mary’s, we say, and our proud boast is that we can handle anything, and that’s true, but you can imagine my surprise and consternation when, out of the blue, a bloody great teapot materialised. Right in front of us. Right in the middle of the South Lawn and flattening a croquet hoop at the same time.

  We’re supposed to be a professional organisation. We’re supposed to swing into action like a well-oiled … something or other, all ready to deal with whatever threat is presenting itself. We drew nearer for a better look. Yes, I know we should have let the Security Section deal with it but it was teapot, for crying out loud.

  All conversation stopped dead. In itself a remarkable event. As a measure of our consternation, one or two people nearly put down their cups of tea. Apart from the distant sound of a car changing gear somewhere, there was complete silence. I’m sorry to say that far from springing into action like a well-oiled thingummy, we froze with our mouths open. Yes, I know, but you try having a giant teapot drop into your front garden and see how quickly you can get your mouth closed.

  I stared at the … contraption. The word that sprang to mind was ‘steampunk’ and I don’t even know what that means. If it means a twelve-feet-high precarious-looking structure, bulbously teapot in shape then yes – steampunk. An extrusion on one side looked like, but couldn’t possibly be, a spout and a corresponding bulge on the other side resembled the handle. I had no idea what it could be made of, but I do know it was painted in shades of khaki and brown that were blistering and peeling away – where they weren’t scraped off altogether – and with an amateurishly rendered Union Jack on the side. Significant dents and dints indicated some major collisions. It didn’t appear to be making any sort of noise, but then in my experience, most teapots don’t.

  Not a solitary soul moved. Even the birds had shut up. I’ll say it again. We had a twelve-foot-high teapot standing on our croquet lawn.

  Anyway, while we were all sitting there, gaping like a bunch of idiots, a hatch lifted up, and a head appeared out of the top, peering around, rather like a cross between a submarine periscope and a meerkat.

  As Mr Evans said afterwards, all right, yes, he probably should have done something, but it’s quite difficult to feel threatened by something that looked like a giant, patriotic, tea-dispensing appliance from his Great-Aunt Jemima’s best dinner service.

  The head looked around for a minute, caught sight of us, stared hard at our Victorian attire, and then said, ‘Damn and blast.’ Bending back down to address someone still inside the machine, he shout
ed, ‘You’d better get up here, Mikey. We’ve gone wrong somewhere.’

  Surveying us all, he cleared his throat and, enunciating carefully, said, ‘Good afternoon. Er … jolly topping weather, what?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ muttered Peterson, ‘Come on, Max. Let’s go and see what’s happened now, shall we?’

  ‘Try keeping me away.’

  We walked slowly towards the teapot, with Evans and the rest of the Security Section pulling themselves together and approaching from the other side. They might have looked more professional if they had put down their slices of Victoria sponge, although Evans and Cox had had the forethought to pick up their croquet mallets. Since the intruders were some ten or twelve feet off the ground, it was hard to know their intentions.

  Peterson halted and looked up at them squinting into the sunshine. ‘Identify yourselves.’

  The head beamed. ‘Um … well… I know you’re not going to believe this, but…’ he paused impressively, and then announced sonorously, ‘we’re from … The Future.’

  Somewhat taken aback by the lack of response, he continued valiantly. ‘We come in peace. We mean you no harm.’

  ‘Someone should explain it’s likely to be the other way around,’ I muttered. ‘Do you think he’ll ask to be taken to our leader?’

  ‘Not if he’s got any sense.’

  ‘We’re…’ he paused even more impressively, obviously playing some sort of trumpet fanfare in his head, ‘… Time Travellers!’

  ‘Yawn,’ said Sykes, behind me.

  Well, I suppose it had to happen sometime. According to the Time Police, the secret of time travel was – sorry, will be – public property, with amateurs zipping about all over the place trying to shoot Hitler, prevent the assassination of a US president – nine at the last count, and four in the last twenty years, so they’re not doing that well – unexecute Mary Stuart, change the final score at Bosworth and now, apparently, visit St Mary’s. You can see why, of course. St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research. First and best. Where it all started. I stood with Peterson in the warm afternoon sunshine and we waited to see what would happen next.