by Jodi Taylor
‘Er … my name’s Adrian and this is…’ another head popped up alongside, ‘this is Mikey. We’re awfully sorry, but we seem to be in the wrong place. We’ll be off. So sorry to have disturbed you. Good afternoon.’
Well, they had lovely manners.
‘Not so fast,’ said Peterson. ‘Get your arses down here right now, the pair of you.’
‘Well, that’s not very Victorian,’ said Mikey.
‘Neither am I,’ said Peterson. ‘Get yourselves down here now before I have the pair of you shot.’
‘Oh. OK then,’ said Adrian, not particularly fazed by the threat. ‘You might want to stand back a little.’
‘Why?’
A heavy wooden ladder was heaved out of the hatch and thudded to the ground, missing his head by inches. By the time Peterson had recovered, Adrian was carefully climbing down, closely followed by Mikey.
Seen close up, they were much younger than I had first thought. Adrian was tall and gawky, wearing a long leather greatcoat. Mikey was smaller and wore what looked like a genuine WWII leather flying jacket. They both wore flying helmets and, for no discernible reason that I could see, goggles. I doubted either of them was out of their teens. Which wouldn’t go down well with Dr Bairstow.
Men might be from Mars and women from Venus, but Dr Bairstow is from St Mary’s, the centre of the universe and, as far as he’s concerned, teenagers are from the other side of the Ort cloud. He has frequently been heard to express his astonishment that SETI are concentrating their search for extra-terrestrial life in space, when everyone can see there are several billion aliens (or teenagers as the rest of the world refers to them) already inhabiting Planet Earth.
The two of them stood in front of us, staring around in open curiosity.
‘Where are we?’
‘Where are you supposed to be?’
‘St Mary’s Institute. We wanted to see where it all started.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ said Bashford. He glared accusingly at Evans. ‘We’re supposed to be a top-secret establishment and we’re easier to get into than that new nightclub in Rushford.’
‘Not the Golden Pussy?’ said Keller.
‘I think you mean the Black Cat.’
He grinned. ‘I know what I mean.’
I cleared my throat. We were, to all intents and purposes being invaded by what looked like a collection of giant dustbins held together by a paperclip, and our Security Section was busy discussing Rushford’s one and only nocturnal entertainment establishment. The Black Cat could supply the discerning patron with exorbitantly priced drinks, energetic young ladies and their poles, and gambling facilities for the inexperienced. The Security Section had taken out block membership. They thought Dr Bairstow didn’t know.
‘This is St Mary’s,’ said Peterson, because there was no point in denying it. For a start, there was a bloody great sign on the grass verge outside the gates.
They stared at us and our costumes. ‘But…’
‘Croquet tournament,’ said Peterson, putting them out of their misery. ‘Mr Evans, if you would be so good.’
He stepped forwards. ‘OK guys – you probably know the drill. Assume the position. Are you armed?’
‘Of course not,’ said Adrian, indignantly, turning to face the teapot and raising his arms, obviously well acquainted with the procedure.
I found myself alongside an anxious looking Mikey. ‘I’ll do this one,’ I said. ‘Arms in the air. Anything in your pockets?’
‘Um, a compass, some string, matches, my notebook, a small mirror, spare socks, two pens, my piece of cheese…’
‘Cheese?’
‘To replace the salt. Sometimes, after a jump, we feel a bit wobbly.’
‘Oh?’ said Peterson, sharply. ‘How wobbly.’
‘Just a bit sick, sometimes.’
I’d finished with Mikey. ‘All clear.’
‘Can I have my cheese back?’
‘No,’ I said, dropping it onto the grass. The ants could have it.
‘My cheese,’ cried Mikey, stricken.
‘I’ll get you another lump,’ I said, feeling as if I’d just drowned someone’s kitten. ‘What are your feelings towards Double Gloucester?’
‘Cheddar,’ said Adrian, over his shoulder.
‘Boring,’ said Mikey. ‘Wensleydale.’
I glanced towards Mrs Mack and she got up.
Peterson was talking to Dieter, who disappeared, signalling to several techies to follow him.
Adrian drew himself up. ‘Take us to your leader.’
‘Love to,’ said Peterson. ‘This way.’
As we set off, Dieter and his team passed us, clutching bits of technical equipment and a wand, which they began to wave around.
He looked at the ladder and then at Adrian. ‘All right to go in? I’d really like to have a look inside.’
‘Of course,’ said Adrian amiably. ‘Be our guest.’
I was torn between watching the enormous Dieter negotiate the ladder and then squeeze himself in through the hatch, or seeing what our two guests and Dr Bairstow made of each other. Dr Bairstow won. He always does.
I performed the introductions. ‘Sir, may I introduce Adrian and Mikey. Adrian and Mikey, this is Dr Bairstow.’
They just stared at him, speechless, for once. Talk about shock and awe.
I think he completely took the wind out of their sails by asking them to join him for tea.
‘Oh, wow!’ said Mikey, staring around in amazement. ‘Tea at St Mary’s. With Dr Bairstow. Awesome! Thank you, sir.’
I could see Dr Bairstow thaw a little at this blatant admiration. He doesn’t get a lot of that. On the other hand, of course, pants-wetting terror is usually his preferred effect.
‘Max, Dr Peterson, would you care to join us?’
We settled ourselves down and continued with what was, according to Mrs Mack, the highlight of the afternoon. The tables were laden with four different types of sandwiches, scones with jam and cream, cheese scones with savoury butter, slices of quiche, Victoria sponge, Battenburg and jam tarts. All along the terrace, I could hear happy chatter and the chink of teaspoons in saucers. The English Tourist Board could have bottled us and sold us abroad and made a fortune. England at its most traditional.
Somewhat to our surprise, having loaded his plate with as much as it could hold Adrian pulled out an old-fashioned alarm clock – the sort with the big double bell on the top – and set it on the table in front of him.
I have to say, they both of them looked pale and heavy-eyed so perhaps they needed help staying awake. Like the dormouse at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. Please don’t tell Dr Bairstow I referred to him as the Mad Hatter.
Tim was eyeing the clock. ‘What’s that for?’
‘We only have two hours.’
‘Until what?’
‘Until the Time Police catch us. Sometimes a little longer – sometimes a little less – but usually about two hours. So we set the clock and when the alarm goes off – so do we. We have our own dedicated Time Police unit, you know. There’s four of them after us. And they haven’t caught us yet,’ he added proudly, if a little thickly, because all teenagers can eat and talk at the same time. It’s just a bit messy for everyone else. ‘Sometimes,’ he continued, ‘we leave them a note telling them where we’re going next and, every Christmas, we leave them a card with season’s greetings, so they know we’re thinking of them.’
I spared a moment to picture the Time Police reaction to this cheeky gesture of goodwill. Because if they were ever caught, it would no longer be a laughing matter … Not for these two, anyway. And they were so young.
‘How do they find you?’ persisted Peterson.
‘We don’t know,’ said Mikey cheerfully, barely visible behind a plateful of sandwiches and jam tarts. I had the impression the abandoned lump of cheese now lying forlornly on the grass was less than a memory.
‘I think I can answer that,’ said Dieter, appearing as if by magic. No mea
n feat when you’re that big. He was waving his wand around like a Teutonic Gandalf at Minas Tirith. ‘You have a radiation leak.’
Dr Stone stood up, leaned over, and peered at the readings. ‘Right, you two.’
They clutched at their plates, not moving.
He beamed. ‘I’ve always wanted to say this: Come with me if you want to live.’
They picked up their plates, still stuffing sandwiches as fast as they could go. If they were permanently on the run from the Time Police, no wonder they were starving. Still, they seemed very cheerful about it. It was rather good to meet people for whom the Time Police held no fear.
‘The resilience of youth,’ said Peterson, watching them go. ‘Remember that?’
‘Not recently,’ I said.
Dr Bairstow said, ‘Mr Dieter, how bad is their leak? Should I be evacuating everyone?’
‘Low level, sir, nothing for us to worry about, but prolonged contact is not doing them any good.’
‘Can it be repaired?’
‘I think so, sir. Can you keep them out of the way for an hour or so?’
Dr Bairstow picked up their alarm clock. ‘You have forty-five minutes.’
‘In that case, sir, if you will excuse me – I have a miracle to perform.’
He set off at a trot, closely followed by his team. They climbed into the teapot – and to this day I’m still not sure how they all got in, especially Dieter – and we could hear the sounds of metal hitting metal, together with a great deal of cursing, indicating that the Technical Section was at work.
I sat back to think. Adrian and Mikey – only a hop skip and a jump ahead of the people who would imprison them for the rest of their lives if they caught them. If they didn’t shoot them first, of course. Never staying anywhere for longer than two hours. Trying to eat and sleep in two-hour bursts. Struggling to keep their teapot together. Yes, it was fun now, but what would it be in five years’ time? Or ten? Would they still be enjoying themselves then? Because they could never stop. The minute they stood still, the Time Police would have them.
I looked across the table to Dr Bairstow and said, ‘Sir…?’
He can add mindreading to his list of achievements. ‘You may, Dr Maxwell. Go and organise something.’
I gathered up my dress in two big bunches and galloped off. I raced to Sick Bay where they were receiving – according to Dr Stone – Dr Stone’s patented anti-radiation medication. I added a shower and having their clothes washed to the list of medical treatment they would receive.
And back out to Dieter, who had emerged from the teapot and was easing his back.
‘Dieter – safety protocols?’
He said carefully, ‘They don’t appear to have any.’
‘Really? Good.’
He sighed and rolled his eyes. ‘Typical historian. Not good, Max. Not good in any way. Not good at all.’
‘Yes, it is,’ I said. ‘It means they can still jump if I load them up with supplies.’
‘You do realise that’s one of the main reasons the Time Police are chasing them. Because they could, if they wanted, walk off with the ‘Mona Lisa’ while the paint is still wet.’
‘But they haven’t, have they? Plundered the past, I mean.’
‘Not yet,’ he said grimly, ‘but they’re only two skinny teenagers and this pod thing,’ he gestured behind him, ‘could be taken from them at any time and used by others for nefarious purposes.’
I was gathering up my skirts again, poised for departure.
‘Nefarious?’
He beamed. ‘The Technical Section’s word of the day.’
‘I thought you only understood words like hammer and thump and bro-ken.’
‘Not at all,’ he said looming over me. ‘I also know words like cheeky and bug-ger and push off Maxwell and let us get on with saving their lives.’
I paused. ‘That bad?’
‘It would have been. Turning up here today has probably saved them.’
And back to the kitchen, where Mrs Mack was ahead of me.
‘Care packages,’ she said, nodding towards her staff stuffing compo rations into a box. ‘And some fresh fruit. And chocolate. And a wheel of Wensleydale. They’ll eat well for a week, anyway.’
I just had time for a cup of tea myself before Dr Stone brought them back, considerably cleaner and, presumably, radiation free. Each of them was clutching a little bag of medication. Each had a radiation badge pinned to their front. They were still eating and talking. Simultaneously. We should recruit them into St Mary’s. They were certainly the Right Stuff.
We gathered outside their teapot.
‘Listen to me,’ said Dr Bairstow, and they did. ‘If your badge turns red, return to St Mary’s at once. If either of you are injured or sick, return to St Mary’s at once. If, at any point, you are in trouble or in danger – or more trouble or danger than you feel you can cope with – return to St Mary’s at once. We will do what we can for you. Now, your…’ he glanced up at the teapot, appeared to select and reject various words, finally settling for, ‘conveyance … has been serviced. The radiation leak that would eventually have killed you has been repaired. A week’s worth of rations has been loaded and you have been fed and watered. That should keep you out of trouble for the foreseeable future.’
They nodded, suddenly solemn. Adrian said, ‘On behalf of Mikey and me, thank you, Dr Bairstow. We didn’t know … about the leak, I mean. Well, we did, but we didn’t think it was that serious.’
Mikey nodded and beamed up at him. ‘Thank you, Dr Bairstow. You’ve been very kind.’
I don’t think anyone had ever accused him of kindness before. He put out his hand. ‘Good luck to the pair of you.’
‘Thank you, Dr Bairstow.’
‘Don’t thank me,’ he said sternly. ‘You’re going to need it. However, remember what I said. You are not without a refuge.’
Somewhere in Mikey’s capacious pocket, the alarm clock went off.
‘Time to go,’ said Adrian cheerily, and they climbed the ladder. Mikey hauled it up after them and they dropped it back into the teapot with a thud. Dieter winced.
They waved merrily and shouted goodbye and then the hatch closed. And opened again. ‘You might want to stand back a bit,’ shouted Mikey. And then the hatch closed again.
‘I would certainly advise that,’ said Dieter, ushering us all back to the terrace and the remains of our tea.
When we turned back – they were gone.
They’d cut it a bit fine, actually. I’d barely poured myself another cup of tea and picked up a salmon and cucumber sandwich when the Time Police turned up.
At least they’d learned not to come piling out of their pod, weapons raised, shouting at us to comply with a number of contradictory instructions.
We sat back and watched them cross the grass towards us. Mikey’s cheese lay in their path and appeared to warrant a good deal of attention.
As Adrian had said, there were four of them and they opened the conversation by demanding to know where we were hiding them.
Dr Bairstow sat back, so I gathered it was up to me and Peterson.
‘Who?’
‘Those two.’
‘Two who,’ said Peterson unable to resist.
‘Two renegades in a homemade pod.’
I was about to deny all knowledge when one of the cheese-fixated officers reported its radioactive qualities.
‘That proves it.’
‘Proves what?’
‘That they were here. Their pod leaks radiation wherever it goes. This cheese is radioactive. Therefore, they were here.’
‘Wow,’ I said softly, just to wind them up a bit. ‘This is advanced thinking for the Time Police.’ Because angry people don’t always think as clearly as they should.
Dr Bairstow decided to enter the fray.
‘My dear sir, you are aware we recently sustained enormous damage when our hangar and pods were involved in an explosion? There is radiation everywhere.’
> ‘Still?’
‘Certainly. I do hope that those of you who have plans for imminent parenthood have donned the appropriate protective gear. Thank you for pointing that out to us, however.’
The officer had been looking around. ‘Why is there a lump of cheese on the lawn at all?’
A good question, to which Dr Bairstow was more than equal. Raising his eyebrows, he said haughtily, ‘Forgive me, I thought it was perfectly obvious that we were holding a croquet tournament.’
‘So?’
‘Is it possible that you are unaware of the significance of cheese in a croquet tournament?’
‘It would appear they are, sir,’ said Peterson, with his, what idiots not to have guessed the significance of cheese in a croquet tournament expression. I have to say, that that one doesn’t get a lot of use.
‘But this cheese is radioactive.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Mrs Mack, standing up and entering the fray. ‘It’s a piece of the famous Rushfordshire Stinking Henry, a very old and famous cheese dating back to 1412. Legend says Henry V took vast quantities of it with him to France where the noxious fumes overcame all opposition and played no small part in his victory at Agincourt. Apparently the smell drove the horses insane with fear and they refused to approach the English lines resulting of course, in the famous English victory. As I’m sure you’re aware.’
St Mary’s sat, transfixed at this brilliance.
‘But why is it radioactive?’
‘If you’d been around since 1412 you’d be radioactive too.’
He looked around at the tranquil scene. St Mary’s having afternoon tea on the terrace. The croquet rackets … clubs … bats … propped against the wall, our walking wounded sitting down and scoffing afternoon tea and, most importantly, the complete absence of giant teapots in the landscape.
Mrs Mack hadn’t finished with him. ‘Would you like some tea before you go?’
He shook his head wordlessly.
She beamed. ‘Or a slice of cake?’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘Or we could make you up some sandwiches for the journey home.’
‘No.’
‘It’s no trouble.’