And the Rest Is History

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘No.’

  ‘We have plenty to go around.’

  ‘Look, I said no. Are you deaf or what?’

  Everything suddenly went very still and very quiet.

  I stepped forwards. ‘Silly me – where are our manners? I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced, have we? You must allow me to present Theresa Mack, Kitchen Supremo and former urban guerrilla. Yes, that’s right, the Theresa Mack. The one who led the resistance in London. The one who commanded the Battersea Barricades. The one who turned back the Fascist forces.’

  I stepped even closer and lowered my voice. ‘She could almost certainly kill all four of you where you stand, armed with nothing more than the sugar tongs too. So no sudden moves, eh?’

  For a moment we all stared at each other. My back was to St Mary’s, but I just knew people were reaching for butter knives, croquet clubs, hairpins, parasols, whatever. Major Guthrie always used to say that anything can be used as a weapon. Someone scraped a chair as people began to stand up. It really looked as if we were going to be able, legitimately, to kick seven shades of shit out of the Time Police. What a great day this was turning out to be. I was suddenly feeling better than I had for ages. Tim caught my eye and we grinned at each other. This was how our lives should be – enjoying ourselves at St Mary’s and pissing off the Time Police.

  Who were rapidly discovering that discretion was the better part of valour. No one wants death by sugar tongs at their post-mortem. They knew Adrian and Mikey had been here. Equally, they knew they’d missed them and they were long gone. And without leaving one of their famous notes, either. Their leader gave the word to withdraw. There were a lot of hard looks as they retreated back to their pod. Giving the cheese a wide berth, I was pleased to notice.

  We smiled and waved as they left. Just to piss them off that little bit more, Evans instructed them to come back anytime and not to be strangers, do you hear?

  Dr Bairstow sat back. ‘That went well, I thought.’

  His good mood was still in evidence the next morning. I’d brought the casualty list down from Dr Stone. This had been our doctor’s first competitive event at St Mary’s and he was still in a state of mild disbelief.

  Dr Bairstow, on the other hand, was very nearly jovial. It wasn’t every day he got to put one over on the Time Police.

  ‘What’s the damage, Max?’

  ‘Well, sir, working my way down the accidental injury list…’ I took a deep breath.

  ‘One sprained wrist.

  ‘One suspected case of tennis elbow.

  ‘One suspected case of trigger finger. I’ve no idea, sir. Please don’t ask me.

  ‘Sundry bruised shins and ankles – mostly the result of poor aim or lack of coordination, but I suspect one or two old scores may have been settled.

  ‘One suspected but very unlikely hernia.’

  ‘One black eye.’

  I swiped to the next page on my scratchpad.

  ‘Working my way down the list of injuries incurred during disagreements over croquet protocols…

  ‘A number of bruises and black eyes.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘More than two but less than four, sir.’

  He seemed impressed, but whether that was because the injuries were so many or so few remained unclear.

  ‘Sundry lacerations.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Working my way down the list of miscellaneous injuries, sir…

  ‘One case of mild sunburn.’

  ‘In this country?’

  ‘Apparently, sir.’

  ‘Goodness gracious.’

  ‘And um … one horse bite and some minor trampling.’

  ‘I am almost afraid to ask.’

  ‘Attempted retrieval of a lost ball sir. Turk took exception to Mr Bashford invading what he considers to be his personal space.’

  ‘How much space can a horse consider to be personally his?’

  ‘As far as I can ascertain, sir, an area covering most of Rushfordshire. There’s also a small sprinkling of alcohol-related injuries, sir, including Mr Keller falling over as he tried to take off his boots. No concussion.’

  He muttered something about Edward II sustaining fewer casualties at Bannockburn. And he’d lost. ‘And damage to the building?’

  ‘Relatively minor, sir. Mostly, but not necessarily confined to, the occasional broken window.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘One or two items of furniture may have incurred minor damage during the action replays in the bar last night.’

  ‘So yesterday went well then?’

  ‘Indeed, sir. No one hospitalised, the building still standing, two charming new friends made, and the Time Police deceived.’

  ‘And the final score?’

  ‘The final result of the croquet match remains contested, sir, otherwise, St Mary’s – one. Time Police – nil.’

  ‘Have we learned anything from yesterday?’

  ‘Well, I think Mr Evans has learned not to stand behind Miss Sykes when she has a croquet club in her hand. And Miss Lingoss’s performance may have caused one or two people to revise their stereotypical opinion of the female inability to bowl overarm.’

  ‘I am almost certain yesterday’s game was croquet not cricket, Dr Maxwell.’

  ‘A temporary confusion on Miss Lingoss’s part, sir. Soon resolved and apparently no hard feelings afterwards.’

  He sat quietly for a while, tapping his pen on his desk. I waited for what I knew was coming.

  ‘They were delightful young people, weren’t they?’

  ‘They were sir. And, thanks to St Mary’s, considerably less radioactive than they were this time yesterday.’

  He leaned forward. ‘Do you think Adrian knows Mikey is a girl?’

  I grinned at him. ‘I’d be surprised if Mikey knows Mikey is a girl, sir.’

  One evening, about a week later, Peterson knocked on our door.

  Usually, on Friday afternoons, while the Technical and Security Sections battered the hell out of each other in the name of football, I would go to his office with all my paperwork for him to sign. He would drop it all on the floor, yank open his bottom drawer and pull out a bottle of wine. I would put my feet up on his desk and we’d have a glass or two and a good old moan about the week. Sometimes, he would call by my rooms in the evening to help Matthew with his jigsaw, or even just to chat. I think he was lonely.

  Anyway, this was obviously one of those evenings and I was pleased to see him. ‘Come in.’

  ‘What ho, Matthew.’ He held up a bottle of wine. ‘Have you got a minute, Max?’

  ‘Of course I have. You’re just the person I need.’

  He looked uneasy. ‘Why am I just the person you need?’

  ‘Grab a seat. I need your advice.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘You’re a man, aren’t you?’

  ‘So it says on my documents,’ he said.

  ‘I wondered if you would have a word with the young master here about peeing in the shower.’

  ‘For or against?’

  ‘I can’t believe you have to ask that, although given the number of things you’ve peed on over the years…’

  ‘You never let that go, do you?’

  ‘Unlike you who lets go all the time.’

  ‘To the best of my knowledge I have never peed in your shower.’

  ‘It would be nice if you could claim never to have peed in anyone’s shower.’

  He looked uneasy. ‘How truthful do you want me to be?’

  I got up to go and turn down Matthew’s bed. ‘I’ll be back in a moment. I shall leave the pair of you to discuss improved flow control.’

  ‘I really wouldn’t bother Max. We’re men. If there’s running water and a drain, we just can’t help ourselves. It’s in our genes.’

  ‘You are never setting foot in my bathroom again.’

  ‘I’ve never set foot in your bathroom anyway.’

  I returned to find Matthew grinning
at Uncle Peterson and picking up tips on how to defy his mother.

  I told him to go and get ready for bed.

  ‘No’, he said, obviously keen to put his newly acquired skills to good use.

  ‘Now,’ I said.

  ‘Can’t make me,’ he said, well aware that corporal punishment was off the table.

  ‘Want to bet?’ I said

  He folded his arms. My own eyes glared back at me. ‘What can you do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, rummaging for the corkscrew. ‘Not now, that is.’ I paused and pointed the corkscrew at him. ‘But tomorrow, I shall wait until the entire Security Section is watching and then I shall put my arms around you, give you a huge wet kiss, and call you Mummy’s Special Little Soldier.’

  ‘Oh, I say,’ said Peterson, shocked. ‘Cruel and unusual punishment, Max.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, folding my own arms and glaring back at Matthew with his own eyes.

  He stumped off to his room, muttering.

  ‘Glad you’re not my mother,’ said Peterson.

  ‘Please, that’s not an image I want to carry with me. Open the wine.’

  I don’t know what Miss Lingoss and Professor Rapson had been doing to him that day, but ten minutes later Matthew was out like a light. He lay on his back, mouth slightly open, with a plastic T-rex clutched tightly in one hand, Miss Dottle’s teddy in the other, and the Time Map whirling around his head. I shut it down and quietly closed his bedroom door so Peterson and I could talk in peace.

  I poured the wine. ‘Do you want some?’

  ‘I don’t know why you bother to ask.’

  When I handed him his glass, he was stuffing a small piece of paper back in his pocket.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Oh – just something I found in my pocket.’

  ‘So – what can I do for you?’

  He didn’t speak immediately, swirling his wine around in the glass.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Nothing … Well, yes … but … There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

  He looked so serious that a sudden fear ran through me. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’

  ‘No. Oh no. Nothing like that. Don’t panic.’

  ‘Well, what then?’

  ‘I have something to say. To ask you, actually, and I’m worried it will lose me the best friend anyone could ever have.’

  ‘If you mean me, dummy, I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure. You haven’t heard what I have to say yet.’

  ‘Am I in trouble?’

  ‘Astonishingly, no. But I think I might be.’

  ‘In what way? Are you sure you’re not ill?’

  ‘Quite sure. But I’m not fine.’ He put down his wine, twisted around to face me and took both my hands.

  ‘The thing is, Max … you and I are not the sort of people who … I’m not good at this … but OK … Here it is … I think I … I mean, I haven’t said anything because … Well, I was worried it might be too soon … or that you might not … I mean … and then I said those stupid things … and I hope you know how sorry I am … but I was thinking that perhaps … Well, you know…’

  He trailed to a halt, let go of my hands and took a gulp of his wine.

  ‘I find it quite disturbing that I actually understood every word of that.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that because I don’t think I could do it again. So what do you think?’

  Good question. What did I think?

  ‘Well, I think … I mean … it would be … Unless you thought…’

  I stopped and took a gulp of my own wine.

  There was a bit of a silence while the pair of us reassembled our capacity for coherent speech.

  He said quietly, ‘Max, I’m going to ask you a question. Please tell me the truth. Don’t lie to me.’

  I could feel my heart thumping with alarm. ‘I never would. You know that.’

  ‘How lonely are you?’

  I thought I was all right. I thought I was fine. I had my job, my friends around me. I had Matthew, happily doing whatever it was eight-year-olds do. I had my painting and my books. I thought I had everything I needed but, with that one question, the whole empty, fragile framework that I had constructed on which to hang my life disintegrated around me and crashed to the ground in a shower of bittersweet memories, empty days and awful, aching, unacknowledged, lonely nights. For the first time, I opened my eyes to the hard road leading to a bleak and empty future and before I knew what was happening, two great fat tears rolled down my cheeks.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t mean to make you cry.’

  ‘I’m not crying for me,’ I said, ‘I’m crying because…’ and was completely unable to put it into words.

  We sat together on my sofa and I thought – this is Tim. Just tell him.

  I sniffed a bit and then said, ‘It’s just … This sounds stupid, but when did our lives become so dark, Tim? Do you remember the fun we used to have? When did everything become such a struggle? I know nobody sets out to have their life go wrong and I’ve always known mine would never be sunshine and roses, but I never thought it would be this bad. I thought I would have a little baby and he would love me and I would love him. I thought I could have both work and Matthew. I thought Leon would always be with me. I thought – oh so many things. How stupid am I? When did everything go so wrong?’

  He sighed. ‘When that bastard Ronan turned up. That’s when things started to go pear-shaped. But he’s gone now, Max. Yes, I know he took some good people with him, but if we allow that to darken our lives then he’s still winning even after he’s dead. And that’s just plain wrong. We’re still here. We still have a chance to bring some fun back into our lives. What do you say?’

  I’ve been at St Mary’s long enough for the kookaburra of caution to hover over my head occasionally.

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Nothing onerous. I thought – if you don’t object – we could just … go out … one evening.’

  I smiled sadly. ‘I’m not sure, Tim. When I think back on what’s happened over this last year, I sometimes wonder if people like us aren’t supposed to have normal relationships.’

  He grinned at me, suddenly looking like a very young Tim Peterson on our first assignment together. To Westminster Abbey, when a socking great block of stone missed us by inches and he peed on me.

  ‘Oh, come on, Max. Who wants a normal relationship?’

  ‘Well, no one at St Mary’s because they’re certainly never going to get one.’

  ‘Look, if it’s too soon for you then I’ll understand. I hope you’ll say yes, but if you don’t I don’t want this to make any difference – to us – which is my main fear. So if you want to pretend this never happened, then just tell me, and I promise I won’t mention it again.’

  He peered at me hopefully.

  I sought clarification. ‘Is this a date?’

  ‘No. Well yes, maybe. It’s a kind of semi-date – just two old friends going out for a meal and a drink. Together,’ he added, in case I was having problems with the concept.

  I said more wistfully than I intended, ‘I haven’t been out for ages.’

  ‘Well, there you are then,’ he said, as if that clinched it. ‘And it’s not as if either of us has any unpleasant surprises for the other, Max. You’re getting a man with only one working arm and poor bladder control and I’m getting a red-haired madwoman who triggers an apocalypse every time she walks into a room. Personally, I think we’re perfect for each other.’

  ‘I’m not sure I have anything decent to wear.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Casual is good. How do you fancy tapas?’

  ‘Oh yes. I like exciting food.’

  ‘Yes, because our lives are so dull. Is tomorrow good for you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, suddenly aware of a yawning pit of inexperience. I would have to get to grips with babysitters. And make-up. And shoes that weren’t boots.
‘Although I’m not sure what I’ll wear. I’m not sure I’ve even got anything appropriate. I mean, it’s a long time since…’ I petered out, adrift in a strange new sea.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find something. I always liked that cream thing with the lace sleeves.’

  My room was very quiet. The whole place was so quiet I could hear pipes ticking and the odd groan, which I hoped was just the building settling and not of human origin.

  His face showed nothing but his usual lazy good humour, but I noticed his left foot jiggling away by itself. No matter how light-hearted his approach, this meant a lot to him.

  I suddenly realised it meant a lot to me, as well.

  I said, ‘Are you sure?’ because this was a big – a giant – leap for both of us, and he said, ‘Oh yes, I think so, don’t you?’

  I was surprised to find that yes, I did think so too.

  I nodded.

  ‘Jolly good,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I shall suppress my inevitable misgivings about your appearance and present myself tomorrow at eight. See you then.’

  As soon as he’d gone, I whipped open my wardrobe door and surveyed my options. That didn’t take long.

  I pulled out the cream top and slipped it on. It looked awful. I can honestly say it looked better on the hanger than it did on me. Actually, it looked better on the floor than it did on me.

  I found a black thing I’d forgotten I had, and that looked even worse. Everyone in the universe looks good in black except me. I sighed and tossed it onto the bed.

  Next up was a nice, silky, pale green thing with slashed sleeves. On me it looked like a giant lump of snot.

  Then there was the blue thing I’d never worn. I pulled it over my head and could see why.

  Last up was a gold thing with a fringe. I don’t know what I was thinking when I bought that. I didn’t even bother trying it on. That went straight onto the floor.

  I sighed and reached for the cream thing again. It looked no better the second time around. Sadly, neither did I. Even allowing for the distorting properties of my ancient mirror, was I really that shape? Did my hair really look that bad? Were my feet really that big?

  Downstairs, Peterson would be happily watching TV or reading or something and not for one moment giving this sort of thing a second thought. All he had to do was find a clean shirt, put on his best jacket and comb his hair. Why was life so bloody unfair? You don’t catch men trying on every single item of clothing they possess because they can’t find anything that doesn’t make them look like something the cat coughed up.