by Jodi Taylor
Bearing in mind the length of the performance, I was carrying a broad-weave wicker basket containing bread, cheese, a small pasty, two apples, a flask of water and a toilet roll. I’d covered all the contents with a heavy cloak in which I had secreted a bar of chocolate the size of Plynlimon.
‘It’s June,’ said Peterson, in amusement, looking at my cloak.
‘June can be very chilly at this time of year.’
We landed in Bankside, at the back of the Bear Garden, which, mercifully, appeared to be closed for the day. The Bear Garden was synonymous with noise, confusion, turmoil and unruly behaviour. Hence the expression – noisy as a Bear Garden. According to Leon, it’s only a matter of time before Bear Garden is deleted and St Mary’s inserted instead. I wondered if perhaps they didn’t open on Globe performance days – too much competition. Whatever the reason, the massive wooden structure – actually very similar in shape to the Globe – was silent today.
We walked quickly past. Southwark is not a respectable area, being full of taverns, bear pits, whorehouses and the like. And the Globe, of course – actors being considered the dregs of society and best kept outside the city walls.
The day was overcast, with heavy clouds, but warm enough. ‘Hope it’s not going to rain,’ said Markham, glancing up at the sky.
I had split us into three groups of five. Not feeling that either Miss Sykes or Dr Bairstow were yet ready to spend several hours in each other’s company, I’d lumped her in with the other two weirdos, Dr Dowson and Professor Rapson, with Keller from Security and sensible, steady Atherton to keep them in order.
The next group – the Respectable Team as I’d named them in my head – consisted of Dr Bairstow, Miss North, Mrs Enderby and Mrs Mack. It was hard to see how any of that lot could topple off the rails, so they had only Major Guthrie to keep them in line.
I’d spent a great deal of time trying to achieve this happy mix of departments – ‘happy’ being a more appropriate word than ‘balanced’. And more accurate, too.
My group consisted of Peterson and me – historians – Evans and Markham – security – and Miss Lingoss, whose purple hair was currently being restrained by copious amounts of hair gel and an industrial-strength wimple.
We had a few hours to kill before the performance started. Dr Bairstow doled out the spending money with all the reluctance of Scrooge handing a penny to a starving orphan in a snowstorm, and the other two teams disappeared. The Weirdos were off to the docks because Professor Rapson was passing through one of his nautical phases and wanted to check out the ships moored below London Bridge. Under Elizabeth, England was a powerful maritime nation. Sir Francis Drake had circumnavigated the world, English ships were trading everywhere, and piracy was the career of choice for many adventurous young men.
The Respectable Team were off to investigate the markets. Mesdames Mack and Enderby were practically frothing at the mouth in anticipation of investigating Tudor food and haberdashery. It seemed safe to assume that in the company of Major Guthrie and Dr Bairstow, nothing much could go wrong there, either.
Our beat was Borough High Street and London Bridge.
‘Max and I have been here before,’ said Peterson to the others. ‘We’ll show you around if you like.’
We emerged into the crowded, noisy high street and looked around.
Peterson inhaled deeply. ‘Don’t you just love the smell of History in the morning?’
I stood for a moment, lost in the past. Yes, even more in the past than 1601, because Peterson was right – we’d been here before, back in the 14th century, and almost nothing had changed. Some of the houses fronting Borough High Street were larger and more modern, but not many. The road was still more than ankle deep in dust, old vegetables, rotting straw, animal shit, human shit and some evil-smelling, greyish pink tubes that smelled so bad that even a passing dog left them alone. People still yelled at each other at the tops of their voices. Women shouldered their way through the throng with baskets over their arms. A goose-girl struggled to keep her flock together. Occasionally a dust-covered rider on a lathered horse would force his way towards the bridge, possibly carrying a message for the Queen. One nearly knocked us over and Peterson pulled us back against the wall out of the way.
We brushed off the dust of his passing. ‘Hey,’ said Peterson, staring over my shoulder, ‘St Thomas’s Hospital is just down there. Remember?’
‘How could I ever forget?’
‘I got bubonic plague.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘And then I peed on you.’
‘Yes, I remember that too.’
‘We should erect a plaque.’
‘In that case, there should be one on Westminster Abbey too, because you peed on me there, as well.’
He smiled at me fondly. ‘Nothing but the best for you, Max.’
We wandered along Borough High Street, down towards London Bridge.
‘It doesn’t actually look that different from the last time,’ said Tim, staring about him.
‘How would you know? You were unconscious for most of it.’
‘Self-defence. I took one look at you aiming that knife at my privates and chose unconsciousness.’
‘You fainted, you wuss.’
‘He should be so lucky,’ said Markham. ‘I remember going to Egypt with her once. One minute everything’s fine and the next minute she’s ripping off my clothes and chucking me in the Nile.’
‘For your own good,’ I said, indignantly.
‘Yeah, well, don’t get any ideas today.
‘This was a voluntary assignment. You didn’t have to come.’
‘Like two historians and her...’ he nodded his head at Miss Lingoss, ‘are likely to get more than ten feet without needing the help of the Security Section.’
‘He does get agitated these days,’ said Peterson, thoughtfully. ‘Do you think married life is getting him down?’
We waited hopefully.
‘What gets me down,’ said Markham, heatedly, ‘is being out in the field with you three without a battalion of marines, a couple of tank regiments and air cover to back me up.’
Time to change the subject.
‘Anyway,’ said Peterson, looking up and down the street, ‘the buildings are much the same, the church is still here. The Tabard is still up there. Shame we missed Chaucer.’
‘Well, if you hadn’t contracted the plague then we wouldn’t have, would we?’
‘Are you ever going to let that drop?’
‘I wonder what happened to Brother Anselm.’
Brother Anselm was the monk who had given us shelter while Peterson recovered from what he still referred to as his ‘slight twinge of bubonic plague’. I remembered his bright, bird-like gaze and his gentle kindness.
Peterson smiled at his own memory and then said, ‘I’m sure he spent his days busily and happily and reaped his just reward in the end.’
‘I hope so.’
We walked down to the river, which was heaving with boats. In these days, the streets were so narrow and badly paved that the Thames was the major thoroughfare. Water boatmen ferried people around in wherries or skiffs. Up and down as well as from one side to another. Their boats ranged in size from flimsy-looking coracle-style craft to substantial boats that could take up to ten people. They were all doing a roaring trade because London still only had the one bridge and that was packed with people as well. It was obviously easier and quicker to move by river.
Heavily laden barges fought against the current as they ferried their commercial cargoes upstream. Occasionally, a horn would blast as someone important sought to force their way up or down river. There didn’t seem to be a traffic system of any kind. Boats milled about in all directions. Boatmen roared abuse at each other and even their passengers exchanged insults and less than polite instructions to get out of the way.
The bigger boats were moored south of London Bridge. I stared downriver at the forest of masts, black against the sky.
‘They do,’ said Peterson. ‘And it’s not only houses, either. There’s a chapel, shops, a mill, even a gatehouse complete with drawbridge. May I draw your attention to the severed heads displayed up there?’
‘Cool,’ said Lingoss, squinting for a better view and we all stared at the massive structure that was London Bridge, with its nineteen gothic arches and seven-storey buildings, many of which overhung the river. Useful for a quick pee, I suppose. You just hung your bum out of the window.
‘It’s very top heavy,’ said Evans. ‘Why doesn’t it fall down?’
‘Well, bits of it do occasionally,’ said Peterson, ‘and there’s always rows about the upkeep. Hence the nursery rhyme.’
‘What nursery rhyme?’
He grinned. ‘You know the one. “London Bridge is Falling Down”. Great lumps of it are always dropping off and in 1281, Queen Eleanor, not a popular woman anyway, was accused of diverting money set aside for the upkeep of the bridge to her own personal use. Hence the “My fair lady” bit at the end.’
‘Is that what it means? My mum used to sing me that. And “Ring o’ Ring o’ Roses”.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘The Great Plague of 1665. “The pocket full of posies” or flowers, was supposed to keep the plague away, and the “Atishoo, atishoo, we all fall down” bit relates to the people dropping dead in the streets.’
Evans stared at us. ‘You’re kidding me.’
‘I kid you not. And I bet you played “Oranges and Lemons” when you were a kid. The song follows the route of condemned criminals as they’re marched through the streets to their execution. It names the churches on the way and ends with “Here comes the chopper to chop off your head.”’
‘Stop,’ said Evans, looking quite shocked. Our security team is a sensitive bunch.
‘Or,’ said Lingoss, entering into the spirit of things, “‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” is Bloody Mary, torturing the Protestants. The garden was the graveyard, the silver bells were the thumbscrews, and the cockleshells apparently described the instruments they attached to the male genitalia.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Markham. ‘Because I always thought the rhyme was about Mary Stuart – the Queen of Scots, and the pretty maids related to her ladies in waiting. You know, the four Marys.’
Peterson chipped in. ‘Well, I heard it was about...’
‘No. Shut up all of you,’ said Evans.’ I’m not standing here in the 17th century listening to two historians, a certifiable madwoman, and him...’ he nodded towards Markham, ‘arguing about genitals and executions. I need a drink.’
‘Excellent idea,’ said Peterson. ‘Let’s go to the Tabard.’
‘Finally,’ I said. ‘It’s only taken two hundred years.’
We stood in the corner of a packed courtyard. Markham, Peterson and Evans knocked back three tankards of small ale. The more intelligent sex drank from their water flasks. We spent an hour or so just watching the people go by, speculating on their identities and relationships, and enjoying ourselves so much that we were nearly late for the performance. Fortunately, since the streets were crowded, a lot of people were hurrying in the same direction, so we allowed ourselves to be carried along. The flag flew overhead, denoting there was to be a performance that day. And we would be there. I felt a shiver of excitement. Yes, I’d enjoyed my maternity leave, but until this moment, I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed my old life.
The Globe reared up in front of us, a big building by the standards of the day. After a dispute over the lease of their former theatre, the two Burbage brothers, Richard and Cuthbert, leased a plot of land on this side of the river, here in Southwark. They demolished their building, appropriately known as the Theatre, carried the timbers across the river, and rebuilt it, renaming it the Globe. Shakespeare himself bought a share in the building. Completed in 1599, it was a tremendous success, staging many of his plays until, during a performance of Henry VIII, a canon would misfire and the place would burn to the ground in a horrifyingly short time. It would be rebuilt and continue successfully until 1642, when the Puritans, as part of their mission to suck all the joy out of life, ordered its closure. It was demolished shortly afterwards.
There were people everywhere. Hamlet was obviously a very popular play. ‘I hope we can get in,’ I said, looking at the pushing crowds.
‘They’ll squeeze us in somehow,’ said Peterson, ushering us towards the entrance. ‘They can’t afford to lose box-office receipts.’
Our seating order had already been discussed. The posh people – Dr Bairstow, Mrs Enderby, Mrs Mack, Sykes, North and Major Guthrie were to be up in the gallery on the cushioned seats. At 6d per head. Or 6d per bottom, of course. Just to confuse things – a d is a penny. It’s from the Latin denarius. Anyway, for them the grand total was a massive 3 shillings. Having probably put himself well over budget, Dr Bairstow had given the rest of us to understand that we would be down in the Yard with the peasants. Or stinkards as they were known on hot days.
Having had our pennies doled out to us – I don’t know what he’d had to do to obtain authentic Elizabethan currency from our employers, the University of Thirsk, but obtain it he had – we stood in line. Admission to the Yard was only a penny, which in those days was still not cheap.
With a great flourish, Peterson, our designated banker, slipped two ha’pennies, two pennies and a tuppence into the box – hence the term, box office – and we were in.
We elbowed our way to a position close to the stage and looked around us for the others. At first, I thought I was just missing them in the crowd. I turned again. And again. No – we were the only team here.
I checked out the galleries, while Peterson, specially selected for his height, peered over people’s heads, vainly looking for our colleagues.
‘Can you see them anywhere?’ I asked hopefully.
He shook his head. ‘Nope. No sign.’
Great. The assignment barely begun and ten people missing already.
‘It’s like one of those Agatha Christie stories,’ said Lingoss cheerfully, ‘where everyone gets picked off one by one.’
I refused to panic. Remembering the crush around the theatre, I was convinced they’d still be outside, trying to get in. Even I couldn’t lose ten people. Especially when those ten people included the Director, the Head of Security, the Head of Wardrobe, the Kitchen Supremo, the Head of R&D, the Librarian, and possibly worst of all, Miss North, who is related to most of the aristocrats in the country. She counts four MPs within her immediate family circle, but to do her justice, never lets it hold her back.
On the other hand, the theatre was filling up fast and there was still no sign of the other teams.
I opened my com. ‘Dr Bairstow?’
There was a short pause before he responded. ‘Ah, Dr Maxwell. We appear to be experiencing some difficulty, but I believe Major Guthrie has everything in hand.’ He sounded breathless.
‘Sir?’
‘A very minor street altercation. Nothing of any great concern. Behind you, Mrs Mack!’
The link was severed.
I stared at Peterson in dismay. If the Respectable Team were in trouble, in what world-ending cataclysm could Sykes and the other Weirdos possibly be involved?
With some misgivings, I began again. ‘Miss Sykes?’
‘Oh, hello Max.’
I did not make the mistake of assuming this cheerful greeting meant all was well. She’d be Hello Maxing me as the Apocalypse bore down upon us. In fact, there are those at St Mary’s who feel that Sykes herself might be the Apocalypse.
‘Where are you?’
‘Still at the docks.’
‘Why aren’t you here at the theatre?’
Well, we’re not too sure how it happened, but the professor wandered on to a ship bound for the New World and now they won’t let him off.’
‘What? Why
?’
‘I think they think he’s their passenger and they’re due to sail. You know, tides and everything.’
‘Do not let that ship sail.’
‘Don’t worry – we’re on it.’
‘You’d better not be.’
‘No sorry, I meant we’re on the situation – not the ship. Although we are.’
‘I’m sending assistance.’ I closed the link and turned to Peterson, who was grinning.
‘On my way,’ he said.
‘You too,’ said Markham to Evans.
‘Your instructions are clear. Get Professor Rapson off that boat...’
‘Ship,’ murmured Peterson.
‘...without bloodshed or major damage to property.’
They pushed their way through the crowd, leaving Markham, Lingoss and me.
‘And then there were three,’ said Lingoss in a sinister voice. ‘Who’ll be the next to go, do you think?’
Actually, it was Markham, although we didn’t know that yet.
I took lots of deep breaths, which didn’t work at all, and considered the situation. Dr Bairstow and his team were embroiled in some sort of riot. Professor Rapson was possibly on his way to an American colony that had done nothing to deserve such a misfortune. I had no major fears for Dr Bairstow’s team. They had Dr Bairstow and Major Guthrie. And should that front line crumble, they had Mrs Mack, former urban terrorist, on their side. They’d be fine.
For a moment I considered joining Sykes in her mission to separate the professor from his involuntary Atlantic cruise, but Peterson would sort things out. And Dr Bairstow had made it clear that my priority was to record the play. Personal interest aside, that was why we were here and returning without footage was not an option. Dr Bairstow would frown at me, so whatever was going on outside, my job was to stay in the theatre. At my post. Mission controller going down with the ship. That sort of thing.