by Jodi Taylor
‘Mr Brown, I suspect you may be a closet historian.’
Another bombardment shook the pod and Mrs Green, still watching the screen, pointed. ‘Look. Who are they? Are they French? They’re coming this way.’
Three figures appeared out of nowhere. They were running very fast as explosions were peppering the ground all around them. They appeared to be wearing modern body armour and helmets. One of them, either in an attempt to avoid the bombardment or through disorientation, was zigzagging wildly. The other two seemed to be attempting to keep him on track. They were heading for the pod.
‘Who are they?’
Dr Bairstow sighed. ‘I suppose it was inevitable.’
They watched as the three figures ran, ducking and weaving, to the pod. Someone thumped on the door.
‘Could you let us in, please?’
‘They’re very polite. Who are they? What do we do?’
Dr Bairstow smiled faintly. ‘They’re historians and I suggest we let them in before they have the door off its hinges.’
Two men and one woman tumbled into the pod. Which was now distinctly overcrowded.
‘Bloody bollocking hell,’ said the woman, pulling off a helmet, and displaying the worst case of helmet hair ever. ‘That last bombardment started early. I’m going to have a word or two with the professor when we get back.’
‘Good afternoon.’
The three newcomers froze, staring alternately at the original occupants and then at each other in some consternation.
‘Quite,’ said Dr Bairstow. ‘I am not familiar with any of you – yet – but your discretion would be appreciated.’
‘Of course … sir.’
‘Report.’
‘Er … Maxwell and Bashford, sir. Historians. Markham providing security.’
Dr Bairstow passed her some water. ‘How interesting. You bring security guards with you on assignments?’
She passed the water to Bashford. ‘We have to, sir. God knows what they’d get up to if we left them behind on their own.’
Markham grinned amiably. ‘Don’t you believe it, sir. No one in their right minds would let the History Department out by themselves.’ He took a large swig of water and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘That’s better. Thank you very much.’
Dr Bairstow regarded the third member of the trio with some concern. ‘Mr … Bashford appears to have incurred some sort of injury. Shrapnel?’
‘He fell over, sir. And it’s Bashford. He could concuss himself on a ball of cotton wool. Frankly, if he spends much more time in a semi-conscious stupor then … the Boss … is going to stop paying him altogether.’
Markham, who had been beaming at a stony-faced Major Guthrie, said suddenly, ‘Don’t see why he shouldn’t, actually. He barely pays me. Why should I suffer alone?’
Dr Bairstow said gently, ‘Really? That seems most unfair. Why would that be?’
‘Bloody Deductions from Wages to Pay for Damages Incurred forms, sir. Bane of my life. And a completely necessary and fair system of reimbursement, of course, as I frequently maintain.’
‘Deductions from Wages forms,’ said Dr Bairstow quietly. ‘How very … innovative. And are they frequently implemented?’
‘Distressingly frequently, sir.’
‘Well stop bloody breaking things, then,’ said Bashford, blinking fuzzily at him.
‘I don’t. It’s not my fault that …’
Dr Bairstow cleared his throat, interrupting what was threatening to become a vigorous, though possibly irrelevant, debate.
‘Can we assume that you are here for the same purpose as we are?’
‘Er …’
‘You may speak freely.’
‘Recording and documenting, sir, yes.’
‘And not dying?’
She wiped her face. ‘Well, no thanks to Professor Rapson, sir. We were told we’d have more than enough time after the Scots Greys’ charge to get into position to watch Marshall Ney having a pop at La Haye Sainte. As it turned out, however, not quite. We’re pretty sure the professor doesn’t measure time in quite the same way as everyone else.’ She took another swallow of water. ‘Anyway, thanks for the respite, sir. We should be getting a shift on. We’re supposed to be covering Wellington’s infantry forming squares in preparation for the attack.’
‘Yes, said Bashford, unexpectedly proving he wasn’t as dopey as he looked. ‘The artillery is in place and we don’t want the others getting all the good stuff. Time to go.’
‘Just as a matter of interest, how many of you are there?’
‘Um, well, including the Security Section and all the techies we had to bring in case we broke something, um, seventeen or eighteen, I think. There’s a lot of ground to cover out there.’
‘Don’t forget Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson, Max.’
‘Both of whom I intend to have a word with later on. About nineteen or twenty, then.’
Mr Black turned from the screen in astonishment. ‘Twenty people? You brought twenty people?’
‘We did, yes. And there’s probably a lot more around that we don’t know about. It’s a big day today, you know. There’s upwards of a hundred thousand people down there. I’d be surprised if a good number of them weren’t from –’
Dr Bairstow made a warning gesture.
‘Weren’t colleagues in some form or another.’
‘And the Time Police, of course, making sure we don’t bugger things up,’ said Markham, cheerfully.
‘Speaking of which …’ said Bashford, picking up his helmet.
‘Yes, we must go. Point Bashford in the right direction, will you?’
‘No need. I think he operates on some sort of autopilot.’
‘I heard that,’ he said indignantly.
‘Just as a matter of interest, sir, why are you here?’
‘We have been observing the Stirrup Charge of the Scots Greys.’
She regarded their civilian clothing with some astonishment. ‘You mean you all thought you’d just stroll into a pod and pop off to Waterloo?’
‘That would be correct, yes,’ said Dr Bairstow and those who knew him well might have caught an unusually mischievous note in his voice.
Maxwell grinned hugely. ‘You do know that’s a massive breach of regulations, don’t you, sir? I shall have no choice but to report it on my return. There is every possibility you may never hear the last of this.’
‘I very much hope that will turn out to be the case. Would I be wasting my breath if I told you to take care?’
They nodded, innocence oozing from every pore.
‘Well, don’t let us keep you,’ said Dr Bairstow gently.
‘Very considerate of you – our boss is a stickler for punctuality.’
‘I am very glad to hear it.’
She smiled and they shook hands. ‘It’s been an honour and a privilege, sir.’
The landscape outside was suddenly peppered with explosions.
‘I shouldn’t hang around if I were you. It’s going to be quite lively here in a few minutes.’
‘Consider us gone, sir.’
And with a brief flurry of activity – they were.
Dr Bairstow watched them go, a rare smile on his lips. Reaching down, he adjusted a control on the console.
In the distance, a faint voice could be heard instructing Bashford to put on his helmet for God’s sake before his head fell off.
Back in the pod, Mr Black turned to Dr Bairstow. ‘What a very odd bunch.’
‘Did you think so?’
‘And they were historians?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Not what I was expecting.’
‘They very rarely are.’
On their return, the passengers stared at the screen. A cold, dark London day was drawing to a close. The rain came down harder.
Mrs Green stirred. ‘Somehow this seems …’
‘Less real?’
She nodded, not taking her eyes from the screen.
‘A comm
on phenomenon. Somewhat similar to exiting a cinema, I always think. Please, take as much time as you need to reorient yourselves. In the meantime, we must undertake a small procedure. Please do not be alarmed.’
The interior of the pod lit with a cold, blue glow. Mrs Green shivered.
‘What was that?’ demanded Major Guthrie, sharply.
‘Decontamination. Not strictly necessary, since you did not leave the pod, but you did interact with those who had. Merely a safety precaution.’
Mr Brown sighed.
‘The Stirrup Charge. It did happen after all.’
‘Yes, it did.’
‘But not quite as we thought.’
‘We frequently find that although things do happen, they don’t happen quite as we expected them to. However, the important thing here is not that it happened, but that you, Mr Black, now know that it happened. You may find that you look at your prints with new eyes.’
‘I think, from now on, I shall look at everything with new eyes.’
‘Then the day has not been wasted.’
‘I hope those young people made it safely to wherever they were going.’
‘Oh, I’m sure they will. Have. Did. And now, if you are quite ready, I shall open the door.’
Major Guthrie collected his gun. ‘Thank you sir, a most interesting experience.’
Mr Brown and Mr Black stood in the doorway, looking out into the darkening evening.
‘Are you ready, Mrs Green?’
‘One moment, if you please, I would like to speak with Dr Bairstow. Please do not let me keep you.’
Mr Black turned back for a moment, almost as if he was about to say something, and then the two of them, together with Major Guthrie, exited the pod and set off across the car park.
Mrs Green stopped at the door and looked back at Dr Bairstow who was shutting things down.
He paused and said quietly, ‘Is there a problem? You seem … upset.’
She seemed to be groping for words. ‘I did not expect it to be so …’
‘What? Magnificent? Tragic? Wasteful? Horrifying? Spectacular?’
‘Yes. No. That such courage, so many good qualities, courage, spirit, and dedication, should be wasted on something as futile a war.’
‘You are perfectly correct, madam, but those qualities are not used solely for war. And even field marshalls are human. Have you never heard the story of the Duke of Wellington and the toad?’
She managed to laugh a little. ‘No, I’ve never heard the story of Wellington and the toad.’
‘Well, it tells us that the Iron Duke was walking along the road one day when he came across a small boy in tears. Rather to his own surprise, I suspect, he stopped and enquired what was the matter. The little boy, not knowing whom he was talking, told him that he was going away to school the next day and was worried that no one would look after his toad properly. The Duke offered to take the toad under his own care. A week or so later, while at school, the boy received a message which read, “Field Marshall the Duke of Wellington presents his compliments and has the pleasure to inform you that your toad is well.”’
Now she laughed.
‘And even those considered villains do not invariably display villainous qualities. Napoleon himself was moved to tears by the sight of a soldier’s dog standing guard over his dead master. He frequently said he was haunted by the memory for the rest of his life.’
She sighed. ‘War is such a dreadful waste.’
‘Can I assume you lost someone in the recent civil unrest?’
‘Most of my family. Everyone, except for my youngest son.’
‘My sympathies for your loss.’
She said in sudden anger. ‘They call it civil unrest because it sounds better than civil war.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. I am usually more controlled than this.’
Dr Bairstow smiled sadly. ‘I said before that the act of observing changes that which is observed. It is also true to say that the observer does not remain unchanged, either. You look very pale. May I fetch you some water?’
She sipped it slowly. ‘It’s always all about war, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all. Yes, we observe battlefields – they are generally important events – but it’s not all about that. We will investigate coronations, social conditions, industrial events, legends – the list is quite long. I’m sorry today’s demonstration was not to your taste.’
‘Oh no, no. It was …’ she paused.
‘Horrible?’
‘I was going to say fascinating.’
‘Horribly fascinating then.’
She laughed.
‘What would you like to see, Mrs Green? With all of History out there … If you could choose – what would you choose?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Actually, it’s not so far from what we saw today. I’d like to see the Duchess of Richmond’s ball in Brussels. When the cream of European society was gathered together and Wellington received the news that Napoleon had outwitted him. To see his face. And the faces of those around him. Excited young boys off to war. Sweethearts saying goodbye and trying to be brave. Mothers hiding their tears and fears. Fathers – proud and afraid at the same time – so yes, still Waterloo, but the other side of Waterloo.’ She looked at him shyly. ‘I always think History is more about people than events, don’t you?’
‘Yes – and no. Yes, we study the events but it is people who are the cause of those events. It always comes down to cause and effect.’
They both fell silent, not looking at each other.
‘Would you – perhaps one day – would you like me to …?’ he paused and visibly squared his shoulders. ‘Mrs Green – you shall go to the ball.’
She laughed. ‘Very well. I shall look forward to it.’
‘It won’t be for a while, I’m afraid. There is much for me to do.’
She smiled. ‘I can wait.’
‘Not for too long, I hope.’
‘No, I hope not. And Mrs Green is not my real name, you know.’
He affected astonishment. ‘Really?’
‘And I suspect Bairstow is not yours.’
‘My name is Edward.’
‘Angela.’
Back at Britannic Enterprises, three hugely important civil servants, one young major, and the future Director of St Mary’s were being ruthlessly ministered to by Mr Strong who was fussing gently with teacups and messages.
‘Let me see, sir. Section Four rang. Normal service will recommence at 1800 hours tonight. The PM has been informed. And I’ve passed that other matter over to Section Two, sir. It did appear to require immediate but discreet attention and I considered them the best able to deal with the job. I trust all this is acceptable?’
‘Thank you, Mr Strong. All perfectly acceptable as usual.’
Dr Bairstow, stirring his tea, watched all this with quiet attention. Standing to take his leave, he took advantage of Mr Strong helping him with his overcoat to request a quiet word with him.
‘Of course, sir. My shift ends in twenty minutes.’
‘I shall wait outside for you.’
‘You don’t want to hang around in the cold, sir. I’ll meet you in The Flying Duck.’
The Flying Duck was easily located, situated as it was in the shadow of Battersea Power Station. Inside was steamy and warm. The evening trade had not yet begun and Dr Bairstow was easily able to find a quiet corner table. He ordered two pints and waited patiently.
But not for long. Mr Strong shrugged off a shabby mac and sat down. Seen up close, he displayed all the traditional signs of pride and poverty. His shirt spotless and the cuffs frayed. His shoes ancient and well polished. His jacket had one or two small holes in the sleeve, which had been very carefully mended. He wore a military tie. His hair was neat and brushed. It was easy to picture him in some cold, damp lodging somewhere, carefully laying out his shabby clothes every night, brushing his shoes, trimming his moustache, all ready for the next day’s work. Clinging to old standards because t
hey were all he had left.
Conscious that the silence had gone on too long, Dr Bairstow sought for an opening to the conversation.
‘The Flying Duck? I had not realised that was an actual name. I thought it was just an expression.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that, sir, but I do know you heard it around here a lot a couple of years ago. Especially in connection with the old government, if you get my drift.’
‘I do indeed. Of course, this was the site of the famous Battersea Barricades. Were you present at the time?’
‘I certainly was, sir. Did my bit on the East Wall.’
‘I understand the fighting was particularly heavy there.’
‘You got that right, sir. Saw a lot of friends fall, I did.’
‘Tell me, would I be right in thinking the East Wall was commanded by Theresa Mack?’
‘That’s right, sir. Stood shoulder to shoulder with her at the end. Don’t mind telling you, I thought my last hour had come. But it hadn’t. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Do you know where I can find Miss Mack?’
‘Mrs, sir. Mrs Mack. Went back to Cardiff, I believe.’
‘Interesting. Now, Mr Strong, you must be wondering why I have asked you here. I have a proposition for you.’
He spoke for some time while Mr Strong sat quietly, sipping his pint, and listening. At the end, without saying anything, he picked up both glasses and went to the bar. Returning, he put two glasses on the table and seated himself again.
Neither man spoke for some time. Dr Bairstow sat waiting.
Eventually, Mr Strong sighed quietly and returned from wherever he had been. A light shone in his eyes that had not been there before. He said quietly, ‘I’d have to give a month’s notice, of course.’
Dr Bairstow lifted his glass and silently toasted him. He left Mr Strong snugly ensconced in his corner with a third pint in front of him and made his way through the cold streets back to the pod. Once there, he pulled out his notebook and reviewed the list of seven names contained therein. Key personnel, all of them. To be hunted down – he mentally crossed out ‘hunted down’ and substituted ‘located’ – and persuaded to join him. Some would be easier than others, but he had the first.
