Lies, Damned Lies, and History

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Illegitimi non carborundum, guys.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Markham, turning his glass around on the table, ‘I thought that could have gone much worse.’

  We regarded him in astonishment.

  ‘Did you miss the bit about Roberts and Sands resigning?’ demanded Peterson. ‘Or Max being demoted and being made to stay and face people every day?’

  Typically, he didn’t mention his own ruined chances.

  ‘No,’ said Markham quietly. He leaned forwards and so did we. ‘But I did miss the bit where Dr Bairstow demanded to know the whereabouts of the sword so that it could be returned to Thirsk.’

  We sat back.

  ‘So did I,’ admitted Peterson.

  I nodded in agreement, turning over the implications. That should have been the first thing he asked. Should have been his main priority. Returning the sword to what the world considered to be its rightful owners would have gone a long way to making things right again, and for some reason, he hadn’t done so. Hadn’t even mentioned it. Was it possible …?

  ‘Doesn’t mean he won’t have us back again tomorrow and start pulling out our fingernails,’ said Peterson, gloomily.

  ‘And even if he doesn’t, tomorrow isn’t going to be good for us,’ said Markham. He looked at me. ‘How are you doing?’

  He meant Leon.

  ‘He’s oscillating,’ I said. ‘One minute I’m being blamed for everything under the sun and the next minute he’s shoving a mug of tea under my nose. I’ll get through it.’

  ‘We all will,’ said Markham. ‘Just a few suggestions. We stick together. Not necessarily physically, although I think that’s a good idea, since we’re social pariahs at the moment, and likely to remain so for some time, but we should eat together at least.’

  ‘Agreed,’ I said. ‘And we never look downcast, or miserable.’

  ‘Or guilty,’ added Peterson. ‘That’s important.’

  We nodded.

  ‘And we don’t discuss anything with anyone. I’m afraid that includes Leon and Hunter.’

  Markham and I agreed. He looked around the room. The way people were ignoring us was making us the centre of attention. ‘The next few days are going to be a bitch.’

  Back in my room, the Chief Technical Officer had disappeared and my husband sprawled across the sofa in jeans and a dreadful old sweater he wouldn’t throw away because it was the one he had been wearing when I appeared in his workshop. He regarded me somewhat warily. ‘Who am I talking to at the moment?’

  ‘Both of us,’ I said, wearily, plopping down beside him. ‘The ex-Chief Ops Officer and your wife, and both of them are very, very sorry. Leon …’

  ‘No,’ he said, pulling me onto his lap. ‘Don’t say anything. Not tonight. Tomorrow the Chief Technical Officer will shout at the ex-Chief Ops Officer who will probably throw her boots at him, but tonight, right now, you are my wife, and you’re unhappy and tired, and more than a little frightened of the future.’

  I nodded. No point in denying it.

  ‘Could your husband have a word with his wife?’

  ‘Wife speaking – go ahead.’

  ‘There’s a small cottage available for twelve month’s rent. Down in the village. Do you know the one?’

  ‘Dark green door almost opposite the pub?’

  ‘That’s the one.’ He groped in his pocket and fished out a crumpled piece of paper. ‘Two beds. Kitchen, living room. Breakneck staircase. Small garden at the front. Yard at the back. Nice views over the fields. Recently modernised. Semi-furnished. What do you think?’

  ‘It sounds ideal. When’s it available from?’

  ‘Now.’

  Silence.

  ‘Only, I was thinking, there’s no reason at all why we couldn’t move in at the weekend. We sign a contract, hand over the deposit and Bob’s your uncle.’

  He was offering me a face-saving way out. By this time next week, I could be gone from St Mary’s. I was eligible for maternity leave. Whatever Dr Bairstow had said, I could – if I wished – leave at any moment and start my new life. I had visions of a cosy cottage, a crackling fire. Me sitting in the garden, painting, with a gurgling and unrealistically clean baby at my feet. I was so far lost to reality as to imagine savoury smells issuing from the kitchen where something tasty nestled happily in the oven and Leon looked on in astonished admiration.

  Sometimes I think I’m my own worst enemy. This sunny picture was replaced by a vision of Markham and Peterson sitting alone forever, while I waltzed off and played Happy Families. I couldn’t do it to them.

  I smiled at him because I appreciated the offer, and said, ‘Thank you. It sounds just what we were looking for. Sign a contract by all means, but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll finish my time here. I’ve always said I’ll work until just before my due date, and that’s what I’d like to do.’

  I held my breath in case he took it badly, but he said, ‘I thought that’s what you’d say.’

  ‘Are you annoyed?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m just relieved you haven’t suggested installing the other two misfits in the spare room.’

  ‘Oh no. I’d never do that. I was thinking of the garden shed.’

  Silence. I stared at my hands.

  ‘Leon, I …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was just thinking …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That I’m lucky. Because things are much easier for me. All I have to do is believe in you implicitly, and that’s easy because I know you will never, ever, let me down.’ I drew a difficult breath. ‘I, on the other hand, have let you and everyone down quite badly and the thought of your … disappointment in me is more than I can handle at the moment.’

  He pulled me close.

  I put my arms around his neck like a child. He rested his cheek on top of my head, and we sat in silence for a very long time.

  Chapter Eleven

  Seven days later, the Chancellor – or Dr Chalfont, as she now wished to be known – turned up to visit the Boss. They were in his office all day. I was terrified she would want to see me, and how I was even to look her in the eye, let alone speak to her, was not something I could think about. I hung about, expecting at any moment to be summoned to Dr Bairstow’s office to account for my actions. I cudgelled my brains for something – anything – I could say to her, something that would be even remotely acceptable under the circumstances, and couldn’t think of a damned thing. There really were no words.

  The summons never came. At about four o’clock, I watched from an upstairs window as Dr Bairstow escorted Dr Chalfont to her car. They shook hands and he patted her gently on the shoulder in a way that made my eyes fill up. By the time I’d blinked the tears away, her little car was slingshotting down the drive, out through the gates, and away; and that was when I realised that whatever she could have said to me wasn’t anywhere near as bad as her not saying anything at all.

  And it wasn’t just her. No one spoke to me. No one spoke to any of us. Sands telephoned, reporting Roberts safely delivered to his family home, and that he himself was hiding out in Rushford, at Rosie Lee’s tiny house.

  ‘A bit of a silver lining for me,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’s a great opportunity for her to realise how wonderful I am.’

  I smiled into the phone. Just hearing his voice made me feel a thousand times better.

  He burbled on. ‘Listen, if you ever need a sanctuary, we’re down by the medieval bridge, at the foot of the hill.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, touched. ‘But at the moment, we’re not allowed to leave the unit without the permission of a senior officer.’

  He was silent for a while. ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said, lying through my teeth.

  Because it really wasn’t.

  Leon, typically, was dealing with everything in his own fashion. The Chief Technical Officer made sure he barely saw the ex-Chief Ops Officer. He was gone when I awoke each morning, and he spent every day in Hawk
ing, citing pressure of work. Since everyone was grounded while Dr Bairstow, Thirsk and some small anonymous government department tried to work out what to do with us, it was hard to see how much pressure there could be, but I appreciated the gesture.

  Anyway, the Chief Technical Officer worked all day in Hawking. My husband returned late in the evening, climbed into bed, and curled himself around me as I lay and stared into the darkness.

  The three of us, Peterson, Markham and me, were completely isolated.

  Guthrie, bitterly hurt and disappointed, could barely bring himself to speak to Markham, and the rest of the section lined up behind their commanding officer. All the nasty, dirty jobs around the unit that had hitherto been shared out among them with scrupulous fairness were now detailed in their entirety to Markham. He became increasingly dirty, increasingly smelly and increasingly cheerful, confiding to us during what was by now our traditional post-dinner drink, that it pissed people off no end if, far from regarding yourself as being punished, you show them you’re actually having a cracking time. That was his public face. I suspected that privately, just like Peterson and me, he was lonely, tired, and unhappy. I had no idea how his relationship with Hunter was progressing. He never said, and I never asked.

  Peterson, still at least a member of the History Department, put on a brave face and uncomplainingly did everything that was asked of him. Which wasn’t much. Nothing was happening – all assignments were on hold – our future was looking very shaky and people felt it was our fault. Which it was. I saw him uncomplainingly photocopying, filing, and making people’s tea, and was proud of him.

  Dr Dowson, hearing from somewhere that I was looking for a place to work, had smiled gently at me, and shown me to a quiet table in the Archive. It was set back in the little-used Cretan pottery section, well out of public view.

  ‘It’s a quiet table,’ he announced, in case I hadn’t noticed that fact. ‘In the Cretan pottery section,’ he’d added. ‘Not used much.’

  I nodded drearily and then, because I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, managed a small smile.

  He patted my shoulder and left me, and there I sat all day, alone in the silence, full of humiliation and resentment.

  After a day or so, I realised he’d actually done me a great favour, because I wasn’t dealing well with this. I didn’t have Markham’s cocky bravado or Peterson’s patient dignity. I was a maelstrom of badly contained emotion.

  Guilt, obviously, because of what we’d done.

  A kind of perverse pride, because of what we’d done.

  Defiance, because I was in the wrong and I knew it.

  Shame and even more guilt, because of what we’d done to St Mary’s and Dr Bairstow.

  Fear for the future, and what it could hold for me.

  A dreadful feeling of isolation, because I wasn’t a part of St Mary’s any longer.

  Hurt, because no one from the History Department came anywhere near me.

  Together with a whole raft of random, unfocused resentment just to fill in any gaps left.

  I’m not good at handling emotion. I dealt with all the above by trying to ignore it. I wasn’t the slightest bit successful and after I’d spent yet another afternoon with tears rolling down my cheeks and plopping on to my paperwork, I came to see what a favour Dr Dowson had done me by shoving me in this out of the way spot.

  Because of what had happened to Sands, I had thought Rosie Lee might hate me, but far from it. Or no more than usual.

  ‘He’s happy,’ she said, when I hesitantly enquired after him. ‘But, on the other hand, he’s happy wherever he is.’ She paused to contemplate this phenomenon. ‘He misses the place, of course, but he’s not sitting around being melancholy.’

  Was she having a go at me? Of course she was.

  ‘What’s he doing these days?’

  ‘Well, at this very moment, he should be picking Benjamin up from school.’ Benjamin was her son. ‘They’ll go to the park for an ice cream they think I don’t know about, and a bit of a kick around. Then he’ll take him home and they’ll work on their Lego model of the proposed Mars habitat. Then I’ll arrive and they’ll attempt to explain the mess. I’ll glare at the pair of them – for all the good it will do – then we’ll have something to eat. I’ll take Benjamin off to bed and David will get on with his writing.’

  ‘His writing?’

  ‘He’s writing a book,’ she said, obviously feeling her fears over her ex-boss’s intelligence had been fully justified.

  I remembered Sands’ long and entertaining reports. His account of Viking life in Jorvik had been submitted in the form of a saga.

  ‘Lo! In days long gone

  Did the shining people-folk

  Of St Mary’s

  Venture forth

  To toil for truth’s treasure

  Amid the fair-faced folk

  Of Jorvik.

  Clerk the commander, clear eyed and calm,

  Brain-beaten Bashford, bright eyed and brave,

  North the normal, nettlesome and nitid.

  Pale-haired Prentiss, piloting the pod.

  Great warriors were they,

  Stout of heart,

  Supple of arm,

  Strong of purpose,

  Trawling for truth ‘mid the tempest of Time’.

  ‘Nitid?’ I’d said. ‘Seriously?’

  He’d grinned. ‘Why not?’

  And his account of Cretan bull-jumping had had all the excitement and pace of a modern thriller. I know Dr Bairstow had enjoyed it because he’d barely deducted anything from his wages that month.

  Anyway, the creativity that had occasionally landed him in trouble here was obviously being put to good use out there. Good for him. And most importantly, as Miss Lee said, he was happy.

  There was more good news. One dreary, rainy morning, I saw Peterson, sorting the post. As I drew level, without looking up, he said, ‘Check your personal emails.’

  Back in my room, I dragged my laptop out from under the bed and switched it on to find a message from Roberts. With some difficulty, because bits of me seemed to be ballooning out of control, I sat cross-legged on the floor and read:

  Hi Max,

  Sands says things aren’t going well for you at the moment so I thought I’d let you know. NOT foot and mouth. My dad’s out hugging his cows. My mam says bloody typical, but she’s laughing. And crying a bit, too. We have a bit of a knees-up planned for the weekend. Wish you could come but Sands says you’re not allowed out.

  Take care Max. I’ll never forget what you’ve done and I wish I could make things right for you as you made things right for us.

  Gareth.

  Suddenly, the world wasn’t so rainy or dreary. Roberts and his family were all right. Sands – typically – was carving out a new life for himself. Everyone was OK. It was time I was as well.

  I looked at my dingy little desk with new eyes. The best thing I could do now was rub everyone’s nose in it by being the most successful fundraiser ever. In the entire history of the world. I pulled out a piece of paper, drew a square, carefully coloured it in and began to scribble random thoughts. I joined these together with dotted lines. I drew boxes around some and circles around others. Activating my data table, I got stuck in.

  I compiled lists. I drafted letters. At my request, Mrs Partridge initiated me into the mysteries of desktop publishing. I designed and produced leaflets. I studied local school syllabuses and looked at tailoring specific lectures. I sent out flyers. I wrote to our local TV and radio stations. I sent articles off to history and archaeological magazines, describing the work of St Mary’s and the range of services we could offer. I frightened myself to death and opened a Facebook page for St Mary’s. I learned to twitter. Or tweet. Actually, I never really got the hang of that. I contacted local libraries and spoke to the County Archivist. Every Friday, I bundled up a massive pile of papers and sent them off to Dr Bairstow. Every Monday morning, they came back with the word ‘Approved’ stamped across the top.<
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  I spread out. Dr Dowson found me another table. Then another. Then a filing cabinet. Peterson commented that St Mary’s might soon find itself working for me. We were sitting in our usual tight little group in the bar. People still didn’t know how to deal with us. No one sat with us to eat, or drank with us in the bar. We had a routine. Breakfast together and map out our day. We would listen carefully to each other’s plans because no one else was interested. We would make suggestions – as if we were about to spend the day doing something that mattered – and then we would bustle off, each of us pretending for the sake of the others.

  Over lunch, we would tell each other how our morning had gone, chattering brightly, not catching anyone’s eye, all our attention on each other. Then we’d do the same for the afternoon. And the evening as well, except we did it in the bar.

  It was all a hollow show. All for the benefit of others, but we never let down our guard. Never revealed our private faces. As I’d said at the beginning, ‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down,’ and we didn’t.

  We had our routine. We stuck to it.

  The worst part was not commenting on the invariably grubby state of Markham. Things were really not going well for him. Sometimes he’d been fighting, although he never mentioned it. At one point we watched him trying to get to grips with his jam roly-poly with a spiral of bloodstained tissue protruding from each nostril.

  He struggled through his meal, insisting everything was fine, but it wasn’t, and afterwards, more to keep him out of everyone’s way than anything, I took him up to Sick Bay so Hunter could check him out.

  I ushered him through the doors and sat him down. Succumbing to the need for yet another bladder break, I trotted off to find the facility.

  When I came out, he was sitting on the bench alone, resting his forearms on his knees, head bowed and, because he thought no one could see him, a picture of forlorn dejection. I hesitated, wondering what to do for the best, but before I could do anything, Hunter came out of the treatment room with a tray full of antiseptic wipes and gauze dressings. She stood for a moment, watching him. He looked up at her and after a moment, smiled a wobbly smile that tore at the strings of my heart.