by Jodi Taylor
‘Spying on Dr Bairstow and Mrs Brown having tea together. Your office is on the right side of the building. I can see the terrace from here.’
We crowded around the window. Bugger. There was a stupid tree in the way and no time to get it chopped down. I regarded him in exasperation. ‘What sort of an idiot has trees outside his office?’
‘No one asked you to burst in here. Go and find another window.’
We scowled at each other and then, with the air of a man struck by the poleaxe of inspiration, he said, ‘R&D.’
There was a bit of a struggle as we both tried to get through the door at the same time, Peterson claiming rank and me claiming ladies first. Peterson has very sharp elbows. Fortunately, there was no one around to see this unseemly tussle between two of the most important people at St Mary’s.
Out on the gallery we straightened our clothing, smoothed our hair, put our hands behind our backs and trod the meaningful tread of two senior officers discussing weighty issues beyond the ken of normal mortals. Until we got to R&D, obviously.
Professor Rapson was wearing a welding mask with a sou’wester on the top and holding six feet of copper tubing in one hand and a bottle of vinegar in the other. Normally I would have stopped to enquire but it didn’t even register on today’s list of weird happenings.
Peterson and I pushed past him and into his cluttered office. A headless skeleton sat in the visitor’s chair. I pulled up. I really should enquire as to the possibility of it being Dr Dowson, but first things first.
We craned to see the terrace. Dr Bairstow and Mrs Brown sat in splendid isolation. I don’t know whether Mrs Mack was keeping people at bay or whether everyone else was just too terrified to approach.
‘Afternoon tea,’ said Peterson, wistfully. ‘I only ever get a biscuit.’
‘Lucky you,’ I said. ‘Evans ate all mine.’
I looked left and right. Every window along the front appeared to have its own cluster of interested faces. As Peterson said afterwards, we must have looked like the orphans in Oliver Twist watching their elders and betters eat while they went hungry.
We watched for a while but apart from eating and drinking, nothing else was happening and then my stomach rumbled and I wandered off to think about Amy Robsart again.
Interesting though, don’t you think?
It turned out there was a reason for Mrs Brown’s visit – not just afternoon tea. Dr Bairstow had been called up to London and she would be travelling with him.
A word about Mrs Brown. She’s one of our Boss’s bosses. I’d first met her a few months ago when she turned up to enquire about her daughter, Miss North. Since Miss North was actually Lady Celia North, that made Mrs Brown the Dowager Countess of Blackbourne. Professionally, she’s known as Mrs Brown, part of the government department supposedly responsible for us, comprising Black, Brown and Green. It does strike me the Civil Service has very little imagination. If it had been up to me, I’d have named them Peshgaldaramesh, Marduk-kabit-ahheshu and Ninurta-kudurri-usur. Just for the fun of watching people struggle. However, the Boss always referred to her as Mrs Brown, so Mrs Brown it was.
Anyway, meandering back to the laughable plot, Mrs Brown had visited St Mary’s a little while ago to talk to me about North’s last jump. To Jerusalem, 33AD. I don’t think I need say any more. Officially, the jump never took place but during its unhappeningness, things had got a bit hairy and we’d had to be rescued by the Time Police, which is enough to ruin anyone’s day. And North had jumped ship too and was now Officer North of the Time Police. I try not to hold it against her.
Most importantly, however, Mrs Brown and Dr Bairstow – well, I’m not going to say ‘hit it off’ because I can’t imagine either of them doing anything that frivolous but they were definitely getting along. She’d returned to St Mary’s several times for the purposes of what would be deemed ‘social interaction’ if we were discussing lesser mortals, but doesn’t seem appropriate for such august personages as Dr Bairstow and Mrs Brown. If anyone can come up with an appropriate term, we’d be grateful.
They’d even gone on a jump together – the infamous Princes in the Tower assignment – all of which has been classified, so anyone with any knowledge of what went down on that occasion can certainly expect a visit from the black helicopters in the very near future.
Anyway, she’d arrived at St Mary’s last night, apparently. They’d dined together in Rushford – obviously for the purposes of discussing the agenda and other meetingy stuff – and they were to set off for London first thing tomorrow. Speculation as to how and where they’d spent last night was massive. I daresay Mrs Partridge would have been able to advise but no one dared to ask. And anyway, as Roberts said – it’s like the royal family and your parents – not only can you not imagine it, you don’t want to imagine it.
The two of them drove away soon after breakfast the next morning and the rest of us got on with our working day. I went back to obsessing about Amy Robsart because I don’t like failure. I asked Peterson what he thought about stationing someone at the top of the stairs. He sighed and pointed out there was every possibility that St Mary’s would be causing the very incident they’d come to investigate. I countered with in that case it was our duty to fulfil our destiny and keep the timeline straight, and he’d threatened me with Dr Stone, and I’d been unable to threaten him back with anything at all because he leads a boring and blameless life and so departed in a massive huff.
And then . . . the very next day . . . the bomb dropped.
I saw a strange car coming up the drive but thought nothing of it. At the time, I was supervising the packing up of all our Crete material. Complaining historians were heaving around archive boxes, injuring themselves and each other. I was staying well out of the blast range as befitted my exalted status when I received a message from Mrs Partridge. All department heads were to report to Dr Bairstow’s office immediately.
My first reaction was bewilderment because Dr Bairstow wasn’t actually here and then, I don’t know why, I suddenly thought – something’s happened. I was both right and wrong. Something had happened but what had happened was not what I was expecting. Not what anyone was expecting.
I trotted up the stairs into Dr Bairstow’s office. Peterson, as Deputy Director and having the shortest distance to travel, was there already, as were Hyssop and Mrs Partridge. Dieter represented the Technical Section in Leon’s absence and Dr Stone was behind me.
There was a stranger in the room. A man of about my own age, possibly a little older, with a nondescript face, close-cropped blond-grey hair and crinkly blue eyes. He was neatly presented in a good suit, a grey striped tie and shiny shoes.
‘Good morning. Thank you all for coming. Shall we sit down?’ His voice reminded me of Dr Bairstow’s. Quiet, but with the edge that conveys, very clearly, that instant compliance is required. Democratically selecting a seat near the middle of the table, he waited patiently for us to settle down.
‘I’d like to take a moment for us to introduce ourselves. My name is John Treadwell.’ He laid an official-looking ID card on the table in front of us. I picked it up. The royal coat of arms was in the top left-hand corner, but otherwise it was very similar to my own.
‘You, I know, are Dr Peterson.’ He inclined his head towards Peterson. ‘And you are Mrs Partridge.’ He looked across the table to me. ‘I suspect you are either Dr Maxwell or Captain Hyssop.’
I wondered what would happen if I said, ‘Correct. I am,’ but humourless Hyssop couldn’t let that go.
‘I’m Captain Hyssop,’ she said, in tones that implied he’d better learn to tell the difference between a shambolic historian and a proper person pretty damn quick.
He looked over at me. ‘Dr Maxwell?’
I nodded, wondering what was going on.
‘Ah yes, you are Head of the History Department, are you not? Comprising,’ he pretended to
consult his scratchpad, ‘Wardrobe, the Library, and Research and Development?’
He phrased it as a question but he obviously knew the answer.
I nodded. ‘Correct.’
‘And you are Mr Dieter?’
‘Head of the Technical Section,’ said Dieter.
‘In the absence of Chief Technical Officer Farrell, who is out on field tests, I understand?’
‘Joint Head of the Technical Section.’
‘Dr Stone,’ said Dr Stone, and just for once, said no more.
‘You are responsible for the provision of medical services here?’
Dr Stone nodded.
I think, just for one moment, this John Treadwell toyed with the idea of making a remark about so many doctors but managed to resist the temptation.
‘And your purpose here today?’ said Peterson.
He sighed. ‘I have been asked to speak to you.’ He stopped. The only sound was Dr Bairstow’s creaky clock with its irregular tick and virtually non-existent tock.
Treadwell looked around the table. ‘I am sorry to have to tell you this, but at around half past two yesterday afternoon, Dr Bairstow’s car was involved in a road traffic accident just outside of London. His passenger, Lady Blackbourne, who is a colleague of mine, was airlifted to a nearby hospital. Very sadly, Dr Bairstow was pronounced dead at the scene. I’ll give you all a moment, shall I?’
He got up and went to look out of the window.
I stared at the table. No one spoke. We’re St Mary’s. We’re accustomed to death. I think we all expect to die on the job, so to speak. In a battle, or burned at the stake, or hanged as a horse thief. One or two of us may harbour thoughts of dying quietly in our beds, but I don’t think any of us ever expect to die in something so . . . ordinary . . . so contemporary . . . as a car crash. The outside world doesn’t impact on us very often but when it does . . .
Dazed, I looked around, searching for something with which to ground myself. I was sitting in Dr Bairstow’s office, looking at Dr Bairstow’s bookshelves with Dr Bairstow’s prints on the wall and sitting at Dr Bairstow’s briefing table. None of it was very grand. In fact, I think he once told me his first desk had been salvaged from the municipal tip – however likely that was. All of it was so familiar to me I barely noticed it most of the time, but today I saw it through different eyes.
I closed my eyes and listened to the echoes.
‘So tell me, Dr Maxwell, if the whole of History lay before you like a shining ribbon, where would you go . . . ?’
‘Dr Maxwell, why are you wearing a red snake in my office . . . ?’
‘See to it, Dr Maxwell . . .’
On and on, crashing and reverberating inside my head. Echo on echo. A whole symphony of echoes.
I looked over to the window. John Treadwell – whoever he was – was staring out, hands clasped behind his back.
Still no one had spoken. I think we were all too stunned to take it in. I don’t know for how long we would have sat there. I have no recollection of time passing at all, but when I next looked up, Treadwell was seating himself opposite me again.
‘I don’t believe Dr Bairstow has any living relatives, but Lady Blackbourne’s next of kin have been informed and are with her in hospital.’
He paused and sat silently, giving us time to take it in.
My first coherent thought was for Leon. He and Dr Bairstow had been friends for years. Dr Bairstow had recruited Leon to St Mary’s. Leon was out there somewhere and knew nothing of this. What dreadful news to come home to. He would be devastated.
My second thoughts were for myself. There was no grief. Not yet. That would come later. Now it was just shock and confusion and a sudden feeling of disconnection. That something had ended. The heart-chilling fear that something had gone forever. Something fragile had been shattered beyond repair and a cold wind was blowing.
Treadwell was now speaking again. ‘I shall call a meeting – an all-staff briefing, I think you call it – this afternoon to inform everyone of this tragic event. I can see this news has come as an enormous shock. I know you’ve all worked with Dr Bairstow for a long time, which is why I wanted to tell you quietly and in private first.’
He paused as if inviting comment but no one spoke.
‘Today is Friday. I think it’s quite safe to say people are going to be upset. I propose to give them today and the weekend and pick things up again on Monday.’
Peterson said slowly, ‘I’m not sure that will be possible.’
Treadwell shook his head. ‘I think once the initial shock is over, people will benefit from the discipline of work. That is my considered opinion.’
‘And, forgive me, your opinion is important because . . . ?’
‘Because I am the new Director of St Mary’s. Effective immediately.’
I think I had to replay his words three or four times before they actually made sense.
‘There must be an error,’ I said, making an heroic effort to speak calmly. ‘Dr Peterson is Dr Bairstow’s designated replacement.’
Treadwell’s face, his voice – nothing changed. He was still going with quiet and sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry – no. It has been decided that St Mary’s will benefit from an outside approach bringing fresh enthusiasm and new ideas.’
When I’m upset I get angry. ‘Why?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘What was wrong with the old ideas?’
‘Nothing at all. It’s just that every organisation profits from a change at the top. Fresh thinking and so on.’
‘How fortunate for you that Dr Bairstow has died, then. Is this standard procedure where you come from? Regular culls to ensure new blood?’
‘I am making allowances for emotional distress, Dr Maxwell, but please don’t try to push me.’
I opened my mouth to tell him I was born to push but Peterson got to his feet, his face grim.
‘Unless you have any strong objections – and actually, even if you do – I prefer to make this announcement myself. I appreciate your enthusiasm for embracing the whole the king is dead – long live the king thing, but unless you want people to associate you – irrevocably – with the trauma of Dr Bairstow’s death, I suggest you separate the two announcements. I’ll break the news this afternoon – Mrs Partridge, if you could organise that, please – and you, Mr Treadwell, can announce yourself on Monday. Dr Bairstow was held in extraordinarily high regard by everyone who knew him, and unless they’re given time to process this properly, you may find yourself on the receiving end of even more unfortunate pushing.’
Treadwell paused for a moment. ‘It’s Commander Treadwell, but very well.’
‘Who put you in charge?’ I demanded. ‘What makes you the right person for the job?’
‘My appointment was confirmed by the same department that has oversight of your activities here.’ He paused. ‘It’s natural, I suppose, that you will be doubtful as to my suitability. I can assure you that I am not just some bureaucrat in the same way that you are not just historians. I served seven years in the military. I have seen action. I was wounded twice. Not seriously on either occasion. On leaving the military I was offered a post with . . . intelligence . . . during which I travelled extensively. And now, here I am.’
‘And your brief?’
He hesitated.
‘Well, go on,’ I said. ‘You’re the new blood. We’re waiting to see how it will manifest itself.’
Treadwell was silent for a few seconds, looking down at his clasped hands. ‘If they have any sense, new brooms do not immediately sweep clean. I shall study your working practices, make some recommendations and then proceed accordingly. I understand that historians are, by their very nature, conservative, but please try to remember change is not always bad.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I said, ‘but we at St Mary’s tend to pre
fer improvement.’
‘It is natural,’ he said, irritatingly calm, ‘that well-established members of staff, entrenched in their way of doing things, should feel some disquiet at the disappearance of old and familiar routines, but I think, on mature consideration, they will see the many benefits of proceeding in the direction I shall be indicating.’
‘I wouldn’t hold my breath,’ I said, but by then Peterson had me out of the door. As I left the room, I heard Treadwell ask Hyssop if she could remain behind for a moment. For some reason I found that quite ominous.
We filed out through Mrs Partridge’s office. She had seated herself at her desk and was pulling her keyboard towards her. I paused. Her face was a mask.
I asked if I could do anything for her.
‘That is exceedingly kind of you, Dr Maxwell. If no one has any objections, I shall organise Dr Peterson’s all-staff briefing and then spend some time in quiet reflection.’
Peterson made the announcement that afternoon and even Treadwell had to concede that he, Peterson, had called it correctly.
Shock, I think, was the prevailing emotion. People sat so still you could have taken one of those old-fashioned photographs of the entire room. The ones where people had to sit still for long minutes. Dr Bairstow had been our anchor. Whatever catastrophe was occurring at the time, he’d been there. Solid as a rock and slightly less conciliatory. Whether overcoming the Time Police, Clive Ronan, Malcolm Halcombe – he’d always been several moves ahead of everyone else and now . . .
After the briefing, Peterson went off to break the news to Ian Guthrie. He and Mr Strong had been the first people recruited to St Mary’s. Mr Strong was nowhere to be found. We didn’t see him for a couple of days.
The weekend between Peterson’s and Treadwell’s announcements is lost to me. All I remember is moving from person to person, listening and comforting as best I could. I like to think I helped in some small way. I certainly think it helped me. It gave me something on which to focus. I could swallow down my own grief, my own loss, and concentrate on others until finally I was able to get back to my own room.
