An Argumentation of Historians

by Jodi Taylor

  Alas.

  And the timing could not have been more unfortunate. We certainly didn’t want the idiot muscling in on the Persepolis jump. This was an unfortunate coincidence that would have to be dealt with. I stared at my feet, lost in thought.

  ‘He’s bound to want his job back,’ she said, not quite wringing out her hanky but close. ‘And I’ve worked so hard. And I’m good at it. And …’ She stopped suddenly.

  And she had the world’s hugest crush on Peterson who really didn’t help himself by smiling kindly at her whenever she passed. I wasn’t too sure of their relationship status and she did seem content to worship him from afar – something the rest of St Mary’s would do well to emulate, he always said – but yes, she was right. Halcombe would want his job back and she would almost certainly return to the thankless task of many women – that of being assistant to an idiot.

  I really didn’t know what to say to her. Perhaps, given her hopeless passion for Peterson, it would be better for her to move on. Forget him and build a life somewhere else. I don’t know. My own life is frequently so tangled that I never really feel I’m a suitable person to advise others. And, it has often been pointed out to me, I’m not really a role model for distressed young women. Or distressed young men. Or anyone, actually.

  I could see she was in need of a little gentle sympathy and support, however, so I clapped her on the shoulder, told her to buck up Buttercup, and took her in for some tea.

  He arrived two days later. Earlier than Dottle had thought he would. Much earlier than Dr Bairstow had bargained for. And worst of all, before we’d got Persepolis out of the way.

  I watched him pull into the car park and unload his suitcases. He would need to be got rid of. By lawful means preferably, but if that didn’t work …

  Somewhere in the depths of St Mary’s, a handbell pealed and a voice intoned, ‘Unclean ... unclean …’

  He made his presence felt almost immediately by falling foul of Psycho Psykes.

  Hitting the ground running, and probably wanting to avoid a repeat of his one and only catastrophic assignment he thought he’d instigate a series of risk assessments and method statements. It did not go well.

  We were all in the Hall working away. There were files and whiteboards everywhere. There were odd bits of paper pinned to the walls. A couple of data stacks twirled in digital limbo. We had Mrs Enderby with us trying to sort out what we were to wear in Persepolis. Bashford was trying, unsuccessfully, to measure his own inside leg and Sykes was watching him without pity.

  ‘Fifty-two inches,’ he announced, so God knows where he’d had his tape measure.

  Mrs Enderby ignored him, stared appraisingly at me for a moment and then said, ‘I understand you’re expecting to be even more than usually active on this assignment, so I’ve cheated a little, Max. We’ve run you up a chiton in the Doric style. More room for movement.’

  I nodded. Not a bad idea. The Doric tunic was much more modest and less drapey. And, importantly, it was held together considerably more securely than by just a pin at one shoulder, which was all very well if your day consisted of lounging around eating grapes, but was less useful if you were dodging drunken soldiers, burning buildings, and the like.

  Legend says that a long time ago in Ancient Greece, the messenger bringing the sad news of their husbands’ deaths in some battle or other had been set upon by the grieving widows, who had stabbed him to death with their own shoulder pins. Being a messenger in ancient times was a hazardous occupation – presumably giving rise to the saying, ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’ Anyway, the authorities, casting a wary eye on pin-wielding widows had henceforth forbidden women to fasten their chitons with pins so the Doric chiton was an altogether sturdier garment. Which was good for me – my chiton was almost a straight tunic and very easy to move around in.

  That settled, I turned back to the others who were discussing whether to dress as contemporaries or go in full fire-fighting gear. Clerk was arguing that those who would be concentrating on Alexander could dress in contemporary costumes while only those actually attempting to get into the Treasury would need fire suits. We’d reached the point where everyone was trying to work out the difference between flammable and inflammable and the debate was vigorous because no one knew the answer – when the idiot Halcombe turned up with his latest recipe for catastrophe.

  I was talking to Miss Dottle when she peered over my shoulder and said quietly, ‘Max, he’s coming.’

  I turned and the idiot Halcombe was coming down the stairs, scratchpad in hand.

  ‘May I have your attention, please?’

  Somewhere at the very back of the Hall, the handbell rang again and an anonymous voice called, ‘Unclean ... unclean ...’

  Wisely, Halcombe ignored it.

  ‘I have been carrying out a series of risk assessments which, while they will radically alter the way we operate, will, I think you will agree, result in a much higher success rate than this establishment has hitherto experienced.’

  ‘You mean we stick our noses out of the door and then run for home in case it starts to rain?’ suggested Clerk, and someone laughed. It had been Clerk’s assignment the idiot Halcombe had buggered up and he obviously hadn’t either forgotten or forgiven.

  ‘Not precisely,’ countered Halcombe. ‘But certainly more time will be spent assessing the situation in advance, rather than just bursting out of the pod and immediately finding ourselves in difficulties.’

  ‘We?’ said Clerk, obviously determined not to let it go. ‘Ourselves? You’re surely not proposing to include yourself in our merry little jaunts?’

  Halcombe ignored him and soldiered on. ‘Perhaps the most important of our new routines will be the exclusion of women on certain assignments.’

  The temperature dropped. Like a stone. Everything stopped. Even the walls leaned in to listen. No one said a word.

  The idiot didn’t even notice. I started to work my way down the hall because I might have to save a life in a minute.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Sykes, sweetly. ‘My tiny female brain was unable to process your last statement.’

  Reaching the front, I nudged her into silence. ‘Are you saying the type of assignment will determine the gender of those carrying it out?’

  ‘Exactly,’ he beamed.

  I persevered. It wasn’t yet too late for him. ‘Are you absolutely certain this is a course you want to pursue?’

  ‘I am. I think you will agree that there are some areas where the presence of women is inappropriate. Battlefields for instance. No one can deny the presence of a female at say, Bannockburn, would not only be distracting and dangerous, but historically inaccurate as well. My proposal is that female historians confine themselves to … social and domestic issues … which would free up male historians to concentrate on the more important aspects of history.’

  ‘You mean History,’ said Sykes.

  ‘Idiot can’t even get that right,’ muttered Clerk.

  ‘What is he talking about?’ whispered Prentiss to me.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said, ‘but I think he’s saying it’s a man’s world.’

  She looked around at Mrs Mack, Mrs Enderby, Miss Lee, Miss Lingoss, Mrs Partridge, Miss Sykes and Miss North. None of whom should be crossed even for a brief second. ‘When did that happen?’

  ‘Apparently, about thirty seconds ago.’

  ‘Oh, wow,’ said Sykes in excitement. ‘Does this mean I’m a plucky little woman struggling to make her way in a man’s world. I’ve always wanted to be a plucky little woman struggling to make her way in a man’s world. Please. Pleeeaaaaase.’

  ‘Stop whining,’ I said. ‘Plucky little women never whine.’

  Miss North made a sound indicating that, actually, far from struggling in a man’s world, men frequently struggled in hers.

  ‘No, he’s made a very good point,’ said Bashford provocatively. ‘Women are just vessels, you know.’

  ‘That’s very true,’ said Sykes, smil
ing angelically at him. ‘I myself am a seventeen-thousand-ton Dreadnought class battleship with enough firepower to destroy a medium-sized city.’

  Well, no one was going to argue with that.

  Halcombe stood his ground and prepared to argue his point. ‘I’m simply saying …’ he said.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Peterson, gently taking his arm. ‘I really wouldn’t.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Taking you to Dr Stone to discuss your apparent death wish.’

  He pulled his arm away angrily and stamped back up the stairs. We watched him make his way around the gallery.

  ‘Like a disdainful flamingo with a stick up its arse,’ said Markham, quoting someone whose identity escapes me for the moment.

  Halcombe’s office door slammed.

  ‘He’s got to go,’ said Markham to me, and I would have agreed except that as I opened my mouth, a terrible scream echoed around the building.

  I suppose in normal places of employment a terrible scream echoing around the building would produce some sort of reaction. At the very least heads would lift. Someone might possibly say, ‘Did you hear that?’ and someone else might say, ‘I think so,’ and there would be vague looking around, as if the reason for the terrible scream would helpfully waft down the staircase and make itself known.

  This being St Mary’s, none of that happened. Terrible screams are ten a penny here and could range from Markham shutting his finger in a door – you’d think he’d lost his entire arm – to Professor Rapson drinking from a beaker subsequently discovered to be clearly marked with a skull and crossbones and bearing the legend “Do Not Drink – Deadly Poison“. Just to be clear, on that occasion the scream emanated from his panicking staff, not the professor himself, who, throughout the entire stomach-pumping process maintained his traditional air of slight bewilderment at all the fuss.

  Anyway, back to the current crisis – the terrible scream and its dying echoes. St Mary’s continued with its normal working day because, quite honestly, if we stopped working for every terrible scream and its dying echoes we’d never get any work done at all. Every organisation has its weak link, however. A door opened and the idiot Halcombe appeared again, this time enquiring who was making that ridiculous noise.

  Every person in sight immediately became completely immersed in what they were doing. I sighed. If only they could display the same level of dedicated focus during a normal working day. Given that all I could see was the back of everyone else’s heads, any response was obviously up to me.

  ‘No idea,’ I said. ‘But it seems to have stopped now,’ and tried to slide past him to return to the safety of my own office.

  Easier said than done. Our housekeeper, the majestic Mrs Midgeley, was descending the stairs, as unstoppable as a glacier on its way to the sea to mate with the icebergs. Actually, I don’t know what put that picture in my head but I really wished it hadn’t.

  We don’t see a lot of her. She prefers, she says, to carry out her duties behind the scenes and not, in any way, associate herself with the madness for which St Mary’s is apparently legendary.

  I remember crossing my fingers as she approached and hoping I was not her ultimate destination. I didn’t see how she could possibly want me. Yes, Leon had put his foot through a sheet a couple of weeks ago, but he was a firm favourite of hers and she’d let him off with no more than a finger wagging as he stood before her, head bowed in contrition. What she could possibly want with me was a mystery.

  She shouldered aside the idiot Halcombe as if he didn’t exist – I should be that lucky – and deposited a small pile of towels on the table in front of me and demanded to know, in a voice which rang from one end of the Hall to the other, what was the meaning of this.

  I stared, baffled, first at the small pile of six clean white hand towels, and then pathetically around the Hall, seeking assistance from someone. Anyone.

  Markham folded his arms and grinned at me. Peterson was apparently engrossed in a file with Miss Dottle and too busy to notice what was going on, and there was no sign of Leon anywhere. You have to ask yourself what is the point of being married if your husband is too busy repairing a pod to rescue his wife from an enraged towel-bearing housekeeper.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Midgeley, I don’t understand. Is there a problem with the towels?’

  Her not unsubstantial bosom heaved with passion. ‘Not the towels, no.’

  ‘Well, what then?’

  She peeled back the top four layers to reveal what looked like a puddle of furry raspberry jam with legs.

  St Mary’s crowded round.

  ‘Oh yuk.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Miss Dottle pushed her way through the crowd.

  ‘Oh no – it’s Hammy.’

  ‘Hammy?’

  ‘Hamlet’.

  I stared accusingly across at Markham who had once appeared in a 17th-century production of Hamlet. He’d understudied Shakespeare after the great man had set fire to himself. On the face of it, however, Markham seemed as baffled as I was.

  I said cautiously, ‘Hamlet?’

  ‘My hamster.’

  We’re not allowed pets. Except for Mrs Mack’s beloved Vortigern, the kitchen cat, of course. And Angus the chicken. And Markham from Security. And now it would appear Miss Dottle had a hamster. Had had a hamster.

  ‘But what,’ demanded Mrs Midgeley, not one to lose sight of her target, ‘was a hamster doing in my airing cupboard in the first place?’

  Dottle sniffed. ‘Well, I woke up one morning and he was stretched out in the bottom of his little cage and I thought he was dead.’ She sniffed again. ‘And I was taking him out to the garden to bury him when I met Professor Rapson.’

  She paused to rifle her pockets for a handkerchief.

  I sighed and turned to Miss Lingoss. Today’s hair was metallic bronze. She looked like a statue of the goddess Athena. ‘My compliments to Professor Rapson. Could he spare me a moment please?’

  ‘Righty-ho.’ She was gone in a flash, appearing a moment later with the professor who was absent-mindedly patting his pockets for his glasses.

  ‘On your head, Professor,’ said Miss Lingoss kindly.

  ‘Really? Oh, so they are. Thank you, my dear.’ He hooked them over his ears and smiled at me. ‘Good afternoon, Max. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Good afternoon, Professor. I wonder if you could shed any light on this?’

  I flipped back the towels as I spoke.

  ‘Oh, my goodness. Is that Hammy?’

  I don’t know how many dead hamsters he thought there would be in our airing cupboard.

  Miss Dottle nodded wetly.

  ‘Why is he so flat?’

  Miss Dottle burst into tears and so I turned to the professor for enlightenment.

  ‘Well, I met Miss Dottle and she was very upset because she thought her hamster was dead. As it happens, I had a hamster as a small boy and the same thing happened to me.’

  ‘They thought you were dead?’ said Markham, deliberately muddying the issue.

  ‘No, no,’ he said seriously. ‘I thought my hamster had died but she hadn’t. She was just sleeping.’

  I stared at him. Yes, all right – you see it written on tombstones all the time – “Not dead. Just sleeping” – but I had no idea that saying originated with hamsters. Tombstone images crashed into my mind. I was sure the day was fast approaching when I was going to need psychiatric help.

  ‘You see,’ he said, peering at me over his spectacles, ‘hamsters hibernate, Max. If the temperature drops off, then so do they. Apparently, many a hamster has been prematurely interred, as I told Miss Dottle and, obviously, we didn’t want that, did we? So I suggested she pop him somewhere warm and see if he woke up. So we put him in the airing cupboard.’

  Mrs Midgeley’s bosom reared up again, to the peril of all. ‘And when exactly did this happen?’

  ‘Last week.’

  A lesser woman would have staggered. ‘I’ve had a
dead hamster in my fresh linen for a week?’

  Dottle gulped and nodded.

  Trying to keep my voice steady, I said, ‘Exactly how long should Hammy’s … period of recovery have taken, Professor?’

  ‘Oh, my dear Miss Dottle, I’m so sorry. I’m afraid there’s been a little bit of a misunderstanding. Thirty to forty-five minutes would probably have been sufficient.’

  Our heat-seeking housekeeper was homing in again. ‘You left a dead hamster in my fresh linen for a week?’

  Atherton, who’s a nice boy, offered her a glass of water.

  ‘No,’ said Dottle, still distressed. ‘I went to get him out an hour later but he wasn’t there. I thought either he’d woken up and run away or …’ she gulped ‘… he’d died and been taken away.’

  I was trying not to laugh. I could just see Dottle peeking into the airing cupboard and assuming Hammy had been wafted up to hamster heaven.

  In reality, of course, someone had just unknowingly dumped a load of towels on top of him and if he hadn’t been dead before – sensitive readers might want to go with that assumption – he had certainly been dead afterwards. Probably best not to mention that. And certainly not to Miss Dottle who was weeping like the Trevi fountain.

  The solution was to take her away for a cup of tea, grovel to Mrs Midgely, remove poor Hammy from his white, fluffy sepulchre, and carry on with our working day so, obviously, this was the point at which Malcolm Halcombe decided to showcase his management skills.

  Glaring around, he ordered everyone back to work, including Mrs Midgeley – I tell you, this bloke was living permanently in the shadow of death. Leprosy would have been nothing to this – and to demonstrate his mastery of the situation, demanded Miss Dottle fetch him the file on something or other.

  She blew her long pink nose – I noticed suddenly she’d gone back to the droopy cardigans again – and went to scuttle off, only to be prevented by Peterson, the world’s kindest man, who said he was awfully sorry, but Miss Dottle was scheduled for a meeting with him which should, in fact, have started some ten minutes ago and was she ready?