The Long and Short of It

by Jodi Taylor

  THE CHRONICLES OF ST

  MARY’S

  JUST ONE DAMNED THING AFTER ANOTHER

  A SYMPHONY OF ECHOES

  A SECOND CHANCE

  A TRAIL THROUGH TIME

  NO TIME LIKE THE PAST

  WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?

  LIES, DAMNED LIES, AND HISTORY

  AND THE RESTIS HISTORY

  ST MARY’S SHORT

  STORIES

  WHEN A CHILD IS BORN

  ROMAN HOLIDAY

  CHRISTMAS PRESENT

  SHIPS, STINGS, AND WEDDING RINGS

  THE GREAT ST MARY’S DAY OUT

  MY NAME IS MARKHAM

  THE VERY FIRST DAMNED THING

  A PERFECT STORM

  THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT – A ST MARY’S COLLECTION

  ALSO BY JODI TAYLOR

  THE NOTHING GIRL

  LITTLE DONKEY

  THE SOMETHING GIRL

  A BACHELOR ESTABLISHMENT (AS ISABELLA BARCLAY)

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Dramatis Thingummy

  When a Child is Born

  Roman Holiday

  Christmas Present

  Ships and Stings And Wedding Rings

  The Very First Damned Thing

  The Great St Mary’s Day Out

  My Name is Markham

  A Perfect Storm

  INTRODUCTION

  This book came about because so many people told me how much they would like a print edition of the short stories, especially to give as a present. Since, at the time, there were only four St Mary’s short stories in existence, it seemed unlikely that Accent Press, magnificent though they are, would publish so short a book, so I put the idea to one side and got on with other stuff.

  The requests, however, did not go away and now I finally have enough material to make a full-length paperback. I didn’t want people thinking it was just regurgitated stuff however, so there’s a brand-new story at the end, ‘A Perfect Storm’, making its debut, and I’ve written a little introduction for each story, explaining where I got my ideas from and the often embarrassingly shameful series of circumstances that led to them being written. Please don’t judge me.

  The one I wanted to include, however – the twenty-thousand words I’d written for What Could Possibly Go Wrong? concerning the murder of the princes in the Tower of London – could not be found anywhere. I was cursing buckets, because it was good stuff and I only took it out of the novel because it made the book far too long. I searched and searched, but no luck. Every now and then, I still go back and have another trawl through the files. I think it was Einstein who said the definition of madness is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. So I’m well and truly bonkers then.

  These stories –

  WHEN A CHILD IS BORN

  ROMAN HOLIDAY

  Christmas Present

  Ships and Stings and Wedding Rings

  The Very First Damned Thing

  The Great St Mary’s Day Out

  My Name is Markham

  – have already been published as e-books, but this is the first time they have appeared in print. The final story, ‘A Perfect Storm’, will be published in e-book form later this summer. We’re doing things the other way around for a change…

  As always, huge thanks to everyone at Accent Press and even huger thanks to everyone who buys my books. You’re obviously charming, intelligent and perceptive people, all of you.

  An explanatory note or two for beginners:

  For God’s sake, don’t call it time travel.

  We work for the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory, just outside of Rushford. Our main task is to investigate major historical events in contemporary time. We don’t ever call it time travel because our lives are difficult enough without incurring the wrath of our boss, Dr Bairstow.

  We ricochet around the time line by means of our pods – small, flat-roofed, apparently stone-built shacks in which we jump to whichever time-period we’ve been assigned. They’re all slightly different; some are bigger than others, but the layout is more or less the same for all of them. The console is near the door, with the screen on the wall above it. There are specially designated areas for the important bits, such as the kettle, mugs and biscuit tin and you’ll always find possibly one historian, but more probably two, firmly attached to their mug of steaming tea and dramatically describing their latest hair-raising escape.

  Lockers run along the back wall, containing all the equipment we need for that particular jump, plus sleeping modules and my secret supply of chocolate. There is a tiny toilet but it never works properly and despite malicious accusations by the Technical Section, this is categorically not the fault of the History Department.

  We live and work in these pods. We all have our favourites. Mine is Number Eight. They’re cramped, squalid, the toilet explodes colourfully and regularly, and they always smell of cabbage, but they’re our pods and we love them.

  DRAMATIS THINGUMMY

  Dr Maxwell Chief Operations Officer, historian, midwife, the only one covered in snake goo, instigator of all things illegal and slightly dishevelled fairy. Busy.

  Dr Bairstow Director of St Mary’s. All-seeing, all-knowing; a bit like the Eye of Sauron but not so benign.

  Mrs Partridge PA to Dr Bairstow and Muse of History.

  History Department

  Dr Peterson Chief Training Officer and willing accomplice. Briefly Superman.

  Miss Van Owen Historian

  Mr Roberts Historian – not a eunuch.

  Miss Grey Set off for 12th Century Jerusalem and never returned, then did.

  Mr Bashford Ditto. Concussed? Who can tell?

  Mr Atherton Historian. Probably up to no good, because that’s what historians do.

  Miss Sykes Ditto.

  Mr Baverstock Historian.

  Miss Lower Historian.

  Miss North Historian. Can probably self-reproduce.

  Mr Clerk Historian. Not Dr Bairstow’s father, despite statements to the contrary.

  Miss Prentiss One of the better-behaved historians.

  Technical Section

  Chief Farrell Chief Technical Officer

  Mr Dieter Senior Technician. Built like a brick … outhouse.

  Mr Lindstrom Technician.

  Medical Section

  Dr Foster Chief Medical Officer.

  Nurse Hunter Markham’s beloved, but surprisingly normal.

  Security Section

  Major Guthrie Head of Security, stitcher-up of the woodcutter’s leg

  Mr Markham Security guard, cook, livestock tender, exotic carpet inhabitant, unlikely Shakespeare enthusiast, the back end of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and everyone’s favourite.

  Mr Cox Security guard. Should have been more vigilant.

  Mr Gallacio Ditto

  Mr Evans Security guard. Unaware of the true meaning of nursery rhymes.

  Mr Keller Security guard.

  Research and Development

  Professor Rapson Head of R & D

  Dr Dowson Librarian

  Miss Lingoss Multi-coloured member of R & D. A steady hand with a recorder.

  Others

  Mrs Enderby Head of Wardrobe and togally dextrous.

  Mrs Theresa Mack Kitchen supremo and ex-urban guerrilla. Deadly with a skillet.

  Dr Black Ex-historian. Thoroughly enjoying her reign of terror at the University of Thirsk.

  Rupert Markham’s special little friend.

  Snowman With an oddly placed carrot.

  Mr Strong A man with more memories than money.

  Mr Black and Mr Brown Two discreet government officials with varying levels of enthusiasm for ‘investi
gating major historical events in contemporary time’.

  Dr Evelyn Chalfont Chancellor of the University of Thirsk. Former leader of the resistance and still fighting.

  The Man from SPOHB Wears cardigans knitted by his mother. No more need be said.

  Miss Spindle A young woman for whom the sight of four naked security guards in more than a revelation.

  Miss Lee PA to Max.

  Mr Calvin Cutter Co-founder and director of Cutter Cavendish Films. A man who doesn’t quite see the point of History. But he will.

  Angus Don’t ask. Just don’t bloody ask.

  Historical Figures

  Aelfric The woodcutter.

  Alice The woodcutter’s wife.

  Aline The woodcutter’s daughter.

  Harold The woodcutter’s son.

  Calpurnia Pisonis Caesar’s wife. Not quite as above reproach as previously believed.

  Cleopatra VII Thea Philopator Caesar’s mistress. Surprisingly nasally enhanced.

  Julius Caesar The man himself. Even more nasally enhanced than his bit on the side.

  Greek Secretary It’s all his fault. He invited St Mary’s into the house; what was he thinking?

  Boudicca Another red-head. Say no more.

  Mrs Green A lady who wants to go to the ball. Ancestor of someone special to Dr Bairstow.

  William Shakespeare Playwright.

  Alfred the Great Fighting the good fight against the Danes. Founder of the Navy. Fire minder. Failed cake watcher.

  A goodwife Owner of the cakes. Broom wielder. Not happy.

  Plus a cast of thousands…

  Various Saxon sheep, an old hen, trampling Roman citizens, probably sober Roman chairmen, enraged Roman soldiers, maddened bullocks, Nubians, terrified citizens of Colchester, defiant veterans, unsavoury army deserters, Boudicca’s enormous personal guards, an unspecified number of muscular, Egyptian labourers, various armies of various nationalities, urine-clutching students, bribed construction workers, the cast of Hamlet, vagabonds, cutpurses, prostitutes, sailors, market policemen, stinkards, and a very, very enraged pig.

  WHEN A CHILD

  IS BORN

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  When A Child is Born is the first short story I ever wrote, apart from the stories I scribbled as a child, which were very short indeed and usually concerned the earth being invaded by giant robots and everyone dying horribly by the end of Chapter Two – an old habit I’m still struggling to rid myself of.

  The story itself was no problem. These days I think it’s a bit short, but everything has a natural length and the beauty of e-books is that a story can be any length it likes. I struggled to find an ending, though. Something that pulled it all together. A twist, maybe, or some sort of revelation. Why they’d found the woodman instead of attending the coronation. They couldn’t just quietly go home. There had to be a point to the story.

  I pummelled my brain for ages. I researched the key players of the day and their descendants, chasing them down through the centuries, but couldn’t find anything that leaped out at me. I looked at major events. I pursued Hereward the Wake to the grave and beyond. I looked at meteorological disturbances, devastating catastrophes – other than William the Bastard himself, of course – I even briefly considered having the Saxons win at Hastings before friends and sanity prevailed.

  Then, one night, staring at my laptop, I suddenly thought – I’m not looking at this the right way round. As Mrs Partridge went on to say, I was looking at things like an historian. I was concentrating on the male side of the story and in fact, this story was all about the women. Once I’d discovered King Henry’s inclination to bed any woman with a pulse, together with his determination to be the father of every child born over the next twenty years, I knew where to look. Discovering the wonderfully named Laurentia Henegouwen – of whom you may not have seen the last – I was off and running and so was the story.

  The original title was ‘Don’t Eat Yellow Snow’, but a friend suggested this one instead. Thank you, Connie.

  When a Child is Born

  I was in trouble again. No surprise there. It’s my default state.

  Dr Bairstow raised his eyes from my report and regarded me steadily. Behind him, his PA, Mrs Partridge, sat scratchpad in hand, making the Sphinx look like a collection of facial tics.

  Yes, I was in trouble again.

  He cleared his throat. Here we go.

  ‘Dr Maxwell, the assignment was – I believe I have I have the details here… ah, yes – jump to London, Westminster Abbey, 25th December 1066. Witness the coronation of King William I. Ascertain the cause of the disturbance that interrupted the ceremony and discover the extent of the subsequent fire and riots. I’m almost certain I impressed upon you the importance of our client and the need for a successful conclusion.’

  ‘Yes, sir. You were very clear.’

  ‘I also know that while brevity is admirable, I do require something a little more detailed than just “It was very cold”.’

  He shut down the data stack and regarded me again. ‘You don’t see the need to perhaps – flesh things out a little?’

  I racked my brains for something that wouldn’t make things worse.

  ‘It was snowing, sir.’

  The silence in the room grew very loud.

  ‘So, to recap. I despatch my two most senior historians – you, Dr Maxwell and Dr Peterson. I assign the head of security, Major Guthrie, to support you, together with – and the reason for this escapes me now – Mr Markham. And your combined talents and expertise can produce nothing more remarkable than “It was very cold”.’

  ‘And snowing,’ he added, seeing me open my mouth.

  I shut it again.

  ‘Where is the rest of your team, Dr Maxwell?’

  ‘In their quarters, sir.’

  ‘They did not feel the need to join us this morning?’

  Of course they bloody didn’t. They were in the bloody bar. We’d drawn lots. I’d lost.

  He pointed.

  ‘Sit down.’

  Half of me was glad to sit down. The other half was clamouring to join the others in the bar.

  He settled back in his chair.

  ‘Report.’

  I opened my mouth.

  ‘In full, this time.’

  I discarded what I had been going to say and gave him the truth.

  * * *

  We work for St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research. We investigate major historical events in contemporary time. We do not call it time travel. The Boss, Dr Bairstow, gets very annoyed about it. Actually, many things annoy him. Currently top of the list – me.

  Using our pods, we jump back to whichever time period we’ve been allocated and observe. Just that. We do not interfere. It’s supposed to be our prime directive.

  That doesn’t always turn out so well.

  Peterson bumped the pod on landing. I don’t know how he manages it.

  When we got ourselves sorted out, we realised we were in the wrong place. Instead of being tucked away in a neat little alleyway only a stone’s throw from Westminster Abbey, we were actually several miles away in a snowy wood on a hillside, looking down at smoky London town below us.

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ said Peterson, defensively, his breath clouding in the cold, frosty air. ‘The coordinates are spot on. Maybe IT made a mistake.’

  It was more likely the coordinates were right and we were wrong. It does happen occasionally, and at least we weren’t perched precariously on the lip of an active volcano or at the bottom of the sea. It just meant we had a two-mile walk downhill through a Christmas card landscape to get to our destination. It could have been worse. You can’t outrun a pyroclastic flow.

  We sent Markham on ahead as a kind of human snowplough and trudged along behind in single file. It wasn’t unpleasant. Although the day was bitterly cold, the sun shone, the exercise kept us warm, and we had one of England’s more exciting coronations to look forward to.

  Just two
months after his victory at Hastings, William the Conqueror, anxious to consolidate his hold on a sullen and resentful Saxon England, had ordered his coronation at Westminster Abbey. Peterson and I were keen to see the Abbey since we’d jumped there once before to watch its early construction. We hadn’t seen a lot on that occasion because a huge block of stone had fallen out of the sky nearby and Peterson had peed on me.

  Contemporary records say that at the part of the ceremony where William was crowned, the cries of acknowledgement were so enthusiastic that the soldiers stationed outside panicked and set fire to part of the building, thereby unleashing riots and generally disruptive behaviour.

  ‘Typical military,’ said Peterson, wading through a snowdrift.

  ‘Yes,’ said Major Guthrie sarcastically. ‘Because the history department’s never set fire to anything in its entire life, has it?’

  How this little discussion would have ended was anyone’s guess, because at that moment, Markham halted, bent forward and said quietly, ‘Blood.’

  ‘Stay here,’ said Guthrie, as he pushed past us on the narrow path and went to look. We ignored him and crowded round. Blood – a lot of blood – spotted the glistening snow. Indistinct scuffed tracks looked as if something had been dragged.

  ‘He went this way,’ said Markham, pointing down the path.

  ‘What did?’ I said, peering between the trees.

  ‘Not an animal,’ said Guthrie. ‘We need to go this way anyway, so everyone stick together and stay alert. For the benefit of all historians present, that means do not wander off alone.’

  We followed the bloody tracks around the next bend. Guthrie was right. It was a man and he was badly hurt. He lay across the path, right in front of us. He wore thick, coarse trousers and a long tunic. His head and shoulders were covered with some kind of hood which was pushed back to show tangled, fair hair. His boots were sturdy, but he wore no gloves. A blood-stained axe lay nearby.

  ‘He’s a woodcutter,’ said Guthrie. ‘Had a bit of an accident by the looks of things.’ He paused. ‘Max?’