The Long and Short of It

by Jodi Taylor

  He was conscious of a familiar smell. Damp stone, dust, stale air, and old wood. He tilted his head as if listening and just momentarily, he caught the sound of footsteps clattering on a wooden staircase, voices raised in amiable dispute, a door slamming and somewhere unseen, a small explosion: an echo from the future perhaps.

  Becoming aware of the silence around him, he turned.

  ‘Well, gentlemen. Welcome to St Mary’s. This is the Great Hall. The kitchens and dining room will be down there. The Library through there. These rooms off to the left will be the Wardrobe Department. R&D is up the stairs and over to the right. Please find yourselves somewhere to put your gear and let us begin.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Markham.

  Exactly seven days later, Dr Bairstow was facing a minor uprising. A small space had been cleared in the dining room, a table set up, and Markham was serving an optimistically named chicken stew.

  Murdoch prodded his carefully. ‘I’m almost certain this sort of thing is banned under the Geneva Convention.’

  Randall was heard to enquire whether something had escaped from Quatermass and The Pit.

  ‘It’s nutritious,’ said Markham indignantly.

  ‘It’s grey. No food should be grey.’

  ‘I think mine just twitched,’ said Evans. ‘Should I stun it, do you think?’

  ‘It’s cheap,’ said Markham, marshalling his secondary arguments.

  ‘I’m sure it’s delicious,’ said Dr Bairstow. He took a dubious forkful, chewed valiantly for some considerable time and swallowed. Six pairs of eyes watched him closely.

  Delicately patting his mouth with a piece of kitchen roll, he rummaged in his wallet, eventually pulling out a credit card, which he handed to Major Guthrie.

  ‘Please ascertain the whereabouts of the nearest establishment prepared to deliver here and place an order with all speed.’

  ‘Hey,’ protested Markham. ‘I slaved for nearly twenty minutes over this.’

  Dr Bairstow did not shudder. ‘And we are all deeply appreciative of your efforts. However, Major Guthrie advises me that while your enthusiasm is admirable, your talents are better employed in other parts of the building.’

  ‘But –’ wailed Markham, loyal to his culinary creation.

  Randall passed over his dish. As did Ritter and Evans. Murdoch might possibly have followed suit, but his dish appeared to have welded itself to the table.

  ‘You eat it then,’ said Evans.

  Markham surveyed the dishes before him, many of which were forming a crust.

  He sighed. ‘Chicken and sweetcorn soup with a side order of pancake rolls. Beef and green peppers in oyster sauce. Sweet and sour pork balls. Egg fried rice and a double helping of prawn crackers. For my second course…’

  Emerging from the train station, Dr Bairstow stopped and looked around him. It was said that the first stirrings of resistance had been born on the night they threw the Fascists out of Cardiff, and there seemed no doubt that the city still bore the scars of that and subsequent fighting. Unlike in London, however, there were no building sites, no scaffolding, and no signs of regeneration. He saw rows of tents pitched wherever enough rubble had been cleared. There were no shops. Just a number of public washing and cooking facilities. He remembered the newspaper headline, ‘Where did all the money go?’ Not to Cardiff, that was obvious.

  Consulting his map, he set off.

  Thirty minutes walking brought him to a narrow street in Cathays. Possibly due to the high student population, this area had been particularly badly damaged. Most of the paving stones had been removed. Craters rendered the road undriveable. Some of the houses had no roofs and a number of canvas tarpaulins flapped in the wind.

  Walking carefully along the right-hand side of the street, he counted the numbers on the front doors, stopping at one particular house about half way down. There, he knocked and waited.

  The door was opened by a small woman with bright hair and tired eyes.

  ‘Yes?

  ‘I’m looking for Mrs Theresa Mack.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘My name is Edward Bairstow and I have come a very long way to speak to her.’

  ‘From London?

  ‘That was part of my journey, yes.’

  She sighed. ‘You’d better come in.’

  The front door opened straight into the living room.

  There was no TV. No fire. No smell of cooking. One small lamp burned beside an armchair. An open book lay face down on the chair. A similar armchair was placed on the other side of the empty fireplace. A small table and two chairs stood under the window. A framed photograph of a young couple was the only decoration in the room.

  Dr Bairstow paused beside the table, looked at the photograph, and said softly, ‘I understand you are married.’

  ‘Widowed,’ she said curtly. ‘Please sit down.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Was it in the recent fighting?’

  ‘At the Barricades, yes. He survived Cardiff and Monmouth and then fell right at the very end, in London. Almost as the surrender was announced. I could even hear the faint cheering far away over the bridge as the shot rang out. Five minutes later and everyone was shouting, “Cease fire!” and “Hooray!” but by then, of course, it was far too late.’

  A long silence fell and eventually Dr Bairstow said, ‘I’ve just come from there.’

  ‘Have they rebuilt yet? I suppose priority goes to London.’

  ‘They have made a start, yes, but there’s not been a great deal of progress.’

  ‘There never is. Have you seen the state of Cardiff?’

  ‘My walk from the station offered me ample opportunity to do so.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘I find myself in need of your expertise.’

  ‘I’m too old for all that now. The fight’s gone out of me.’

  ‘I take leave to doubt that. However, it is your former expertise that interests me at the moment.’

  ‘What – catering?’

  ‘Yes. I am currently establishing a small organisation and we have been catering for ourselves. Our efforts have not been as successful as I could have wished. My records show that you enjoyed considerable success in that field.’

  ‘Your records? Who are you? Show me some ID.’

  ‘Alas, I am unable to do so. I have none.’

  She regarded him narrowly. ‘Do you work for the government?’

  Just for a moment, he allowed himself a small gleam of amusement. ‘Actually I may have just persuaded them to work for me. They do, however, supply my funding – via a third party.’

  She looked at him across the cold fireplace. It occurred to him the room was very quiet. Not even the ticking of a clock.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I told you. My name is Edward Bairstow and while I am reluctant to paraphrase Winston Churchill in any way, I can offer you nothing except extremely hard work, difficult working conditions, and an occasionally hazardous environment.’

  Receiving no indication of her response to this statement, he continued.

  ‘I am setting up an organisation, the details of which I cannot yet discuss with you. The unit will be situated in England. The work will be of a top-secret nature and my employees will require regular and frequent feeding. You would have complete control over your department. I do not believe in micro managing. It will be chaotic. Food will be required at all hours of the day and night. And large quantities of it, too. Miracles will be demanded of you on a daily basis. You probably won’t be paid regularly. There may be periods when you will not be paid at all.’

  ‘Can I engage my own staff?’

  ‘Within budgetary constraints, yes.’

  ‘Will they be paid?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  She sat for a while in silence. Dr Bairstow, possibly a little more tired by his walk from the station than he was prepared to admit, also sat quietly.

  ‘You can’t tell me what you do?
’

  ‘No, I can’t do that at the moment. But I can tell you what I won’t do. I won’t ever preside over an organisation that wants to put together a working party to investigate the possibility of setting up a steering group dedicated to considering the make-up of a proposed committee. In my own small way, I too am rebuilding, and I want people who will get things done. Are you one of those people?’

  Her chin came up.

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘Wait here.’

  She reappeared moments later with a small suitcase. Crossing to the table, she picked up the photograph and her book and carefully packed them away.

  ‘I’m ready.’

  They let themselves out of the front door. She locked it behind her and posted the keys back through the letterbox.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  The two figures walked slowly down the street into the gathering night.

  ‘Three.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I beg your pardon. Just thinking aloud.’

  * * *

  And yet another long train journey. North, this time. Evicting, by sheer personality, a young man sitting in the seats clearly set aside for those physically unable to stand all the way to York, Dr Bairstow made himself comfortable and contemplated his strategy. A complete waste of time as it turned out.

  Catching a local train he alighted at Thirsk and made his way across the Market Place, around the Clock Tower, and out towards the university – St James’ campus.

  Spring was springing as fast as it could go. Tubs of nodding daffodils stood on every street corner. A warm wind blew. For once, it wasn’t raining.

  The St James’ buildings had sustained considerable damage. The Main Hall stood roofless. Every window was boarded up. To his right, the Barbeck Library was just a shell. Dr Bairstow stood at the entrance to the quadrangle, looking about him. An observer might have said he was remembering.

  A college porter appeared from a doorway. ‘Help you, sir?’

  ‘I am here to see either Dr Dowson or Professor Rapson. Or both. Whichever is easier.’

  The porter nodded back the way he had just come. ‘Up the stairs and to your left, sir. You might want to proceed with caution.’

  Thanking him, Dr Bairstow climbed the ancient staircase.

  In contrast to the rest of the building, which reflected the grave silence of academia, the corridor at the top of the stairs was witnessing a great deal of activity. A line of gossiping students stood along one panelled wall, all with identical expressions of sheepishness and clutching bottles containing a familiar golden fluid.

  Any doubts Dr Bairstow might have had over whether or not he was in the right place were immediately dispelled. At the exact moment he opened his mouth to make a polite enquiry of the nearest bottle-clutching student, there was a small, damp explosion and a cloud of evil-smelling, acrid smoke billowed from a doorway. Dr Bairstow closed his mouth, and waited for events to unfold.

  A door on the other side of the corridor was hurled open with some force. The students, obviously familiar with the signs and mindful that there was bound to be a pub open somewhere, made themselves scarce.

  A small, round man, spectacles balanced precariously on the end of his nose, bounced out into the corridor, waving his arms to dispel the evil vapours, and plunged into the fray.

  ‘Andrew, you old fool, I warned you. Didn’t I warn you?’ He turned his head, addressing someone unseen. ‘Mr Cameron, please telephone the Chancellor’s office for me and remind them – again – of my urgent requests to be rehoused. No one should be expected to have to work opposite … Andrew, what are you doing now? I demand you stop that at once. You’ll blow us all to kingdom come.’

  A furious pounding could be heard.

  A voice said excitedly, ‘I think I know where I went wrong.’

  ‘You always say that.’

  ‘Well, it’s usually true, Octavius. I think this time I used a little too much urine and not enough toadstool.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Andrew, it’s like a bloody witch’s den in here. What is this? And this? And don’t tell me what this is because I don’t want to know.’

  A quiet voice said patiently, ‘It’s touchwood, Occy. You soak it in urine – lots of urine – pound the mixture into a kind of felt, and it smoulders. Portable fire. The Vikings used it a lot.

  ‘You are not a Viking. And the 21st century has gifted us with matches. And this did not smoulder. It exploded.’

  ‘Yes, I think possibly the fault lies with poor quality urine. I blame the students, you know. It’s probably about 90% alcohol. Really, when you think about it, an explosion was quite inevitable. I wonder if I could persuade them to stop drinking for a week or two?’

  ‘Andrew, I sometimes think you’ve lost all touch with reality.’

  ‘Well really, that’s a little unkind. Actually, while you’re here, Occy, I wonder if you’d be kind enough to donate…’

  At this moment, Dr Bairstow judged it politic to intervene.

  Taking a spotless handkerchief from his pocket, he attached it to one end of his stick and gently waved it around the doorway.

  ‘Gentlemen, may I enter?’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Andrew, you’ve blown up a civilian. Come in, sir. Are you hurt?’

  ‘Not in any way, I assure you. May I enter?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Andrew, please find the gentleman a chair.’

  A tall and very thin man with Einstein hair, Professor Rapson looked vaguely around as if perhaps a chair could be found dangling from the ceiling. His hair was in disarray and the front of his white coat was speckled with something that should probably not be too closely examined.

  ‘I am looking for Professor Rapson.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. That’s me. How do you do?’ He began to move around the room, picking up shattered equipment and uttering small, distressed sounds. Pools of fluid dripped unhappily to the floor.

  ‘Andrew, what are you doing?’

  ‘I’m looking for the rest of the student donations and they don’t appear to have survived.’

  ‘Well thank God for that. Come and sit down for a moment, there’s a good chap. You have a guest.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. That was the last of … Oh, well, never mind, there are many more of them waiting outside.’

  ‘Alas, I fear that is no longer the case,’ interrupted Dr Bairstow.

  ‘Oh dear. Now what shall I do? I don’t suppose, Occy…’

  ‘Absolutely not!’

  He turned hopefully to Dr Bairstow. ‘I wonder, sir, if I could trouble you…’

  There was a short pause. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Oh well, I’ll just have to save up again, I suppose.’

  He drooped dejectedly over the remains of a complicated glass retort.

  Silence fell. And showed no signs of getting up again.

  Since both of them appeared to have forgotten his presence, Dr Bairstow felt compelled to speak.

  ‘I am looking for Professor Andrew Rapson and Dr Octavius Dowson. I suspect that I have found them.’

  ‘You have indeed, sir. How can we assist you?’

  ‘Gentlemen, I have travelled here today to ask you, personally, whether you would be interested in joining my project. I cannot enter into any great detail at the moment, suffice to say that the work will be hazardous, noisy, a little disorganised, and extremely secret.’

  It was as if a switch had been flicked. Both men stopped what they were doing and turned to fix him with stares of laser-like intensity. The two bickering academics might never have existed.

  ‘Why us?’

  ‘The University of Thirsk was the centre of resistance in this part of the country and, from reports I have read, the two of you were at the centre of the centre of resistance. The university suffered greatly because of its stand against the Fascist forces. I have in mind a scheme that will benefit everyone – me, you, and the university.
’

  Professor Rapson folded his arms. ‘Does the Chancellor know about this?’

  ‘She does. There have been extensive discussions.’

  Dr Dowson smiled gently. ‘I imagine she couldn’t wait to be rid of us.’

  ‘Actually, no. She is greatly reluctant to lose either of you but she concedes the importance of my work and recognises your value to it.’

  ‘You haven’t told us yet what your project is.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Or where it is.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, either. But it will be in this country.’

  ‘What will we be doing?

  ‘I’m not yet at liberty to divulge that information.’

  ‘Can you give us any details at all?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘So, just to sum up – you want us to work on an unknown project in an unknown location?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘And the work is hazardous…?’

  ‘And noisy and disorganised.’

  They looked at each other. ‘Anything else we should know?’

  ‘Regular wages will probably not happen.’

  ‘Well in that case…’ They looked at each other and then back to Dr Bairstow, nodding enthusiastically. ‘We accept.’

  ‘Good.’ Dr Bairstow rose to his feet and retrieved his handkerchief. ‘I will contact you both shortly. Allow me to give you my card.’

  Dr Dowson turned it over. ‘It’s just your name.’

  ‘That is correct. Gentlemen, I will be in touch.’

  He turned and made his way back through the smoke and down the stairs. Pausing at the bottom to draw on his gloves, he groped for his notebook, made two ticks, and permitted himself a satisfied smile.

  ‘Four and five. Excellent progress.’

  * * *

  Time passed – and who would know that better than the occupants of St Mary’s?

  The food improved immeasurably. Although as Mr Randall remarked, Mrs Mack could serve up a dead dog sandwich and it would still be a huge improvement on Markham’s efforts. A slight scuffle followed this statement.

  A steady stream of vehicles wove their way around the potholes, seeking to deliver their cargo under Mr Strong’s directions. Structural work began and was progressing well until the Society for the Protection of Historical Buildings turned up with their paperwork and put a stop to all that.