The Long and Short of It

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The Long and Short of It Page 22

by Jodi Taylor


  ‘With your permission, sir, and before someone is seriously injured, I’d like to provide some sort of safe outlet for these … difficult moments.’

  ‘An excellent idea, Major. How about cricket? Exciting, dramatic, and yet requiring skill, coordination, and a sense of fair play – exactly what is required.’

  ‘What an excellent idea, sir,’ said Major Guthrie carefully, ‘but given the numbers involved and the inadvisability of arming them with bats and pointed sticks, I think football might provide a more effective channel for high spirits.’

  Dr Bairstow seemed doubtful. ‘Well, if you say so. I personally always found that half a dozen overs after lunch could cure most ills but possibly, in view of the number of casualties currently inhabiting Sick Bay, football will provide a more effective means of venting the violently homicidal urges demonstrated today.’

  ‘I quite agree, sir. Was there anything else?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Major. Walk with me to Hawking, if you please.’

  Together, they surveyed the coils of cabling, junction boxes, sacks of concrete, cement mixers, and all the other miscellaneous equipment of a building uncompleted.

  ‘I am sorry, Major, but, for reasons I cannot yet explain, it is imperative this area of St Mary’s is completed by Friday night.’

  ‘I have to say, sir, there is very little likelihood of us achieving that deadline.’

  ‘That is what I am afraid of.’

  ‘Is it at all possible to prioritise, sir?’

  Dr Bairstow stood deep in thought. ‘An excellent idea, Major. Come with me.’

  He turned and left the hangar and they stood at the foot of Sick Bay stairs. To their right, the unfinished hangar. To their left, the recently completed long corridor led back to the main building. Ahead of them stretched a short corridor, with various doors opening off it.

  Dr Bairstow limped to the end and halted outside a door.

  Major Guthrie consulted his plans. ‘This room is designated as a paint store, sir.’ He pushed open the door, revealing a small square room, at present empty except for copious amounts of dust.

  Dr Bairstow stood thoughtfully.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Actually, I think this may be for the best after all, Major.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Find the foreman, if you would be so good. I want electrical sockets and cable points set up in the back corner there. Ask him to pull his people off everything else. If the work can be completed before five o’clock on Friday night there will be a substantial cash bonus in it for him and his team that we probably won’t need to trouble his employers with.’

  ‘How substantial, sir?’

  ‘Extremely substantial. On the rare occasions I have to resort to bribery, I like to make a good job of it.’

  By five o’clock on Friday night, the seemingly impossible had been achieved.

  Half a dozen exhausted, dusty, hollow-eyed workers had worked the clock round, completed their task, enjoyed a drink at Dr Bairstow’s expense, trousered an unspecified but gratifyingly large amount of cash, and departed for the weekend.

  St Mary’s heaved a sigh of relief and put its feet up in the bar, where Dr Bairstow’s unprecedented generosity had provided for them also. It seemed safe to assume they would be there for the foreseeable future.

  The rest of the building was very silent as Dr Bairstow limped carefully down the stairs, through the Hall, and down the long corridor. There, he paused for a while, listening, but other than the echoes of voices raised in song and high spirits, there was nothing but the sounds of a building bedding itself down for the night. Wood creaked. A tiny piece of plaster fell from the ceiling. The smell of wet concrete was very strong.

  Standing outside the door to the paint store, Dr Bairstow checked his watch for the hundredth time and waited. His face gave nothing away.

  He checked his watch again.

  Somewhere, another piece of plaster fell.

  Dr Bairstow consulted his watch again. The second hand, glowing green in the semi-darkness, swept on.

  He shifted his weight a little.

  Silence settled all around him. As if the world waited.

  And then, the paint-store door creaked slowly open.

  Dr Bairstow drew himself up.

  A dark shadow stood silhouetted against a darker room.

  ‘Leon Farrell, sir, reporting for duty.’

  ‘Good evening, Leon. You appear to be late.’

  ‘Good evening, Edward. You appear to be standing in the dark.’

  ‘My dear chap, if you knew the cost of electricity in this time…’

  He stepped forwards as he spoke and the two men shook hands.

  ‘Leon, it has been a very long time.’

  They remained clasping hands for a while, although no words were spoken. At last, they fell back and looked at each other.

  ‘How are you, Leon?’

  ‘Not so very different from the last time we met. But looking forward to a new beginning.’

  ‘No regrets?’

  ‘At leaving behind my old life? None at all. How about you?’

  ‘Like you, no regrets. A new start for both of us.’

  ‘So, how are you, Edward?’

  ‘Exhilarated. Frustrated. Enthusiastic. Excited. Exhausted. Impatient for completion.’

  ‘Not long now.’

  ‘I hope not. This way.’

  They turned into the dimly lit long corridor and turned to look at each other properly.

  ‘Leon, you haven’t changed at all.’

  ‘Well, that’s because I haven’t. I just waited a few minutes and then jumped after you.’ He paused. ‘I’ll say this just once, Edward. You look tired.’

  ‘I am tired. The years have been long and there was never anyone else to –’

  ‘Well, there is now.’ Leon Farrell stopped to stare out of a window into the dusk. ‘So, this is England. What is it like? Is it very bad?’

  Dr Bairstow nodded. ‘Yes, yes it is. Much worse than the records had led us to believe. Oh, I’m not talking about the physical rebuilding of a nation; I’m talking about the people. Lost, bewildered, without hope. Can there be anything worse than winning one of the greatest struggles in their nation’s history and then not having the strength of purpose or the money to build on that. I tell you, Leon, when I saw what it was like, I nearly jumped straight home and requested we postpone for twenty years.’

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. It occurred to me that in some small way, I could make a contribution. Rebuilding St Mary’s has provided jobs and purpose. Building pods will provide more. I am slowly recruiting admin staff. I have a few historians already lined up and if you could see the sudden hope in their eyes. To go in an instant from counting oneself lucky to be working in a factory for less than minimum wage to finding oneself with a job, a purpose – and what a purpose.’

  He stopped suddenly and Leon Farrell turned away to examine the long corridor and its bare walls with every sign of interest.

  Presently, he said, ‘So when do I start building pods?’

  ‘Well, Number Two is here already. I would be grateful if you could keep yours quietly tucked away for the time being.’

  Farrell nodded.

  ‘I’d like another three pods as soon as you can assemble them.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘An enormous amount of money has been invested and I’m being pressed for results – which I am eager to provide.’

  ‘If you want three pods then I’m going to need some staff.’

  ‘If you can make it as far as the bar, then I can introduce you to your recently arrived team, and especially to a rather large but gifted young man named Dieter, fresh from the Institute of Engineering at Marienstrasse, where, I understand, they spoke very highly of him.’

  ‘That sounds good.’

  ‘The bar or the gifted young man?’

  They walked slowly down the long corridor.

 
; Later that night, Dr Bairstow was to make another and final tick in his notebook

  Seven.

  More time passed.

  To the great alarm of SPOHB, St Mary’s expanded. Dr Bairstow’s attempts to reassure them by pointing out that for every expansion there was an equal and opposite contraction, usually caused by something else falling down or blowing up, and that he personally felt that the removal of the hideous Victorian clock tower considerably improved the appearance of this fine old building, however helpfully intentioned, were not well received. A bombardment of reproachful memos and the threat of legal action followed. Dr Bairstow compromised by promising to instruct Professor Rapson to take more care in future.

  Mr Markham, competing in the bicycle jousting tournament, took a nasty tumble over his own handlebars and opened his eyes to find the new nurse, a vision of blonde loveliness, regarding him with a distinct lack of sympathy. Asked what his name was and if he knew what day of the week it was, he found himself unable to answer either question, and was instantly admitted to the new paint-smelling Sick Bay.

  When it subsequently became apparent that this temporary loss of faculties was not in any way due to the injury to his head, but rather to his heart, the vision of blonde loveliness heartlessly evicted him from Sick Bay with threats of violence and astonishingly bad language.

  The Very First Assignment – to observe Julius Caesar’s landing on the south coast of Britain in August 55BC – was generally felt to have been a mixed success. On the one hand, very little of the landing was actually observed – on the other, everyone survived.

  Emerging from their pod on this inaugural event, Dr Bairstow, together with historians Lower and Baverstock, discovered themselves to have inadvertently landed on the shoreline, approximately mid-point between the Roman legions on one hand and a bunch of very miffed Brits on the other. Finding themselves being regarded with equal hostility by everyone present, they beat a hasty retreat. Fighting their way through a hail of projectiles raining down impartially from both sides, they eventually gained the safety of their pod where Baverstock was heard to enquire, ‘Dare we hope, sir, that any future perambulations will be accomplished in a more sedate manner?’

  Dr Bairstow’s response, ‘By all means if that makes you feel more comfortable,’ was deemed to be perfectly acceptable, and they returned in triumph to enjoy, as Mr Markham had phrased it – The St Mary’s Inaugural Bash.

  And then, one mild autumn day…

  For the umpteenth time that day, Dr Bairstow got to his feet and limped to his office window. Again, he carefully checked his watch against the old clock in the corner. An observer might have said he was nervous.

  The sight that met his eyes was very different from the one that had greeted him on the day of his arrival. The drive was now smooth and pothole free. Rose beds had been planted by the terrace. The South Lawn, under Mr Strong’s obsessive care, rolled gently down to the lake where several swans serenely floated. Dr Bairstow frowned. Last week they had been pink. It would appear that, as per his instructions, some attempts had been made to remedy the situation because today they were blue.

  Averting his gaze, he lifted his eyes to the woods surrounding St Mary’s and beyond them to the moors, whose bracken was already beginning to turn flaming red and gold under the sunny blue sky.

  Outwardly peaceful and still, St Mary’s dreamed the day away. As did Dr Bairstow, snatching a brief moment from his crowded desk to relive old memories and old achievements. He leaned more heavily on his stick and smiled into the past.

  Waiting…

  A small movement brought his attention back to the present. A taxi had pulled up outside the gates and was turning around, possibly for a quick getaway. St Mary’s had acquired a certain reputation…

  His attention sharpened. A small figure had climbed out and was paying off the driver.

  Turning, she stood at the gates. He watched her speak into the intercom. The gates opened. She did not enter for a moment, but stood for some time, taking it all in. She wore a cheap, dark suit and carried nothing in her hands. Her short, spiky hair was exactly the same colour as the autumn bracken on the moors.

  Mistakenly concluding that for the most part, St Mary’s seemed harmless enough, she stepped through the gates, and began to walk slowly up the drive. The gates closed silently behind her. She did not look back.

  Dr Bairstow smiled gently to himself, nodded, turned from the window, and limped to his desk.

  Picking up the telephone, he said, ‘Leon, I thought you might like to know. She’s here.’

  THE GREAT ST

  MARY’S DAY OUT

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Well, now I’ve really done it. It’s hard to count the number of liberties I’ve taken with this one. Shakespeare. Hamlet. Elizabethan theatre. The Globe. Dr Bairstow’s sensibilities. You name it, I’ve twisted it all to suit my story. If you have an interest in any of the above areas, you might want to skip this one.

  The story was originally to be entitled ‘The Great St Mary’s Day Out’, but half way through, I rather thought I preferred, ‘The Man Who Dropped Shakespeare’. That got knocked on the head – rather like Shakespeare himself – so back I went to ‘The Great St Mary’s Day Out’.

  I’m afraid it rather appealed to my warped sense of humour to have everyone skidding off the rails as fast as they can go and, just for once, Max is the one sticking to the job and completing the assignment. I mean, it was a foregone conclusion that something horrible was going to happen to Professor Rapson. I did briefly consider letting him be carried away to the New World, but he’s such fun that I couldn’t part with him in the end. I did rather like the idea of Mrs Mack and Dr Bairstow initiating a street brawl and then having to account for their actions to Max.

  Markham, of course, having saved the day, is up to his neck in trouble again, but it wouldn’t be a St Mary’s story without him facing Dr Bairstow across his desk and vainly trying to account for his actions.

  And who’d have thought I’d ever manage to get the words ‘Dr Bairstow’ and ‘selfie’ in the same sentence!

  THE GREAT ST MARY’S

  DAY OUT

  I walked Matthew around St Mary’s because a few things needed to be made clear.

  ‘All right, people. This is a baby. A small human. His name is Matthew and he is not to be floated across the lake in a Moses basket just to see if it could have happened. Nor is he to be stuffed into a warming pan and smuggled into someone’s bed. He is not to be dangled off a balcony and presented to the Welsh people as a non-English-speaking Prince of Wales. Permission to include him in any of the imaginative events currently being planned by the History Department is to be sought from his father, Chief Farrell, and good luck to anyone trying that. He is not to be used as a paperweight. Or ballast. Or a draught excluder. Everyone clear?’

  You have to tell people these things. Especially at St Mary’s.

  It was a golden time for me. In every sense of the word. Autumn wasn’t giving in to winter without a fight. The trees glowed in the late sunshine – gold, russet, red and orange. In a week, the leaves would begin to fall and Mr Strong, our caretaker, would gather them up for burning, bringing the sharp smell of bonfires on the breeze.

  The three of us, Leon, Matthew and I, were back at St Mary’s. Without ever having left, actually. Dr Bairstow had requested we remain here while the vexing question of Clive Ronan was resolved. For our own safety. I wasn’t bothered and Leon was in full ‘Anyone Messing With My Family Will Regret It’ mode, and we lived happily in a small suite of rooms up in the attic, so no one could be disturbed by a crying baby.

  In fact, he rarely cried – which, as Leon said, just went to show our son was a born historian and already completely failing to live up to popular expectations. He was a happy baby, placidly accepting being passed from person to person, smiling up at whoever happened to have custody of him at the time. He had his favourites, of course. He adored Mrs Enderby, Head of the Wardrobe De
partment. It was mutual: she was always running him up dinky little clothes to wear. Peterson claimed Matthew was easily the best-dressed person in the place, but since that place also contained Bashford, Markham and Professor Rapson – who frequently had to be sartorially checked over before he ventured out in public – this wasn’t the achievement it seemed.

  Matthew’s second favourite, astonishingly, was the multi-hued Miss Lingoss from R&D. He would gaze, big-eyed, at whatever hair colour and style she had adopted that particular day, and she, black-leather clad and embellished with chains and safety pins, would beam back at him.

  Leon went back to work shortly after Matthew was born, and I wafted around the place for three or four months, playing with Matthew, painting, and generally getting on people’s nerves. The usual maternity-leave activities. I was determined to make the most of things before I went back to work.

  My return happened a little more quickly than I had expected. But in a good way.

  Occasionally, very occasionally, the Boss finds some money tucked away somewhere and gives us a bit of a treat. Rumour has it that he deposited a penny in an obscure foreign bank some ten centuries ago, and is quietly reaping the benefits today. Unlikely, but in our job, we’ve learned never to rule anything out.

  However he found the money, find it he did, and suddenly he was calling an all-staff briefing in the Great Hall, and announcing a forthcoming assignment, which would be open to anyone who cared to avail themselves of the opportunity.

  Standing on the half-landing, with shafts of sunlight highlighting the last defiant remains of his hair, he began to bring up a series of images on the screen.

  ‘June, 1601.’ He paused, surveying the rows of upturned faces before him.

  Silence greeted his remark. If he has a weakness, it’s that he’s a bit of a showman, and he does tend to dole out information in tiny dollops. We’ve learned not to play along.

 

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