The Long and Short of It

by Jodi Taylor

  Heavily laden barges fought against the current as they ferried their commercial cargoes upstream. Occasionally, a horn would blast as someone important sought to force their way up or down river. There didn’t seem to be a traffic system of any kind. Boats milled about in all directions. Boatmen roared abuse at each other and even their passengers exchanged insults and less than polite instructions to get out of the way.

  The bigger boats were moored south of London Bridge. I stared downriver at the forest of masts, black against the sky.

  ‘Is that the London Bridge?’ said Evans, in awe. ‘Are those houses on it? Do people actually live on the bridge?’

  ‘They do,’ said Peterson. ‘And it’s not only houses, either. There’s a chapel, shops, a mill, even a gatehouse complete with drawbridge. May I draw your attention to the severed heads displayed up there?’

  ‘Cool,’ said Lingoss, squinting for a better view and we all stared at the massive structure that was London Bridge, with its nineteen gothic arches and seven-storey buildings, many of which overhung the river. Useful for a quick pee, I suppose. You just hung your bum out of the window.

  ‘It’s very top heavy,’ said Evans. ‘Why doesn’t it fall down?’

  ‘Well, bits of it do occasionally,’ said Peterson, ‘and there’s always rows about the upkeep. Hence the nursery rhyme.’

  ‘What nursery rhyme?’

  He grinned. ‘You know the one. “London Bridge is Falling Down”. Great lumps of it are always dropping off and in 1281, Queen Eleanor, not a popular woman anyway, was accused of diverting money set aside for the upkeep of the bridge to her own personal use. Hence the “My fair lady” bit at the end.’

  ‘Is that what it means? My mum used to sing me that. And “Ring o’ Ring o’ Roses”.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘The Great Plague of 1665. “The pocket full of posies” or flowers, was supposed to keep the plague away, and the “Atishoo, atishoo, we all fall down” bit relates to the people dropping dead in the streets.’

  Evans stared at us. ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘I kid you not. And I bet you played “Oranges and Lemons” when you were a kid. The song follows the route of condemned criminals as they’re marched through the streets to their execution. It names the churches on the way and ends with “Here comes the chopper to chop off your head.”‘

  ‘Stop,’ said Evans, looking quite shocked. Our security team is a sensitive bunch.

  ‘Or,’ said Lingoss, entering into the spirit of things, “‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” is Bloody Mary, torturing the Protestants. The garden was the graveyard, the silver bells were the thumbscrews, and the cockleshells apparently described the instruments they attached to the male genitalia.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Markham. ‘Because I always thought the rhyme was about Mary Stuart – the Queen of Scots, and the pretty maids related to her ladies in waiting. You know, the four Marys.’

  Peterson chipped in. ‘Well, I heard it was about…’

  ‘No. Shut up all of you,’ said Evans.’ I’m not standing here in the 17th century listening to two historians, a certifiable madwoman, and him…’ he nodded towards Markham, ‘arguing about genitals and executions. I need a drink.’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ said Peterson. ‘Let’s go to the Tabard.’

  ‘Finally,’ I said. ‘It’s only taken two hundred years.’

  We stood in the corner of a packed courtyard. Markham, Peterson and Evans knocked back three tankards of small ale. The more intelligent sex drank from their water flasks. We spent an hour or so just watching the people go by, speculating on their identities and relationships, and enjoying ourselves so much that we were nearly late for the performance. Fortunately, since the streets were crowded, a lot of people were hurrying in the same direction, so we allowed ourselves to be carried along. The flag flew overhead, denoting there was to be a performance that day. And we would be there. I felt a shiver of excitement. Yes, I’d enjoyed my maternity leave, but until this moment, I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed my old life.

  The Globe reared up in front of us, a big building by the standards of the day. After a dispute over the lease of their former theatre, the two Burbage brothers, Richard and Cuthbert, leased a plot of land on this side of the river, here in Southwark. They demolished their building, appropriately known as the Theatre, carried the timbers across the river, and rebuilt it, renaming it the Globe. Shakespeare himself bought a share in the building. Completed in 1599, it was a tremendous success, staging many of his plays until, during a performance of Henry VIII, a canon would misfire and the place would burn to the ground in a horrifyingly short time. It would be rebuilt and continue successfully until 1642, when the Puritans, as part of their mission to suck all the joy out of life, ordered its closure. It was demolished shortly afterwards.

  There were people everywhere. Hamlet was obviously a very popular play. ‘I hope we can get in,’ I said, looking at the pushing crowds.

  ‘They’ll squeeze us in somehow,’ said Peterson, ushering us towards the entrance. ‘They can’t afford to lose box-office receipts.’

  Our seating order had already been discussed. The posh people – Dr Bairstow, Mrs Enderby, Mrs Mack, Sykes, North and Major Guthrie were to be up in the gallery on the cushioned seats. At 6d per head. Or 6d per bottom, of course. Just to confuse things – a d is a penny. It’s from the Latin denarius. Anyway, for them the grand total was a massive three shillings. Having probably put himself well over budget, Dr Bairstow had given the rest of us to understand that we would be down in the Yard with the peasants. Or stinkards as they were known on hot days.

  Having had our pennies doled out to us – I don’t know what he’d had to do to obtain authentic Elizabethan currency from our employers, the University of Thirsk, but obtain it he had – we stood in line. Admission to the Yard was only a penny, which in those days was still not cheap.

  With a great flourish, Peterson, our designated banker, slipped two ha’pennies, two pennies and a tuppence into the box – hence the term, box office – and we were in.

  We elbowed our way to a position close to the stage and looked around us for the others. At first, I thought I was just missing them in the crowd. I turned again. And again. No – we were the only team here.

  I checked out the galleries, while Peterson, specially selected for his height, peered over people’s heads, vainly looking for our colleagues.

  ‘Can you see them anywhere?’ I asked hopefully.

  He shook his head. ‘Nope. No sign.’

  Great. The assignment barely begun and ten people missing already.

  ‘It’s like one of those Agatha Christie stories,’ said Lingoss cheerfully, ‘where everyone gets picked off one by one.’

  I refused to panic. Remembering the crush around the theatre, I was convinced they’d still be outside, trying to get in. Even I couldn’t lose ten people. Especially when those ten people included the Director, the Head of Security, the Head of Wardrobe, the Kitchen Supremo, the Head of R&D, the Librarian, and possibly worst of all, Miss North, who is related to most of the aristocrats in the country. She counts four MPs within her immediate family circle, but to do her justice, never lets it hold her back.

  On the other hand, the theatre was filling up fast and there was still no sign of the other teams.

  I opened my com. ‘Dr Bairstow?’

  There was a short pause before he responded. ‘Ah, Dr Maxwell. We appear to be experiencing some difficulty, but I believe Major Guthrie has everything in hand.’ He sounded breathless.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘A very minor street altercation. Nothing of any great concern. Behind you, Mrs Mack!’

  The link was severed.

  I stared at Peterson in dismay. If the Respectable Team were in trouble, in what world-ending cataclysm could Sykes and the other Weirdos possibly be involved?

  With some misgivings, I began again. ‘Miss Sykes?’

  ‘Oh, hello Max.’
>
  I did not make the mistake of assuming this cheerful greeting meant all was well. She’d be Hello Maxing me as the Apocalypse bore down upon us. In fact, there are those at St Mary’s who feel that Sykes herself might be the Apocalypse.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Still at the docks.’

  ‘Why aren’t you here at the theatre?’

  Well, we’re not too sure how it happened, but the professor wandered on to a ship bound for the New World and now they won’t let him off.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘I think they think he’s their passenger and they’re due to sail. You know, tides and everything.’

  ‘Do not let that ship sail.’

  ‘Don’t worry – we’re on it.’

  ‘You’d better not be.’

  ‘No sorry, I meant we’re on the situation – not the ship. Although we are.’

  ‘I’m sending assistance.’ I closed the link and turned to Peterson, who was grinning.

  ‘On my way,’ he said.

  ‘You too,’ said Markham to Evans.

  ‘Your instructions are clear. Get Professor Rapson off that boat…’

  ‘Ship,’ murmured Peterson.

  ‘…without bloodshed or major damage to property.’

  They pushed their way through the crowd, leaving Markham, Lingoss and me.

  ‘And then there were three,’ said Lingoss in a sinister voice. ‘Who’ll be the next to go, do you think?’

  Actually, it was Markham, although we didn’t know that yet.

  I took lots of deep breaths, which didn’t work at all, and considered the situation. Dr Bairstow and his team were embroiled in some sort of riot. Professor Rapson was possibly on his way to an American colony that had done nothing to deserve such a misfortune. I had no major fears for Dr Bairstow’s team. They had Dr Bairstow and Major Guthrie. And should that front line crumble, they had Mrs Mack, former urban terrorist, on their side. They’d be fine.

  For a moment I considered joining Sykes in her mission to separate the professor from his involuntary Atlantic cruise, but Peterson would sort things out. And Dr Bairstow had made it clear that my priority was to record the play. Personal interest aside, that was why we were here and returning without footage was not an option. Dr Bairstow would frown at me, so whatever was going on outside, my job was to stay in the theatre. At my post. Mission controller going down with the ship. That sort of thing.

  If the worst came to the worst – and it would because it always did – I could send Lingoss and Markham back for reinforcements. Counting on my fingers, I could muster Clerk, Bashford, Prentiss, Cox… Was that it? Unless I started pulling out kitchen and R&D staff, yes it was. And Rosie Lee, of course. No – no century deserved Rosie Lee.

  I opened my com again.

  ‘Dr Bairstow? Report, please.’

  ‘Ah, Max. Good afternoon again.’

  ‘Sir, are you able to talk?’

  Something shattered in the background.

  ‘Yes, of course. What is your problem?’

  ‘Actually sir, I was about to enquire whether you required assistance.’

  ‘I don’t believe so. Mrs Mack appears to be coping admirably.’

  Mrs Mack had led the resistance at the Battersea Barricades. She’d fought alongside her husband. She’d made it. He hadn’t – falling to enemy fire only minutes before the ceasefire sounded. She was entitled to a chestful of medals that she never wore.

  I felt the role of Dr Bairstow descend upon me. ‘Perhaps you could indicate where the problem lies, sir.’

  ‘It would appear that someone made the mistake of trying to pick Mrs Mack’s pocket.’

  ‘What an idiot. Is he still alive?’

  ‘Hard to tell. It would seem however, that he operated as part of a team, all of whom took exception to him being smacked between the eyes with a hastily snatched-up skillet. There has been a vigorous discussion over Mrs Mack’s unwillingness to assume the role of victim, and a market stall was inadvertently overturned. The sudden appearance of a group of somewhat rough looking fellows whose job it is, apparently, to maintain order within the market precincts, has provided enough distraction for us to be able to slip away. We hope to regroup outside and join you shortly.’

  I felt a sudden anxiety. He wasn’t a young man. I struggled to express my concern in a tactful manner and failed. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, sounding remarkably cheerful for him. ‘It’s just like old times. I feel quite refreshed.’

  ‘Is Major Guthrie still with you?’

  ‘In body, yes. In spirit, probably not all of him.’

  ‘Sir?

  ‘A slight blow to the head. Nothing major.’

  He paused for me to appreciate his little joke.

  He doesn’t make that many – you can see why – and I had to take a moment to grope for a suitable response.

  While I struggled for words, he said, ‘I believe I have made your instructions quite clear, Dr Maxwell. Your duty is to continue with this assignment. That is a direct order. We’ll never have another opportunity to do this.’

  With deep, deep misgivings, I said, ‘Yes, sir,’ closed the link, and got on with my end of things.

  The place was packed. Nearly every seat was taken in the galleries and they were still cramming them into the Yard. Markham, Lingoss and I linked arms and hung on to each other as the people around us jostled for the best positions.

  The noise was overwhelming. The smell even worse. Without even trying, I could smell people, onions, tobacco, urine – because not everyone could be bothered to pop outside to relieve themselves – ale, and a nasty, stale chip-fat smell from the cheap oil they used for the torches. Hanging over everything was the smell of the nearby river. Two or three braziers had been set around the edges of the stage. I suspected someone had looked up at the overcast sky and planned ahead.

  The man next to me was smoking a long-stemmed pipe, puffing clouds of smoke around both his head and mine. He wasn’t the only one. Tobacco was the latest craze and on this still day, the whole stage was wreathed in a blue fug of smoke.

  Lingoss discreetly recorded the galleries and the posh people sitting therein. Theatres were popular with the nobility and Queen Elizabeth. Whom, sadly, we wouldn’t see today because when she wanted to watch a performance, the players went to her. We’d replay Lingoss’s footage when we returned home to try to identify anyone important here today. Not too easy with the ladies, most of whom were masked. Apparently, it’s perfectly OK to have your bosoms on display, but not your face.

  I concentrated on the stage which projected out into the Yard. The black curtain informed us we were about to witness a tragedy. The curtain was flanked by two tall pillars, cleverly painted to look like marble.

  The Globe could hold several thousand people – a lot for such a small area – and every single one of them appeared to be conversing at the top of their voice. Or gambling. Or playing cards. Prossies wandered through the crowds, blatantly touting for trade. I stood quietly among the thieves, apprentices, food-sellers, my colleagues, cutpurses and all the other scum of the earth, everyone noisy and boisterous, and all looking forward to the afternoon’s entertainment. The cobbles underfoot were rough and slippery. God knows what I was standing in. I hung on to Markham to avoid being knocked off my feet. Attending an Elizabethan drama appeared to require a great deal of stamina and strength.

  I called up Peterson. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Can’t talk. Running.’

  ‘To or from?’

  The link went dead.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  I took more deep breaths. Dr Bairstow dealt with this sort of thing all the time. No wonder he had no hair. I made a mental note to try to be more … conventionally … behaved in future. Out of consideration for the few wisps remaining around the back of his head.

  Beside me, Markham and Lingoss, apparently not caring that the god of historians was pissing all
over our chips again, were yelling excitedly at each other over the noise. Lingoss had Peterson’s recorder discreetly palmed, all ready to begin. I considered splitting us up. Lingoss on one side of the stage, me on the other. To make sure we didn’t miss anything. Lingoss had been a trainee historian until she left the programme to join the nutters in R&D. Where, I might as well say, she fitted right in. On the other hand, we were down to one security guard. We were better off staying together. It was going to be a long afternoon.

  I closed my mind to whatever was going on outside the theatre – those were events I could do nothing about – and concentrated on the task in hand. Hamlet. We were going to see Hamlet. And William Shakespeare himself.

  I grinned. Yeah – I love my job.

  I didn’t think, given the chaotic surroundings that the actors would be punctual, but they were. Three long blasts of a trumpet announced the performance was about to begin. Of course, they wouldn’t want to hang around. Hamlet was four hours long. The nights were short in June, but although the Globe was open to the sky, the sides were high. The sun would soon disappear and the whole place would be plunged into shadowy gloom. It would grow cold. Yes, there were torches and braziers, but even so, compared with today’s pampered theatre-goers, Elizabethan audiences were a tough crowd. In every sense.

  The crowd fell nearly silent. There was a huge sense of anticipation.

  I can’t begin to describe how it felt to stand among people who didn’t know the story. Who didn’t know how the play would end. Who hadn’t had to sit at school, sleepy with boredom, as the class takes it in turns to read Shakespeare’s lines, droning on and on, fulfilling the education authorities’ apparent ambition to render Shakespeare as boring as possible. The people here had never watched one of those trendy TV productions where the play is – for some reason known only to the director – set in a modern South American dictatorship, or a Victorian cotton mill.

  There was no scenery and few props. There was just the play itself. Everything was left to the imagination. The costumes, though, were magnificent, blazing with colour and fake jewels. If the sun had been shining, they would have been dazzling. Even on this dull day, they were brilliant. The stones in the costumes sparkled and flashed in the light from the braziers.