by Jodi Taylor
Dieter, the biggest man in the place, was to be Father Christmas. He could be heard ho ho ho-ing around the building and getting on everyone’s nerves.
Hunter was dressing as Tinkerbell. I’m not sure what Tinkerbell has to do with Christmas, but you don’t argue with her. Not unless you want a really, really clean colon.
And if you think that’s terrifying, try Miss North as a particularly frosty Ice Queen. She’d offended Mrs Enderby by hiring a magnificent costume especially for the day.
Bashford, Sykes and Atherton, on behalf of the History Department, were the world’s most mismatched elves.
Max was Anna, and Kalinda Black was Elsa. Kalinda Black is tall and blonde and just the sort of person who wouldn’t be too careful where she hurls her icicles. I don’t know what she does to anyone else, but she frightens the living daylights out of me. I couldn’t believe they were going to let her near small children. She’s usually at Thirsk, either fighting our corner for funding or apologising for us, depending on what sort of a week we’ve had, but she’d come back for The Party. St Mary’s was gathering its chicks for Christmas.
Dr Foster was going as herself. No one argued with that.
The centrepiece of our efforts, however, was the ever-resourceful Miss Lingoss. Thanks to the best efforts of the Technical Section, her towering red and gold mohican was festooned with flashing fairy lights. She looked sensational.
There would be games, prizes, a dinosaur holo, and tons of party food.
Mr Strong, our caretaker, was making a sleigh for Santa to arrive on.
The whole building was strung with fairy lights, tinsel, and streamers, and we had a giant Christmas tree in the Hall.
We were going to be a sensation and maybe this time, for all the right reasons.
Oh no, we weren’t. As you were with the reindeer. Evans and me, practising in what we thought was a deserted part of the building, were caught rehearsing our reindeer dance and working on our poo-dropping technique – by Dr Bairstow of all people. I mean, how did he even get up all those stairs? You watch him limping his way slowly around the building with all the speed of a striking snail, and one nanosecond later, he’s two floors up and giving you a nasty look from the doorway.
We explained, but it was useless. I even showed him the really clever pouch we’d rigged – black olives for the scattering of – and believe it or not, he looked even more unimpressed. For some reason he laid all the blame at my door and I was ordered to report to Maxwell for the last assignment before Christmas.
I mean, what’s that all about? I’d reckoned on a nice, gentle run-up to the festive season, including something imaginative with Nurse Hunter and a couple of beers, and the next minute I’m being despatched to the History Department so they can do something horrible to me.
I drew myself up to utter a well-worded protest, but he silently produced a massive wad of Deductions From Wages To Pay For Damages Incurred forms and, right in front of my eyes, slowly tore them in half.
I indicated my willingness to comply with his commands, and raced off before he could change his mind.
I’ve forgotten to say that, this week, Major Guthrie was away at Thirsk, which left me in charge of the Security Section. His parting instructions had been clear.
‘Never mind trying to keep them safe, Mr Markham, it’s never going to happen. I generally think that if seventy-five per cent of them are still on their feet when we get them back to St Mary’s, then it’s been a job well done. And if seventy-five per cent of those not on their feet are still conscious, then it’s been a resounding success. Personally, I prefer it when they’re all limp, white and unconscious in Sick Bay – especially the redhead – but that’s too much to ask for.’
‘Got it, sir,’ I said, my mind on Tinkerbell and her tutu.
‘Pay attention, Mr Markham. Should any assignments occur during my absence, your priorities are as follows:
‘One – bring them back.
‘Two – bring them all back.
‘Three – bring them all back alive.
‘Four – bring them all back conscious.
‘Five – bring them all back undamaged.
‘Six – keep an eye on the redhead.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good luck, Mr Markham.’
And off he’d gone, leaving me in charge.
And here I was in Maxwell’s office, waiting to learn my fate.
When I was a boy, the man up the road had a cat that used to have these funny fits and go for you. It was perfectly normal most of the time, and then suddenly its eyes would go funny, and it would go mad, attacking everything in sight. Other cats, dogs, lorries etc, whatever it could get its claws into, and the only warning we ever got was that its eyes would go funny. Historians have exactly the same expression. Bright-eyed madness. Which, as with the cat, always means trouble.
Our main function is protecting historians from themselves, each other, hostile contemporaries, meteorological and geological disturbances, social unrest, and just about everything the universe can throw at us, so as you can imagine, historians and trouble go hand in hand. Our other job is to guard the building, but that just entails watching the monitors and eating our own body weight in ham sandwiches while listening to the footie.
So when I walked into Max’s office, and she and Peterson grinned at me with their mad cat eyes, I knew things were going to get exciting.
‘What ho,’ said Peterson, cheerfully, his feet up on Max’s desk.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said, because I was now in charge of the Security Section and standards have to be maintained.
‘A last-minute assignment,’ said Maxwell. ‘Are you up for it?’
I don’t know about anyone else, but I’ve found that as the years have passed, I’ve become older and wiser, and certainly not stupid enough to jump blindly at something offered by the History Department.
‘Of course,’ I said, which wasn’t actually what I’d intended to say at all.
Peterson grinned. ‘Don’t you want to know where and when?’
‘Does it matter? It’ll all pass by in a blur. There’ll be a lot of running and panic. Nothing will go as planned, and I’ll pick up some ghastly disease that will ruin my Christmas. The question I do want to ask is “why now?”‘
‘Why now what?’ they said, muddying the issue. I don’t think they can help themselves.
‘We’re gearing up for the kids’ Christmas Party this afternoon. What’s so urgent it can’t wait until after the New Year?’
They exchanged glances.
‘There’s been bit of a row.’
‘Really?’ I said, interested. ‘Have I missed something?’
‘Not here. At Thirsk.’
‘They’re always having rows. They’re academics. Who’s hurt this time?’
‘No one. Yet.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘There’s been a certain amount of controversy over the cakes.’
‘What – you mean like who had the last slice when no one was looking?’
‘Not quite,’ said Peterson carefully. ‘More like whether they were actually burned at all.’
‘Surely,’ I said, because they’re historians and sometimes I just can’t help winding them up, ‘this is something their catering department should be investigating. I fail to see why we should knock ourselves out because they’ve had a bit of a culinary crisis.’
‘Not them, cloth head,’ said Peterson, rising nicely to the bait. ‘Alfred.’
‘Oh, him. Cool.’
They stared at me. They’re lovely people, historians – a bit dim, of course, and with the life expectancy of a frog in a blender – but they do tend to think they’re the only people who know anything about history. And that’s history without the stupid capital H. Just ordinary history.
I sighed. Time to dazzle them.
‘Alfred the Great. Can’t remember the exact dates but late 9th century. Succeeded his brother Aethelred t
o become king. Led his country in the struggle against the Danes. Attacked at Chippenham and fled with a handful of men to the Somerset Levels. Conducted guerrilla warfare from there. Burned the cakes. Went on to defeat the Danes and negotiate peace. Enlarged the navy. Instituted legal reforms. Promoted schools and education. The only king other than Cnut to be called “Great”. Was he the one you meant?’
They nodded, temporarily speechless. You don’t see that happen often.
‘So do I gather academic blood has been shed over the question of the cakes?’
They nodded again.
‘And in the interests of festive goodwill we’re off to check it out.’
They nodded again.
‘And, of course, this unseemly haste has absolutely nothing to do with avoiding the preparations for the kids’ party and, with luck, the party itself.’
They shook their heads. Absolutely not. How could I even think such a thing?
I heaved myself to my feet. ‘Just think, Max, next year your kid will be lining up for Santa, as well.’
There was a funny sort of silence. I don’t know why.
‘What’s the matter?’ I said.
She shook herself. ‘I don’t know. Something just walked across my grave.’
‘Oh, I get that a lot. Sometimes I think I must be buried in a pedestrian precinct somewhere. So – where and when?’
‘Get yourself kitted out and we’ll meet you in Hawking in one hour.’
‘Roger dodger,’ I said and went off to tell Hunter she’d have to start without me.
* * *
I see I’ve got this far and not explained anything.
We work for the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory, just outside Rushford. We do time travel. We’re not supposed to say that and historians get right up their own arses about it, but that’s what we do. We’re supposed to call it investigating something or other in contemporary something else, but it’s time travel. We go back to some obscure event hundreds or thousands of years ago, our historians get excited about something or other, something horrible happens, we all have to run for our lives, and the Security Section saves the day. We’re fairly light-hearted about the whole thing, but that’s because: historians haven’t got a clue what’s happening most of the time; the Technical Section doesn’t care as long as we don’t break anything; and the Security Section is incredibly brave and resourceful. But mostly we’re fairly light-hearted because we have to be. People die here, and if we ever stopped and thought carefully about what we do, then we might not do it at all.
If I was asked though, I would have to say this assignment – Alfred and his cakes – looked reasonably straightforward. Don’t confuse that with easy. Nothing is easy when St Mary’s is involved. But straightforward was good. In, observe, and out again. Everything should be fine.
I had a tricky ten minutes with Hunter and, since she was wearing her Tinkerbell costume at the time, I might, if I hadn’t possessed enormous strength of character and determination, have allowed myself to become distracted. Unfortunately, I don’t possess enormous strength etc, and my distraction nearly got my face slapped, but that’s usually quite a good sign with Hunter, so I was optimistic that, on my return, we’d be doing something interesting with her wand.
Mrs Enderby in Wardrobe had my gear ready and waiting for me. A coarse, brown tunic, some trousers – thank God, because I’ve lost count of the number of centuries that have been gifted with a view of my nether regions – scruffy leather shoes, and some sort of headgear that seemed to have been made from a sack and came down over my shoulders.
Typically, Max and Peterson had commandeered much more upmarket costumes. Max wore a dark dress of some kind. No idea what the material was, but you didn’t see her twisting and scratching in extreme discomfort. Peterson wore a short tunic and trousers and both of them had far more adequate footwear than that assigned to me. I made a mental note to request union representation again. Anonymously, of course. I’m not bloody stupid, you know.
And another thing; I don’t know what 9th-century women wore under their dresses – actually I don’t know what most women wear under their dresses in any century, Hunter has some strong views on that sort of thing – but I was prepared to bet that for all her protestations and insistence on historical accuracy, Maxwell was wearing anomalous underwear.
I stowed away a stun gun and pepper spray – purely for defensive purposes because we’re really not allowed to injure contemporaries – and stared at myself in the mirror.
‘Very nice,’ said Mrs Enderby, brightly. ‘An authentic Anglo-Saxon peasant.’
I was looking at Peterson and Maxwell’s outfits and they certainly weren’t Anglo-Saxon peasants. Just for once, why couldn’t I be the lord, or the baron, or the rich merchant, and one or both of them be a member of the oppressed majority?
I might have mentioned this to them as we lined up outside pod Number Eight and it took them ages to stop laughing.
Peterson and I climbed inside to stow our gear, tactfully leaving Max and Chief Farrell a private moment together. I don’t know why we bothered. They shook hands briskly and a moment later, she was inside with us. You’d never guess they were married. And with a kid. We don’t talk about him a lot.
‘Everything all laid in,’ said Dieter. ‘A quick in and out and back in time for the party. Ho ho ho.’
I was checking the lockers, making sure I had everything I needed to repel whatever the 9th century was going to throw at us. I knew dinosaurs and mammoths were extinct and the Black Death hadn’t arrived yet, but that wouldn’t stop either of them from discovering something new and innovative to die from.
‘All set?’ said Maxwell, not waiting for a response. ‘Off we go then. Computer, initiate jump.’
‘Jump initiated.’
And the world went white.
We stood in the doorway and looked around. If I was an historian – and I think everyone at St Mary’s is grateful I’m not – I’d be describing the scene in detail, listing the types of trees and generally being intellectual. All I can say is that everything was wet. Really, really wet. It wasn’t actually raining at that moment, but the lull had only a very temporary feel to it. The ground was soft and wet. The smell of wet earth, stagnant water and rotting leaves curled around us.
We had arrived around the beginning of April, 878AD, and spring was springing everywhere. Fat green buds were on the point of bursting into leaf, although they were no greener than the tree trunks themselves. Moss grew on everything in this mild, wet climate. I could see new grass peeping through the thickly rutted mud. But mostly, everything was wet. We were in a world of wet.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Peterson, pulling his foot free of the gloopy mud with a sucking sound.
I was convinced we’d come to the wrong place. There was no way Alfred would ever get a flame going here long enough to set fire to anything, let alone the cakes. We were only two steps from the pod and already Maxwell’s hem was soaked – something about which she would be complaining bitterly later on. I’ve seen her endure blood, pain and broken bones, but she really doesn’t do cold and wet. I think her natural habitat is a hot bath with a mug of tea.
We’d landed on the Isle of Athelney itself. Tactically, it was a good place for a king on the run – surrounded by marshland and swamps. There was a wooden causeway from Lyng to the island itself, but it was heavily guarded at both ends. Professor Rapson had wanted us to take a flat-bottomed punt to help us get around, but we couldn’t get it in the pod. And we had tried; well, the professor, Peterson and I tried. Maxwell said it wouldn’t fit and just sat down with her arms folded, and that expression women have when they’re right, they know they’re right, and the whole world is only seconds away from knowing they’re right. All women have it. Even Hunter. I reckon it’s a gene thing and they can’t help themselves.
We set off. My clothes were itchy and smelled funny. Bloody historians always hog the best things for themselves. I’m alwa
ys the bloody slave. Or the servant. Or the groom. Or whatever. It’s only a matter of time before they make me the eunuch. Figuratively speaking. Maxwell’s not so bad. She’s a woman – or so she maintains – and she usually stays quietly at the back, keeping her head down and her mouth shut. Except for that time in Viriconium when she poked me so hard with her staff that she nearly impaled my bloody kidney. When I remonstrated in the mildest way possible, she told me that many people live a happy and useful life with only one kidney and to stop moaning for God’s sake. Actually, Major Guthrie always says he feels a lot happier if she’s in front of him, where he can keep an eye on her, and I think he might have a point, so this time, I stayed at the back, ready to spring into action the moment they got themselves into trouble.
I’ve only ever been to Somerset once and that was some time ago when I took a girlfriend to the Glastonbury Festival and she went all funny and started rolling her eyes around and falling over. We were all convinced she was channelling King Arthur or Merlin or something, but it turned out she just couldn’t handle the local scrumpy.
What I’m trying to say is that, with the exception of the Glastonbury Festival which invariably attracts a year’s worth of rain on its first day, Somerset is reasonably dry these days. Not so in the 9th century. I forget who was the first of us to fall into a bog, but it didn’t matter because ten minutes into the jump we were all soaked and swampy.
There were paths. There must have been, otherwise the entire population would be permanently up to their knees in mud. In the end, I shouldered the two of them aside, cut myself a long pole and used it to probe the ground ahead of us. There was a short ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ silence and then they fell in behind me.
I have to say that while no one was ever going to get sunburned here, it was a brilliant place for a king to hide out. You’d never get an army in. And I bet anything metal had a life expectancy of about half an hour before it crumbled into rust. And that would be on a dry day. Which apparently, this was.
