No Time Like the Past

by Jodi Taylor

  My God, he was really worked up.

  ‘Deplorable,’ I said.

  ‘Over lunch, the entire Senior Faculty insisted on demonstrating their victory utilising a variety of cruets, glasses, and cutlery dredged not only from our table but also from the unfortunates sitting nearby. I believe an entire family went without black pepper and Parmesan cheese on their penne, simply so the Chancellor could demonstrate the superiority of their tactics.’

  His eyes closed as he relived the outrage.

  ‘Disgraceful, sir.’

  ‘So there you have it, Dr Maxwell.’

  I peered into my glass. I’d missed something. ‘Do I?’

  ‘The University of Thirsk has challenged St Mary’s to a race. Their boat against ours. The event to be held here, on the lake, during the afternoon of the Open Day.’

  ‘Really, sir? Awesome!’

  He assumed his Churchillian pose. ‘We must win, Dr Maxwell. And not just win. We must crush them! We must epitomise the spirit of the Armada! The little boats at Dunkirk! The valiant actions of the Revenge!’

  ‘I believe the Revenge was outnumbered fifty-three to one, suffered catastrophic damage and the loss of most of her crew, sir.’

  He wasn’t listening. ‘We must relive Trafalgar! St Mary’s expects every man to do his duty! Think of Drake at Cadiz! The Battle of the Nile! The Fighting Temeraire!’ He thumped his desk. ‘Failure is not an option!’

  I allowed myself to be caught up in the moment. ‘How can we fail, sir? We’re St Mary’s! We will channel our maritime heritage! We will blow them out of the water! Rule Britannia!’

  I have got to stop drinking.

  He regarded me silently for a moment and then slumped. ‘I admire your optimism, Dr Maxwell, but they have resources far beyond anything we can muster here. An engineering department …’

  ‘We have Chief Farrell and Mr Dieter, sir. They can make a flotation device out of a concrete box lined with lead.’

  ‘… Some of the finest minds in the country …’

  ‘We have Professor Rapson. A man whose thought processes defy close examination.’

  ‘… And an apparently limitless supply of cannon fodder. Or the student body, as I suppose we should refer to them.’

  ‘We have the History Department,’ I said with boundless but groundless confidence. ‘Or, if the worst comes to the worst we can launch Mr Markham as an underwater missile.’ I recklessly knocked back the last of the fire juice. ‘Leave this with me, sir,’ and realised, too late, I’d walked straight into his trap.

  I stared, reproachfully, and there was ten seconds of my life I was never going to get back again, because this time there was no response at all. I waited a while, but I think he might have dropped off. I wobbled to my feet and looked for the door. As I left, I could hear Mrs Partridge asking coldly whether she should cancel his afternoon appointments.

  Deciding to strike while the iron was hot, I staggered off to Hawking to see Leon, who took one look and shouted for someone to put the kettle on. I sat in his office with him and Dieter and eloquently and succinctly recounted as much as I could remember, adding gestures and doing the voices where appropriate. At the end, they simply stared and Leon said, ‘Dr Bairstow was drunk?’ and it occurred to me that my report might not have been as crystal clear as I had thought. It took yet another cup of tea before they were able to grasp the full impact of my communication.

  To my disappointment, they did not immediately leap into action. Dieter stared thoughtfully at the wall, and Leon subjected the floor to close scrutiny. I waited a while, but as far as I could see, the pair of them were very nearly comatose. The Technical Section at work is not a spectator sport. I stood up and headed for the door. As I was leaving, Leon asked if he could borrow Professor Rapson for a while. I indicated my immense enthusiasm for such an action and promised to despatch him forthwith. Then I thought I might have a bit of a lie-down.

  I didn’t take the briefing for the Old St Paul’s assignment, although I did attend. Schiller made an excellent job of it. We assembled in the Hall. She stood on the half-landing with the sun lighting up her fair hair. She spoke without notes.

  ‘Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for coming. As we’re all aware, our next assignment is a salvage operation – 3rd September 1666. The Great Fire of London and the destruction of Old St Paul’s Cathedral. I shall begin with some background on the cathedral, describe the Great Fire, give details of the pods and teams, and then outline our plan of action. Questions at the end.’

  She paused, but everyone was busying themselves scratchpads or notebooks. Eventually, silence fell.

  ‘Right, old St Paul’s occupies the same site as the new building. It’s fallen into disrepair and disrepute. The interior is used for commercial and social purposes. You could even pick up a prostitute there. The Nave is known as Paul’s Walk and that’s where you’ll find the cream of society strutting their stuff and gossiping and the captains of industry wheeling and dealing. You probably can’t hear yourself pray for the sound of money being made and reputations demolished. Cromwell’s troops used it as stables during the Civil War, which probably didn’t do it any good, either.

  ‘It couldn’t be more inflammable. Former religious buildings in the churchyard have been sold off to printers and booksellers. If you look at your plans, you will see the nearby churches of St Faiths and St Gregory’s. They will be used to store vast quantities of books. St Faith’s is so stuffed that it burns for a week. It’s never rebuilt.

  ‘To make things even worse, when it looks as if the fire is heading their way, citizens bring their important papers and household treasures to store inside St Paul’s where they thought they would be safe and so they might have been, but Christopher Wren’s proposed refurbishment means that the entire building is encased in wooden scaffolding. The summer has been long and dry and there’s a stiff wind. It couldn’t have been worse.

  ‘I’m sorry the interior plans of the cathedral are a little short on detail. We have no clear idea of what to expect once we’re inside. There will probably be very little in the way of religious artefacts or regalia. However, there should be wooden tablets to the memories of Sir Philip Sidney and Walsingham, and there are almost certain to be hangings, vestments, candlesticks, and the like. We’ll just have to do our best.’

  She paused for everyone to catch up and I took a moment to think of the tomb of John of Gaunt, destroyed in the fire. I would really have liked to see that. I’ve always been a big Lancastrian fan. Peterson had promised me an image.

  She pointed to a street map shown on the big screen above her head. ‘Paternoster Row, Warwick Lane, Old Change, all the cramped lanes and courts surrounding the cathedral go up, too. All of this area will be completely devastated. So be aware of your surroundings at all times.

  ‘Moving on to the fire itself. The fire breaks out in Pudding Lane on the night of the 1st to the 2nd September. As I said, there’s been a drought. Everything is tinder dry. There’s a strong easterly breeze blowing and St Paul’s is only half a mile from Pudding Lane.

  ‘King Charles himself, together with his brother, the Duke of York, takes control of the fire-fighting. People are evacuated to Hampstead Heath. The Thames is full of tiny boats, ferrying people to safety. The King orders buildings to be blown up to create firebreaks. They are desperate to contain the fire and stop it spreading across the river. Thirteen thousand houses and ninety-three churches will be destroyed. By some miracle only five people die.

  ‘By 3rd September, Ludgate Hill is a firestorm and St Paul’s goes up like a torch. According to Evelyn, stones fly like grenades. Melted lead streams down the street. The pavements are red with it. We must be long gone by then.’

  She paused again for people to catch up again.

  Evans said, ‘For how long does it burn?’

  ‘Until the 7th September.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘We’ll be in four teams, taking pods Three, Four, Five, and Eight
. Chief Farrell, Mr Peterson, and Mr Roberts will be in Number Three. Major Guthrie, Mr Clerk, and Miss Prentiss in Number Four. Miss Van Owen and Mr Evans and I will be in Number Five and Mr Dieter, Dr Foster, and Mr Sands are in Number Eight which has been designated the medical centre.

  ‘If you consult your layouts – we will land near Augustine’s Gate, east of the building, work our way around and enter through the Crypt on the north side. Once we enter the building itself, control of the mission passes from me to Major Guthrie. You will obey his commands as if your life depends upon it – which it will. We’ve done this before and we’ve always come back safely so let’s not screw it up now. When Major Guthrie says, “Jump!” your feet should already have left the ground.

  ‘Once inside, we’ll have to wing it. We have no idea of the contents, or where and how they are stored. We’ll go for small, portable stuff that’s easily shifted. If we get it right, it’s perfectly possible that Londoners will be bringing their treasures through one door and we’re shunting them straight out of the other.’

  ‘Treasures?’ enquire Evans.

  ‘Don’t get excited. The treasures of one century are not necessarily those of another. For instance, Samuel Pepys buried his wine and Parmesan cheeses.’

  ‘Were they ever found?’

  ‘No idea. The usual rules apply. We stay in our teams. If anyone is hurt, report to Dr Foster in your teams. No one wanders off alone. Do not race about like frantic ferrets. Organise yourselves into chains and always stay in sight of each other. And for God’s sake, be aware a cathedral is about to fall on you. Be aware of yourself, your team, and the nearest exit. Study your handouts, plans, and schedules. We go the day after tomorrow. Any questions so far?’

  Nope!

  ‘Right – the second stage. Having loaded everything away, we jump sideways from Old St Paul’s to St Mary’s, where our big pod, TB2 will be waiting in the woods. Most of the Site One team will unload everything into TB2 and return home immediately. The fewer people milling around, the better. Dr Dowson will select his own team for this part of the assignment and from that moment, everyone takes their instructions from him. We’ve chosen St Mary’s because, in 1666, it’s still undergoing rebuilding after a major fire in 1643. As far as we know, the family are not in residence and the workers are billeted in the village. This work will be done at night when we should have a free hand. We will take our time with this. There’s no point in us risking life and limb at St Paul’s and then finding nothing has survived the centuries because we cut corners when we buried it. We bury whatever we’ve managed to retrieve, record the location very carefully, and return to St Mary’s.

  ‘Those working at Site One, Old St Paul’s, report to Wardrobe. We’re kicking historical accuracy into touch for this one. We’ll be wearing fireproof suits with some kind of cloak thrown over the top. Those at Site Two, St Mary’s, will draw the usual paper suits. Cotton gloves and headgear, people. I don’t want anyone shedding modern epithelials over 17th-century artefacts. Any questions, anyone?’

  ‘Do we have any idea of what we’ll be able to salvage?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not really, no, but stick with reasonably small stuff. Don’t go trying to dismantle rood screens or uproot the font.’

  ‘How long will we have?’

  ‘Not long. Probably less than an hour. The time that everyone else has decided it’s too dangerous to remain any longer is when we move in.’

  ‘When do we move out?’

  ‘When I say so,’ said Major Guthrie, standing up and turning to face the room. ‘Be very clear. Any historian not clearing the building when I give the word will be shot. We will have a timekeeper. Mr Sands will remain in Number Eight to monitor the situation from outside. Either after one hour, or when he judges evacuation is necessary, whichever comes first, I will give the order to move. And you will move.’

  ‘Any more questions?’ said Schiller.

  There weren’t.

  ‘Good luck, everyone.’

  Chapter Seven

  Twelve people set out for Old St Paul’s and twelve people didn’t come back.

  It was a disaster. It was unprecedented. Twelve people lost in one mission.

  We stood on the gantry with our stupid welcome home banners and waited.

  No one came back.

  We waited an hour. The techies frantically ran diagnostics, checked their equipment, and shouted at the IT Section. The IT Section stared at their screens and shouted back. Two hours later and four plinths still stood empty. No sign of TB2, either. Something had gone horribly wrong.

  Finally, Mr Lindstrom reported to Dr Bairstow, who was still waiting with us on the gantry. I’d brought him a chair, which he’d gently refused, standing quietly with his hands crossed on his walking stick.

  There was no malfunction, said Mr Lindstrom. Everything was working perfectly. There was no reason under the sun why four pods shouldn’t be sitting quietly on their plinths. No reason at all. The fault lay at the other end. In London, 1666.

  It was unthinkable that all four pods should have developed a simultaneous fault, and certainly not with Leon and Dieter there. And even if they’d been in serious trouble, Mr Sands, at least, could have jumped back for assistance, but there was nothing. No pods. No people.

  I stood on the gantry, gripping the safety rail and trying to get my thoughts in some sort of order. Something had gone hideously, horribly wrong and no one was coming back from this assignment.

  Dr Bairstow said quietly, ‘Dr Maxwell, Mr Markham, my office please. Ten minutes,’ and limped from the gantry.

  I looked down into the hangar. The technical team was still at it. Polly Perkins and the IT team were running more diagnostics. Up on the gantry, people looked at me.

  ‘We may be worrying unnecessarily,’ I said, quietly. ‘No matter how big a catastrophe, someone is always able to get back to St Mary’s and report. The fact that no one is here at all might simply mean they’re too busy and have forgotten. You know how things are when historians are caught up in the moment.’

  I’m not sure if anyone believed me. Leon, Guthrie, Dieter – there were cool heads there who would have driven oblivious, obsessed historians back to their pods with chairs and whips if they’d had to. And I’d put David Sands in Number Eight just to prevent this very occurrence. He was their timekeeper and observer. Any command from him was to be instantly obeyed. I’d given him the authority to override everyone and everything, deferring only to Major Guthrie.

  So where were they?

  More importantly, what were we going to do about it?

  I looked at us. Markham and me. There are dream teams – and then there is Markham and me. He was still limping slightly from his unassisted leap from the roof in 1643. I was fit but ineligible. I couldn’t go back. Not safely, anyway.

  ‘Let’s go and see what Dr Bairstow wants to do,’ said Markham, and off we went.

  Mrs Partridge was waiting for us and followed us in, closing the door behind her.

  The Boss was sitting behind his empty desk. Brisk and business like. I did my best to swallow my own fears and pulled my scratchpad from my knee pocket.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Tell me again, on which day were you in Mauritius?’

  ‘Sept 3rd, 1666, sir.’

  ‘All day?’

  ‘No, we arrived mid-afternoon, Mauritius time.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘Not really, sir. Around three o’clock, I would say.’

  ‘London is three hours behind … so about noon, our time.’ He trailed off and stared at his desk. ‘For how long were you there?’

  ‘A little under three hours, sir. I could jump to London any time after, say, three o’clock.’

  ‘By three in the afternoon, St Paul’s will be ablaze. I dare not wait that long.’ He did the desk-gazing thing again. ‘You and Mr Markham will take a pod and jump back to investigate.’

  I opened my mouth. He held up his hand. �
�I am aware of the risk, Dr Maxwell. I am aware of the risk to you personally and I am especially aware of the risk to the timeline if two living versions of the same person try to inhabit the same period of time.’

  He sighed. ‘I cannot do nothing. I must make at least some attempt to mount a rescue. Therefore, I give you one hour. One hour only. You will be on the clock. You will use the time to locate and, if possible, extricate our colleagues. Their safety is your secondary concern. If necessary, you will instruct them to abandon their assignment and return to St Mary’s. Whatever treasures they are endeavouring to rescue are valueless compared with the lives of the people in this unit. Is that clearly understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir. So what’s my primary function, then?’

  ‘The timing of your Mauritius assignment is vague and it’s impossible to be as accurate as I would like, so your primary function is to return to St Mary’s by 11.30 regardless of whether you have located your colleagues or not. Is that clearly understood? I am concerned with the possibility you may have arrived in Mauritius earlier than you think.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I mean it, Max. There are some differences of opinion as to exactly what would happen should two incarnations of the same person appear at the same time, but everyone agrees it will not be good. You must, therefore, adhere to the thirty-minute safety margin. There will be no misunderstanding over this.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Mr Markham, you will accompany Dr Maxwell in your usual capacity.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Dr Maxwell, that will be all. Mr Markham, if you could remain behind for one minute, please.’

  One minute he said, and one minute it was. Markham emerged looking rather pale. I guessed Dr Bairstow had been frightening him with the current thinking on what would happen if two versions of me tried to occupy the same time.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘A short and brutal lecture on what he personally will do to me if I don’t get you out by the specified time. I know you don’t care about yourself, Max, but for God’s sake, spare a thought for what will happen to me.’