by Jodi Taylor
‘Never mind. It must just be my imagination. Oh, just one final query. Why has Miss Sykes entitled her report, “How Mr Atherton Lost His Trousers”?’
I closed my eyes.
‘That will be all, Dr Maxwell.’
Chapter Twenty-five
Well, my training course hadn’t gone quite according to plan, but all things considered, three out of five qualifying wasn’t bad. Hoyle’s name had gone up on the Board of Honour. As I argued with Dr Bairstow, if Randall’s name could go up then so could Hoyle’s. He did agree, but that might just have been so I would stop talking and go away.
They all went on to graduate. We assembled in the Great Hall. Peterson and I sat in the front row. He’d been up and about for some time now, still on light duties, although that didn’t stop him sticking his nose in where it wasn’t needed. On several occasions, I’d had to give him beer just to make him go away. His arm was supported in a black silk sling, which he thought made him look mysterious and enigmatic. No one had the heart to tell him.
They wore their brand new blues for the ceremony. A little stiff and shiny in places, but they’d soon acquire the patches, burns, and unidentifiable stains that would mark them out as true historians. Atherton and Sykes looked like the rest of us – baggy blue sacks. North’s fitted her perfectly. I’d bet what remained of next month’s pay that she’d had hers tailored. Sykes was squinting down at her own chest, trying to read her name stencilled across her top pocket, when Dr Bairstow entered and we began.
He read out their names and, to great applause, they came forward for the presentation. Lingoss clapped as hard as everyone else. Today’s hair event was blue, in their honour.
Atherton led the way, smoothly taking his certificate with one hand and shaking Dr Bairstow’s hand with the other. He’d been up all night practising, apparently.
North was next up, inclining her head graciously. I sighed. Was it too much to ask …?
No, it wasn’t. As she turned away, she caught my eye and smiled. She should definitely smile more often.
Sykes was the last one. She bounced up the stairs, beamed blindingly at Dr Bairstow, took her certificate, pumped his hand vigorously, beamed again in case he’d missed it the first time around, and bounded back down again. Just for one moment, the Boss caught my eye. I grinned at him.
He raised his hand and the applause died away.
‘I have just one brief announcement before we disperse. I have today heard from Thirsk. The Chancellor sends her compliments and congratulations. The expedition to Belverde Caves has been successful. The Botticelli paintings have been found, more or less intact. A formal announcement will be made tomorrow. In the meantime, I believe appropriate refreshments have been made available.’
This was Dr Bairstow speak for, ‘A sum of money has been placed behind the bar. This is nothing to do with me and you should, under no circumstances, expect this to become a regular event. Any physical manifestations of high spirits will be met with mass distribution of Deductions from Wages For Damages Incurred Forms. Dismissed.’
It was a good party. We had a lot to celebrate. The recovery of the Botticelli paintings would lead to even more fame and fortune for Thirsk and a period of very nearly unchallenged funding for us. And we had three new historians. And Peterson was on his feet. His arm would never work properly again, but he had announced his intention of becoming ambidextrous and to this end, was working hard on his physiotherapy. Word had gone out and there wasn't a woman in the building who would turn her back on him. And Markham had been released from Sick Bay only that morning after his latest outbreak of mange had cleared up. Although, as Hunter said, Markham without mange was like Spotted without the Dick.
Glass in hand, I wandered around the room, avoiding Dr Foster, who wanted me for something or other. I had no idea what but it wouldn’t be pleasant, so I was ignoring her.
Leon and Dieter were discussing something in the corner. Leon smiled for me alone and then bent his head to listen to Dieter again.
Markham was doing his Madame Zara impersonation over Hunter’s palm. Bending over her hand, he was intoning, ‘You will meet a short, fair stranger who is nowhere near as contagious as he was this time last week …’
David Sands had backed Rosie Lee against a wall. I turned away, not wanting to intrude, but not quickly enough.
‘Knock-knock.’
Oh God, the boy was an idiot. An opinion apparently shared by Miss Lee, as well.
‘What?’
He sighed. ‘No,’ he said patiently. ‘Not “What?” You have to say, “Who’s there?”.’
‘How should I know?’ she demanded.
‘Know what?’ he enquired, innocently.
‘Who’s there?’
‘Yes,’ he said, triumphantly. ‘That’s the ticket. I knew you’d get it in the end. You just had to concentrate a little,’ and I suddenly realised that he was the perfect person for her. It didn’t matter what she threw at him. It all just went straight over his head. Somehow, he could get through her defences without even trying.
I found Peterson, sitting on the stairs, glass in one hand, bottle in the other. He said, ‘Helen’s looking for you,’ waved, and she came over.
I began to melt away.
He poured her a drink and handed it to her. ‘I know that to you the entire human race is less than dust but everyone else is partying. You should join us.’
She refused to be distracted. ‘Did I see Max with you?’
Behind her, I shook my head and mouthed, ‘No’.
‘Yes, she’s behind you. Did you want her?
She turned. ‘Max. Come and see me at 10.00 tomorrow morning.’
‘No chance,’ I said, aghast. ‘It’s Saturday tomorrow. As a married woman, I have responsibilities to fulfil on a Saturday morning. Twice on a Sunday.’
‘Oh, please,’ said Peterson, wrinkling his nose. ‘Too much information for an invalid.’
‘Stop arguing, Max, and get your arse up to Sick Bay at 10.00 tomorrow.’
‘Personally,’ I said to Peterson, ‘I don’t think doctors should be allowed to attend social gatherings. Every time you see one you can’t help remembering the circumstances under which you last met, which are always either horribly personal or hideously embarrassing.’
‘Or both,’ said Peterson, grinning at her.
She blushed and took it out on me. ‘Just be there, Maxwell, or I’ll do things with a set of electrodes that will make your hair stand on end.’
‘Well since you’ve asked so nicely …’
I turned up at the appointed time because that was the easiest option. You really don’t want Helen Foster roaming the building looking for you.
I was in there for some considerable time because I had to make her say everything twice. And even then it didn’t go in properly. She had scan results and printouts and God knows what scattered over her desk, which she flourished at me, mistakenly thinking they would mean something. I sat and watched her lips move, feeling the ground shift beneath my feet.
After she’d finished, she switched on the kettle and ordered me to wash my face. She went to sit on the window seat, lit a cigarette, and puffed the smoke out of the window while I struggled to pull myself together. I wiped away the last of the tears, blew my nose, lifted my chin, and said, ‘Now what?’
‘Well, that’s rather up to you, isn’t it?’ she said, effortlessly living down to her image of unhelpful disinterest. ‘I’ll need to see you regularly, of course. You can’t just crash around the timeline as you used to. And I’ll need to inform Dr Bairstow, as well.’
‘I’ll do that,’ I said.
‘Make sure you do.’
‘I don’t have much choice, do I?’
‘Not any longer, no.’
When I’d finished there, I took a long time to be by myself, sitting alone in my office and thinking about things. It was some time before I eventually got back to my room. I opened the door into a little haven of warmth and soft li
ght.
This was our room. Our things were here. Our books were lined up on the bookshelves. My red snake dangled from the top shelf. My painting gear stood in one corner. His armchair was placed by the window to catch the morning sun. My no-longer-needed walking stick stood against the wall. Our photo watched us from the bedside table. Bear 2.0 smiled at us from the windowsill.
Leon sat with his feet up, reading. ‘There you are.’
I put off the moment. ‘What’s the book?’
He held up the cover for me to see. ‘Temporal Dynamics. Volume IV. One of Dr Hawking’s greatest blockbusters.’
‘Oh, wow! Is there sex and violence?’
‘More than you would think,’ he said, and settled down again.
I once said, long ago, that happiness is like grains of sand. The more tightly you clench your fist, the more it just slips through your fingers. I said that if we just came to rest somewhere and waited quietly then one day we’d look up and it would be there.
He looked up and smiled and I’d been right – happiness had snuck up on me when I wasn’t looking and here we both were, in this quiet room, warm and comfortable and safe and together. The heavy rain beat on the windows. Mozart played quietly in the background. I looked at Leon, stretched out on the sofa, Temporal Dynamics in one hand, a glass of wine in the other.
There would never be a better moment to tell him.
I couldn’t think of anything to say. Words just wouldn’t come. I couldn’t seem to fight through the tightly clenched ball of something that was hurting my chest. For once, just for once, I was completely overwhelmed. Completely at a loss. Completely, hopelessly … lost.
I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin.
‘Leon.’
It came out more loudly than I intended.
He blinked. ‘Why are you yelling at me?’
‘I …’
‘What?’
‘I …’
‘What?’
Oh, for God’s sake. We could go on like this all day.
I caught hold of the table for support.
‘I have something to tell you.’
‘Yes, I’d gathered that from your “It’s all gone horribly wrong and we’re going to have to run like hell” look.’
‘I have a look for that?’
‘You have a look for everything, although at the moment, I have to say I haven’t seen you this terrified since our wedding day. Tell me the worst. Is it bad?’
I nodded. Then shook my head. Then nodded again.
‘Well, that seems to cover the full spectrum of responses, but could you narrow it down a little for me?’
‘I …’
He sighed. ‘And we were making such progress, too.’
I was really struggling. I wanted to tell him but this changed everything, and once spoken, the words could never be recalled and things would never be the same again.
‘Leon …’
Suddenly serious, he said, ‘What is it, Max? Just tell me.’
I had to say something. I was frightening him. I took a very deep breath.
‘Dr Bairstow is going to be a godfather.’
THE END
Thanks and Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following people for their help and encouragement with this story.
Thanks to Professor Tom Coulthard and Stephen W. Cross whose theories inspired the Valley of the Kings story.
Staff at Leicester City Council’s Information Office who pointed me in the right direction over my queries with the car park.
Emma Lay, Marketing and Events Manager and Rachel Ayrton, Learning and Interpretation Manager, both from the King Richard III Visitor Centre, for their patience with my queries about car parks and tarmac.
The Leicester Mercury for their article about the painted letter ‘R’ in the council car park and the subsequent discovery of Richard’s body.
Phillip Dawson for his helpful advice on the range of handguns and the correct procedures to be followed when encountering late-night policemen in Leicester car parks.
Cat Camacho, my editor, who is never anything other than patient and helpful and is very sound on chocolate and its role in the creative process.
Accent Press – of course.
Jan and Mike for their hospitality.
Jodi Taylor
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Published by Accent Press Ltd 2015
ISBN: 9781783757640
Copyright © Jodi Taylor 2015
The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN
