by Jodi Taylor
‘Yes, very funny,’ I said, clambering to my feet. ‘Personally, I always say that any landing you can walk away from has been a good one. Even with a techie driving.’
‘That was your definition of a good landing, was it?’
‘Well, as you say – no external panic and no internal injuries. A huge success by St Mary’s standards.’
I joined him at the screen. ‘Oh, cool. It’s a Frost Fair.’
‘A what?’
‘Don’t you know about the Frost Fairs?’
‘I’m a technician. I have different priorities.’
‘And yet, here’s the historian once again saving the day with vital information the techie needs to know.’
‘In less than two hundred words, if you can possibly manage that.’
‘OK. Listen up. In the old days, the Thames was much shallower and wider than it is today. No embankment. All the debris and rubbish would pile up around the narrow piers on London Bridge and almost bring the river to a standstill. So it would freeze over. The weather was much colder then, too. So cold that birds fell dead from the air. Deer died in the parks. People died in the streets and public subscriptions were taken up to provide the poor with fuel to help them survive. Come on.’
‘You’re not going out there?’
‘I’m not missing this.’
‘Are you insane?’
‘Leon, I must see this. It’s my only chance. I’ll never be able to come back.’
‘If it’s so cold that birds are dropping from the skies, do you really want to be out there in your pyjamas?’
I pulled open locker doors. ‘There must be something.’
Reluctantly, he pulled out a jumble of miscellaneous clothing. I saw sweatshirts, socks, gloves. I knew he’d have something. This was his own personal pod. He’d had it for years. In addition to his own cold and wet-weather gear, there was no way he wouldn’t have accumulated all sorts of useful stuff.
I scrambled into as many garments as I could get on, tucking my jammy bottoms into several pairs of old socks. He picked up a blanket and cut a slit for my head and I wore it Clint Eastwood style over my dressing gown. And yes, he was right, I did look very odd, especially clumping around in his outsized wellies with three pairs of socks, but everyone outside was almost certainly wearing every single item of clothing they possessed, and possibly their bedding as well, so, as I pointed out, I fitted right in.
He said nothing in a very meaningful way.
We stepped outside. He was absolutely right. It was cold.
Bloody hell, it was cold.
Oh God, it was cold.
Only pride stopped me bolting back into the pod. I felt the hairs in my nostrils freeze. He wound a scarf around my head and face.
‘Told you.’
I glared at him over the scarf.
He smiled. ‘You have snow in your eyelashes.’
Before I could work out what to say to that, he said, ‘Breathe through the scarf and don’t cough, whatever you do, because you’ll never stop.’
I could feel the chill striking up through the rubber soles and three pairs of socks. My feet instantly turned into blocks of ice. There was little wind, but the cold passed effortlessly through my layers of clothing and froze the marrow in my bones. My heart went out to the poor, huddled together in their draughty hovels. Some without a proper roof and some probably without proper walls, either. Trying to stay warm. Trying to stay alive.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Keep moving or go back inside.’
We turned back to familiarise ourselves with the pod’s location because, sometimes, it’s quite tricky finding something you can’t see. We were next to a red–and-white striped booth and opposite a grubby white canvas awning with looped-up sides, underneath which quantities of ale were being distributed.
There was plenty of dirty snow on the ice to give us a good grip, so we were able to stride out quite briskly. He pulled my arm through his.
‘All right?’
I nodded so he wouldn’t hear my teeth chattering.
I judged it to be late afternoon. The sun was already setting. Faint stars appeared above us. The odd snowflake drifted down. More people were appearing on the ice, calling to one another and laughing.
They say, ‘If life gives you lemons, make lemonade.’ For Londoners, if life gives you a frozen Thames and bitter temperatures then hold a Frost Fair and make some money. They were turning a fight for survival into an entertainment opportunity.
Smoke from thousands of chimneys streamed horizontally in the cold air and choked the city. The last streaks of colour left the sky. I felt even colder, if possible.
However, this was Restoration London in 1683 and it was impossible not to be excited. This was England under that Merry Monarch, Charles Stuart.
Hardly had the less-than-jolly Olly Cromwell died, than the English heaved a huge sigh of relief, resolved never to do that again, and restored the monarchy in the person of that astute party-animal, Charles II. Charles was famous for his mistresses, spaniels, the Great Plague, the Dutch War, the Great Fire of London (when he fought the fire alongside his fellow Londoners), the Royal Society, and at least fourteen illegitimate children. He packed a lot into his twenty-five year reign.
England threw aside the social and religious restrictions of Cromwell’s Commonwealth rule, drew a deep breath – and partied. Necklines and morals plummeted. Skirts, on the other hand, were raised on every conceivable occasion. The country erupted in an outpouring of promiscuity and riotous behaviour. The religiously rigorous departed for America in disgust.
The normal procedure on any assignment should be for us to note our surroundings and check for possible hazards. That’s always good fun on a battlefield. Then study the people, behaviour, and clothing and finally, record and document whatever’s happening at the time.
In these conditions, however, there wasn’t much chance of any of that. Everything was covered in snow. Huge long icicles hung from booths and nearby buildings as temperatures rose slightly during the day and then dropped again at night. Vertical surfaces glittered under a coating of ice. Everyone was swathed in great bundles of clothing so there was no chance of observing the fashions of the time. Well, we’d just have to do the best we could.
‘Look,’ said Leon, pointing. People had tied animal bones to their feet and were propelling themselves with sticks and poles. There was a lot of shouting and laughing. And falling over.
Despite the cold and the anxiety, I felt my heart lift. I’m an historian. This was what I was born to do. I couldn’t help a little skip of excitement.
Here and there, animals were being roasted on spits. Scruffy dogs and even scruffier children hung around, hoping for scraps. I didn’t blame them. The smell was tempting. Again, I regretted my missed toast.
Pie men wandered around with trays around their necks, bawling their wares on the ice. Better than the other way around, I supposed.
All around us, I could see stilt-walkers and jugglers. Apprentices played football with enthusiasm and little skill. Giggling ladies with powdered hair and muffled in furs played very well-mannered skittles. Musicians marched up and down the ice, red-cheeked with cold. No one could afford to stand still for very long. Not in these temperatures.
Bloody hell, it was cold. I could feel ice forming on my eyelashes.
We should keep moving. Apart from small, warm pockets around individual braziers, the air was freezing. A few more snowflakes drifted down, mingling with the ash from the fires. Taking gentle, shallow breaths through my scarf seemed the best way to avoid coughing up a lung or two. I had long since ceased to feel my feet. I remembered that, in the past, the temperature of my feet and the interesting places I found to keep them warm had formed the basis of many a vigorous discussion.
However, everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time. Crowds congregated around roasting animals and pie stalls. Those purveying strong drinks were doing a roaring trade. People called to each other, greeting fr
iends, drawing attention to some strange sight or other. Loud music was everywhere. It was all a bit like Glastonbury with ice and snow instead of mud. And even fewer toilets.
Now that dusk had set in, stallholders were lighting their lanterns around the ice and bonfires blazed higher against the stars. An air of excitement was abroad. People were obviously determined to enjoy themselves. In these temperatures, this time tomorrow, they could well be dead.
As could we.
I pushed that thought aside. While it was just vaguely possible the Time Police somehow knew of the existence of Skaxos and had followed us there, we had been able to leave them behind. With all of History out there, there was no way they’d ever be able to find us here.
I was happily watching two enterprising young men attempt to impress a group of girls with their skating prowess when we heard a commotion coming from what would have been downriver had we not been standing on solid ice.
People were shouting – and not in a good way. Dogs barked. Around us, people craned their necks, trying to see what was happening. Had someone fallen through the ice? I stood on tiptoe, trying to peer through the crowds. Maybe someone had caught a pickpocket.
Leon took my arm and saying quietly, ‘This way,’ drew me away from the excitement.
‘What’s happening?’
‘They’re here.’
‘What? How? How could they have found us?’
‘We’ll work that out later. Don’t hurry. Don’t look behind you. Just walk slowly back towards the pod.’
We were a hundred yards away from the pod and the commotion behind was drawing ever closer.
‘Don’t look back,’ he said again. ‘This is a common technique. They start a disturbance behind us and as we run away, the majority of them are ahead of us, waiting for us to run blindly into their arms.’
‘Any helpful thoughts?’
‘Let’s get off the river. Too exposed. We’ll lose ourselves in the streets and find our way back later.’
‘Suppose they find the pod?’
He stopped.
‘Good thought.’
It was. I do have them occasionally. If they found the pod and disabled it, we would be helpless. In fact, that was all they would have to do. In these temperatures, unable to gain access, we could be dead in hours. Maybe not even that long. Once again, I felt a little tickle of fear. I’ve said this before. It’s not easy living out of your own time. Everyone has a place in society and without the backing of family, friends, a guild, a tribe, a village, we were officially non-persons. Scratching a living by stealing is no fun. And, it seemed, wherever we went, these people were only a few hours behind us. We could be in big trouble.
He looked down at me. ‘Can you run?’
I opened my mouth to say yes, but it came out as no. Sometimes prudence overcomes stupidity. Even for me.
We turned casually aside off the river, crunched over the snow, climbed a few icy steps, and scrambled over a low wall.
‘Don’t look back and don’t run. Steady, now.’
Walking slowly, we entered a warren of small lanes, fronted by narrow wooden houses leaning unsteadily over the street. Nearly twenty years after the Great Fire, the streets of London were still cramped and noisome. I knew there had been ambitious plans for a modern city with boulevards and avenues, but the common people, afraid of having their tiny plots of land absorbed into these new schemes, had started to rebuild even before the ashes cooled. The result was that, in parts, the new London wasn’t that much different from the old one.
Away from the lights and fires of the fair, everything seemed dark and shadowed. And much, much colder. What snow remained was black and filthy. The few people on the streets were staggering home, clutching as much wood as they had been able to find. Tiny windows were heavily shuttered against the cold and any gaps stuffed with frozen rags. Few lights showed. The air was heavy with smoke and caught at my throat. I tried not to cough.
We wandered through the maze. The deserted streets contrasted strangely with the lights and bustle of the fair only a hundred yards away. I shivered under my layers of eccentric clothing. Snowflakes fell silently out of the dark sky. We were the only people around.
The silence was actually a little worrying. Where were the feral dogs, cats, rats, and prostitutes who would normally be scavenging in these dark places?
Staying out of the cold was the answer to that one. Dogs, cats, rats, and prostitutes obviously had a lot more sense than we did. Not difficult.
‘No prostitutes,’ I said.
‘Of course not. Only a madman would get his todger out on a night like this. It would snap off in his hand.’
We crept a little further. More flakes drifted down. The cold was almost unbearable.
‘We’re on our way back to the pod,’ he said in an undertone, breath billowing around his head. ‘We’re walking parallel with the river, now. If we take the next turning left, we should come out somewhere nearby.’
We flitted quietly from shadow to shadow. ‘Nearly there,’ he said, and barely had the words left his mouth than three or four dark figures appeared at the end of the street, fortunately, not looking our way. Yet.
‘Down here,’ he said, and we wheeled left down an alley so narrow we had to turn sideways in places.
The good news was that overhanging roofs had kept this narrow space comparatively snow free. The bad news was that this place could accurately be called Bodyfluids Alley. The stink was bad enough but we were also slipping in pools of frozen urine. Icy turds crunched underfoot. One day, surely, I would find myself some place where I wasn’t up to my knees in effluent. Just one day, please.
Leon stopped dead and I walked into the back of him. Slowly, he drew me aside, behind a broken barrel. I crouched, painfully. We both breathed into our sleeves so our frosted breath wouldn’t give us away, although the snow was falling quite thickly, now. In half an hour, we’d be well camouflaged. And frozen stiff, of course.
Voices sounded at the entrance. A bright, white, non-17th-century searchlight flashed past us, giving me a wonderful opportunity to see what I was crouching in. Appropriately, we froze.
Several endless seconds passed and then they moved away. Neither of us attempted to move. We were far too old to fall for that trick.
Time ticked by, as it tends to do when you’re slowly dying of exposure in a frozen, piss-filled alleyway in the late 17th century. I decided our next jump would be to some fragrant tropical island. Still we crouched there. We passed the point where I would be able to move. When the time came, Leon would have to crack my joints to stand me up.
I felt him stand, slowly and cautiously. It took two goes for me to stand upright. We inched our way along the icy wall. Flakes of snow swirled around us. No one could see us, but we couldn’t see a thing, either.
At the end of the alley, Leon crouched and cautiously eased his head around the wall. He straightened and turned to me.
‘They’re here. I know they are, but we have to get back. We’re going to freeze if we stay out here much longer. We can’t risk them finding the pod, but as soon as we’re out in the open, they’ll spot us. I’m going to run and you’re going to get yourself back to the pod. Wait for me as long as you can, but don’t risk yourself or the pod. You can always come back for me. Understood?’
I opened my mouth to protest.
‘Understood?’
I nodded.
‘It’s not far. Across this lane and back over the wall. Turn right. The pod’s opposite the beer stall, next to the red-and-white booth. OK?’
I nodded.
He turned and ran back down the alley, slipping and sliding in the ice. He kicked over a pile of something that made a satisfying clatter and launched himself into the street.
I heard a shout. Then another. Keeping to the wall, I stepped into the lane and looked left and right. There was no one in sight. All I had to do was nip across the wall, back on to the river, and lose myself in the crowds. Except I was near
ly frozen solid and nipping anywhere was about as likely as finding a politician who works selflessly for the public good.
I shuffled across the lane, sat on the wall, and tried to swing my legs over. Eventually, I had to pick them up one at a time and lift them over manually. By now, I was chilled to the bone, shivering uncontrollably, and worried that my fingers and toes would just crack off in the cold.
I dropped back down on the riverside, skidded, and fell painfully onto the frozen snow. As I hit the ground, I heard a shout.
Oh, great!
Finally, the weather worked in our favour. As I struggled to my feet, the snow started properly. Swaying lanterns blew out and only the bonfires showed in the sudden darkness.
People laughed, cursed, and generally milled around and I milled right along with them. The crowds were thick and I stayed in the middle, allowing myself to be carried along. I knew I couldn’t miss the beer tent. The crowds outside wouldn’t let a little thing like a snowstorm divert them from their sworn purpose of knocking back as much ale as they could possibly manage.
They had braziers going outside. I stood with a family group and warmed my hands. Worryingly, I could barely feel the heat.
Across from me, I could see the red and white booth through the snow, and next to it, the darker patch of shadow that was our camouflaged pod.
Warmth. Light. Safety.
Despite the fast falling snow, the crowd was still good-natured. Alcohol helped.
I inched my way through the people, laughing and smiling at complete strangers. Fitting in. It was vitally important not to hurry. Not to disturb the flow of people as they streamed past.
Then, just as I thought I’d made it – just as I drew level with the booth, some instinct kicked in. Something about the way the crowd was moving …
I heard a cry of protest as a woman was shoved roughly aside and her escort shouted angrily. Risking a glance behind me, I could see two or three men, wearing all enveloping, black cloaks, which was surprising. Black was a rare and expensive dye before modern times. I suppose it enabled easy identification. Or intimidation, more like. One held something in the palm of his hand. Faintly, I caught an electronic beep. They’d found the pod. They were shouldering their way roughly through the crowd. You could tell they weren’t historians – they didn’t care about careful concealment. Their job was something else entirely.
