The Steam Pump Jump

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, she said she was going to write to my parents about me, so that night I went blue. My parents had both left the house before me next morning, as they usually did, so I got up and meandered off to school as usual, and when I got there they took one look at my hair and hit the roof. I tell you, sir, my feet barely touched the ground. I was out – via a swift visit to the Head’s office, of course. Suspended for three days and a letter to my parents.

  ‘I went home and was careful to stay out of sight. Not that that was a problem. And before you say anything, my parents could hear me moving around in my room and see the light under the door, so they knew I was all right. And I usually fed myself anyway. I nipped downstairs the next day, intercepted the school’s letter, obviously, and just lazed around for three days. Then on the fourth day I went back to school.’

  I’d stopped eating in admiration. A clever girl, our Lingoss.

  ‘Still blue?’

  ‘Still blue. Again, they took one look and the next minute we’re all in the Head’s office and waiting for my parents to turn up.’

  And I thought my schooldays were exciting!

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘Well, my mother screamed, “Oh my God, what have you done to your hair?” Which pretty much made the point I’d been trying to make. I’d had my blue hair for four days and my parents hadn’t noticed. I’d been suspended for three days and they hadn’t noticed that either. It was a quite odd, actually. I looked across at the supply teacher, expecting a bit of a bollocking, but she just winked at me. Then she got up and left. Just like that. I never saw her again. But things got better. New clothes. New shoes. And I think my parents set up some sort of timetable on the fridge. You know – six to six-thirty p.m. – talk to daughter. That sort of thing.’

  ‘But you had to get rid of the blue hair, surely.’

  ‘Oh yes. I offered to shave my head but they said that wasn’t necessary. Rather quickly, I thought. So they gave me special permission to wear a beanie until I could get it back to its normal colour. In fact, I’ve still got it. The beanie, I mean. I keep it for sentimental reasons.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it changed my life, sir. Having blue hair meant that people had noticed me. They’d listened to me. That was when I discovered I didn’t have to conform to other people’s ideas of how girls should be. I didn’t have to fit in. I could be exactly what I wanted to be. Do what I wanted to do. After that, it was just a case of identifying my goals and going for them. She’ll never know it, but that schoolteacher changed my life.’

  ‘And here you are today.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. Here I am today.’

  ‘You don’t have to call me “sir”, you know. Not when we’re talking like this.’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to keep calling me “Miss Lingoss”, either.’

  The silence dragged on. I imagined the two of them staring at their feet with embarrassment and then she said, ‘How are you really feeling … Tim?’

  I’d forgotten how direct she is. There was a long silence. In fact, I stopped eating in case I missed something.

  He tried to pass it off as a joke. ‘Hey, I’m not the one who fell in the moat.’

  She said nothing. The silence dragged on.

  ‘But I’m absolutely fine.’

  She still said nothing.

  ‘No, I am. Really.’

  I don’t know if he was trying to convince her or himself. He was certainly making a bloody awful job of convincing me.

  Eventually he said, ‘I mean … you know what they say … life goes on.’

  Still silence from Lingoss.

  ‘Because it does, doesn’t it? Life goes on. And on. And on. Whether you want it to or not. In fact, the less you want it to, the more it does. Because life’s like that – a complete bastard, don’t you think?’

  She was silent but he was talking to himself now anyway. ‘You drag yourself through every long, long day, and every night you close your eyes and yes, for three or four hours the pain goes away, and then you open your eyes and wouldn’t you know it, there’s another bloody day stretching out in front of you, and another one after that and another one after that, and you just want them to stop, but you can’t because everyone’s trying so hard to be … to help …’

  ‘And that’s yet another burden,’ she said quietly.

  He must have nodded. ‘But I carry on because that’s what we do. And I work and talk and laugh and join in and everyone thinks I’m over it and I’m not and I never will be.’

  I prayed – and yes, I do that occasionally – that she would realise he wasn’t talking about Dottle.

  ‘Of course you’re not,’ she said. ‘Of course you never will be. Why would you be? But you might find – as time goes by – that the pain is easier to bear.’

  ‘Yes. Max said something like that to me once. And it did help. But then Leon came back.’

  ‘And Helen never will.’

  ‘No. She’ll never come back. I’ll never see her again. She’s gone forever.’

  In the silence that followed, I heard him make a tiny sound.

  I got up as quietly as I could and went to stand at the top of the path in case Evans and the others came blundering back but there was no sign of them.

  I opened my com. ‘Mr Evans, how much longer?’

  I heard him consulting the others. ‘About half an hour, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Report in as you approach. I don’t want to mistake any of you for contemporaries.’

  ‘Copy that.’

  I watered a bush, tried to adjust my wet clothes and generally hung about for ten minutes or so and then approached the pod with some caution, just in time to catch Lingoss saying, ‘You don’t have to do it with me,’ and wondered what the hell they could possibly have been discussing.

  ‘Do what?’ he said, sounding startled and he wasn’t the only one.

  ‘Pretend. You don’t have to. You don’t have to be brave or cheerful or anything like that. If you want to drop by and shout or scream or … anything else … on the days when it’s too much and people aren’t helping … then come by my room. It doesn’t matter if you just want to sit and not go to the trouble of making conversation. That’s fine. I don’t mind.’

  He said very quietly, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No, I mean it. It’s a genuine offer. If you ever need a respite, I’m the second door on the left. West Landing.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, slowly. And then with more confidence, ‘Yes. All right. I think I’d like to. If you’re sure.’

  ‘I am,’ she said.

  ‘All right. Um … more tea?’

  Good choice. Even Peterson can’t go wrong with ‘more tea?’

  ‘Oh yes, thank you.’

  And now the silence had a different quality about it. I relaxed back against the pod and snagged a couple of jam tarts. And then another sausage.

  ‘I hope …’ he said. And stopped.

  I leaned forwards in anticipation.

  ‘I hope …’

  ‘Yes … Tim?’

  ‘If I might be permitted a personal remark, I hope, no matter how many of your goals you achieve, you won’t ever abandon the blue hair completely.’

  ‘Oh, no – I still have at least one more goal to go.’

  ‘I’m … um … quite pleased to hear that because I do look forward to seeing you each day. And the different things you do with your hair, of course.’

  ‘Oh. Um. I look forward to seeing you too, sir. Tim.’

  ‘And I don’t have to dye my hair blue,’ he said, brightly.

  I didn’t bang my head against the pod but it was close. I didn’t bang his head against the pod either and that was even closer.

  There was more of a silence which I was hoping might have a bit of a hand-holding quality to it, although this was the History Department so your guess is as good as mine. I do wonder about historians sometimes. They sit in front of
you, all bright-eyed and alert and wagging their tails and you’d swear they understood every word you say. But they don’t. They really don’t.

  I was roused by Evans telling me they were on their way back. I got up and went to meet them, making a bit of noise about it. Tactful, eh?

  Sykes and North disappeared into the pod. Evans sat down, grinned at me, and began to rummage through the wreckage of our former picnic.

  I asked him how it had gone. He was too full of fruit cake to answer but nodded vigorously and gave me the thumbs up. That’s the difference between the Security Section and the History Department, who would have talked at you for forty-five minutes and you’d have been no wiser at the end of it. With the added bonus of bleeding ears.

  Peterson emerged. ‘You’re very quiet. We thought you were dead. Shall we be getting back?’

  ‘Have they got everything they needed?’

  ‘Apparently, yes, they’ve got some good footage. Max will be pleased.’

  ‘A very successful day then,’ I said, getting damply to my feet. ‘Everyone achieved their objective.’

  ‘Er … yes,’ he said, looking slightly puzzled and I didn’t see any point in enlightening him.

  Lingoss was looking pale with the beginnings of a cracking black eye and Peterson didn’t want to hang around. He, Sykes and North did the FOD plod outside and collected Lingoss’s damp clothes while Evans and I did the POD plod inside. Everything seemed to be in order but I sent Evans into the bathroom, just to make sure. As the door closed behind him, Lingoss turned to me. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, well, it was Peterson who pulled you out.’

  ‘I was thanking the person who pushed me in.’

  It’s not often I’m stuck for words. ‘Um …’

  Sadly, that didn’t seem to work. She continued staring at me in the way that women do. Well, they do to me, anyway. I had no choice but to brazen it out. I grinned at her. ‘Yeah. Sorry.’

  ‘Apology accepted. So – did I pass? Am I acceptable?’

  I decided next time, Max could do this herself. ‘Um … well, as far as I’m concerned, yes. Of course, I’m not the one you’ll have to convince.’

  We both knew I wasn’t talking about Peterson.

  ‘Will you put in a good word for me?’

  ‘I think that’s the first time anyone’s ever asked me to do that, but if you think it will help …’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Just one thing,’ I said quietly, ‘and it’s important.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Don’t die.’

  She grinned. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Tell Dr Peterson we’ve finished in here, will you?’

  She scampered off Petersonwards.

  There was the usual delay while they tidied themselves up a bit because historians never go back looking scruffy. No one said anything about tidying up the Security Section, half of whom were still a bit on the soggy side and definitely letting the side down.

  ‘All set?’ said Peterson, and the world went white.

  They carted Lingoss off immediately we stepped out of the pod and, despite my protests, I was carted off too. In vain did I protest that over the years I’d glugged enough stagnant water to render me immune to just about everything, I was shoved into the scanner as soon as they’d finished with Lingoss.

  For the avoidance of unnecessary stress and anxiety to the reader, neither of us developed anything horrible, although I had slight indigestion from eating so much rich fruit cake and cheese too quickly. A burden I bore very nearly uncomplainingly.

  Thirty-six hours later I was pronounced fit and ready to go.

  They’d discharged Max the day before, so I had to go and find her because, trust me, it’s always better to go looking for her than have her come looking for you.

  She was back in her own room, looking tons better, sprawled on the sofa surrounded by books and the western world’s entire supply of chocolate.

  ‘Hey, Max. Looking better.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, peeling back another wrapper. ‘It’s good to be out of Sick Bay.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ I said. ‘Poor old Lingoss has at least another twenty-four hours to go. And I’ve had so many injections I feel like a pin cushion.’

  ‘It’s your own fault,’ she said unsympathetically. ‘When will you learn to keep your mouth closed when you jump into stagnant water?’

  ‘If the bloody History Department got a grip then I wouldn’t have to, would I?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a point – I’ve read your report and you didn’t say how it happened.’

  ‘I didn’t see it,’ I lied. ‘I do know there was a huge commotion and panic when the engine started up. I was pushed about all over the place. Quite honestly, Max, I’m surprised more people didn’t end up in the moat.’

  She nodded, apparently accepting this at face value. ‘So – what do you think?’

  I didn’t make the mistake of thinking she was talking about the assignment.

  ‘He likes her. No doubt about it.’

  She clucked impatiently. ‘He likes everyone. Even you.’

  ‘Everyone likes me,’ I said indignantly. ‘I’m adorable, but what I’m saying is that, thanks to me, there was an opportunity for them to sit down together and have a bit of a private chat. About proper things, too, not just boring history. Long way to go, though. For both of them.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Oh, she’d die for him.’

  She grimaced. ‘Unfortunate choice of words given his record to date.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, but seriously, Max, I don’t think either of them could do better. They’re both inarticulate. They’re both prey to strange obsessions. And she’s weird enough even for Peterson.’

  We sat in silence for a moment and then she said, ‘Well, thanks. I appreciate your efforts. Let’s hope they bear fruit.’

  I was about to say something wise and oracular when Leon came in. They smiled at each other and I suddenly realised I was very much detropp. As the French would say.

  ‘Are you infecting my wife?’ enquired Leon.

  ‘Other way round,’ I said gloomily, getting to my feet.

  He enquired where I was going and I explained about being detropp.

  ‘I think he means de trop,’ said Max.

  ‘I’m certain that he does,’ said Leon, ‘but I think he forgets we heard him speaking flawless French last Christmas.’

  Shit – I don’t usually make that sort of mistake. Too much on my mind.

  To distract them, I asked if she’d seen anything of Peterson.

  ‘He was up here this morning.’

  ‘Did he have anything in particular to say?’ I said, casually.

  ‘Not really. Apparently, you look very nice in pink and managed to plough your way through a picnic designed for six people.’

  ‘That’s me. Well, I should be off.’

  ‘And you saved Lingoss, of course.’

  ‘Well, I jumped in after her and then Peterson had to save us both, so I was just the middleman really.’

  ‘And I don’t know what you said to Sykes and North but it would seem that if they confine themselves solely to professional matters they are able to speak politely to each other.’

  ‘Just part of my normal service,’ I said, heading for the door before things became too embarrassing.

  Leon saw me out. He paused on the landing outside and I braced myself. Now what?

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ I replied, basking in this unexpected approval, ‘but for what?’

  ‘For going a long way towards putting Max’s mind at rest.’

  I hesitated. ‘He never mentioned Dottle. Not once.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that – that’s guilt, not grief. Much more easily dealt with.’

  I nodded.

  He lowered his voice. ‘I have to know, what on earth makes the two of you think that a blue-ha
ired madwoman who only has to look at something for it to violently combust is going to improve his life?’

  ‘No choice,’ I said, looking him in the eye. ‘The red-haired one is already spoken for.’

  He laughed – which doesn’t happen often. ‘By the way, Hunter’s looking for you.’

  I brightened. Hunter looking for me during normal working hours never bodes well. Hunter looking for me outside of normal working hours … well …

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She says you’ve had a letter …’

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my editor, Rebecca Lloyd, who grapples almost daily with my bizarre punctuation. I freely admit that I wasn’t listening when my class covered commas and the use of, because I couldn’t see that it would ever be important. I was wrong. All mistakes are mine.

  Thanks to everyone at Accent Press who grapple with me almost daily. They tell me all mistakes are mine.

  Thanks to my brother who heroically went with me to Raglan Castle on the coldest day of the century. We both nearly died. We scrambled over everything, carefully not falling into the moat – which these days is considerably cleaner than I have depicted – arguing loudly about steam-pumps and their likely set-up and location and frightening those around us. On arriving home, I Googled – which I should have done before we set out – and found we’d got everything completely and absolutely wrong. All mistakes are his fault.

  Published by Accent Press Ltd 2018

  ISBN 9781635969344

  Copyright © Jodi Taylor 2018

  The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author 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: