by Jodi Taylor
Dr Bairstow nodded. As we both moved away, he lowered his voice. ‘Worth keeping an eye on those two, don’t you think, Max?’
‘Absolutely, sir. A very close eye.’
I should perhaps say that Evans, with his usual devotion to duty, kept so close an eye on Lady Amelia that we didn’t see either of them until late afternoon on Boxing Day.
It was as I was working my way around the room, looking for Leon so we could go in to lunch together, that I overheard a very interesting conversation.
Markham and Pennyroyal were standing quietly in a corner, both of them far too experienced to stand with their backs to a room.
‘Here,’ said Markham, handing him a drink.
‘Oh, cheers, mate. I would have got it.’
‘Nah,’ said Markham. ‘Too much of a busman’s holiday for you.’
They eyed each other for a moment and then Pennyroyal said quietly, ‘Do they know?’
Markham’s face never changed for a moment. ‘No.’
Silence.
‘You’ll be fine, mate.’
There was another long pause. It would seem neither of them had anything further to say. Thinking the conversation was over, I drifted across to join them. Pennyroyal acknowledged me with a nod. He rummaged in a pocket, took out a smart wallet and extracted a business card.
‘You’re going to need a job soon. Contact us. We could always do with someone like you.’
He laid the card down on the table in front of us, smiled in a way he probably imagined was friendly and reassuring and wandered off to astound Matthew some more. I heard him say, ‘Here, mate, what’s this in your ear?’
I looked at Markham. ‘Did he just offer you a job?’
He frowned. ‘Actually, Max, I thought he was talking to you.’
We stared at each other and then Markham remembered he was supposed to be sticking close to Pennyroyal and I wanted to see what had been found in Matthew’s ear – which since it was Pennyroyal could have been anything up to and including a live hand grenade – and we set off after him.
At that moment the front doors were thrown open with a flourish and here were Ian and Elspeth – our other guests of honour, here for their formal dining out.
Ian had been a well respected and highly regarded member of St Mary’s. There were a lot of people lining up to shake his hand. One leg would always be shorter than the other, and his hair was greying, but even with the eyepatch he was Major Guthrie and always would be. I waved and cheered with the rest of them.
Dr Bairstow tinkled his glass.
‘May I have your attention, please. I’d like to propose a toast – to Major Ian Guthrie, to whom we all, at one time or another, have owed our lives. Veteran of the Civil Uprisings. One of the first people I recruited to St Mary’s. Our first Head of Security and, if I may say so, the rock on which we have all leaned.
‘Ian, I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for your exemplary service over the years. Many of us are here today only because of you.’
Well, that was true. He’d saved me at Troy. And again at Nineveh. And on countless other occasions. I remembered our constant battles over Outdoor Survival exercises and my avoidance thereof. I remembered his face when we brought back Elspeth and Bashford. So many memories of him. All good. There was a huge lump in my throat and I suspected I wasn’t the only one.
Dr Bairstow continued. ‘I know we are all hungry so I shan’t keep you any longer, but before we go in, I ask you all, please, to raise your glasses in our traditional toast.’ He turned to Ian. ‘Major Guthrie, St Mary’s thanks you for your service.’
We echoed the toast, our voices ringing around the Hall.
He stood for a moment and then smiled and raised his glass. ‘St Mary’s – it’s been an honour and a privilege.’
THE END
Acknowledgements
All thanks to Tim Moffatt for all the information regarding snipers. Remember, people – they come in pairs.
Thanks to Phil Dawson for his assistance on other random issues.
Thanks to Frances Edwards and Bea Grabowska, my editors, and Sharona Selby for all their hard work whipping this story into shape.
And a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to everyone, from St Mary’s.
We hope you enjoyed Why is Nothing Ever Simple?
Read on for a preview of the next instalment in Jodi Taylor’s much-loved CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S series . . .
PLAN FOR THE WORST
I’ve always been vaguely aware of the existence of Duvet Days. I know Dr Bairstow ranks them alongside Atlantis, unicorns and competent politicians in the scheme of believable things, but I was believing in them now. In fact, I was on my sixth.
My recent secondment to the Time Police had left me so drained – physically and emotionally – that even the phrase ‘absolutely fine’ had failed to secure my release from Sick Bay. I’d tried to get out of bed, swayed in what Nurse Hunter had declared to be an unnecessarily dramatic manner and been commanded to climb back in again.
Dr Stone turned up with a syringe – there was a small prick – I really couldn’t be bothered to do the jokes all over again – and I suddenly felt better. Much better. Much, much better.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘That’s really good stu . . .’ and fell heavily asleep for the rest of the day. And for much of the day after that, as well. I’d opened my eyes a couple of times, looked at the rain dribbling down the windowpanes, decided I couldn’t be bothered and closed my eyes again.
Now, however, it had been more than a week. Time, in the words of Dr Stone, to take up my bed and walk.
On doctor’s orders, I took it easy to begin with, spending the mornings in our sitting room with my feet up, reading to Matthew, half-heartedly watching holos on TV and generally not doing very much at all. In the afternoons the three of us – me, Matthew and Leon – would go for a stroll around the lake, peering into the water looking for fish, avoiding the swans, and in Matthew’s case, mostly not falling in.
In the evenings, when Leon and I could finally get a moment to ourselves, there were long moments when he just held me and that was fine because he was solid and warm and I could feel his slow, steady heartbeat. We would stand for a long time, not saying anything to disturb the moment. He would rub my back, gently, up and down, and slowly my jangled nerves would subside. Occasionally I’d bring up a bit of wind, as well.
There were big meals and a lot of resting. It wasn’t unpleasant. Everything was absolutely fine. Well, they were during the day – the nights were slightly different.
We’d have our evening meal together, watch a little TV and then Matthew would get ready for bed. There would be the usual washing and brushing teeth battle – he really didn’t see the point of cleaning himself up just to go to bed – and then Leon and I would settle down, sometimes with a glass of wine. Sometimes he’d work and I’d read a book, or he’d watch the football and I’d definitely read a book, and then it was time for bed. Everything would still be absolutely fine. We’d snuggle down for the night and I’d fall asleep almost immediately.
And then it would begin. Ten minutes later and I would be awake. Wide awake. Was that a sound on the roof? Was Clive Ronan, at this very moment, creeping across the roof tiles?
Or that creaking board on the landing. Were the Time Police on their way up the stairs, heavily armed and determined to get Matthew back, at any cost? Would Leon and I go down in a hail of fire as we tried to defend our son?
St Mary’s is a noisy place at the best of times. I don’t mean just the human inhabitants – I mean the creaks and cracks of an old building. Clanking pipes, ticking radiators, rattling windows. Normally these were comforting background noises, but not any longer. Leon had stolen Matthew back from the Time Police and I was certain they’d never willingly let him go. So I would lie awake, listening for te
lltale signs that Matthew was in danger.
Eventually, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I’d get up, creep across our sitting room to his bedroom and check he was safely asleep. Then I’d go around checking the windows and doors. Then I’d stand in his doorway listening to him breathe in the dark. Then I’d check the doors and windows again in case I’d missed something. Then I’d go back to bed, fall asleep, and ten minutes later I’d jolt back to wakefulness, convinced I’d heard something, and the whole process would start all over again.
Two days later I was nearly dead on my feet.
On the third night, I was standing in Matthew’s doorway, staring at the dark shapes of his furniture – to check it was just furniture and not a Time Police squad lurking in the corner – when Leon came up behind me.
I didn’t jump out of my skin because he’d made sure I heard him coming. He put one arm around my waist, pulled me back into our sitting room and gently closed Matthew’s bedroom door behind me.
We sat on the sofa in the dark.
‘Max, you can’t keep doing this.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I know I’m being high-maintenance again, but I can’t get these stupid thoughts out of my head. Sometimes I’m certain I can hear footsteps on the roof or coming up the stairs – but even if I can’t hear anything, I’m convinced someone’s here anyway and Matthew’s in danger.’
‘He’s not,’ Leon said gently.
‘I know. I do know that. But suppose he is. I can’t lose him again.’
‘You won’t. We won’t. He’s very safe here. I’m not worried about him at all. You, on the other hand . . .’
‘Suppose Ronan comes back and tries . . .’
‘Max, I will never let that happen. Trust me.’
‘No, I know you won’t, but suppose the Time Police . . .’
‘Edward will never let that happen. Nor Markham. Trust them.’
I drew a deep breath. ‘I know. I do know, really. I just . . .’ I was shivering with cold and . . . fear, I suppose.
He pulled the throw off the back of the sofa and wrapped it around the pair of us. We stretched out. I could feel his warmth and his slow, steady heartbeat. It felt good. I felt myself slowly relax into his arms. If Leon was here then nothing would ever get into Matthew’s room.
I touched his face. ‘Thank you for bringing him back.’
‘You and Matthew are the most important things in the world to me. I will never let anything happen to either of you.’
I closed my eyes. And opened them some hours later to find Leon smiling down at me. I snuggled closer and just as things were becoming exciting, Matthew’s bedroom door was flung open and Matthew himself, half in and half out of his dressing gown, raced in, trailing electrical cables and power leads and shouting, ‘Dad, it works.’
‘That’s good,’ Leon said vaguely, his mind and other things elsewhere. ‘You go back to bed and I’ll be in to see it in a minute.’
‘No need,’ he said. ‘I can show you now. Look.’
He clambered up on to the sofa, clutching something that looked as if a colander had mated with a calculator, and wriggled his bony, icy-footed way between us.
‘Drat,’ said Leon, mildly.
I told him he was displaying impressive restraint.
‘It wasn’t my restraint that was intended to be impressive,’ he said. I gave him a consolation kiss and took the opportunity to be the first in the bathroom that morning.
I slept better the next night, and the night after that I hardly woke at all. Slowly I began to relax. I became a little more balanced on the subject of Matthew being stolen from under my very nose, and started making every effort to get on with a normal life.
And Matthew himself?
Worryingly, he’d picked up the threads of his previous life here at St Mary’s almost as if nothing had happened. Which was both good and bad.
His calm acceptance of wherever he was, whenever he was and whoever he was with was worrying. One day I came right out with it and asked him if he missed the Time Police.
He was building something complicated with Lego and didn’t even look up.
‘I’ll see them again.’
I left it at that.
Unfortunately, before being released back into the wild, I had an appraisal with Dr Bairstow to get through. Apparently, it was felt that the last few months had been a little rough. For me, that was. A colourful kaleidoscope of fights with the Time Police, sex clubs, dinosaurs, organising the demise of Queen Jane the Bloody before she could do any real damage to the timeline and very nearly losing Matthew again. And then – the icing on the cake – my beautiful plan had worked beautifully and we’d finally, finally captured that bastard Clive Ronan and those even bigger bastards in the Time Police had let him go again. It would be fair to say I’d been a little bit put out by that. My near homicidal rage had been mitigated to some extent when Leon walked off with Matthew, right from under their stupid Time Police noses and brought him home.
There was no denying, though, that some recent events had been a teensy bit difficult and I’d had a couple of rough moments in the privacy of Sick Bay while Dr Stone kept the world away until I was ready to face it again. And now I was attempting to blag my way back on to the active list.
Pre-order your copy now
The St Mary’s crew are back. Join them as they hurtle their way around History in . . .
I would have trusted this man with my life.
Until a couple of days ago, anyway.
You know what they say – hope for the best, but plan for the worst.
Max is quite accustomed to everything going wrong. She’s St Mary’s, after all. Disaster is her default state. But with her family reunited and a jump to Bronze Age Crete in the works, life is getting back to normal. Well, normal for St Mary’s.
And then, following one fateful night at the Tower of London, everything Max thought she knew comes crashing down around her.
Too late for plans. The worst has happened. And who can Max trust now?
Pre-order your copy here
If you can’t get enough of Jodi Taylor’s chaotic, brilliant and wonderfully imagined worlds, don’t miss the first novel in the brand-new Time Police series . . .
Available to download now!
THE CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S SERIES GUIDE
Don’t know where to start with Jodi Taylor’s CHRONICLES OF ST MARY’S series? Never fear! We know timelines are a tricky business, so we’ve created a go-to guide to help you navigate the series and make the most of your adventure with the tea-soaked disaster magnets of St Mary’s as they hurtle their way around History.
JUST ONE DAMNED THING AFTER ANOTHER
So tell me, Dr Maxwell, if the whole of History lay before you . . . where would you go? What would you like to witness?
Recruited by the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research, Madeleine Maxwell discovers the historians there don’t just study the past – they revisit it. But one wrong move and History will fight back – to the death. And she soon discovers it’s not just History she’s fighting . . .
Jodi Taylor says . . .
‘I never meant to write a bestseller. I just wanted to see if I had the mental discipline to write a book. I have to say no one was more surprised than me that the answer was yes. The only thing that surprised me more was that it did so well. I’m continually amazed that historians and physicists don’t spit on me in the streets. Although give them time.’
Available to download
A SYMPHONY OF ECHOES
Wherever the historians go, chaos is sure to follow . . .
Dispatched to Victorian London to seek out Jack the Ripper, things go badly wrong when he finds the St Mary’s historians first. Stalked through the fog-shrouded streets of Whitechapel, Max is soon running for her life. Again.<
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Jodi Taylor says . . .
‘This is the Jack the Ripper story! I frightened myself to death over this one. And it’s got dodos as well.’
Available to download
WHEN A CHILD IS BORN – a short story
It’s Christmas Day 1066 and a team from St Mary’s is going to witness the coronation of William the Conqueror. Or so they think . . .
Jodi Taylor says . . .
‘Christmas was coming and the decree came down from above. “It’s Christmas, Taylor – we need a short story. Don’t just sit there.” So I didn’t. I think my publishers would like me to point out I’m not usually so obedient. Not unless electrodes are involved.’
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A SECOND CHANCE
I could have been a bomb-disposal expert, or a volunteer for the Mars mission, or a firefighter, something safe and sensible. But, no, I had to be an historian.
It began well. A successful assignment to 17th-century Cambridge to meet Isaac Newton, and another to witness the historic events at The Gates of Grief. So far so good.
But then came the long-awaited jump to the Trojan War that changed everything. And for Max, nothing will ever be the same again.
Jodi Taylor says . . .
‘This one was fun. I really enjoyed writing this one. St Mary’s really goes through it. Heh heh heh.’
Available to download
ROMAN HOLIDAY – a short story
Question: What sort of idiot installs his mistress in his wife’s house? Especially when that mistress is Cleopatra VII Thea Philopator, Queen of Egypt and the most notorious woman of her time?
Answer: Julius Caesar – poised to become King of Rome. Or as good as.
