I was in trouble again. No surprise there. It’s my default state.
Dr Bairstow raised his eyes from my report and regarded me steadily. Behind him, his PA, Mrs Partridge, sat scratchpad in hand, making the Sphinx look like a collection of facial tics.
Yes, I was in trouble again.
He cleared his throat. Here we go.
‘Dr Maxwell, the assignment was – I believe I have I have the details here. Ah, yes – jump to London, Westminster Abbey, 25th December 1066. Witness the coronation of King William I. Ascertain the cause of the disturbance that interrupted the ceremony and discover the extent of the subsequent fire and riots. I’m almost certain I impressed upon you the importance of our client and the need for a successful conclusion.’
‘Yes, sir. You were very clear.’
‘I also know that while brevity is admirable, I do require something a little more detailed than just “It was very cold”.’
He shut down the data stack and regarded me again. ‘You don’t see the need to perhaps – flesh things out a little?’
I racked my brains for something that wouldn’t make things worse.
‘It was snowing, sir.’
The silence in the room grew very loud.
‘So, to recap. I despatch my two most senior historians – you, Dr Maxwell and Dr Peterson. I assign the head of security, Major Guthrie, to support you, together with – and the reason for this escapes me now – Mr Markham. And your combined talents and expertise can produce nothing more remarkable than “It was very cold”.’
‘And snowing,’ he added, seeing me open my mouth.
I shut it again.
‘Where is the rest of your team, Dr Maxwell?’
‘In their quarters, sir.’
‘They did not feel the need to join us this morning?’
Of course they bloody didn’t. They were in the bloody bar. We’d drawn lots. I’d lost.
He pointed.
‘Sit down.’
Half of me was glad to sit down. The other half was clamouring to join the others in the bar.
He settled back in his chair.
‘Report.’
I opened my mouth.
‘In full, this time.’
I discarded what I had been going to say and gave him the truth.
We work for St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research. We investigate major historical events in contemporary time. We do not call it time travel. The Boss, Dr Bairstow, gets very annoyed about it. Actually, many things annoy him. Currently top of the list – me.
Using our pods, we jump back to whichever time period we’ve been allocated and observe. Just that. We do not interfere. It’s supposed to be our prime directive.
That doesn’t always turn out so well.
Peterson bumped the pod on landing. I don’t know how he manages it.
When we got ourselves sorted out, we realised we were in the wrong place. Instead of being tucked away in a neat little alleyway only a stone’s throw from Westminster Abbey, we were actually several miles away in a snowy wood on a hillside, looking down at smoky London town below us.
‘I can’t understand it,’ said Peterson, defensively, his breath clouding in the cold frosty air. ‘The coordinates are spot on. Maybe IT made a mistake.’
It was more likely the coordinates were right and we were wrong. It does happen occasionally, and at least we weren’t perched precariously on the lip of an active volcano or at the bottom of the sea. It just meant we had a two-mile walk downhill through a Christmas card landscape to get to our destination. It could have been worse. You can’t outrun a pyroclastic flow.
We sent Markham on ahead as a kind of human snowplough and trudged along behind in single file. It wasn’t unpleasant. Although the day was bitterly cold, the sun shone, the exercise kept us warm, and we had one of England’s more exciting coronations to look forward to.
Just two months after his victory at Hastings, William the Conqueror, anxious to consolidate his hold on a sullen and resentful Saxon England, had ordered his coronation at Westminster Abbey. Peterson and I were keen to see the
Dr Bairstow raised his eyes from my report and regarded me steadily. Behind him, his PA, Mrs Partridge, sat scratchpad in hand, making the Sphinx look like a collection of facial tics.
Yes, I was in trouble again.
He cleared his throat. Here we go.
‘Dr Maxwell, the assignment was – I believe I have I have the details here. Ah, yes – jump to London, Westminster Abbey, 25th December 1066. Witness the coronation of King William I. Ascertain the cause of the disturbance that interrupted the ceremony and discover the extent of the subsequent fire and riots. I’m almost certain I impressed upon you the importance of our client and the need for a successful conclusion.’
‘Yes, sir. You were very clear.’
‘I also know that while brevity is admirable, I do require something a little more detailed than just “It was very cold”.’
He shut down the data stack and regarded me again. ‘You don’t see the need to perhaps – flesh things out a little?’
I racked my brains for something that wouldn’t make things worse.
‘It was snowing, sir.’
The silence in the room grew very loud.
‘So, to recap. I despatch my two most senior historians – you, Dr Maxwell and Dr Peterson. I assign the head of security, Major Guthrie, to support you, together with – and the reason for this escapes me now – Mr Markham. And your combined talents and expertise can produce nothing more remarkable than “It was very cold”.’
‘And snowing,’ he added, seeing me open my mouth.
I shut it again.
‘Where is the rest of your team, Dr Maxwell?’
‘In their quarters, sir.’
‘They did not feel the need to join us this morning?’
Of course they bloody didn’t. They were in the bloody bar. We’d drawn lots. I’d lost.
He pointed.
‘Sit down.’
Half of me was glad to sit down. The other half was clamouring to join the others in the bar.
He settled back in his chair.
‘Report.’
I opened my mouth.
‘In full, this time.’
I discarded what I had been going to say and gave him the truth.
We work for St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research. We investigate major historical events in contemporary time. We do not call it time travel. The Boss, Dr Bairstow, gets very annoyed about it. Actually, many things annoy him. Currently top of the list – me.
Using our pods, we jump back to whichever time period we’ve been allocated and observe. Just that. We do not interfere. It’s supposed to be our prime directive.
That doesn’t always turn out so well.
Peterson bumped the pod on landing. I don’t know how he manages it.
When we got ourselves sorted out, we realised we were in the wrong place. Instead of being tucked away in a neat little alleyway only a stone’s throw from Westminster Abbey, we were actually several miles away in a snowy wood on a hillside, looking down at smoky London town below us.
‘I can’t understand it,’ said Peterson, defensively, his breath clouding in the cold frosty air. ‘The coordinates are spot on. Maybe IT made a mistake.’
It was more likely the coordinates were right and we were wrong. It does happen occasionally, and at least we weren’t perched precariously on the lip of an active volcano or at the bottom of the sea. It just meant we had a two-mile walk downhill through a Christmas card landscape to get to our destination. It could have been worse. You can’t outrun a pyroclastic flow.
We sent Markham on ahead as a kind of human snowplough and trudged along behind in single file. It wasn’t unpleasant. Although the day was bitterly cold, the sun shone, the exercise kept us warm, and we had one of England’s more exciting coronations to look forward to.
Just two months after his victory at Hastings, William the Conqueror, anxious to consolidate his hold on a sullen and resentful Saxon England, had ordered his coronation at Westminster Abbey. Peterson and I were keen to see the
Similar Books
Colored Lights: Forty Years of Words and Music, Show Biz, Collaboration, and All That Jazz
Greg Lawrence, John Kander, Fred Ebb
