She inclined her head. ‘Of course. And thank you for not rejecting this proposal out of hand.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s only fair I should tell you, Commander, that I am not inclined to accept. I can provide him with an education here. There’s no need for the Time Police to be involved. And your other main point – that the Time Police can keep him safe – well, there’s no need now, is there? Clive Ronan is dead. The threat is removed. There is no reason why Matthew shouldn’t live a normal life. Here. With me.’
The silence went on just that little bit too long.
I didn’t like this. I didn’t like this at all.
I said sharply, ‘Is there?’
She said, ‘Of course not. But I had the feeling that wasn’t what she had originally been going to say.
More time crept by. We worked our way through all the Beaurain, Bayeux, Stamford Bridge and Hastings data, and wrote the presentations. In the end, North, Sykes and Bashford took them to Thirsk. Lingoss went with them. The Chancellor received them kindly, they were on their best behaviour and everything went well which, according to Dr Bairstow, went a long way towards reconciling them to the cost of St Mary’s restoration.
Of course, our supply of work dried up. The techies were the only people employed at the moment, busy rebuilding Hawking, repairing the pods that had survived and cannibalising the ones that hadn’t.
SPOHB – the Society for the Preservation of Historical Buildings turned up, all of them wearing their traditional combination of drab knitwear and expressions of rigid disapproval. We continued the St Mary’s tradition of ignoring them. They fired off a series of punitive memos, heading each one with their logo and the information that this communication had originated from the BDSM department. Everyone got really excited. Speculation was rife as to what they were wearing under those cardigans until we discovered the letters stood for Building Design and Site Management.
There wasn’t anything for us historians to do. The more technically minded among us were allowed into Hawking in an unskilled capacity – holding tools, carrying stuff around, suffering the occasional mild electric shock, making tea. The rest of us assisted Dr Dowson to re-catalogue the Archive, or indulge in a little extreme gardening under the watchful eye of Mr Strong.
Months passed. Spring turned into summer and probably wished it hadn’t bothered. I’ve never seen so much wind and rain. They had real problems getting the roof back on Hawking. Summer began to turn into autumn. Leaves fell early from the trees and lay in soggy piles everywhere. Mr Stone raked them away and then there were frosty cobwebs every morning. Leon had been gone for nearly six months. Matthew had almost stopped asking where he was. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and just getting through each day and I wasn’t the only one.
Morale was at an all-time low. We’re St Mary’s. We tend to be reasonably cheerful even when things aren’t going well because things not going well is our default state. It wasn’t that people were gloomy, but somehow, the spark had gone. Despite all our efforts, there were mutterings. I was concerned enough to mention it to Dr Bairstow, who said nothing, but looked thoughtful.
And then, one day, about a week later, he sent for me. I thought, initially, that he wanted to ask me again about my plans for the future – something he had heroically refrained from doing since our interview with the Time Police – but this was something completely different.
‘Hello, Max. Come in and sit down.’
‘Good afternoon, sir.’
‘How are things out there?’
‘Not too bad, sir. The Technical Section is working like stink and the rest of us are going slowly mad looking for something to do. I’m pleased to be able to report – possibly for the first time ever – that everyone’s reports are written up, all filing up to date, the Archive re-catalogued, and all side-saddle hours completed and logged.’
‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, and then stopped.
I sat and waited. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do when I got there. That was my life now.
‘I’ve been thinking, Max. I have an idea, which I’d like to run past you.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Out of respect, I have waited a while to say this, but I think the time has come for us to draw a line under past events. This does not mean we forget what has happened, or those who have gone, but I think it’s time to move forwards again. The work in Hawking is nearly complete and we should have four, if not five, working pods very soon now. I have been thinking that, as a reward for everyone’s hard work, we should have a small event to celebrate. Something for people to enjoy. I do not, however, wish to seem insensitive, and I would, therefore appreciate your thoughts.’
What did I think?
I sat quietly in that familiar room, looking at the patch of sunshine on the faded carpet. He’d had his clock repaired. The old familiar tick was back and in some small way, I felt comforted. I heard myself say, ‘I think that’s a good idea sir. You’re right. It is time. Did you have anything specific in mind?’
He leaned forwards. ‘Actually, yes. I am concerned at our current lack of impetus. What this unit needs is a little healthy competition. Nothing too strenuous, of course,’ he said quickly, possibly remembering that the St Mary’s response to anything even remotely competitive is to form the appropriate number of teams, spend ten minutes hurling insults around, and then knock seven bells out of each other. Quarter is neither expected nor given.
I ventured to express a few misgivings. ‘An excellent suggestion, sir, but I can’t help remembering last year’s trebuchet versus ballista tournament, when Mr Keller broke his arm and we inadvertently demolished Mr Strong’s potting shed. It was only due to the greatest good fortune and the call of nature that he wasn’t in it at the time.’
He waved this aside as irrelevant. ‘No one is more aware of the competitive nature of my unit than I, Dr Maxwell, but I hope to neutralise our more savage instincts by proposing a pleasant, gentlemanly game of croquet. In authentic costume, of course. To be followed by afternoon tea on the terrace.’
I blinked. ‘Are you giving us the afternoon off, sir?’
‘I believe that is what I said. Thursday next, I think, if the weather holds. See to it, Dr Maxwell.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Obviously, despite his best intentions, it was never going to end well, but I don’t think any of us realised quite how bizarre the afternoon was going to be. Even by our standards. But I’m always being told off when I run ahead of myself.
I made sure I got to Wardrobe ahead of the crowd, snagging myself a rather pretty tea-gown in pale blue and turquoise. I didn’t intend to play, but I didn’t intend to burden myself with corsets either, and the loose tea-gown was perfect. Matthew immediately defected to the Security team, where they decked him out in knickerbockers and a cap. I wasn’t sure whether his function was first reserve or mascot.
I’m not familiar with the rules of croquet – or indeed any game that involves hitting a ball with a stick. Golf, tennis, hockey, cricket – they all look the same to me. It’s only the shape of the stick that’s different. Unless you’re the Queen of Hearts, of course, when you get to play with flamingos instead. Interesting idea, but difficult to organise at such short notice.