We set up tables and chairs along the terrace. A croquet … pitch? … court? …whatever … had been laid out. We had six teams and the smart money was on the Wardrobe Wanderers, who were generally reckoned to be unstoppable and led by Mrs Enderby herself, decked out in a high-necked blouse and long, full skirt. Her bustle was assumed to be weaponised and was being given a wide berth.
There would be a number of preliminary heats, then we’d pause for afternoon tea – the word sumptuous had been used several times – before the Grand Final. A small cup was to be presented to the winners by Dr Bairstow himself, stunningly attired in a crimson and cream striped blazer and crisp cream trousers. He sat with Mrs Partridge, who looked cool and elegant in white and carried a pink parasol.
Everyone, competitors and spectators alike, had made an effort with their costumes. I was wearing my pretty tea-gown with my hair coiled up in an elegant knot. And no corset. You can’t eat afternoon tea in a corset.
Nearby, Miss Sykes wore a saintly expression and a pretty pink dress with more ruffles than was probably legal. Miss Lingoss, always different, had chosen a striking crimson affair, with her corset worn over the dress, which, I have to say, was a huge improvement on the way Victorian and Edwardian ladies wore them. Her hair was teased up to a height that Marge Simpson would envy. Even the men had shown willing, all of them in crisp white shirts and flannels, tied around the waist with old school ties. One or two souls not sensitive to public opinion wore straw boaters.
We arranged ourselves at the tables. I sat with Peterson, Lingoss and a blushing but delighted Dottle. We poured ourselves glasses of lemonade, made from an authentic recipe – Peterson surreptitiously added something from a small flask – and we watched the bloodbath begin. It was a knockout competition – sometimes quite literally – and the last two teams standing would slug it out on the green velvet perfection of Mr Strong’s beloved South Lawn.
The History Department crashed out in the first round, but Miss Sykes’s parting shot had led to Mr Evans staggering from the field, temporarily hors de combat and vowing future retribution, so we didn’t feel all honour had been lost.
Peterson and I took advantage of the lull caused by the medical section getting people back on their feet again to take a walk around the lake. We paused by the willows and looked back at St Mary’s. Just for once, it wasn’t raining, the building glowed in the afternoon sunshine, the birds were singing, the swans were all safely at the other end of the lake. It was a lovely peaceful scene. Even the wounded had stopped bleeding.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ he said, as we slowly skirted the willows. In this dress, I had to do everything slowly.
‘Yes,’ I said, quite surprised to find I was. ‘Are you?’
He nodded. ‘It’s good to do something just for fun, don’t you think?’
‘I do. I’d almost forgotten what fun is.’
‘Me too. It’s nice to see you smile again. Max, I wanted to ask you…’ He stopped.
‘Yes?’
‘I wanted to ask if … if you’ve made up your mind about letting the Time Police take Matthew.’
I wasn’t sure that was what he had originally meant to say.
‘No. I mean, no, I don’t think so.’
‘Do you mean you haven’t made up your mind or you don’t think you’ll send him.’
‘I don’t know.’ I tried to keep my voice steady. ‘I honestly don’t know. I only know he’s all I have left of … of Leon.’
‘I understand,’ he said, and we walked in silence for a while. ‘On the other hand,’ he continued, struggling for a lighter tone, ‘if you do send him then his drinking from the toilet will become someone else’s problem. That’s got to be a temptation.’
‘It certainly is.’
He touched my hand. ‘Is everything all right with you?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it is. Everything is absolutely fine.’
‘Good. Now tell me the truth.’
We walked a little further. ‘I’m not sure I can put it into words, Tim. When I first came to St Mary’s, I was alone. A solitary unit – and happy to be so. And then, over the years, things got … switched on. I learned to trust people. I met Leon. There was love. Marriage. Family. I was all set for a life I never thought would be mine, and I was right. Nothing ever came of any of it. Look what happened. Everything is gone. Just ripped away. But I can’t go back to the way I was. I’ve opened myself up. Made myself vulnerable.’ I swallowed. ‘It’s … painful.’
‘You still have Matthew.’
‘But not for long, I suspect.’
‘You don’t have to do it. They can’t take him against your wishes.’
‘They’ll give him an education. He’ll be safe. He can be himself. He’ll never have to pretend or lie. And he doesn’t like me, Tim. Oh, he tolerates me and sometimes, in the evenings, we have a bit of a chat, but he’s not warming to me. He probably never will and I don’t know what to do about it. And the non-mother half of me says to let him go. He’ll be happy. Even the mother half of me suspects it’s a good idea.’
‘But what do you want to do.’
‘It’s not what I want. That doesn’t really come into it. I can’t keep him here just to make me feel better.’
‘What does he say?’
‘I haven’t asked him yet.’
‘But you will.’
‘Yes, I will. I promised I would. I’ll have to pick a moment when he’s not too displeased with me, otherwise it looks as if I’m sending him away out of spite. Sadly, those moments are few and far between.’ I smiled a wobbly smile. ‘I’m not a very good mother.’
‘I don’t agree,’ he said. ‘You’re not a conventional mother but that’s not to say you’re a bad mother.’ He stopped walking. ‘Actually, Max, I was going to ask you if perhaps…’ and he stopped, staring over my shoulder, apparently struggling for words. ‘Bloody hellfire! … What? … What?‘
Long dress notwithstanding, I swung around. Now what?
It takes a lot to catch St Mary’s off balance. Over the years, we’ve been attacked, blown up, gassed – several times actually, because Professor Rapson just can’t work out where he’s going wrong – mobbed by swans, crushed and drowned by a runaway monolith, the list is long and we’ve risen above all of it. We’re St Mary’s, we say, and our proud boast is that we can handle anything, and that’s true, but you can imagine my surprise and consternation when, out of the blue, a bloody great teapot materialised. Right in front of us. Right in the middle of the South Lawn and flattening a croquet hoop at the same time.
We’re supposed to be a professional organisation. We’re supposed to swing into action like a well-oiled … something or other, all ready to deal with whatever threat is presenting itself. We drew nearer for a better look. Yes, I know we should have let the Security Section deal with it but it was teapot, for crying out loud.
All conversation stopped dead. In itself a remarkable event. As a measure of our consternation, one or two people nearly put down their cups of tea. Apart from the distant sound of a car changing gear somewhere, there was complete silence. I’m sorry to say that far from springing into action like a well-oiled thingummy, we froze with our mouths open. Yes, I know, but you try having a giant teapot drop into your front garden and see how quickly you can get your mouth closed.
I stared at the … contraption. The word that sprang to mind was ‘steampunk’ and I don’t even know what that means. If it means a twelve-feet-high precarious-looking structure, bulbously teapot in shape then yes – steampunk. An extrusion on one side looked like, but couldn’t possibly be, a spout and a corresponding bulge on the other side resembled the handle. I had no idea what it could be made of, but I do know it was painted in shades of khaki and brown that were blistering and peeling away – where they weren’t scraped off altogether – and with an amateurishly rendered Union Jack on the side. Significant dents and dints indicated some major collisions. It didn’t appear to be making any sort of noise, but then in my experience, most teapots don’t.