Not a solitary soul moved. Even the birds had shut up. I’ll say it again. We had a twelve-foot-high teapot standing on our croquet lawn.
Anyway, while we were all sitting there, gaping like a bunch of idiots, a hatch lifted up, and a head appeared out of the top, peering around, rather like a cross between a submarine periscope and a meerkat.
As Mr Evans said afterwards, all right, yes, he probably should have done something, but it’s quite difficult to feel threatened by something that looked like a giant, patriotic, tea-dispensing appliance from his Great-Aunt Jemima’s best dinner service.
The head looked around for a minute, caught sight of us, stared hard at our Victorian attire, and then said, ‘Damn and blast.’ Bending back down to address someone still inside the machine, he shouted, ‘You’d better get up here, Mikey. We’ve gone wrong somewhere.’
Surveying us all, he cleared his throat and, enunciating carefully, said, ‘Good afternoon. Er … jolly topping weather, what?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ muttered Peterson, ‘Come on, Max. Let’s go and see what’s happened now, shall we?’
‘Try keeping me away.’
We walked slowly towards the teapot, with Evans and the rest of the Security Section pulling themselves together and approaching from the other side. They might have looked more professional if they had put down their slices of Victoria sponge, although Evans and Cox had had the forethought to pick up their croquet mallets. Since the intruders were some ten or twelve feet off the ground, it was hard to know their intentions.
Peterson halted and looked up at them squinting into the sunshine. ‘Identify yourselves.’
The head beamed. ‘Um … well… I know you’re not going to believe this, but…’ he paused impressively, and then announced sonorously, ‘we’re from … The Future.’
Somewhat taken aback by the lack of response, he continued valiantly. ‘We come in peace. We mean you no harm.’
‘Someone should explain it’s likely to be the other way around,’ I muttered. ‘Do you think he’ll ask to be taken to our leader?’
‘Not if he’s got any sense.’
‘We’re…’ he paused even more impressively, obviously playing some sort of trumpet fanfare in his head, ‘… Time Travellers!’
‘Yawn,’ said Sykes, behind me.
Well, I suppose it had to happen sometime. According to the Time Police, the secret of time travel was – sorry, will be – public property, with amateurs zipping about all over the place trying to shoot Hitler, prevent the assassination of a US president – nine at the last count, and four in the last twenty years, so they’re not doing that well – unexecute Mary Stuart, change the final score at Bosworth and now, apparently, visit St Mary’s. You can see why, of course. St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research. First and best. Where it all started. I stood with Peterson in the warm afternoon sunshine and we waited to see what would happen next.
‘Er … my name’s Adrian and this is…’ another head popped up alongside, ‘this is Mikey. We’re awfully sorry, but we seem to be in the wrong place. We’ll be off. So sorry to have disturbed you. Good afternoon.’
Well, they had lovely manners.
‘Not so fast,’ said Peterson. ‘Get your arses down here right now, the pair of you.’
‘Well, that’s not very Victorian,’ said Mikey.
‘Neither am I,’ said Peterson. ‘Get yourselves down here now before I have the pair of you shot.’
‘Oh. OK then,’ said Adrian, not particularly fazed by the threat. ‘You might want to stand back a little.’
‘Why?’
A heavy wooden ladder was heaved out of the hatch and thudded to the ground, missing his head by inches. By the time Peterson had recovered, Adrian was carefully climbing down, closely followed by Mikey.
Seen close up, they were much younger than I had first thought. Adrian was tall and gawky, wearing a long leather greatcoat. Mikey was smaller and wore what looked like a genuine WWII leather flying jacket. They both wore flying helmets and, for no discernible reason that I could see, goggles. I doubted either of them was out of their teens. Which wouldn’t go down well with Dr Bairstow.
Men might be from Mars and women from Venus, but Dr Bairstow is from St Mary’s, the centre of the universe and, as far as he’s concerned, teenagers are from the other side of the Ort cloud. He has frequently been heard to express his astonishment that SETI are concentrating their search for extra-terrestrial life in space, when everyone can see there are several billion aliens (or teenagers as the rest of the world refers to them) already inhabiting Planet Earth.
The two of them stood in front of us, staring around in open curiosity.
‘Where are we?’
‘Where are you supposed to be?’
‘St Mary’s Institute. We wanted to see where it all started.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ said Bashford. He glared accusingly at Evans. ‘We’re supposed to be a top-secret establishment and we’re easier to get into than that new nightclub in Rushford.’
‘Not the Golden Pussy?’ said Keller.
‘I think you mean the Black Cat.’
He grinned. ‘I know what I mean.’
I cleared my throat. We were, to all intents and purposes being invaded by what looked like a collection of giant dustbins held together by a paperclip, and our Security Section was busy discussing Rushford’s one and only nocturnal entertainment establishment. The Black Cat could supply the discerning patron with exorbitantly priced drinks, energetic young ladies and their poles, and gambling facilities for the inexperienced. The Security Section had taken out block membership. They thought Dr Bairstow didn’t know.
‘This is St Mary’s,’ said Peterson, because there was no point in denying it. For a start, there was a bloody great sign on the grass verge outside the gates.
They stared at us and our costumes. ‘But…’
‘Croquet tournament,’ said Peterson, putting them out of their misery. ‘Mr Evans, if you would be so good.’
He stepped forwards. ‘OK guys – you probably know the drill. Assume the position. Are you armed?’
‘Of course not,’ said Adrian, indignantly, turning to face the teapot and raising his arms, obviously well acquainted with the procedure.
I found myself alongside an anxious looking Mikey. ‘I’ll do this one,’ I said. ‘Arms in the air. Anything in your pockets?’
‘Um, a compass, some string, matches, my notebook, a small mirror, spare socks, two pens, my piece of cheese…’
‘Cheese?’
‘To replace the salt. Sometimes, after a jump, we feel a bit wobbly.’
‘Oh?’ said Peterson, sharply. ‘How wobbly.’
‘Just a bit sick, sometimes.’
I’d finished with Mikey. ‘All clear.’
‘Can I have my cheese back?’
‘No,’ I said, dropping it onto the grass. The ants could have it.
‘My cheese,’ cried Mikey, stricken.
‘I’ll get you another lump,’ I said, feeling as if I’d just drowned someone’s kitten. ‘What are your feelings towards Double Gloucester?’
‘Cheddar,’ said Adrian, over his shoulder.
‘Boring,’ said Mikey. ‘Wensleydale.’
I glanced towards Mrs Mack and she got up.
Peterson was talking to Dieter, who disappeared, signalling to several techies to follow him.
Adrian drew himself up. ‘Take us to your leader.’
‘Love to,’ said Peterson. ‘This way.’
As we set off, Dieter and his team passed us, clutching bits of technical equipment and a wand, which they began to wave around.
He looked at the ladder and then at Adrian. ‘All right to go in? I’d really like to have a look inside.’
‘Of course,’ said Adrian amiably. ‘Be our guest.’
I was torn between watching the enormous Dieter negotiate the ladder and then squeeze himself in through the hatch, or seeing what our two guests and Dr Bairstow made of each other. Dr Bairstow won. He always does.
I performed the introductions. ‘Sir, may I introduce Adrian and Mikey. Adrian and Mikey, this is Dr Bairstow.’
They just stared at him, speechless, for once. Talk about shock and awe.
I think he completely took the wind out of their sails by asking them to join him for tea.