We sat at one of the quiet tables in the dining room and got to know one another.
The food probably wasn’t quite what he was accustomed to. Here at St Mary’s, our needs are simple. So long as there’s plenty of it and it’s covered in gravy – or custard – or sometimes both – we’re usually quite happy. We’re an unsophisticated bunch.
We work for the St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research, which in turn is loosely attached to the ancient and venerable University of Thirsk. St Mary’s is shabby and battered and so are we. We have two main functions – to record and document major historical events in contemporary time (oh, all right, call it time-travel if you must) and not dying. We’re pretty good at the first one. The second needs more work.
Eddie chatted happily through dinner. I asked him why Sir Isaac.
‘Oh, he’s a childhood hero of mine. The man was a colossus – the reflecting telescope, optics, mathematics, gravity … what a remarkable intellect. And now, I’m actually going to see him in person. It’s wonderful, Max – a lifelong ambition about to be achieved.’
He chugged back his water. No wine. We don’t drink the night before a jump. At least, not since Baverstock and Lower set the coordinates after a night on the pop and found themselves more involved in the Siege of Paris than they could have wished.
‘So tell me, my dear. What about you? What’s your lifelong ambition?’
‘Well, short-term, Professor, to return my department to their original colouring.’
‘Yes, Edward and I had a good chuckle over that.’
I tried – and failed – to imagine Dr Bairstow chuckling. Sometimes when he was pleased, he did display the satisfaction of an elderly vulture unexpectedly encountering a dead donkey. But chuckling …
Chief Farrell wandered past on his way back to Hawking Hangar, smiled just for me alone, and then said politely, ‘Good evening, Max. Good evening, Professor.’
Professor Penrose watched him go, then turned to me, his eyes twinkling. ‘Your young man?’
He didn’t miss much, for sure.
‘I’m not sure I’d call him young, Professor.’
He laughed. ‘At my age, my dear, everyone is young. Should we have asked him to join us?’
‘He won’t stop. He’s busy working on our pod. We’re in Number Eight.’
Pods are our centre of operations. They jump us back to whichever time period we’ve been assigned. They’re small, apparently built of stone, flat-roofed, and inconspicuous in any century you care to name. We eat, work, and sleep in them. They too, are shabby and battered. Especially my pod, Number Eight, which has seen more than its fair share of action over the years. Tim had given the professor an introductory tour so he’d already encountered the unique pod smell – overloaded electrics, wet carpet, hot historians, the backed-up toilet, and, for some reason, cabbage. Eau de pod.
‘And your long-term ambitions, Max?’
He was persistent as well.
I had a bit of a think.
‘Well, Troy has always been my ultimate goal, of course …’
‘Yes, so I understand, but what next?’
I fiddled with my fork.
‘Well, Agincourt would be nice …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well …’ I fiddled a bit more.
‘Goodness gracious. I suspect some disreputable secret. I should, of course, murmur politely and change the subject, but other people’s disreputable secrets are always so interesting.’
I laughed. ‘Well, it’s a secret, but not really disreputable, Professor. Sorry to disappoint you.’
He leaned forwards. ‘Tell me anyway.’
My mind went back to that particular evening, just a few short months ago.
After all the Mary Stuart dust had settled, we – Leon Farrell and I – had gone on a date. A real one, I mean, with posh frock, heels, make-up, everything. …
And it had been magical. Just for once, no one from St Mary’s was around. It didn’t rain. Nothing caught on fire. No one was chasing us. It was just a perfect evening.
I met him in the Hall.
He was studying a whiteboard with his head on one side.
‘Did Marie Antoinette really carry on speaking after she’d been beheaded?’
‘Well, the legend says her lips carried on moving for some time afterwards, if that counts as speaking. If the brain can function for three minutes without oxygen, I suppose it’s possible her last thoughts could be articulated for maybe part of that time. I'm not sure whether her voice box would work though. I’d have to ask Helen.’
I realised too late that it might have been more appropriate on a date just to have said just yes or no and changed the subject to something a little less death-related. I was very conscious of being completely out of my social depth.
We set off for the village pub, The Falconberg Arms. Our date had to be within walking distance because I’d recently driven his car into the lake. Long story.