I have no idea who won the first race. The survivors limped away, all with foaming tankards to aid convalescence. Several young men lay sprawled on the ground and had to be carried away. Astonishingly, deaths were rare.
Our guys were in the second race. St Mary’s spectators, distributed evenly around the battleground, waved and cheered as they lined up with the other competitors. They waved back. Precariously. The slightest movement caused people to lose their footing. The Master of Ceremonies, bright in his red coat, called everyone to order.
‘One to be ready,
Two to be steady,
Three to prepare,
Four to be off!’
The crowd roared encouragement and I woke up in SickBay.
What the hell?
Helen was going ballistic. I could see her mouth opening and closing. If I bothered to listen, I would probably be able to hear what she was saying as well. Whatever it was, it can’t have been that serious, because Hunter was bashing away at her scratchpad with a huge grin on her face.
Finally, I said weakly, ‘What happened?’
Helen unhooked the chart from the bottom of the bed and held it up. I focused with some difficulty.
‘CBBC? What the hell is CBBC?’
‘Concussed By Bloody Cheese.’
Hunter gave up the struggle and snorted her way out of the room. Such unprofessional behaviour. She was definitely off my Christmas card list.
‘What the hell …?’
‘You forgot to duck.’
‘When?’
‘Five seconds before a 9lb Double Gloucester smacked you between the eyes would have been the best time.’
The bloody cheese-rolling!
Peterson stuck his head round the door. ‘Hunter says she’s awake. Can I come in?’
‘If you must.’
First things first. ‘Tim, did we win?’
‘Inconclusive, sadly. The cheese veered off into the crowd, causing a certain amount of consternation and was never seen again. Two farmers carried you down the hill. They dropped you twice. The crowd loved it. Almost as good as the race itself. You joined the heap of St Mary’s incapacitated at the bottom.’
‘Oh God. What’s the damage?’
‘Three broken bones,
Two gammy knees,
And a particularly painful dislocated shoulder, ’ he warbled to the tune of “The Twelve Days of Christmas”. ‘Oh – and a nasty case of CBBC. Don’t you remember anything?’
‘No. Not after the first race. Didn’t any of you stop to help me?’
‘How? Trust me, once you start, you can’t stop. A bit like you and chocolate. I had a vague glimpse of you on your back, legs akimbo and then I’m afraid I had to concentrate on my own personal difficulties. Dieter took you off the farmers and carried you back to the pod and we laid you out with the other casualties. You were the only one who actually lost consciousness. I should warn you – Markham took photos. Oh, and you’ll be thrilled to hear, Dr Dowson, although too excited to remember to record the first race, definitely got the second – what little there was of it – but it quite clearly shows you head-butting a giant cheese and falling flat on your back and showing your drawers. There’s talk of putting it on YouTube. Unless you cough up. I believe the going rate is about ￡50.’
‘What?’
‘Per head.’
‘ But that’s … daylight robbery.’
‘No, it’s revenge.’
‘For what?’
‘You know, the butter incident. Oh – and there’s a T-shirt as well. I’ve chased the cheese. Except for yours. Yours just has a large duck on it. Because you didn’t. Duck, I mean. You do know you’re never, ever going to live this down, don’t you?’
‘You bastard!’
I threw back the covers but Helen had him out of the room before I could get to him.
I cursed them all, but there was no choice. I paid up. Several charities did very well out of St Mary’s that year. And once again, Dr Bairstow had known exactly what he was doing. The Great St Mary’s Day Out was a huge success. Unless you were suffering from post-CBBC trauma, of course. Even I felt my mind lighten as we put Troy behind us and moved on.
Chapter Sixteen
I was hanging over the gallery, waiting for Peterson and watching my department argue their way through the day when Rosie Lee approached, waving a yellow telephone message.
‘Can you see Mr Strong at the stables, this afternoon? About three?’
‘Do you know why?’
‘What am I? Psychic?’
‘Did you even ask?’
‘What am I? Your assistant?’
‘Would you like to be? I don’t actually have one.’
‘It was a bad line and he was in a hurry. I could barely make him out. Have you let your side-saddle hours lapse again?’
‘Of course not,’ I said, indignantly, when a more accurate answer would have been yes.