As had all three of us.
Tim Peterson was now Chief Training Officer, and in a moment of inexplicable madness, Dr Bairstow had appointed me Chief Operations Officer. Since my responsibilities now included those loveable pyromaniacs in Research and Development, I still wasn’t sure whether this was A Good Thing or not.
My name is Madeleine Maxwell. I shed the name Madeleine along with my childhood. Unlike Tim and Kal, I’m not tall, slender, and blonde. I’m short, ginger and, while not exactly fat, Leon Farrell, in a breathless and tangled moment, once described me as having ‘ a great deal of barely-restrained exuberance in areas above and below the waist’. I did challenge him on that, but since by then he’d lost the ability to speak, and seconds later, I lost the ability to hear, whatever he did mean remains unclear.
Back in the pod, Kal watched me as I sipped my wine.
‘So, new challenges ahead for all of us. And you, Max, as Chief Operations Officer, you’re going to have to start behaving yourself. No more getting drunk. Or sacked. Or stealing pods. Or seducing Chief Technical Officers. You’ll be Doctor Maxwell, now. You’ll have responsibilities.’
‘Not a problem,’ I said, taking off my stupid bonnet and dropping it on the floor beside my seat. ‘According to the Boss, I’ve been pretty well responsible for everything that’s happened at St Mary’s since I walked through the door. Do you want a top-up?’
‘And now, you have staff,’ she said, laughing at me.
Yes, I had an assistant …
After a lively night celebrating our promotions, (during which we added to the list of things for which I was responsible), I was having a very careful late breakfast.
Mrs Partridge appeared at the table, soundlessly, as she always does. Perhaps it’s in her job spec. Wanted – PA to Director. Must be able to materialise at most inconvenient moments and look judgemental.
‘Dr Maxwell, I’d like to talk to you about your assistant.’
I’d never had one before. I tried to find some enthusiasm.
She said, ‘I wonder if you remember David Sands.’
‘Of course I do,’ I said. ‘He’s the trainee who was involved in that road accident just outside Rushford. Is he out of hospital now?’
‘He is, and has been for several months. He’s ready to return to St Mary’s – is keen to return, in fact. But he’ll never be an historian now. He accepts this, not easily, but he’s a boy of great intelligence and character. The final decision is yours, of course, but it occurred to me he would make a very suitable assistant. Would you like to meet him?’
‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘When?’
‘No time like the present.’ She stepped aside.
David Sands was in a wheelchair. I turned in my seat and held out my hand. ‘Mr Sands.’
‘Dr Maxwell.’
‘I’ll leave you for a moment,’ said Mrs Partridge and disappeared to wherever she goes.
The two of us looked at each other. His hair was shorter than usual for an historian because he wouldn’t need the traditional ‘ one style fits all centuries’ look and his thin face showed lines of strain and pain.
I tried to remember how job interviews went.
‘Tell me why you’re exactly what I need.’
‘I’m efficient and intelligent. I have my doctorate just like you. I know how this place works. I know who to go to for what. I can take a ton of work off your shoulders. I can perform tasks before you even know you need them done. I know how you like your tea and I’ve got an endless supply of knock-knock jokes.’
He had his doctorate. He could go and work at the University of Thirsk, at a job commensurate with his qualifications, but like the rest of us, St Mary’s was in his blood and he’d rather be an assistant here than a higher paid something else somewhere else.
I was mystified. ‘How do you get around the building?’
‘Oh, that’s not a problem. I go up and down in the heavy goods lift.’
I frowned. ‘That doesn’t seem right.’
‘No, it’s OK. Professor Rapson is usually in there with something interesting and we have some good chats. He’s going to try and raise my speed limit.’
‘You’re going to let Professor Rapson tinker with your chair? You’ll probably go into orbit. What sort of idiot are you?’
‘I’m hoping I’m the idiot who works for you, Dr Maxwell.’
‘So am I. You sound too good to be true. What’s your position on chocolate?’
‘You can never have enough,’ he said, pulling a handful of miscellaneous chocolate bars from mysterious depths.
‘You’re hired,’ I said. ‘Starting now.’
Mrs Partridge appeared and raised her eyebrows.
‘Don’t say a word.’