I fell in love with the Library, which, together with the Hall, obviously constituted the heart of the building. High ceilings made it spacious and a huge fireplace made it cosy. Comfortable chairs were scattered around and tall windows all along one wall let the sunshine flood in. As well as bays of books they had all the latest electronic information retrieval systems, study areas, and data tables and through an archway, a huge archive.
‘You name it, we’ve got it somewhere,’ said Doctor Dowson, introduced to me as Librarian and Archivist and who appeared to be wearing a kind of sou’wester. ‘At least until that old fool upstairs blows us all sky high. Do you know we sometimes have to wear hard hats?’ he continued indignantly. ‘I keep telling Edward he should house him and his entire team of madmen on the other side of Hawking if we’re to have any chance of survival at all!’
‘Dr Maxwell hasn’t had the interview yet,’ interrupted Mrs De Winter and he subsided into vague muttering. In Latin. I stared somewhat anxiously at the ceiling, which did indeed appear to be blotched and stained, but at least nothing seemed to be eating its way through the fabric of this probably listed building.
‘Did they tell you?’ he demanded. ‘Last year his research team attempted to reproduce the Russian guns at the Charge of the Light Brigade, miscalculated the range, and demolished the Clock Tower?’
‘No,’ I said, answering what I suspected was a rhetorical question. ‘I’m sorry I missed that.’
I was moved firmly along.
We stopped at the entrance to a long corridor, which seemed to lead to a separate, more modern part of the campus. ‘What’s down there?’
‘That’s the hangar where we store our technical plant and equipment. There’s no time to see it at the moment; we should be heading to Dr Bairstow’s office.’
I was thinking about the botched communications that resulted in the Charge of the Light Brigade when I realised someone was speaking to me. A man of medium height, with dark hair and an ordinary face made remarkable by brilliant, light blue-grey eyes smiled at me. He wore an orange jump suit. And unlike nearly everyone else I’d met, he had eyebrows.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I was thinking about the Crimea.’
He smiled. ‘You should fit right in here.’
‘Chief, this is Dr Maxwell.’
‘I haven’t had the interview yet,’ I said, just to let them know I’d been paying attention.
His mouth twitched at one corner.
‘Dr Maxwell, this is our Chief Technical Officer, Leon Farrell.’
I stuck out my hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Farrell.’
‘Most people just call me Chief, Doctor.’ He reached out slowly and we shook hands. His hand felt warm, dry, and hard with calluses. Working man’s hands.
‘Welcome to St Mary’s.’
Mrs De Winter tapped her watch. ‘Dr Bairstow will be waiting.’ I nodded at the Chief and we moved away. In seconds, I had forgotten all about him. I know – attention span of a tea bag.
So, this was Dr Edward Bairstow. His back was to the window as I entered. I saw a tall, bony man, whose fringe of grey hair around his head rather reminded me of the ring of feathers around a vulture’s neck. Away off to the side with a scratchpad in front of her sat a formidable-looking woman in a smartly tailored suit. She looked elegant, dignified, and judgmental. He leaned heavily on a cane and extended a hand as cold as my own.
‘Dr Maxwell, welcome. Thank you for coming.’ His quiet, clear voice carried immense authority. I never heard him shout. He was not a man who had to raise his voice for attention. His sharp eyes assessed me. He gave no clue as to his conclusions. I’m not usually that good with authority, but this was definitely an occasion on which to tread carefully.
‘Thank you for inviting me, Dr Bairstow.’ I do have some manners.
‘This is my PA, Mrs Partridge. Shall we sit down?’
We settled ourselves and it began. For the first hour, we talked about me. I got the impression that no acknowledged next of kin and a lack of personal ties constituted a point in my favour. He already had details of my qualifications and we talked for a while about the post-grad stuff in archaeology and anthropology and my work experience and travels. He was particularly interested in how I found living in other countries and amongst other cultures. How easy was it for me to pick up languages and make myself understood? Did I ever feel isolated amongst other communities? How did I get around? How long to become assimilated?
‘Why did you choose history, Dr Maxwell? With all the exciting developments in the Space Programme over the last ten years and the Mars Project in its final stages, what made you choose to look backwards instead of forwards?’