In amongst this welter of slightly scruffy but undoubtedly high-tech equipment, I was amazed to see a small kettle and two mugs nestling quietly on a shelf under a rather large first aid locker.
‘Yes,’ he said, resigned. ‘Show me a cup of tea and I’ll show you at least two historians attached to it.’
The tiny space smelled of stale people, chemicals, hot electrics, and damp carpet, with an underlying smell from the toilet. I would discover all pods smelt the same. Historians joke that techies take the smell then build the pods around it.
‘How does it work?’
He just looked at me. OK then, stupid question.
‘What now?’
‘Is there anything else you would like to see?’
‘Yes, everything.’
So I got the ‘other’ tour. We went to Security where green-clad people were checking weapons and equipment, peering at monitors, running around, and shouting at each other.
‘Is there a problem?’ I asked.
‘No, I’m afraid we’re a noisy bunch. I hope you weren’t expecting hallowed halls of learning.’
I met Major Guthrie, tall with dark blond hair, busy doing something. He broke off to stare at me.
‘Can you shoot? Have you ever fired a weapon? Can you ride? Can you swim? How fit are you?’
‘No. No. Yes. Yes. Not at all.’
He paused and looked me up and down. ‘Could you kill a man?’
I looked him up and down. ‘Eventually.’
He smiled reluctantly and put out his hand. ‘Guthrie.’
‘Maxwell.’
‘Welcome.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I shall be watching your progress with great interest.’
That didn’t sound good.
We finished with a tour of the grounds, which were very pleasant if you discounted the odd scorch marks on the grass and the blue swans. Even as I opened my mouth to ask, there was a small bang from the second floor and the windows rattled.
‘Hold on,’ said Chief Farrell. ‘I’m duty officer this week and I want to see if the fire alarms go off.’
They didn’t.
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ I said.
He sighed. ‘No, it just means they’ve taken the batteries out again.’
This really was my sort of place.
Chapter Two
They say owners get to look like their dogs but this was a case of the trainees getting to look like their institute. St Mary’s was shabby and battered and after a few weeks, so were we.
Only seven of us trainees turned up on Day One. Apparently, there should have been ten. It seemed an average of only 3.5 trainees actually graduated from each course.
‘You’ll be the point five, then,’ said a tall guy to me, presumably alluding to my lack of height. I ignored him. He rammed paperwork into his folder, seemingly not noticing most of it falling out of the bottom as he did so. His nametag said Sussman. He had dark eyes and hair and looked almost Mediterranean – the sort who gets a tan just by looking out of the window.
Next to him stood Grant, a stocky lad with sandy hair and steady blue eyes. He stacked his paperwork neatly with broad, blunt hands and inserted it carefully into his folder, his square, pleasant face thoughtful. He stood next to Nagley, listening as she spoke. She had a clever, intense face and her eyes and hands moved continually. She was as highly strung as he was placid. They made a natural team.
The other girl, Jordan, like me, stood slightly apart, but she looked almost poised for flight, her body language uncertain. I guessed she wasn’t sure she wanted to be there. I was right. She remained aloof and left in the first week. I don’t know what happened; one day she was there and the next day she was gone. There was no point in asking because they never told you. I can’t remember even hearing her voice.
The other two, Rutherford and Stevens, talked together as they sorted their papers. Stevens was a little older than the rest of us, small, chubby, and enthusiastic. He looked excitedly round the room, taking it all in. Rutherford had the big, blunt look of a rugby player.
The first shock was that we lost our academic titles and I became Miss Maxwell again. Only heads of departments had titles. I quite liked it. I could see Miss Maxwell would have far more fun than Dr Maxwell would.
We were shown to our rooms in the newly built Staff Block. Mine was small and shabby and I shared a bathroom with the two other girls, Nagley and Jordan. Laid out on my bed were sets of grey jump suits, possibly the most unflattering garments in history. A neat electronic scratchpad fitted snugly inside a knee pocket. Heavy-weather gear, wet-weather gear, grey T-shirts and shorts, socks and boots completed the set. I unpacked my few belongings and changed. Surveying myself in a mirror, I looked like a small, excited, ginger sack.