‘Well, you’re the one who somehow got this little fellow caught in my jacket lining, thus bringing something out of its own timeline for the first time ever. You did this, Tim. All I did was get in the way.
‘Just think. It gets caught in my jacket. I bring it back to Rushford. I’m too lazy to give my jacket to Mrs De Winter to clean as she asked me to. We might have lost it then. I’m wearing it when I go to Sick Bay. If I’d changed there, as they wanted, we might have lost it again. I’m still wearing the jacket when Weasel has a go at me and it gets kicked across the room. Suppose someone had trodden on it. And finally, I can’t sleep. I’m looking for things to do and I hear Mrs Partridge, clear as day, say, ‘Do your laundry Miss Maxwell,’ and then and only then do I find this little chap – on his last legs but hanging in there, safe in St Mary’s at last.’
We regarded the little chap fondly. ‘Yes,’ said Peterson, ‘but that’s just it, isn’t it? It’s the fact that he’s on his last legs that made it possible.’
He’d got it!
‘I’m going to take some coffee upstairs,’ I said, casually. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘You don’t drink coffee,’ he said suspiciously.
‘No, can’t stand the stuff.’
I picked up a flask of coffee and two more bacon butties from the kitchen and took them upstairs. He was still sleeping like the dead. I checked him again and left them on my bedside table.
I’d just rejoined Peterson when Mrs Partridge appeared again; clearly another woman who never slept.
‘I did my laundry,’ I said, before she could speak. I meant it as a joke, but the most extraordinary expression of relief spread across her face. Interesting. I would think about that later. In the meantime apparently, the Boss was requesting the pleasure of our company again.
‘Here we go,’ said Peterson as we bounced up the stairs.
He regarded us from behind his desk.
‘I can’t remember a time when you two weren’t standing in front of me.’ I couldn’t think of a response so I grinned at him, just to annoy him some more.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘I want to go through this with you both. Step by step, line by line. Firstly, I want to be absolutely certain this – object – originated from the Cretaceous period and not from the local municipal park. May I see it, please? And the jacket?’
I spread the jacket on the desk and showed him the tear in the lining. I described how I’d bought it, lining intact, from a charity shop about a month ago. I laid the fir cone on the desk. I told him how I’d collected the cones and wrapped them in my jacket. Peterson described throwing it into the pod.
The Boss said, ‘I’d like the Professor to take a look at this. I know there’s not a lot to work with but maybe he can identify the species, hopefully to something that hasn’t existed in the last million years or so. That would really nail it. Now, let’s get to work.’
For two hours we went over my proposals. He challenged every line. I had to justify every word. He pushed. I pushed back. I made my case from every angle possible, advanced every argument I could think of. It was tough – the Boss takes no prisoners.
Peterson, bless him, stuck with me every inch of the way as we slogged through it. I watched the shadows move across the carpet. Lunchtime approached. My mouth got dry and Peterson grew hoarse. I wouldn’t give an inch. I stopped defending and went on the offensive. I questioned St Mary’s established practices and challenged existing thinking. I was in mid-rant when he raised his hand.
‘Enough.’
He stared out of the window for a while. ‘I will speak to my senior staff this afternoon. Please report to me at six this evening. Thank you for your time.’ And that was it.
‘What do you think?’ I asked Peterson as we headed for food and drink.
‘I think I’m hungry.’
‘But is he going to do it?’
‘Of course he is. It’s genius. He was just testing your commitment. Try telling him we’re leaving now!’
Mrs Mack handed me a plate of leaves.
‘What’s this?’
‘Mushroom omelette and salad. Doctor’s orders.’
‘But it’s green.’
‘Green food is good for you’
‘Can’t I have mint choc-chip ice-cream instead?’
‘And this is a glass of orange juice.’
‘What?’
‘And you too, Mr Peterson.’
‘What?’
‘And if you eat it all up, there’s a gooseberry crumble with your name on it.’ I knew she wouldn’t let us down.
‘I’m off to see Helen,’ he said, when we’d finished. I looked at him. He blushed slightly. ‘We have more catching up to do.’
‘You’ll go blind,’ I said and we parted.
He was sitting up in bed drinking coffee from the flask I’d brought. The bacon butties had vanished. He looked much better, as people tend to do when they’ve got fat, calories, salt, sugar, and cholesterol inside them. Bleary and unshaven, but better. I dragged up a chair and put my feet up on the bed. We looked at each other and proceeded to tread carefully.
He raised his mug. ‘Thanks.’