The Great St Mary's Day Out (2 page)

He remained unmoved. ‘Or
you
could ask Hunter.'

‘Or we could get Peterson to ask Hunter.'

He grinned. ‘These days, I'd be astonished if Peterson even knows what day of the week it is.'

‘I know. Who'd have thought she would say yes?'

‘Do you think people are following our good example?'

‘I'm surprised they don't regard us as a horrible warning.'

He looked down at me. ‘I thought you quite liked being married.'

‘Yes,' I said, considering. ‘Some days it's not too bad.'

He folded his arms. ‘That's it? That's all you've got? “Some days it's not too bad”?'

‘I thought you would prefer that to “Some days it's really not good at all.” Anyway, can we please stop talking about matrimony? Will you be taking part in this cultural jaunt?'

We don't both go on the same jumps – that was the deal. We'd shaken hands on it. Because if anything horrible ever happened – and it usually does – then our baby son would be an orphan.

He shook his head. ‘Not if you want to go.'

‘Do you want to toss for it?'

‘No. You take this one. I'll have first refusal on the next.'

‘Deal.'

We shook on this too.

People were in and out of my office all day. I got no work done at all.

‘Nothing new there then,' said my assistant, Rosie Lee.

I regarded her coldly. ‘Why are you here?'

‘I work here.'

‘Really? When did that happen?'

‘If you were ever here, you'd be able to answer that question yourself.'

I decided to ignore this. ‘Could you get me the King Alfred file, please?'

She regarded me with some hostility. I hastened to make things easier for her.

‘A file is a collection of documents. In a blue folder. Blue for the History Department.' I plucked at my blue jumpsuit to make my point.

The hostile stare did not waver.

‘And it will have Alfred the Great and the file reference in the top right hand...'

‘Just like that one on your desk there?'

‘...corner, just like this one on my desk here.'

I picked up the file and opened it.

She stood up. ‘Comfort break.'

‘Make my tea first. You know the rules.'

She sighed loudly. ‘If we had union representation here then I wouldn't have to do this.'

‘If we had union representation here then you'd never have been employed in the first place.'

She banged the kettle down. ‘I should be paid what I'm worth.'

‘You'd better hope you never are. Where's my tea?'

She changed the subject. ‘So who's going then?'

I scrabbled through my bits of paper. ‘A mixed bunch. Dr Bairstow, of course, which is nice because he doesn't get out much. Peterson, Markham, Guthrie, North, Sykes, Atherton, Mrs Enderby – costume research, she says – Mrs Mack, because she wants to check out what people are eating, Evans, Keller, Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson – obviously because the 17
^th
century isn't a time in which they've blown something up yet and they want to rectify that situation as soon as possible – and Lingoss.'

She stared at me. ‘Aren't you going? I was hoping to be rid of you for a whole day.'

‘And me. I shall be leaving you a list of tasks to accomplish during my absence, although I don't know why – it's not as if you accomplish any tasks during my presence. And I shall be locking up the chocolate biscuits, of course.'

My mug of tea was banged down in front of me with quite unnecessary force.

Since Clerk wasn't going on this one, I was the designated driver. Or mission controller if you want to give me my correct title. Which no one ever did. I had to endure many enquiries as to whether I could remember what to do.

We assembled outside TB2 – our big transport pod. I'd calculated that we'd need at least four smaller pods to fit all of us in and that many would make us conspicuous. Besides, with so many inexperienced people on the assignment, I preferred us to jump together. I didn't want anyone being left behind if we had to leave in a hurry, and all the evidence to date suggested that we would.

I ran my eye over the group. We were dressed as lower middle-class citizens. Unimportant but relatively prosperous. Our clothing was dark and respectable, but the material was as good as the Sumptuary Laws allowed. This was an age where clothing defined social status – and vice versa. Peterson had suggested Markham wear a small sack.

I wore a linen chemise, high at the neck, with a dark brown woollen dress over the top, belted at the memory of my waist. My bum roll gave me that authentic wide-hipped Tudor look, although strictly speaking, the bum roll might not have been necessary. I'd covered my hair with a coif and looked every inch the respectable Tudor matron. All the women wore variations on the same theme in shades of brown and russet. The men wore linen shirts and doublets with leather or woollen sleeveless jerkins over the top, trousers to their knees and shoes and stockings. And beards. Well, as much beard as they'd managed to assemble in a little under a fortnight. Which in some cases wasn't very much at all. There had been general mocking and ridicule.

Bearing in mind the length of the performance, I was carrying a broad-weave wicker basket containing bread, cheese, a small pasty, two apples, a flask of water and a toilet roll. I'd covered all the contents with a heavy cloak in which I had secreted a bar of chocolate the size of Plynlimon.

‘It's June,' said Peterson, in amusement, looking at my cloak.

‘June can be very chilly at this time of year.'

We landed in Bankside, at the back of the Bear Garden, which, mercifully, appeared to be closed for the day. The Bear Garden was synonymous with noise, confusion, turmoil and unruly behaviour. Hence the expression – noisy as a Bear Garden. According to Leon, it's only a matter of time before Bear Garden is deleted and St Mary's inserted instead. I wondered if perhaps they didn't open on Globe performance days – too much competition. Whatever the reason, the massive wooden structure – actually very similar in shape to the Globe – was silent today.

We walked quickly past. Southwark is not a respectable area, being full of taverns, bear pits, whorehouses and the like. And the Globe, of course – actors being considered the dregs of society and best kept outside the city walls.

The day was overcast, with heavy clouds, but warm enough. ‘Hope it's not going to rain,' said Markham, glancing up at the sky.

I had split us into three groups of five. Not feeling that either Miss Sykes or Dr Bairstow were yet ready to spend several hours in each other's company, I'd lumped her in with the other two weirdos, Dr Dowson and Professor Rapson, with Keller from Security and sensible, steady Atherton to keep them in order.

The next group – the Respectable Team as I'd named them in my head – consisted of Dr Bairstow, Miss North, Mrs Enderby and Mrs Mack. It was hard to see how any of that lot could topple off the rails, so they had only Major Guthrie to keep them in line.

I'd spent a great deal of time trying to achieve this happy mix of departments – ‘happy' being a more appropriate word than ‘balanced'. And more accurate, too.

My group consisted of Peterson and me – historians – Evans and Markham – security – and Miss Lingoss, whose purple hair was currently being restrained by copious amounts of hair gel and an industrial-strength wimple.

We had a few hours to kill before the performance started. Dr Bairstow doled out the spending money with all the reluctance of Scrooge handing a penny to a starving orphan in a snowstorm, and the other two teams disappeared. The Weirdos were off to the docks because Professor Rapson was passing through one of his nautical phases and wanted to check out the ships moored below London Bridge. Under Elizabeth, England was a powerful maritime nation. Sir Francis Drake had circumnavigated the world, English ships were trading everywhere, and piracy was the career of choice for many adventurous young men.

The Respectable Team were off to investigate the markets. Mesdames Mack and Enderby were practically frothing at the mouth in anticipation of investigating Tudor food and haberdashery. It seemed safe to assume that in the company of Major Guthrie and Dr Bairstow, nothing much could go wrong there, either.

Our beat was Borough High Street and London Bridge.

‘Max and I have been here before,' said Peterson to the others. ‘We'll show you around if you like.'

We emerged into the crowded, noisy high street and looked around.

Peterson inhaled deeply. ‘Don't you just love the smell of History in the morning?'

I stood for a moment, lost in the past. Yes, even more in the past than 1601, because Peterson was right – we'd been here before, back in the 14
^th
century, and almost nothing had changed. Some of the houses fronting Borough High Street were larger and more modern, but not many. The road was still more than ankle deep in dust, old vegetables, rotting straw, animal shit, human shit and some evil-smelling, greyish pink tubes that smelled so bad that even a passing dog left them alone. People still yelled at each other at the tops of their voices. Women shouldered their way through the throng with baskets over their arms. A goose-girl struggled to keep her flock together. Occasionally a dust-covered rider on a lathered horse would force his way towards the bridge, possibly carrying a message for the Queen. One nearly knocked us over and Peterson pulled us back against the wall out of the way.

We brushed off the dust of his passing. ‘Hey,' said Peterson, staring over my shoulder, ‘St Thomas's Hospital is just down there. Remember?'

‘How could I ever forget?'

‘I got bubonic plague.'

‘Yes, I remember.'

‘And then I peed on you.'

‘Yes, I remember that too.'

‘We should erect a plaque.'

‘In that case, there should be one on Westminster Abbey too, because you peed on me there, as well.'

He smiled at me fondly. ‘Nothing but the best for you, Max.'

We wandered along Borough High Street, down towards London Bridge.

‘It doesn't actually look that different from the last time,' said Tim, staring about him.

‘How would you know? You were unconscious for most of it.'

‘Self-defence. I took one look at you aiming that knife at my privates and chose unconsciousness.'

‘You fainted, you wuss.'

‘He should be so lucky,' said Markham. ‘I remember going to Egypt with her once. One minute everything's fine and the next minute she's ripping off my clothes and chucking me in the Nile.'

‘For your own good,' I said, indignantly.

‘Yeah, well, don't get any ideas today.

‘This was a voluntary assignment. You didn't have to come.'

‘Like two historians and her...' he nodded his head at Miss Lingoss, ‘are likely to get more than ten feet without needing the help of the Security Section.'

‘He does get agitated these days,' said Peterson, thoughtfully. ‘Do you think married life is getting him down?'

We waited hopefully.

‘What gets me down,' said Markham, heatedly, ‘is being out in the field with you three without a battalion of marines, a couple of tank regiments and air cover to back me up.'

Time to change the subject.

‘Anyway,' said Peterson, looking up and down the street, ‘the buildings are much the same, the church is still here. The Tabard is still up there. Shame we missed Chaucer.'

‘Well, if you hadn't contracted the plague then we wouldn't have, would we?'

‘Are you ever going to let that drop?'

‘I wonder what happened to Brother Anselm.'

Brother Anselm was the monk who had given us shelter while Peterson recovered from what he still referred to as his ‘slight twinge of bubonic plague'. I remembered his bright, bird-like gaze and his gentle kindness.

Peterson smiled at his own memory and then said, ‘I'm sure he spent his days busily and happily and reaped his just reward in the end.'

‘I hope so.'

We walked down to the river, which was heaving with boats. In these days, the streets were so narrow and badly paved that the Thames was
the
major thoroughfare. Water boatmen ferried people around in wherries or skiffs. Up and down as well as from one side to another. Their boats ranged in size from flimsy-looking coracle-style craft to substantial boats that could take up to ten people. They were all doing a roaring trade because London still only had the one bridge and that was packed with people as well. It was obviously easier and quicker to move by river.

Heavily laden barges fought against the current as they ferried their commercial cargoes upstream. Occasionally, a horn would blast as someone important sought to force their way up or down river. There didn't seem to be a traffic system of any kind. Boats milled about in all directions. Boatmen roared abuse at each other and even their passengers exchanged insults and less than polite instructions to get out of the way.

The bigger boats were moored south of London Bridge. I stared downriver at the forest of masts, black against the sky.

‘Is that
the
London Bridge?' said Evans, in awe. ‘Are those houses on it? Do people actually live on the bridge?'

‘They do,' said Peterson. ‘And it's not only houses, either. There's a chapel, shops, a mill, even a gatehouse complete with drawbridge. May I draw your attention to the severed heads displayed up there?'

‘Cool,' said Lingoss, squinting for a better view and we all stared at the massive structure that was London Bridge, with its nineteen gothic arches and seven-storey buildings, many of which overhung the river. Useful for a quick pee, I suppose. You just hung your bum out of the window.