And the Rest Is History(79)

I hadn’t meant the words to ring around the room like that, but I was quite pleased with the effect.

‘Of course not. I apologise if, in my haste to reassure you, I expressed myself badly.’

I let the silence hang around for a while. Just to let the guilt settle. She’d been clumsy. She knew it. The Time Police were not noted for their subtlety. They’d handled the affair with Clive Ronan very badly. No need to mention that. It’s always far more effective to let these things hang in the air, unspoken. I never say to Leon, ‘Told you so.’

Said to Leon. I never said to Leon. No more present tense.

I stared down at my hands, shutting everyone out. One thought ran through everything. I won’t lose Matthew again. I just won’t.

Something of this must have shown in my face because she said gently, ‘I do understand Max. We all do. This is not an easy decision for you to make.’

‘I can’t decide this now. I must talk to Matthew and hear what he has to say. I should tell you that if he doesn’t want to go then that will be the end of it. And it won’t be soon. He still doesn’t know about … about his father.’

‘I agree. I ask only that you allow me to speak to him as well, to make my own case.’

I hesitated.

‘We’ve known each other a while now, Max. We sat down at the same table after the Battle of St Mary’s and thrashed out the working agreement which has served us both so well. We trusted each other then. Can we not do so now?’

She was right. Yes, I was prejudiced against the Time Police and I had good reasons for that. They’d hunted Leon and me up and down the timeline, doing untold damage along the way – and everything that had happened to us recently – Helen, Ian, Markham, Leon – all those deaths were the direct result of their monumental cock-up over Clive Ronan. And now they wanted me to give up my son to them.

But, said the voice of reason, they’re not all bad all the time. They saved you and Matthew when that bastard Ronan had marooned you in History. They took in Van Owen when she desperately needed a home and direction. You named Matthew after Captain Ellis. Commander Hay isn’t Colonel Albay. They’re not the same organisation they once were.

All this was true. Part of me argued it wouldn’t take much for them to revert back to their old ways, but that’s true of anyone. We all change to suit existing circumstances. We evolve.

She said gently, ‘Perhaps you would find it reassuring to know we have several other youngsters in our care. In addition to all the benefits I have described, he would have the company of his contemporaries – people his own age around him.’

I drew a breath. ‘I can’t decide this now.’

‘I understand. This is difficult for you. Take as much time as you need.’

Until he was eighteen years old would probably not be acceptable.

I said slowly, ‘I would like to take advice on this.’

She inclined her head. ‘Of course. And thank you for not rejecting this proposal out of hand.’

I shook my head. ‘It’s only fair I should tell you, Commander, that I am not inclined to accept. I can provide him with an education here. There’s no need for the Time Police to be involved. And your other main point – that the Time Police can keep him safe – well, there’s no need now, is there? Clive Ronan is dead. The threat is removed. There is no reason why Matthew shouldn’t live a normal life. Here. With me.’

The silence went on just that little bit too long.

I didn’t like this. I didn’t like this at all.

I said sharply, ‘Is there?’

She said, ‘Of course not. But I had the feeling that wasn’t what she had originally been going to say.





More time crept by. We worked our way through all the Beaurain, Bayeux, Stamford Bridge and Hastings data, and wrote the presentations. In the end, North, Sykes and Bashford took them to Thirsk. Lingoss went with them. The Chancellor received them kindly, they were on their best behaviour and everything went well which, according to Dr Bairstow, went a long way towards reconciling them to the cost of St Mary’s restoration.

Of course, our supply of work dried up. The techies were the only people employed at the moment, busy rebuilding Hawking, repairing the pods that had survived and cannibalising the ones that hadn’t.

SPOHB – the Society for the Preservation of Historical Buildings turned up, all of them wearing their traditional combination of drab knitwear and expressions of rigid disapproval. We continued the St Mary’s tradition of ignoring them. They fired off a series of punitive memos, heading each one with their logo and the information that this communication had originated from the BDSM department. Everyone got really excited. Speculation was rife as to what they were wearing under those cardigans until we discovered the letters stood for Building Design and Site Management.

There wasn’t anything for us historians to do. The more technically minded among us were allowed into Hawking in an unskilled capacity – holding tools, carrying stuff around, suffering the occasional mild electric shock, making tea. The rest of us assisted Dr Dowson to re-catalogue the Archive, or indulge in a little extreme gardening under the watchful eye of Mr Strong.

Months passed. Spring turned into summer and probably wished it hadn’t bothered. I’ve never seen so much wind and rain. They had real problems getting the roof back on Hawking. Summer began to turn into autumn. Leaves fell early from the trees and lay in soggy piles everywhere. Mr Stone raked them away and then there were frosty cobwebs every morning. Leon had been gone for nearly six months. Matthew had almost stopped asking where he was. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and just getting through each day and I wasn’t the only one.