And the Rest Is History(80)

Morale was at an all-time low. We’re St Mary’s. We tend to be reasonably cheerful even when things aren’t going well because things not going well is our default state. It wasn’t that people were gloomy, but somehow, the spark had gone. Despite all our efforts, there were mutterings. I was concerned enough to mention it to Dr Bairstow, who said nothing, but looked thoughtful.

And then, one day, about a week later, he sent for me. I thought, initially, that he wanted to ask me again about my plans for the future – something he had heroically refrained from doing since our interview with the Time Police – but this was something completely different.

‘Hello, Max. Come in and sit down.’

‘Good afternoon, sir.’

‘How are things out there?’

‘Not too bad, sir. The Technical Section is working like stink and the rest of us are going slowly mad looking for something to do. I’m pleased to be able to report – possibly for the first time ever – that everyone’s reports are written up, all filing up to date, the Archive re-catalogued, and all side-saddle hours completed and logged.’

‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, and then stopped.

I sat and waited. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do when I got there. That was my life now.

‘I’ve been thinking, Max. I have an idea, which I’d like to run past you.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Out of respect, I have waited a while to say this, but I think the time has come for us to draw a line under past events. This does not mean we forget what has happened, or those who have gone, but I think it’s time to move forwards again. The work in Hawking is nearly complete and we should have four, if not five, working pods very soon now. I have been thinking that, as a reward for everyone’s hard work, we should have a small event to celebrate. Something for people to enjoy. I do not, however, wish to seem insensitive, and I would, therefore appreciate your thoughts.’

What did I think?

I sat quietly in that familiar room, looking at the patch of sunshine on the faded carpet. He’d had his clock repaired. The old familiar tick was back and in some small way, I felt comforted. I heard myself say, ‘I think that’s a good idea sir. You’re right. It is time. Did you have anything specific in mind?’

He leaned forwards. ‘Actually, yes. I am concerned at our current lack of impetus. What this unit needs is a little healthy competition. Nothing too strenuous, of course,’ he said quickly, possibly remembering that the St Mary’s response to anything even remotely competitive is to form the appropriate number of teams, spend ten minutes hurling insults around, and then knock seven bells out of each other. Quarter is neither expected nor given.

I ventured to express a few misgivings. ‘An excellent suggestion, sir, but I can’t help remembering last year’s trebuchet versus ballista tournament, when Mr Keller broke his arm and we inadvertently demolished Mr Strong’s potting shed. It was only due to the greatest good fortune and the call of nature that he wasn’t in it at the time.’

He waved this aside as irrelevant. ‘No one is more aware of the competitive nature of my unit than I, Dr Maxwell, but I hope to neutralise our more savage instincts by proposing a pleasant, gentlemanly game of croquet. In authentic costume, of course. To be followed by afternoon tea on the terrace.’

I blinked. ‘Are you giving us the afternoon off, sir?’

‘I believe that is what I said. Thursday next, I think, if the weather holds. See to it, Dr Maxwell.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Obviously, despite his best intentions, it was never going to end well, but I don’t think any of us realised quite how bizarre the afternoon was going to be. Even by our standards. But I’m always being told off when I run ahead of myself.



I made sure I got to Wardrobe ahead of the crowd, snagging myself a rather pretty tea-gown in pale blue and turquoise. I didn’t intend to play, but I didn’t intend to burden myself with corsets either, and the loose tea-gown was perfect. Matthew immediately defected to the Security team, where they decked him out in knickerbockers and a cap. I wasn’t sure whether his function was first reserve or mascot.

I’m not familiar with the rules of croquet – or indeed any game that involves hitting a ball with a stick. Golf, tennis, hockey, cricket – they all look the same to me. It’s only the shape of the stick that’s different. Unless you’re the Queen of Hearts, of course, when you get to play with flamingos instead. Interesting idea, but difficult to organise at such short notice.

We set up tables and chairs along the terrace. A croquet … pitch? … court? …whatever … had been laid out. We had six teams and the smart money was on the Wardrobe Wanderers, who were generally reckoned to be unstoppable and led by Mrs Enderby herself, decked out in a high-necked blouse and long, full skirt. Her bustle was assumed to be weaponised and was being given a wide berth.

There would be a number of preliminary heats, then we’d pause for afternoon tea – the word sumptuous had been used several times – before the Grand Final. A small cup was to be presented to the winners by Dr Bairstow himself, stunningly attired in a crimson and cream striped blazer and crisp cream trousers. He sat with Mrs Partridge, who looked cool and elegant in white and carried a pink parasol.

Everyone, competitors and spectators alike, had made an effort with their costumes. I was wearing my pretty tea-gown with my hair coiled up in an elegant knot. And no corset. You can’t eat afternoon tea in a corset.