And the Rest Is History(82)

We’re supposed to be a professional organisation. We’re supposed to swing into action like a well-oiled … something or other, all ready to deal with whatever threat is presenting itself. We drew nearer for a better look. Yes, I know we should have let the Security Section deal with it but it was teapot, for crying out loud.

All conversation stopped dead. In itself a remarkable event. As a measure of our consternation, one or two people nearly put down their cups of tea. Apart from the distant sound of a car changing gear somewhere, there was complete silence. I’m sorry to say that far from springing into action like a well-oiled thingummy, we froze with our mouths open. Yes, I know, but you try having a giant teapot drop into your front garden and see how quickly you can get your mouth closed.

I stared at the … contraption. The word that sprang to mind was ‘steampunk’ and I don’t even know what that means. If it means a twelve-feet-high precarious-looking structure, bulbously teapot in shape then yes – steampunk. An extrusion on one side looked like, but couldn’t possibly be, a spout and a corresponding bulge on the other side resembled the handle. I had no idea what it could be made of, but I do know it was painted in shades of khaki and brown that were blistering and peeling away – where they weren’t scraped off altogether – and with an amateurishly rendered Union Jack on the side. Significant dents and dints indicated some major collisions. It didn’t appear to be making any sort of noise, but then in my experience, most teapots don’t.

Not a solitary soul moved. Even the birds had shut up. I’ll say it again. We had a twelve-foot-high teapot standing on our croquet lawn.

Anyway, while we were all sitting there, gaping like a bunch of idiots, a hatch lifted up, and a head appeared out of the top, peering around, rather like a cross between a submarine periscope and a meerkat.

As Mr Evans said afterwards, all right, yes, he probably should have done something, but it’s quite difficult to feel threatened by something that looked like a giant, patriotic, tea-dispensing appliance from his Great-Aunt Jemima’s best dinner service.

The head looked around for a minute, caught sight of us, stared hard at our Victorian attire, and then said, ‘Damn and blast.’ Bending back down to address someone still inside the machine, he shouted, ‘You’d better get up here, Mikey. We’ve gone wrong somewhere.’

Surveying us all, he cleared his throat and, enunciating carefully, said, ‘Good afternoon. Er … jolly topping weather, what?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ muttered Peterson, ‘Come on, Max. Let’s go and see what’s happened now, shall we?’

‘Try keeping me away.’

We walked slowly towards the teapot, with Evans and the rest of the Security Section pulling themselves together and approaching from the other side. They might have looked more professional if they had put down their slices of Victoria sponge, although Evans and Cox had had the forethought to pick up their croquet mallets. Since the intruders were some ten or twelve feet off the ground, it was hard to know their intentions.

Peterson halted and looked up at them squinting into the sunshine. ‘Identify yourselves.’

The head beamed. ‘Um … well… I know you’re not going to believe this, but…’ he paused impressively, and then announced sonorously, ‘we’re from … The Future.’

Somewhat taken aback by the lack of response, he continued valiantly. ‘We come in peace. We mean you no harm.’

‘Someone should explain it’s likely to be the other way around,’ I muttered. ‘Do you think he’ll ask to be taken to our leader?’

‘Not if he’s got any sense.’

‘We’re…’ he paused even more impressively, obviously playing some sort of trumpet fanfare in his head, ‘… Time Travellers!’

‘Yawn,’ said Sykes, behind me.

Well, I suppose it had to happen sometime. According to the Time Police, the secret of time travel was – sorry, will be – public property, with amateurs zipping about all over the place trying to shoot Hitler, prevent the assassination of a US president – nine at the last count, and four in the last twenty years, so they’re not doing that well – unexecute Mary Stuart, change the final score at Bosworth and now, apparently, visit St Mary’s. You can see why, of course. St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research. First and best. Where it all started. I stood with Peterson in the warm afternoon sunshine and we waited to see what would happen next.

‘Er … my name’s Adrian and this is…’ another head popped up alongside, ‘this is Mikey. We’re awfully sorry, but we seem to be in the wrong place. We’ll be off. So sorry to have disturbed you. Good afternoon.’

Well, they had lovely manners.

‘Not so fast,’ said Peterson. ‘Get your arses down here right now, the pair of you.’

‘Well, that’s not very Victorian,’ said Mikey.

‘Neither am I,’ said Peterson. ‘Get yourselves down here now before I have the pair of you shot.’

‘Oh. OK then,’ said Adrian, not particularly fazed by the threat. ‘You might want to stand back a little.’

‘Why?’

A heavy wooden ladder was heaved out of the hatch and thudded to the ground, missing his head by inches. By the time Peterson had recovered, Adrian was carefully climbing down, closely followed by Mikey.