And the Rest Is History(83)

Seen close up, they were much younger than I had first thought. Adrian was tall and gawky, wearing a long leather greatcoat. Mikey was smaller and wore what looked like a genuine WWII leather flying jacket. They both wore flying helmets and, for no discernible reason that I could see, goggles. I doubted either of them was out of their teens. Which wouldn’t go down well with Dr Bairstow.

Men might be from Mars and women from Venus, but Dr Bairstow is from St Mary’s, the centre of the universe and, as far as he’s concerned, teenagers are from the other side of the Ort cloud. He has frequently been heard to express his astonishment that SETI are concentrating their search for extra-terrestrial life in space, when everyone can see there are several billion aliens (or teenagers as the rest of the world refers to them) already inhabiting Planet Earth.

The two of them stood in front of us, staring around in open curiosity.

‘Where are we?’

‘Where are you supposed to be?’

‘St Mary’s Institute. We wanted to see where it all started.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ said Bashford. He glared accusingly at Evans. ‘We’re supposed to be a top-secret establishment and we’re easier to get into than that new nightclub in Rushford.’

‘Not the Golden Pussy?’ said Keller.

‘I think you mean the Black Cat.’

He grinned. ‘I know what I mean.’

I cleared my throat. We were, to all intents and purposes being invaded by what looked like a collection of giant dustbins held together by a paperclip, and our Security Section was busy discussing Rushford’s one and only nocturnal entertainment establishment. The Black Cat could supply the discerning patron with exorbitantly priced drinks, energetic young ladies and their poles, and gambling facilities for the inexperienced. The Security Section had taken out block membership. They thought Dr Bairstow didn’t know.

‘This is St Mary’s,’ said Peterson, because there was no point in denying it. For a start, there was a bloody great sign on the grass verge outside the gates.

They stared at us and our costumes. ‘But…’

‘Croquet tournament,’ said Peterson, putting them out of their misery. ‘Mr Evans, if you would be so good.’

He stepped forwards. ‘OK guys – you probably know the drill. Assume the position. Are you armed?’

‘Of course not,’ said Adrian, indignantly, turning to face the teapot and raising his arms, obviously well acquainted with the procedure.

I found myself alongside an anxious looking Mikey. ‘I’ll do this one,’ I said. ‘Arms in the air. Anything in your pockets?’

‘Um, a compass, some string, matches, my notebook, a small mirror, spare socks, two pens, my piece of cheese…’

‘Cheese?’

‘To replace the salt. Sometimes, after a jump, we feel a bit wobbly.’

‘Oh?’ said Peterson, sharply. ‘How wobbly.’

‘Just a bit sick, sometimes.’

I’d finished with Mikey. ‘All clear.’

‘Can I have my cheese back?’

‘No,’ I said, dropping it onto the grass. The ants could have it.

‘My cheese,’ cried Mikey, stricken.

‘I’ll get you another lump,’ I said, feeling as if I’d just drowned someone’s kitten. ‘What are your feelings towards Double Gloucester?’

‘Cheddar,’ said Adrian, over his shoulder.

‘Boring,’ said Mikey. ‘Wensleydale.’

I glanced towards Mrs Mack and she got up.

Peterson was talking to Dieter, who disappeared, signalling to several techies to follow him.

Adrian drew himself up. ‘Take us to your leader.’

‘Love to,’ said Peterson. ‘This way.’

As we set off, Dieter and his team passed us, clutching bits of technical equipment and a wand, which they began to wave around.

He looked at the ladder and then at Adrian. ‘All right to go in? I’d really like to have a look inside.’

‘Of course,’ said Adrian amiably. ‘Be our guest.’

I was torn between watching the enormous Dieter negotiate the ladder and then squeeze himself in through the hatch, or seeing what our two guests and Dr Bairstow made of each other. Dr Bairstow won. He always does.

I performed the introductions. ‘Sir, may I introduce Adrian and Mikey. Adrian and Mikey, this is Dr Bairstow.’

They just stared at him, speechless, for once. Talk about shock and awe.

I think he completely took the wind out of their sails by asking them to join him for tea.

‘Oh, wow!’ said Mikey, staring around in amazement. ‘Tea at St Mary’s. With Dr Bairstow. Awesome! Thank you, sir.’

I could see Dr Bairstow thaw a little at this blatant admiration. He doesn’t get a lot of that. On the other hand, of course, pants-wetting terror is usually his preferred effect.

‘Max, Dr Peterson, would you care to join us?’

We settled ourselves down and continued with what was, according to Mrs Mack, the highlight of the afternoon. The tables were laden with four different types of sandwiches, scones with jam and cream, cheese scones with savoury butter, slices of quiche, Victoria sponge, Battenburg and jam tarts. All along the terrace, I could hear happy chatter and the chink of teaspoons in saucers. The English Tourist Board could have bottled us and sold us abroad and made a fortune. England at its most traditional.