And the Rest Is History(86)

‘But this cheese is radioactive.’

‘Of course it is,’ said Mrs Mack, standing up and entering the fray. ‘It’s a piece of the famous Rushfordshire Stinking Henry, a very old and famous cheese dating back to 1412. Legend says Henry V took vast quantities of it with him to France where the noxious fumes overcame all opposition and played no small part in his victory at Agincourt. Apparently the smell drove the horses insane with fear and they refused to approach the English lines resulting of course, in the famous English victory. As I’m sure you’re aware.’

St Mary’s sat, transfixed at this brilliance.

‘But why is it radioactive?’

‘If you’d been around since 1412 you’d be radioactive too.’

He looked around at the tranquil scene. St Mary’s having afternoon tea on the terrace. The croquet rackets … clubs … bats … propped against the wall, our walking wounded sitting down and scoffing afternoon tea and, most importantly, the complete absence of giant teapots in the landscape.

Mrs Mack hadn’t finished with him. ‘Would you like some tea before you go?’

He shook his head wordlessly.

She beamed. ‘Or a slice of cake?’

‘No. Thank you.’

‘Or we could make you up some sandwiches for the journey home.’

‘No.’

‘It’s no trouble.’

‘No.’

‘We have plenty to go around.’

‘Look, I said no. Are you deaf or what?’

Everything suddenly went very still and very quiet.

I stepped forwards. ‘Silly me – where are our manners? I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced, have we? You must allow me to present Theresa Mack, Kitchen Supremo and former urban guerrilla. Yes, that’s right, the Theresa Mack. The one who led the resistance in London. The one who commanded the Battersea Barricades. The one who turned back the Fascist forces.’

I stepped even closer and lowered my voice. ‘She could almost certainly kill all four of you where you stand, armed with nothing more than the sugar tongs too. So no sudden moves, eh?’

For a moment we all stared at each other. My back was to St Mary’s, but I just knew people were reaching for butter knives, croquet clubs, hairpins, parasols, whatever. Major Guthrie always used to say that anything can be used as a weapon. Someone scraped a chair as people began to stand up. It really looked as if we were going to be able, legitimately, to kick seven shades of shit out of the Time Police. What a great day this was turning out to be. I was suddenly feeling better than I had for ages. Tim caught my eye and we grinned at each other. This was how our lives should be – enjoying ourselves at St Mary’s and pissing off the Time Police.

Who were rapidly discovering that discretion was the better part of valour. No one wants death by sugar tongs at their post-mortem. They knew Adrian and Mikey had been here. Equally, they knew they’d missed them and they were long gone. And without leaving one of their famous notes, either. Their leader gave the word to withdraw. There were a lot of hard looks as they retreated back to their pod. Giving the cheese a wide berth, I was pleased to notice.

We smiled and waved as they left. Just to piss them off that little bit more, Evans instructed them to come back anytime and not to be strangers, do you hear?

Dr Bairstow sat back. ‘That went well, I thought.’



His good mood was still in evidence the next morning. I’d brought the casualty list down from Dr Stone. This had been our doctor’s first competitive event at St Mary’s and he was still in a state of mild disbelief.

Dr Bairstow, on the other hand, was very nearly jovial. It wasn’t every day he got to put one over on the Time Police.

‘What’s the damage, Max?’

‘Well, sir, working my way down the accidental injury list…’ I took a deep breath.

‘One sprained wrist.

‘One suspected case of tennis elbow.

‘One suspected case of trigger finger. I’ve no idea, sir. Please don’t ask me.

‘Sundry bruised shins and ankles – mostly the result of poor aim or lack of coordination, but I suspect one or two old scores may have been settled.

‘One suspected but very unlikely hernia.’

‘One black eye.’

I swiped to the next page on my scratchpad.

‘Working my way down the list of injuries incurred during disagreements over croquet protocols…

‘A number of bruises and black eyes.’

‘How many?’

‘More than two but less than four, sir.’

He seemed impressed, but whether that was because the injuries were so many or so few remained unclear.

‘Sundry lacerations.’

He nodded.

‘Working my way down the list of miscellaneous injuries, sir…

‘One case of mild sunburn.’

‘In this country?’

‘Apparently, sir.’

‘Goodness gracious.’

‘And um … one horse bite and some minor trampling.’

‘I am almost afraid to ask.’

‘Attempted retrieval of a lost ball sir. Turk took exception to Mr Bashford invading what he considers to be his personal space.’

‘How much space can a horse consider to be personally his?’