3. A Second Chance (2 page)

‘And your long-term ambitions, Max?’

He was persistent as well.

I had a bit of a think.

‘Well, Troy has always been my ultimate goal, of course …’

‘Yes, so I understand, but what next?’

I fiddled with my fork.

‘Well, Agincourt would be nice …’

‘Yes?’

‘Well …’ I fiddled a bit more.

‘Goodness gracious. I suspect some disreputable secret. I should, of course, murmur politely and change the subject, but other people’s disreputable secrets are always so interesting.’

I laughed. ‘Well, it’s a secret, but not really disreputable, Professor. Sorry to disappoint you.’

He leaned forwards. ‘Tell me anyway.’

My mind went back to that particular evening, just a few short months ago.

After all the Mary Stuart dust had settled, we – Leon Farrell and I – had gone on a date. A real one, I mean, with posh frock, heels, make-up, everything. …

And it had been magical. Just for once, no one from St Mary’s was around. It didn’t rain. Nothing caught on fire. No one was chasing us. It was just a perfect evening.

I met him in the Hall.

He was studying a whiteboard with his head on one side.

‘Did Marie Antoinette really carry on speaking after she’d been beheaded?’

‘Well, the legend says her lips carried on moving for some time afterwards, if that counts as speaking. If the brain can function for three minutes without oxygen, I suppose it’s possible her last thoughts could be articulated for maybe part of that time. I'm not sure whether her voice box would work though. I’d have to ask Helen.’

I realised too late that it might have been more appropriate on a date just to have said just
yes
or
no
and changed the subject to something a little less death-related. I was very conscious of being completely out of my social depth.

We set off for the village pub, The Falconberg Arms. Our date had to be within walking distance because I’d recently driven his car into the lake. Long story.

The evening was lovely – warm and velvety, and we took our time.

The landlord, Joe Nelson, met us just inside the door. I’d known him since I arrived at St Mary’s. As a trainee, this place had been my second home. He was short, blocky, and his head of thick, dark hair could not disguise ears like satellite dishes. He had a sickle-shaped scar on one cheekbone. I knew he and Leon had been friends for years. Like obviously called to like, because here was another one who never said a lot.

‘Leon.’

‘Joe.’

The world’s two chattiest men stood for a while, possibly exhausted by the effort.

Eventually, he stirred. ‘I thought you might like some privacy, so I’ve arranged for you to be in here.’

He led us down a corridor to a door on the left.

‘The breakfast room,’ he announced and threw open the door with a flourish.

I stepped into Fairyland.

Only one of the three tables was laid. A crisp white cloth covered a small table near the fireplace. Gentle candlelight winked off crystal and cutlery. A low arrangement of golden roses in the centre of the table filled the room with their scent.

“The Moonlight Sonata” played quietly in the background.

‘This way, please,’ he said and led us to our table where a perfect Margarita awaited me. The years rolled back to a hotel in Rushford, when I’d worn this dress and he’d looked a sensation in that suit and we’d danced and taken the first steps towards a tentative understanding. Looking back over the last twelve months or so, we hadn’t made a lot of progress. But he was trying and I had promised my assistant, David, just before he died, that I would try too. I still missed him every day.

‘Leon, this is just perfect.’

‘Thank you. Drink this.’

‘What is it?’

‘Alcohol.’

‘Great. Why?’

‘Because I want to talk to you.’

‘In that case, alcohol might not be the way to go.’

‘I want you to drink this and then listen to what I have to say.’

‘You’re plying me with alcohol so I’ll say yes to something horrible?’

‘No, I’m plying you with alcohol so you’ll listen. I tried to talk to you about this after Jack the Ripper. And again after Nineveh, but there were more important things to be said then. I don’t want an answer from you now. I just want you to listen calmly and without panicking and alcohol seems the best way to go.’

‘OK. Hit me.’

I sipped, felt the familiar warmth spread through my limbs, and sucked the salt off my bottom lip.

He peered at me. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Pretty damned good.’

‘OK. I have a proposal for you.’

No, no, no. Not marriage. I really thought I’d made my feelings on marriage perfectly clear. Asked once what was the ideal quality in a husband, I’d replied: ‘Absence.’ No one ever asked again.

‘No,’ he said, hastily topping up my glass. ‘Calm down. Drink this.’

I sipped again and felt my panic dissolve in the tequila.

‘Get on with it, then.’

‘What?’

‘Well, this is me. One drink and I’m happy. Two drinks and I’m unconscious. You have a window of about eight seconds. Get on with it.’

‘All right, here goes. I’d like you to leave St Mary’s.’

I stared at him in dismay. ‘What? Why? What have I done? Are you breaking up with me? Why should I be the one to leave? If you’re uncomfortable having me around then that’s your problem, not mine. I’m not giving up my job just because we’re over. You leave.’

‘Yes,’ he said, removing my glass. ‘Something tells me I may have missed the window.’

‘What window?’

He sighed heavily.

‘I have no sympathy,’ I said. ‘You gave me alcohol.’

‘Yes, I brought this on myself. Let’s just give it a moment, shall we? And then I’ll have another go.’

The first course arrived – seafood platter.

I concentrated on my food. Something that comes easily to me. ‘These prawns are delicious. Do you want yours?’

‘Yes. You look very pretty tonight.’

‘Thank you, that’s very kind. I wore this dress to that hotel in Rushford. Do you remember?’

‘I do. I think that was quite a night for both of us.’

‘And at the end of it, you walked away.’

‘I had to,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘You have no idea of the effect you have on me, do you?’

I swallowed. ‘Or you on me.’

He took my hand. The room swayed a little. My heart rate kicked up.

The door opened and they brought in the next course. ‘Everything all right in here?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Leon.

I nodded, speech being beyond me just at that moment.

We ate in silence for a while. The food was delicious. The setting perfect. Nothing even remotely like this had ever happened to me before. That he could go to such trouble, just for me … I looked around at the candles, the roses, the man sitting opposite me …

He caught me looking. Nothing was said. In fact, nothing was said for quite a long time. I broke his gaze and fumbled for my glass. I must be ill. My appetite had completely disappeared. My breathing was all over the place and I was suddenly hot. Very hot indeed.

Looking at his plate, he said softly, ‘We’ve had a rough year and I wanted this night to be special.’

I took his hand and, looking him firmly in the eye, stepped out over a yawning chasm and said, ‘It will be.’

He caught his breath, pushed back his chair and reached for me …

Joe Nelson stuck his head around the door. ‘Ready for dessert?’

I said, ‘Yes,’ and Leon sighed. Again.

We settled down, but the moment was gone. He was wise enough not to push it.

‘Perhaps, instead of thinking so much about the past, we could take some time to talk about our future.’

I made myself smile politely and clutched my glass in a death-grip.

‘I’m just going to say this straight out. All I ask is that you don’t say no without giving it some thought.’

‘What’s this all about?’

‘Well,’ he said slowly. ‘Have you given any thought at all to what you’re going to do after Troy?’

‘I’m an historian. We don’t do planning ahead.’

I was avoiding the issue because, actually, I had. The downside to achieving your life’s ambition is – where do you go from there? What do you do afterwards? Where’s the challenge? I must admit, the thought had been troubling me. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘I have a proposal for you.’

He saw my panic.

‘No, no, calm down. Poor choice of words. I should have said proposition. I have an idea.’

I breathed a little easier.

‘Go on.’

He eyed me. ‘It might not be easy. In fact, I know it won’t be. It might be the most difficult assignment you’ve ever had. You may not survive. I almost certainly won’t. And even if you do, things will certainly never be the same again.’

Now he had my attention.

‘I know you’ve made no plans for a future you never expect to have. I know you love your job and you’re good at it. I know you don’t pay a lot of attention to what goes on outside St Mary’s, but I’d like to make a suggestion.

‘No,’ he said, as I opened my mouth to panic again. ‘Please hear me out. Sometime in the future – when we both want to – I’d like us to leave St Mary’s and start another life. No – please, let me finish. One day this job will kill you. It might be years in the future, it might be tomorrow, but one day you won’t come back. Or one day I’ll open the pod door and you’ll be dead and I won’t want to go on living in a world that doesn’t have you in it somewhere. So what I’m saying is – before that happens – we both leave and start a new life. Together. I’m an engineer. We get a place with a work area and I can take time to work on some ideas I’ve had. And you, Max, you could paint to your heart’s content. You can have half the workshop – or your own space if you want – and spend some time doing the other thing you’re really good at. You can take the time to produce a body of work, build a reputation … We could walk together, hold hands, feed the ducks, go to the cinema, learn to cook, make new friends, watch TV; there are so many things we could do together. I’m sorry if it sounds corny and dull, but I don’t think it would be unexciting. And we’ll certainly never be bored because I’ve seen you cook. I just want to spend my life with you. Now, more than ever. Please don’t say no straight away. Promise me you’ll think about it.’

I didn’t have to think about it. I had a sudden blinding flash of clarity and from way back I heard Kal say “One day this won’t be enough”. At the time, I never thought it would apply to me, but now I realised exactly what she’d been talking about. On the other hand, this was scary stuff. This was about relationships, sharing, domesticity, and all the things I really regarded as the inventions of the devil. I took a very deep breath.

‘No.’

I hope never to see that look again.

‘Can’t you take some time to think about it?’

‘No.’

‘It doesn’t have to be now. It could be years away.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to wait for years. After Troy – however long that takes – you and I give in our notice, move away, and make a new life. Doing those things you said. And God help you, because if we don’t live in perfect peace and happiness, I’ll make your life a living hell.’

He took both my hands, glass and all. ‘I can wait.’

‘It might be some time. Troy could be a two-year assignment, at least.’

‘I can wait.’

I took a huge breath for a huge step. ‘OK then, is that a deal?’

He couldn’t look at me. He swallowed and nodded.

‘It’s a deal.’

I relayed some of this to Eddie who nodded thoughtfully and, surprisingly, changed the subject.

‘Compared with Troy – and Agincourt – tomorrow’s jump must seem very tame to you.’

‘Not at all, Professor. Dr Bairstow once said “It’s not always battlefields and blood.” and he was right. For instance, I’ve seen the Hanging Gardens and they are stupendous.’

No need to tell him how that one ended. Or the Whitechapel jump. Or the Cretaceous assignment.

This is the bit we never really discuss. Not even amongst ourselves. These days, the attrition rate is nowhere near as high as it used to be. Almost as if an uneasy truce has been worked out between us historians, who really do our best to behave ourselves as we jink up and down the timeline, and History, who, these days, seems slightly less inclined to slaughter us wholesale for any minor infractions.

This is really not something you want to explain to a civilian who is accompanying you to the seventeenth century in less than twenty-four hours.

I consulted with Doctor Foster the next morning, just on the off-chance Eddie had contracted something serious overnight. She sat on the windowsill and puffed her cigarette smoke out of the window.

I looked pointedly at the smoke alarm. She looked pointedly at the battery, which was lying on the table. Where it always was. I sighed. Leon, fighting the good fight over batteries and losing on all fronts, would not be happy.

‘Professor Penrose. Is he fit?’

‘Fitter than you, Max. On the other hand, of course, I’ve seen 10-day-old corpses fitter than you. That knee of yours is going to let you down one day.’

‘No time before Troy.’

‘We’ll get it fixed immediately afterwards. Before it gets really serious.

It didn’t really matter, although I couldn’t tell her that. I hadn’t told anyone, apart from Eddie. I couldn’t even bring myself to think about what Ian, or Tim would say.

‘To return to Professor Penrose …’

‘Yes, fit as a fiddle for his age. This is not to be construed as permission for you to bounce him around Cambridge. We all still remember what you did to Mr Dieter.’

Dieter and I, escaping from a landslide in the Cretaceous period, had once had a bit of a bumpy landing. They’d practically had to demolish the pod to get us out. But after a couple of days in Sick Bay each and a major refit for Number Eight, everything was fine, so I really don’t know why people can’t let that go.

Chapter Two

We were off.

‘Right then, Professor. If you’d like to take a seat. No, not that one – the right-hand seat. That’s it. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

He seated himself, wriggling a little in the lumpy seat, staring around, taking it all in. And possibly trying not to breathe in the smell.

We were inside Number Eight. The console was to the right of the door in this pod and two uncomfortable seats were bolted to the floor in front of it. Above the console, the screen showed an external view of orange techies, scurrying around the hangar outside, doing last-minute techie things. Around the pod, lockers held equipment for long-term assignments and our own personal effects. Thick bunches of cables looped around the walls and disappeared up into the ceiling A partitioned corner contained the toilet and shower. A small chiller held life’s essentials and on a shelf, by the enormous first aid cabinet, stood a kettle and two mugs. We’re St Mary’s. We run on tea.

The locker doors were dented. The console was scratched in some places and shiny in others. Some of the stains on the floor could have told an interesting story. The toilet rarely worked properly and often not at all. I think I’ve already mentioned the smell. But they’re our pods and we love them.

Leon winked at me. ‘It’s all set up, Max. Co-ordinates are laid in. I believe you’re straight in and straight back out again.’

‘That’s the idea.’

He pulled his scratchpad from his knee-pocket and leaned over the console, bashed in a few figures, and straightened up. ‘I’m done. Have a good trip. Good luck, Professor.’

The professor bounced again, speechless with excitement.

‘Take care,’ said Leon, looking at me. As he always did.

‘We’ll be fine,’ I said, inaccurately.

The door closed behind him.

I checked the console one last time.

‘Not too late to change your mind, Eddie.’

He laughed.

I said, ‘Computer, initiate jump.’

‘Jump initiated.’

And the world went white.

We were tucked away in some smelly alleyway off Trinity Street, so I was able to give Professor Penrose the traditional two minutes to get his head around when and where we were. He stuck his head out of the door, exclaiming, ‘Bless my soul. God bless my soul,’ over and over again, while his senses got to grips with the sights, sounds, and, especially, the smells of 17th-century Cambridge.

He pulled himself together eventually.

‘Sorry, Max. That was unprofessional of me.’

‘Not at all, Eddie. On my first jump I was turning cartwheels.’

We set off for Trinity College, where a young Fellow named Isaac Newton was, with luck, about to make an appearance.

Cambridge was every bit as wet and dreary as I thought it would be. I shivered inside my cloak as we picked our way carefully along Trinity Street, easing our way through the crowds. The place was packed as students, townspeople, tradesmen, and livestock noisily shoved their way along the uneven cobbles.

Eddie was staring around. ‘Do you know, I think the Tourist Information Centre might be just down there. One day.’

I didn’t reply. I was picking my way through something pink and blobby. Apparently well ahead of its time, Cambridge had implemented proper street-cleaning services as far back as 1575. God knows what it had been like before, because today we were up to our ankles in piss, rotting vegetables, dog turds, unidentified innards, vomit, puddles of dirty water, horseshit, mud, and things I didn’t even want to think about. Even more alarmingly, packs of foraging dogs roamed everywhere. I wished I’d brought a stick. The town itself had been described, I forget by whom, as low-lying and dirty with badly paved streets and poor buildings. I had no argument with any of that.

Trinity Street, with its inns and merchants’ houses, was handsome enough, but, behind the main streets, a network of squalid alleyways and dirty yards led down to the river. As always, the pod was parked in one of these squalid alleyways. Show me a squalid alleyway – any squalid alleyway – and I’ll point to the pod parked in it.

As we drew closer to Trinity College itself we could see a number of people streaming in and out of the Great Gate. Worryingly, none of them were women.

We stood quietly in a doorway and watched the crowds go past. I wanted to take some time before actually entering the college. There shouldn’t be any difficulties at all with this jump; we were, after all, about to visit one of the world’s premier colleges, not the Battle of Waterloo. But we’re St Mary’s and we have been known to have the odd problem occasionally. Eventually, I gave the nod to a quivering professor and off we trotted.

Eddie went first, neat and respectable and scholarly in black. I was dressed as his servant and also in black. I walked one step behind him at all times, so I could keep an eye on him.

He marched confidently through the smaller doorway in the ornately decorated Great Gate. I looked up at the statue. Henry VIII clutched his sceptre. At some point in History, students would substitute a chair leg. The current whereabouts of the sceptre are unknown.

‘It’ll turn up one day,’ said the professor confidently, following my gaze. ‘You know what colleges are like. It’ll be somewhere, propping someone’s bedroom door open. Or someone’s using it as a poker.’

We knew Newton’s rooms were off to the right, between the gate and the Chapel. A wooden staircase led from his rooms to the enclosed garden and there was no other exit so he had to leave through the front door. We were fortunate not to have to penetrate too far into the college. Accordingly, we looked around for somewhere quiet to tuck ourselves away and wait.

I’d never even visited Cambridge before, far less Trinity College, and I was gobsmacked at the size and scale of my surroundings. It had been called the finest college court in the world and I could easily believe it. The buildings were magnificent. Time to look later. First, we had to park ourselves somewhere out of the way while we waited.

I pulled up my hood and kept a respectful pace behind the professor. I saw no other women on the premises and had no idea whether I should actually be here at all. This is where a too-hasty briefing gets you. However, I’d had what seemed at the time to be a brilliant idea and brought a small mirror so I could stand inconspicuously behind the professor, keep my eyes averted so as not to contaminate any men, and still be able to see what was going on around me.

I don’t know why I ever thought that would work.

We were prepared to wait for several hours, although with luck we wouldn’t have to. We wore stout shoes and warm, waterproof cloaks and could stand all afternoon, if necessary. The air was wet, but it wasn’t actually raining and the afternoon was mild enough for early autumn. Away, in the distance, I could hear crows calling in the still air.

There were plenty of people around – all of them men – mostly dressed in black. Everyone was either wearing or carrying a hat. I saw a variety of wigs, mostly of a dull brown colour. The grey afternoon leached all colour from the scene, but, even so, I doubted it was ever a riot of colour. They walked to and fro in small groups, heads bowed, discussing, presumably, the secrets of the universe. Everything was exactly as I had hoped it would be – quiet, peaceful, and non-threatening.

My plan was to wait quietly, watch the great man walk past, either on his way in or out of his rooms, restrain Professor Penrose from accosting his idol, and then return him, safe and sound, to Dr Bairstow and St Mary’s for a celebratory drink.

Things didn’t turn out that way at all.

Eddie, who had been here before, pointed out the various buildings and their functions to pass the time. From there, it was only a small conversational step to discussing other and (according to Eddie) lesser colleges. Queens, for instance, founded by the Lancastrian queen, Margaret of Anjou, whose sharp tongue and high-level paranoia were two of the reasons for the Wars of the Roses.

Since Eddie was a Yorkist and I had Lancastrian leanings, we whiled away the time with a discussion that was brisk and not always to the point. I was busy slandering the entire Yorkist line when the door opened and a tall, thin figure slipped out. I’d been a little worried we might not know him, but, trust me, the Newton nose was a dead giveaway. He pulled the door to behind him, settled his papers more firmly under his arm, and stood for a moment, looking up at the sky. Given his habitual vagueness, he was probably trying to work out where he was.

Professor Penrose stiffened like a pointer scenting a game-bird and involuntarily took several steps forward.

The movement attracted the figure’s attention and he turned towards us. My first thought was that he was far too young to be our man. Mid-twenties at the latest, with a long pale face, a wide mouth, and a determined chin. A very modest wig hung down either side of his face – like spaniel’s ears.

I was completely taken by surprise. The three of us froze – Professor Penrose with his arm outstretched as if to shake his hand, me with my mirror, and Isaac Newton still clutching his thick sheaf of papers tied with ribbon.

We all stared at each other for a long moment.

Completely forgetting my careful briefing – this is why we don’t let civilians do this – Eddie stepped forward, saying, ‘My dear sir. This is an honour, a very great honour …’ and stopped as it became apparent his idol was ignoring him and looking at me.

Oh God, I shouldn’t be here. They probably had very strict rules about letting in women and I was about to be burned at the stake. Or stoned. Or flogged. Or impaled. Historian on a stick. I knew this would happen. This was why Peterson had originally been selected for this assignment. There was no doubt the sight of a woman within these hallowed halls of learning had seriously discomposed the great man who stood, open-mouthed, staring at me.

Confused, Eddie turned to look as well. ‘What …?’

I was conscious of the harsh sound of the crows again, ominous in the silent court. What sort of trouble were we in now?

The two of them stared at me and I still hadn’t a clue what was going on. Nothing new there, then. I actually looked down at myself to check I was correctly dressed. What was happening here?

Isaac Newton made a hoarse sound and stretched out a trembling hand. I still didn’t get it. He was obviously in the grip of some strong emotion, but what? Slowly, the truth dawned. It wasn’t me at all. It was the mirror. He was staring at the mirror. Why? Did they have some rule about mirrors? I know it sounds odd, but clump together large numbers of male academics unleavened by a little female intelligence and practicality, and all sorts of bizarre behaviour patterns and phobias can emerge.

‘Of course,’ he said and I was startled at the strong, rural burr in his voice. His appearance was quiet and gentlemanly and I suppose I’d expected his voice to be the same.

‘Of course,’ he said again and it was apparent he wasn’t talking to either of us. ‘A mirror.’

And before I knew it, he’d taken several long steps forward and snatched the mirror from me, turning it over in his hands.

‘Yes … yes … of course … replace the lens …’

He backed away, turned, and before I could stop him strode swiftly towards his rooms. With my mirror. Isaac Newton had stolen my bloody mirror!

Now we were in trouble. That was a modern mirror and there was no way I could leave it here. This was more important than Professor Penrose and certainly more important than me. I’d be breaking every rule in the book if I left that here. It’s not that as a mirror it was anything special, but you just can’t go littering the timeline with anomalous objects. History doesn’t like it. That’s History as in Kleio, daughter of Zeus and immortal Muse of History. Or, if you prefer, Mrs Partridge, PA to Dr Bairstow and pretty formidable in either incarnation. I’d have to lead a team to get it back. And if we couldn’t find it … or he’d already incorporated it into something important … like the bloody reflecting telescope … there would be hell to pay.

If I was going to get it back, it would have to be now, before he could re-enter his rooms. But I had Professor Penrose to think of as well. I couldn’t just go off and leave him to his own devices.

Newton was several yards away and picking up speed. I said to Eddie, ‘Stay here. Don’t move.’

Too late. The professor had already started after him in a kind of lurching hobble that still wasn’t bad for someone his age. So I set off after the pair of them.

Isaac Newton, looking over his shoulder and seeing us racing towards him, did what anyone would have done, shouted for help and broke into a run.

I muttered some dreadful curse, hurtled past Professor Penrose, and, before he knew what was happening, tried to snatch the mirror back from an astonished Newton. Who wouldn’t let go. For long seconds we tugged back and forth, both determined not to relinquish our hold.

People were turning to watch. I cursed again, offered up a silent apology to the greatest mathematician the world had ever known, and kicked him hard on the shin. I think he let go of the mirror out of sheer surprise. I turned, grabbed the professor’s arm, shouted, ‘Run!’ and we set off for the gate.

I heard a voice behind us shout, ‘Stop. Stop them. Thieves.’

Oh, shit. Our little incident had been witnessed by others in the Great Court, wrong conclusions drawn, and now we were in trouble.

It’s that easy.

The cry was taken up by other voices and the next moment half a dozen burly young men were on our trail.

Bloody bollocking hell! How could so much go so wrong so quickly?

I cast caution to the winds, shouted, ‘Come on, Eddie. Move!’ and we shot out of the gate and into the busy street.

If I’d had Peterson with me, we would both have slowed down so as not to attract attention, split up, and discreetly made our way back to the pod. But I had Professor Penrose, so that was out of the question. We put our heads down and buffeted our way through the crowds. Cries of protest marked our progress. We apologised and excused ourselves as best we could, but the young men pursuing us showed no such restraint, pushing people aside in their eagerness to get to us. They were gaining.