A Catalogue of Catastrophe, page 35
part #13 of Chronicles of St. Mary's Series
‘Depends who I’m stressing at the time,’ I said, looking up at him.
Dr Stone paused, went to say something, changed his mind and left the room.
Great job, Maxwell. Two out of two. Three out of two if you counted Markham. I looked forward to dealing similarly with Dr Bairstow.
And I might well have done so had he turned up before I fell asleep.
There is nothing more infuriating than being all geared up to have a major row with your ex-boss and for it not to happen. I’d thought it all through. I had all my arguments marshalled. I knew exactly how I was going to leave Dr Bairstow without a leg to stand on, and he didn’t bloody turn up. And I couldn’t go looking for him because Dr Stone had been right; I couldn’t even get out of bed.
Visits to the commode were brief and assisted by Kathleen or Sarah, both of whom were clearly having the time of their lives. I suspected the fell hand of Mr Evans who, like most of the Security Section, seemed to have an unsettling effect on otherwise quite intelligent women.
Meals turned up at regular intervals. A lot of meals. There was a substantial breakfast and then the always popular elevenses. Then lunch. Then a mid-afternoon snack. Then afternoon tea. Then dinner. Then supper. And there was always a plate of homemade biscuits on the bedside table to see me through the rigours of the night.
Mrs Proudie bustled in several times a day, either to oversee the maids cleaning my room or to check I was eating everything put in front of me. To be fair, I made every effort. Everything was beautifully cooked and presented on pretty plates that matched the wallpaper. It would have been churlish to send anything back. The menu was heavily cheese-based – I suspected Mikey had been offering advice.
Matthew came up, as well, to talk to me. I must be getting the hang of this mother business because even as he showed me something he and Professor Penrose were making together, and told me about the visit to the park with Mikey and Adrian to fly their homemade kites, and demolished a whole plate of jam tarts specifically sent up to guide his mother’s faltering footsteps along the road to recovery, I could see he was struggling to tell me more than he was saying.
I tried to sit up a little higher on the pillows instead of sprawling like a bed-bound jellyfish and waited for him to finish his description of that most cool of all hobbies – trainspotting.
‘We saw the Black Prince and the Flying Dutchman and the Iron Duke and they were huge and the pistons were thicker than my arm and the fireman let me into the cab and I saw the boiler. It was really, really hot. And really, really smelly . . .’ He talked himself out and silence fell.
‘So,’ I said, crossing my fingers beneath the bedclothes, ‘what’s the problem?’
Matthew didn’t answer, just scowled at his feet. I waited as long as I could but if he didn’t say something soon then the chances were I’d be asleep again. I reached out and shook his hand. ‘Hey.’
Silence again but something was coming. I could tell. You just can’t rush him. The more you try, the less comes out. He has to do these things in his own time.
Eventually, he said, ‘My exams.’
I nodded. ‘Yes?’
‘Suppose I . . . I mean, suppose I make a mess of them. Everyone’s been . . . I mean, Mrs Brown helped me with my writing. And Dr Bairstow with the History. And Dad with the maths and science. And Uncle Evans with revision and things. And Kathleen and the others listen to me reading when they’re polishing the silver. Well . . . suppose I can’t answer any of the questions. They’ll think I wasn’t listening. Or I’m stupid.’ He tailed away.
I believe the accepted response is to say, ‘No, you’ll do fine. I’ve every confidence in you,’ or words to that effect, but I’ve never thought that was particularly helpful. In fact, it only adds to the pressure when everyone tells you how well you’ll do, as you career, terrified and out of control, straight into the Ditch of Disappointment. Other people’s disappointment, that is.
‘That’s a good point,’ I said, ‘but, think carefully – how likely is that actually to happen? I mean, have you been able to cover the syllabus?’
He nodded. ‘Most of it, yes. The professor says I should know enough to answer at least the minimum number of questions on each paper.’
‘That’s sometimes the best way,’ I said. ‘You won’t be wasting time trying to make the best choice. How many must you answer?’
‘Four,’ he said. ‘Usually. And there’s a choice from about eight.’
‘Has he talked to you about the best way to approach the papers?’
‘Yes. Read it all through. Make my choices. Stick with those choices. Start with the easiest. Leave enough time to read everything through afterwards.’
‘Good. How do you begin?’
‘Jot down the main points. Write an intro. Answer the question. Write a conclusion.’
‘That sounds very sensible. Do you think you’ll have a problem with any of that?’
‘No . . . I don’t know . . . my handwriting . . .’
‘Trust me,’ I said. ‘It’s not that bad. Have you never seen Uncle Peterson’s scribble? Uncle Markham says it’s like breaking the Enigma code. Without the benefit of the Enigma machines.’
Matthew looked unconvinced. I tried again. I didn’t want to seem to make light of his problems but I didn’t want to add to his stress, either.
‘I think a system that can cope with Uncle Peterson’s mysterious glyphs isn’t going to be too worried about your writing, don’t you? Besides, if there was a problem, the professor would have flagged it up with the exam board, so I wouldn’t worry too much about that. There weren’t any difficulties when you handed in your course work, were there?’
He shook his head.
‘OK. Is there anything in particular you’re worried about? A particular subject, for instance, or what to do when you get into the exam centre?’
He shook his head. ‘No, just . . . not doing very well. And worrying so much about not doing well that I don’t do well.’
‘Fear of failure can be quite useful,’ I said. ‘It keeps you on your toes. The real enemy is complacency. That feeling that you’ve done enough to get by and don’t need to do any more. That’s what trips people up. Trust me, everyone taking their exams is feeling what you’re feeling right now. That thumping heart and dry mouth as you turn over your paper is what ramps your brain into top gear so you can do your best.’
He nodded.
‘Which paper worries you the most?’
‘English Language. Grammar. Punctuation. Sentences, phrases and things.’
‘OK,’ I said, ‘well, I don’t know if this helps, but I had an excellent teacher at school and she explained sentences in a funny way. There was a book out at the time – a really rude book – they tried to ban it – lots of truly toe-curling sex in it – something you don’t know anything about, obviously.’
He grinned and blushed.
‘Anyway, she’d confiscated it from someone. Not me, before you ask. She pulled out the book, opened it up and read a sentence at random. I always remember it and now I bet you will as well.’
I cleared my throat and intoned, ‘Algernon, take me, take me, my body is on fire for you.’
He blinked. Teenage boys are convinced their parents know nothing about sex. Heaven knows how they think they were conceived.
‘And then she broke the sentence down. Algernon is a word. Algernon, take me is a phrase or clause. And Algernon, take me, take me, my body is on fire for you is a complete sentence. Easy.’
He stared at me.
‘So,’ I said, ‘what’s the verb in that sentence?’
His lips moved as he thought it through. ‘Take. To take.’
‘And the nouns?’
He frowned. ‘I know fire is a noun. A naming word.’
Well, he would know that, wouldn’t he? Given the number of fires I’ve started in my life, it was in his genes, probably.
‘And so is body, I think.’
‘Yes, it is, because body is the name of the bit between your head and your bottom. Well done. Can you do the rest of the sentence?’
‘Me is a . . . a . . . a personal pronoun.’
‘That’s right. My?’
‘My is the single person . . . owning . . . possessive.’
‘Well done. I never know that one. Is?’
His eyes crossed with concentration. ‘Is . . . is . . . third person singular present. On is a preposition – a connecting word. For – is a preposition I shouldn’t end a sentence with.’
I coughed meaningfully.
He grinned. ‘With which I shouldn’t end a sentence.’
‘Well done, you.’
‘And you is another pronoun.’
‘Brilliant. When you sit down for the exam, scribble Algernon, take me, take me, my body is on fire for you on the top of the exam paper, keep it in front of you and you’ll have no problems at all. Tell me the phrase again.’
He drew himself up, threw out his arms and declaimed, ‘Algernon, take me.’
‘And the entire sentence?’
We chanted together. ‘Algernon, take me, take me, my body is on fire for you,’ and then fell about laughing at exactly the moment Mrs Brown appeared in the open doorway.
Ignoring her, I said to Matthew, ‘If you genuinely think you’ve done everything you can to prepare, then you really can’t do any more, so try to relax. And as I said, don’t worry about exam nerves – they turn up to help you do well. Greet them as old friends.’
He nodded.
Mrs Brown tapped gently. ‘Don’t let me interrupt.’
‘Finished,’ said Matthew. ‘See you, Mum,’ and shot out of the door.
She came in and sat down. Yet another bum in the chair. She was wearing a dark, high-necked outfit and looked every inch the Victorian grand lady.
‘Given your reluctance to discuss your current situation with Dr Bairstow, he has asked me to inform you of the arrangements that are being made.’
‘How kind of everyone,’ I said. ‘I shall listen with the utmost attention and then completely ignore everything.’
She brushed this aside. ‘No, you will not. You will listen because this is important.’
‘To whom?’
‘To us all. Events have moved on in the few days you have been here. You know about Home Farm. Chief Farrell, together with both the Meiklejohns, is examining the scene now. Whatever the reason for the attack, at this moment Home Farm is no longer either habitable or safe.’
‘Any news of Smallhope and Pennyroyal?’
‘No sign of them anywhere. No clue as to their whereabouts.’
‘Are there any bodies?’
‘None. Well, none found.’
That meant nothing. Smallhope and Pennyroyal might not have been there when the building was attacked. Or they might have been and were killed and their bodies removed. Or, and most likely, they became mildly irritated at this intrusion into their privacy, exterminated everyone within a five-mile radius and were off concealing the bodies somewhere in the 6th century BC.
‘This does mean, however, that whatever your original plans may have been, you cannot return to Home Farm.’
I shrugged. ‘No problem. I’ll soon find somewhere else.’
‘It is felt you are not yet well enough to undertake the search for a new home. In fact, there has been some discussion that this house might not be safe any longer and it would be prudent for us all to evacuate and regroup elsewhere. As you know, Matthew is about to return to his own time to take his exams in Rushford. He will be accompanied by Chief Farrell and Professor Penrose. The rest of us – excluding you, Max, since you have stated quite vehemently and on several occasions that you wish to have nothing to do with us – will make alternative arrangements that we need not trouble you with. You, however . . .’
‘I can shift for myself,’ I interrupted. ‘I’ll take my pod and be gone by tonight.’
‘No.’
‘Is there a problem with the pod?’
‘No, the problem is you. Yes, sooner or later we must all leave this place, but you are by no means recovered. Either with us or on your own, you must return to your own time to complete your recovery. And wherever you go, that must be your permanent residence, at least for the foreseeable future. Chief Farrell will search for suitable accommodation for you. Do you have a wish list? A list of requirements?’
‘I can do this myself.’
She said patiently, ‘We have covered this. You cannot. You will have to give way over this, Dr Maxwell. The alternative is to remain here, and if you choose to do so, then obviously we will remain as well. To all our detriment, I suspect.’
Oh, bloody hell. I’ve said before that St Mary’s is harder to shift than an STD and I was right.
‘All right,’ I said, being sensible. ‘I’d like somewhere quiet. In the country. I don’t want to have to be bothered with people. Close to Matthew so he can come live with me after his exams.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘With me?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said with me. Not with us? You don’t include your husband in your plans?’
‘Leon will surely return to St Mary’s,’ I said. ‘Since he works for them and I do not.’
‘Great allowances are being made for you because you are unwell,’ she said, ‘but don’t push it.’
‘I’ll make the same response I once made to Commander Treadwell: I was born to push. In fact, no one pushes better than me.’
Mrs Brown regarded me for a moment and then got up and left the room. I tried to work out whether there was anyone in the world I hadn’t annoyed over the last few days. Nope – couldn’t think of anyone.
I lay back on the pillows to think. This was serious. Anyone capable of taking out Smallhope and Pennyroyal and destroying their base of operations was not someone I wanted to meet.
Dr Bairstow and Mrs Brown could look after themselves. Especially since they’d have Evans with them. And Mikey and Adrian had been looking after themselves almost their whole lives.
Which just left me. The weak link. As always. No – that wasn’t true. I could manage. I had money and I had skills. All right, I didn’t have my health – not just at the moment, anyway – but that wasn’t permanent. I’d soon get well again. I always did.
I folded my arms, scowled at the bumps in the bedclothes that were my feet and tried to think of a Brilliant Idea which would not only miraculously save us all but render everyone involved eternally and publicly grateful to me.
And fell asleep again.
Oh, for God’s sake – Dr Stone was back. I knew I’d been asleep for some time because someone had come in, drawn the curtains, banked up the fire and lit the candles. This was slightly concerning. I’ve always said I don’t sleep well, that I wake at the slightest sound and can’t get back to sleep again. That certainly didn’t seem to be the case these days. The knowledge that someone could come into my room, hurl some coal on the fire and draw the curtains without waking me was disturbing.
He was standing at the foot of my bed, scribbling some notes. Trust me, it’s never good news when Dr Stone starts making house calls. I probably had only minutes left to live.
He looked up and nodded. ‘All right?’
‘Absolutely fine.’
He came to sit on the chair – still warm from the last visitor possibly.
‘Here’s what’s going to happen,’ he said, with all the smiling calm of someone who always gets his own way. ‘No more jumping. As of now.’
I looked at him with all the smiling calm of someone who rarely gets her own way but never stops trying. ‘Well, I can’t do that, can I? This is 1893. You said I had to return to my own time to reset my body clock. How do you propose to get me home?’
‘We’ll jump you back – and that’s not an experience you will enjoy – but that’s it, then. You’re done.’
‘For how long?’
‘As long as it takes you to recover. And even then, any future jumps will have to be restricted. For your own sake.’
‘You can’t do that to me.’
‘I’m doing it to everyone. We don’t want this happening to anyone else. My predecessor, Dr Foster, has left some notes about this very problem. The effect of persistent time-jumping on a person’s body clock. She recommended that every historian only undertake a specific number of jumps in any twelve-month period.’
‘No, I mean, I’m not a member of St Mary’s any longer. Whatever rules St Mary’s operate by don’t apply to me.’
‘You are, at the moment, dependent upon St Mary’s, so yes, they do. And since most of your jumps happened while you were in his employ, Dr Bairstow feels a certain responsibility. I understand you’ve now moved into a related area of employment. If you want to continue with that, then you have to give yourself time to get over this.’
‘Will I recover completely?’
‘I don’t know for certain. I don’t see why not but I can’t guarantee it. I’ve had a word with Dr Bairstow and he recommends you regard this as a sort of sabbatical.’
‘Isn’t that some kind of devil worship?’
He frowned and said, with unusual severity, ‘No. Don’t try to change the subject, Max. I don’t care what you’re doing or who you’re working for – once we get you back to your own time – you’re grounded.’
Well, bloody bollocking hell. That wasn’t good.
Two weeks of bed rest and Mrs Proudie’s cooking put me back on my feet again. I could walk. I could turn my head without falling over. I knew when I was and where I was going. Sometimes I had to work on the why I was actually going there, but for me that’s always been a dodgy area anyway. As the old saying goes, ‘I went upstairs and couldn’t remember why. I went back downstairs and remembered. I went back upstairs and forgot again. And now I have to pee.’
