Just One Damned Thing After Another (The Chronicles of St Mary's, #1)

by Jodi Taylor

‘Madeleine, you cannot let your home circumstances define your entire life. You are intelligent – you have abilities of which you are not even aware.

What range does a trebuchet have? Exactly how far can you fling a dead cow? How long does it take to pull someone’s brains out through their nose? Any questions like that then you come to me and we’ll find your answers for you! That’s what we do!’

Studying history opened doors to other worlds and other times and this became my escape and my passion.

Silence holds no fears for me. I never feel the urge to fill it as so many other people do.

‘Please be honest, Dr Maxwell, is this admirable calm because deep down, very deep down, you think I’m clearly insane and this is going to be one to tell in the pub tonight?’ ‘Actually, Dr Bairstow, deep down, very deep down, I’m having a shit-hot party.’ He laughed.

‘How do you know something happened?’ He sighed. ‘They’re historians. Something always happens.’

I was amazed to see a small kettle and two mugs nestling quietly on a shelf under a rather large first aid locker. ‘Yes,’ he said, resigned. ‘Show me a cup of tea and I’ll show you at least two historians attached to it.’

‘Can you shoot? Have you ever fired a weapon? Can you ride? Can you swim? How fit are you?’ ‘No. No. Yes. Yes. Not at all.’ He paused and looked me up and down. ‘Could you kill a man?’ I looked him up and down. ‘Eventually.’

It seemed an average of only 3.5 trainees actually graduated from each course. ‘You’ll be the point five, then,’ said a tall guy to me, presumably alluding to my lack of height.

‘Is your name Stevens?’ Good God, it was like being back at school. ‘No,’ I said, helpfully. ‘I’m Maxwell.’ ‘I suppose you think you’re clever.’ More silence. ‘Answer me.’ ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t hear a question there.’ Mercifully, the clock struck, signifying the end of the lecture and lunchtime. No one moved.

‘If it’s not too much bother, may I recommend you evacuate the building right now, please.’ Chief Farrell paused from revealing the secrets of the universe and said, ‘Right, everyone out. Immediately. No, not the door, Miss Nagley, use the windows.

‘Rutherford’s broken his leg.’ ‘What? Is he OK?’ ‘Well, no. He’s broken his leg, you daft bat.’

‘Good morning, everyone,’ said Major Guthrie, trying not to grin evilly and failing.

I met Big Dave Murdoch, Guthrie’s number two, a real gentle giant, calm and polite. ‘Good morning, Miss Maxwell. Today, I’m going to rob, rape, and strangle you. Shall we begin?’

We both paused to contemplate the massive rule-breaking going on here. ‘Would you like some tea?’ ‘Oh. Yes, please.’

I spent the weekend clubbing in Rushford.’ ‘What? Baby seals?’

Nothing picks up dust, dirt, wet, excrement, and the occasional dead dog as much as a sweeping hemline.

There was no way I would be wandering around medieval Shrewsbury in early spring with no drawers on. And, as Mrs Enderby so cheerfully said, if things got bad then the wearing of anomalous underwear was going to be the least of my problems.

I’m St Mary’s: if hitting someone didn’t solve the problem, then drinking tea would.

I could see no way round it. I was fucked. Strangely, I found the conclusion quite liberating. When you’re fucked, you’re fucked. Things really can’t get much worse.

I saw the Chief crossing the floor with a mug of steaming tea. He knocked on the door. I called, ‘Who’s there?’ After a pause long enough for the word ‘cocky’ not actually to be spoken aloud, he said, ‘Room service.’

‘Have you had sexual relations or exchanged bodily fluids with anyone outside this timeline?’ ‘Sadly, no. Nor anyone in this timeline either.’ ‘Too much information.

‘They won’t send you to a riot.’ ‘Don’t give me any of that crap. I’ve started a few riots in my time. It’s going to be me.’

As a rough guide, if the thighbone was longer than the shinbone then you were Saxon. If it was the other way round then you were Norman. I have Saxon legs. I peered sideways at Peterson’s. ‘Why are you staring at my legs?’ he asked, more amused than annoyed. I hoped. ‘You have Norman legs,’ I said. He shook his head. ‘I was warned about you.

‘I’m not watching you pee.’ ‘Well, shut your eyes.’ ‘I’m not listening to you pee, either.’ ‘So hum.’ I turned my back and began to hum Handel’s Water Music. ‘Stop that,’ said Peterson,

‘You peed on me,’ I said indignantly, to hide the sickness sweeping over me. ‘Get over it. I peed on me as well,’

‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Maybe History’s in a good mood today.’ ‘Maybe we’re the good guys,’ I said jokingly and there was a strange little pause. ‘Doubt it,’ said Peterson.

‘Nicely done, young Maxwell.’ We were the same age, but I let it go.

I could have felt sorry for him, Helen Foster on one side and Kalinda Black on the other, but when I mentioned it to him once, he just said, ‘Yeah,’ in a dreamy sort of voice, leaned back, put his hands behind his head, and smiled happily. ‘It’s a great life.’

My job was to watch events unfold. To record and document. To observe. To stand apart. Not to interfere. I thought about this and came to the same conclusion that every good historian should reach. Then I thought about it a bit more and came to the other conclusion that every historian not only reaches but implements. You don’t walk away from blind men struggling in the mud. You should, but you don’t.

‘Don’t come in,’ said Kal. They looked at us. ‘It’s not personal,’ I said. ‘We smell a bit.’ Dieter stepped forward. ‘Didn’t you hear?’ said Kal angrily. ‘If it’s your smell, it’s not a problem.’ He picked up her bag. She glared at him but he only smiled. Did he not know how close to death he was?

As I’m sure at least some of you are aware, she enjoys a robust, thorough and above all, penetrative approach to your annual medical examinations. Mess her about at your peril.

I jumped off the bench, met him as he straightened up, and the two of us hugged, jumping up and down together until we got tangled up and fell over. I was on the bottom, still shouting ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ as Chief Farrell came around the corner. The ground never opens up and swallows you when you need it to. There was a fairly crowded silence and then he said politely, ‘Good morning, Miss Maxwell and whoever that is. May I be of any assistance?’

We’re just having a small celebration.’ ‘What do you do for large celebrations?’

Peterson, the sensible one (and imagine a group where Peterson is the sensible one),

‘For heaven’s sake, don’t panic.’ ‘It’s an historian thing. And it’s not just any old panic. It’s highly trained panic. It’s taken years of hard work and practice. Please don’t mock.’

Given your occupation, I’m aware of the irony, but the pair of you should definitely get out more.’

My room was warm and dim – a bit like me really

He smiled his small smile. ‘Yes, Lucy.’ ‘Shouldn’t that be Alice?’ ‘No, you’re my Lucy; the girl in the song – the one with kaleidoscope eyes.’ I was breathless again.

He died in the small hours. It was the end of my world.

And to keep an eye on you.’ ‘Am I strategically important?’ ‘Actually yes, very important, but also I just like looking at you.’

I’ve been looking for an opportunity to talk to you for quite some time, but you’re always either drunk, injured, stressed, or not actually in this time at all. It’s not been easy.’

We looked at each other. It was time. He said, ‘Try and stay safe, Max. I have plans for your return.’ My heart did a little twist. I nodded. ‘You take care, too.’ He smiled, stepped back, and the door shut.

eyes. I heard the door close and when I looked, he stood just inside. He said, ‘Come here.’ I stood shakily, took a step towards him, and put my arms around his solid warmth. He held me tightly. He really was the best of men. He said nothing, rubbing my back gently. I went to pull away but he tightened his grip and said, ‘No,’ very softly, so I laid my head on his chest and listened to his strong, steady heartbeat.

It certainly wouldn’t be our endearingly crackpot little organisation any longer.

I suppose I thought I was entitled to a little gentle cherishing.

This is my dream job.’ The pattern became more intricate. ‘Is that your only dream?’ ‘I did warn you I’m shallow.’ Time to deflect attention from my dreams. ‘What about you? What’s your dream?’ ‘Actually I’m living one of my favourites now.’

‘And, on a more personal note, the eyes of the world are fixed on Mars at the moment, sir. Everywhere I look the arts are being shunted aside for technology. It’s not necessarily a bad thing but maybe in some small way this could redress the balance a little. History – the new sex. Sir.’

‘Oh, I say,’ murmured the Chancellor. ‘All over the Senior Faculty!’ ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘No, no, they’ve been trying to do that to me for years. Jolly well done.’ ‘Always happy to oblige, ma’am.’

A couple of heart-thumping seconds passed before I was able to say, ‘Thank you.’ He nodded, his eyes on the road. ‘And if you pull over now, I’ll give you the blow-job of a lifetime.’ We hit a tree.