A Symphony of Echoes (10 page)

Busy, busy.

Chapter Nine

We were off. On a proper team-building exercise, no less. Just like a real organisation.

St Mary’s on the move is a terrifying sight.

‘I’m not sure the world’s ready for this,’ said Guthrie, watching as they piled into the big transport pod, TB2. The cages were stacked along one side, with a pile of nets by the door and several sacks full of fruit that should have been eaten last week. It was a bit whiffy, but, with luck, not for long. Wisely, he, Tim, and Leon had elected to remain behind. Now it was my turn. I had Mrs Partridge to lend moral guidance and support.

We landed gently and they assembled in their teams. Historians in their blues, techies in orange, security in green and R&D in what they fondly imagined was woodland camouflage.

I had no idea how this was going to turn out. I’d considered (briefly) a paintball day. That’s what normal organisations do to promote team building. In reality, of course, it’s just an excuse to stick it to the bastards in Management. There was no way I was going to give this lot that opportunity, hence – The Great Dodo Hunt. We had arrived at Mauritius in 1666. In London, the Great Fire was raging and the Lord Mayor was saying dismissively that the blaze was so small a woman might piss it out. He probably wasn’t re-elected. Bet he got an earful from the missus as well.

I had sent Tim back to St Mary’s to accomplish two tasks. The first, burying the sonnets for us to find in this time, had gone remarkably well, considering it was St Mary’s. The second part was to bring Dieter’s Dodo House designs back with him. He, Ian and an increasingly mobile Leon had supervised the building of our rather nifty looking Dodo Research Centre, which had been knocked up alongside the stables, out of main view. Consisting of indoor and outdoor quarters and a sizeable run, complete with running water, we were confident it would appeal to even the most discerning dodo.

A quite accidental discovery last year had shown us that objects facing imminent destruction could be removed from their own timeline and relocated elsewhere. That was how we’d managed to save some of the Great Library of Alexandria. Now, we were going to have a shot at saving a few dodos. I had no idea how this would pan out – standard St Mary’s methodology – but the presence of Mrs Partridge, part-time PA and full-time Muse of History, was reassuring. We would not be jiggering the time continuum. Not this afternoon, anyway.

Since we’d been unable to complete the Flying Machine competition and to spice things up a bit, I had a small cup to award to the most successful team, and a huge wooden spoon and unit-wide ridicule for the losers. In the normal St Mary’s spirit of free and fair competition, all teams were now regarding each other balefully, waiting for the off. There would be tears before bedtime.

We’d decided on twelve birds, altogether. Any twelve. No one had any idea how to tell the sexes apart so we’d take anything we could get. The optimum male to female ratio was unimportant. Twelve neat cages stood ready. It was time.

I read them the guidelines again, making sure I included the long list of disqualifying acts. Deep down, I had no real expectation of seeing any dodos, let alone capturing any. Their date of extinction was around 1681 and, even by this date, they were very scarce. They might even be gone already. If we did catch a glimpse, we might be the last humans ever to do so.

Still, it kept the children out of mischief. Team building at its most bizarre.

‘Remember,’ I said, wondering when I’d turned into such a nag, ‘no harm is to come to any of these birds on pain of instant death and disqualification. They’re scarce, they’re stupid, and I don’t want the last one dying because someone even more stupid has sat on it. All right? Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines.’

They seized their nets and whatever dodo-capturing equipment they’d come up with and stood at the top of the ramp.

‘You have two hours,’ I said, pretty confident that: a) they’d never see a dodo; and b) they’d certainly never catch a dodo. ‘Three – two – one – go, go, go.’

And off they went, went, went.

I turned around to Mrs Partridge, impeccably attired in holiday gear, cream chinos, and a crisp white shirt, making Mauritius look scruffy by comparison.

We stepped outside. The day was warm and muggy and to some extent reminded me a little of the Cretaceous. Without the giant carnivorous lizards, obviously. I stood listening to the sounds of the forest and watching the sun filtering through the foliage, making golden patches on the forest floor. It was astonishingly peaceful.

‘Tea, Director?’

She’d procured a table – with a cloth – and laid for afternoon tea.

‘Mrs Partridge,’ I said, laughing.

She smiled. ‘It’s been a busy time for all of us and I know how fond you are of afternoon tea.’

I sat and she produced a plate of tiny triangular sandwiches. ‘Let me see, ham, egg, and salmon and cucumber. Please help yourself.’ She passed me a pretty, floral plate and a napkin. When Mrs Partridge does afternoon tea, she really doesn’t mess about. The sandwiches were delicious.

I sat back in my chair and sighed. ‘This is very pleasant, Mrs Partridge. Thank you.’

‘Your tea, Director, with lemon and three sugars.’

‘Thank you.’

In the distance, I could hear raised voices growing closer. Team History erupted out of the undergrowth and with substantial amounts of Mauritius in their hair.

Evan was gently rebuking his team.

‘I told you, stay left, you pillock. You let it get away.’

‘I was left.’

‘My left.’

‘You didn’t say.’

‘It should have been obvious, you moron. How could you not see it?’

‘Well, I can see it now. It’s behind you. Tally-ho!’

The clearing grew silent again.

‘So, how are you, Mrs Partridge?’

‘Very well, thank you.’

‘And your sister, Mrs de Winter?’

There was a slight chill to her voice. ‘Bolivia.’

‘Bolivia?’

‘Bolivia.’

‘But …’ I said, bewildered, although it doesn’t take much.

Mrs de Winter was my former teacher, recruitment officer for St Mary’s and Sibylline Oracle. What was she doing in Bolivia?

‘This happens – occasionally,’ said Mrs Partridge.

‘What does?’

‘Bolivia.’

I wasn’t getting any clues at all. Bolivia could be a country, an event, a person, a cat …

I opened my mouth to frame a careful question and had another sandwich passed to me. I took the hint. Even so – Bolivia?

‘Well,’ I said carefully. ‘Please pass on my best wishes when she returns from – Bolivia.’

She inclined her head graciously. ‘I shall certainly do so. She will be sorry to have missed you.’

I was conscious of a low drumming sound. Teacups rattled. Were we having an earthquake? The drumming drew closer. Hoof beats?

Nearly right. From around the corner galloped Team Security, going flat out, muddy faces set with determination.

‘Don’t let it get away.’

‘I’m not. Get the nets ready.’

‘We’re ready. Just tell us when. We can’t see from back here.’

‘Now! Quick!’

Three tablecloth-sized nets sailed gracefully through the air, floating slowly but surely over the entire team who, suddenly, were using the sort of language you would expect from a bunch of people who had gone from a flat-out gallop to a dead stop in less than a second. There was an enormous amount of flailing. Eventually, words were discernible.

‘Get off me. Bloody get off, will you?’

‘I can’t. You’re on my arm.’

‘Ow. Bloody hell. Watch your elbow.’

‘I swear, Russell, if you touch me there again …’

‘I can’t help it. And you can talk. Get your face out of my …’

‘Oh my God, is that your …? Oh, gross!’

Someone got an arm free. ‘I’ve got an arm free. Just keep still, the rest of you.’

‘Get me out of here.’

‘I’m trying. Just bloody keep still, for God’s sake.’

There was the sound of a ringing slap.

‘Ow! What the hell was that for?’

‘I warned you.’

‘Not my fault!’

‘Look. Look, over there. It’s by that tree.’

‘We’re in a forest, for crying out loud. Which tree?’

They heaved themselves to their feet, more or less extricated themselves from their own nets and set off in pursuit of something apparently only they could see.

Silence fell.

‘Would you like a scone, Director?’

‘Oh, how lovely. Do we have jam and cream as well?’

‘Of course.’

I spooned copious amounts of jam over my scone, being careful to snag a strawberry and finished it off with a small mountain of cream. Cholesterol holds no fears for me. I should live so long.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ she said. ‘How is Dr Bairstow these days?’

‘He’s very well. Completely on top of his game. There’s a rumour he laughed last month.’

She smiled to herself and her eyes softened.

‘Do you miss him?’

She didn’t answer immediately. Whoops. However, it was she who had raised the subject. She picked up her tea and stared into the cup.

‘Yes. Yes, I do. I miss him very much.’

I watched her, sitting quietly in the shadow of the forest, staring into her cup, remembering …

‘Sometimes, it’s not easy,’ she said, not looking at me. ‘I try to remember people are a renewable resource, but sometimes … sometimes there is someone special. Sometimes, it nearly breaks my heart.’

There was a scream, a noise of tearing branches, and Team Technical dropped suddenly from above. To give her time, I strode over and said in tones of enormous restraint, ‘What
are
you doing?’

‘We thought we’d look for a nest.’                  

‘They’re flightless, you imbeciles! Have you never heard the word
research
?’

Sheepishly, they took themselves off and I threw myself into my seat. ‘I’m worn out. Can I have another scone, please?’

‘Of course.’

It was as she was leaning forward for the plate that I saw them over her shoulder.

‘Mrs Partridge, please could you keep very still?’

‘What is it?’

‘Dodos. Over there. Just at the edge of the clearing.’

She leaned back slowly in her chair and turned her head. There they were. We’d found them.

Well, they’d found us.

The first thing that struck me was that they were absolutely enormous. If I stood up, they would reach well past my waist. The second thing was that they were really bloody ugly. One of their names had been Dodaar – knot arse, probably because of the knot of plumage on their backsides. At the other end, their heads were completely naked. Being dodos, they’d probably been facing the wrong way when feathers were being allocated. They weren’t even a pretty colour. On an island filled with jewel-like bird life, they were a kind of grey-brown. Some were a kind of brown-grey. Their most colourful feature was their great nine-inch green, yellow, and black beaks. They looked like a cross between a turkey and a compost heap. And they were fat. I may be unjust; it was possible they stocked up on fruit in the wet season to get them through the dry season. But all the same, these puppies were fat.

Nobody had moved. It dawned on me that it wasn’t us they were eyeing – it was our afternoon tea. The same thought had obviously occurred to Mrs Partridge. She picked up a slice of Victoria Sponge, broke it into large pieces and tossed them in their direction. I hadn’t had any yet, and could not suppress a small whimper.

‘It’s for science, Director,’ she said. ‘We must all make sacrifices.’

Two or three of them bundled over and inspected the cake, heads on one side. One nibbled with its beak, let out a cry of ‘Grockle,’ and made a grab for another. Immediately there was a free for all as they milled around, hoovering up Victoria Sponge as fast as they could go.

‘Quick,’ I said, struck with inspiration. ‘Lay a trail.’

We began to break up the remaining sandwiches, cake and scones and backed towards the pod. The phalanx of dodos watched us silently – just like that scene from
The Birds
. Suddenly, with no signal given that I could see, the whole flock attacked, stubby wings and necks outstretched, grockling away for dear life. We turned and fled.

‘Never mind the cages,’ I said, ‘I’ll lure them inside and you get the door. We’ll sort out the cages later.’

God, they were dim. They raced around in excited circles, gobbling up afternoon tea. None of them looked where they were going. The collided with each other. They tripped over roots and brought down their neighbours, and those behind fell over them. If I had a gun then the world would already be down twenty or so dodos. Short of pulling the trigger themselves, they couldn’t have had less sense of self-preservation. They squabbled over the food, tried to clamber over the table for more, knocked over the teapot, grockled indignantly at each other, spotted more food nearer the pod, and launched another airborne attack. Of course, they all tried to stand at the same end of the table, which at once tipped over. They landed slightly less gracefully than the dancing hippos in Fantasia.

If ever a species was marked for extinction by suicide … I felt quite sorry for them. It’s not as if they were beautiful or intelligent and opinions varied greatly as to whether they were good eating. The only recipe I’d found had not been helpful.

First, catch your dodo. Marinade in lemon juice, or something equally acidic for as long as possible. Preferably overnight. Stuff with breadcrumbs, roughly chopped onions, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Season robustly, lay on a wide plank or something similar, and cook over an open fire or BBQ until the juices run clear. Carefully separate the light meat from the dark. Throw the whole lot away and eat the plank.

I waited until they were marginally calmer and looking round for more food. Slowly and ostentatiously, I began to lay a trail up the ramp. They followed, bundling together, grockling to each other and squabbling over the food. It wasn’t so very different from managing St Mary’s. The followed me into the pod, looked around with loud exclamations of grockle, took one look at the cages and made a mad, feathery dash. In seconds, each cage had a dodo or two inside, lowering its undercarriage and making itself comfortable. Those who couldn’t be inside clambered heavily onto the top of the cages and sat, grockling contentedly to their neighbours.