The Very First Damned Thing (6 page)

‘I take leave to doubt that. However, it is your former expertise that interests me at the moment.'

‘What – catering?'

‘Yes. I am currently establishing a small organisation and we have been catering for ourselves. Our efforts have not been as successful as I could have wished. My records show that you enjoyed considerable success in that field.'

‘Your records? Who are you? Show me some ID.'

‘Alas, I am unable to do so. I have none.'

She regarded him narrowly. ‘Do you work for the government?'

Just for a moment, he allowed himself a small gleam of amusement. ‘Actually I may have just persuaded them to work for me. They do, however, supply my funding – via a third party.'

She looked at him across the cold fireplace. It occurred to him the room was very quiet. Not even the ticking of a clock.

‘Who are you?'

‘I told you. My name is Edward Bairstow and while I am reluctant to paraphrase Winston Churchill in any way, I can offer you nothing except extremely hard work, difficult working conditions, and an occasionally hazardous environment.'

Receiving no indication of her response to this statement, he continued.

‘I am setting up an organisation, the details of which I cannot yet discuss with you. The unit will be situated in England. The work will be of a top-secret nature and my employees will require regular and frequent feeding. You would have complete control over your department. I do not believe in micro managing. It will be chaotic. Food will be required at all hours of the day and night. And large quantities of it, too. Miracles will be demanded of you on a daily basis. You probably won't be paid regularly. There may be periods when you will not be paid at all.'

‘Can I engage my own staff?'

‘Within budgetary constraints, yes.'

‘Will
they
be paid?'

‘Probably not.'

She sat for a while in silence. Dr Bairstow, possibly a little more tired by his walk from the station than he was prepared to admit, also sat quietly.

‘You can't tell me what you do?'

‘No, I can't do that at the moment. But I can tell you what I won't do. I won't ever preside over an organisation that wants to put together a working party to investigate the possibility of setting up a steering group dedicated to considering the make-up of a proposed committee. In my own small way, I too am rebuilding, and I want people who will get things done. Are you one of those people?'

Her chin came up.

‘When?'

‘As soon as possible.'

‘Wait here.'

She reappeared moments later with a small suitcase. Crossing to the table, she picked up the photograph and her book and carefully packed them away.

‘I'm ready.'

They let themselves out of the front door. She locked it behind her and posted the keys back through the letterbox.

‘Let's go.'

The two figures walked slowly down the street into the gathering night.

‘Three.'

‘What's that?'

‘I beg your pardon. Just thinking aloud.'

And yet another long train journey. North, this time. Evicting, by sheer personality, a young man sitting in the seats clearly set aside for those physically unable to stand all the way to York, Dr Bairstow made himself comfortable and contemplated his strategy. A complete waste of time as it turned out.

Catching a local train he alighted at Thirsk and made his way across the Market Place, around the Clock Tower, and out towards the university – St James' campus.

Spring was springing as fast as it could go. Tubs of nodding daffodils stood on every street corner. A warm wind blew. For once, it wasn't raining.

The St James' buildings had sustained considerable damage. The Main Hall stood roofless. Every window was boarded up. To his right, the Barbeck Library was just a shell. Dr Bairstow stood at the entrance to the quadrangle, looking about him. An observer might have said he was remembering.

A college porter appeared from a doorway. ‘Help you, sir?'

‘I am here to see either Dr Dowson or Professor Rapson. Or both. Whichever is easier.'

The porter nodded back the way he had just come. ‘Up the stairs and to your left, sir. You might want to proceed with caution.'

Thanking him, Dr Bairstow climbed the ancient staircase.

In contrast to the rest of the building, which reflected the grave silence of academia, the corridor at the top of the stairs was witnessing a great deal of activity. A line of gossiping students stood along one panelled wall, all with identical expressions of sheepishness and clutching bottles containing a familiar golden fluid.

Any doubts Dr Bairstow might have had over whether or not he was in the right place were immediately dispelled. At the exact moment he opened his mouth to make a polite enquiry of the nearest bottle-clutching student, there was a small, damp explosion and a cloud of evil-smelling, acrid smoke billowed from a doorway. Dr Bairstow closed his mouth, and waited for events to unfold.

A door on the other side of the corridor was hurled open with some force. The students, obviously familiar with the signs and mindful that there was bound to be a pub open somewhere, made themselves scarce.

A small, round man, spectacles balanced precariously on the end of his nose, bounced out into the corridor, waving his arms to dispel the evil vapours, and plunged into the fray.

‘Andrew, you old fool, I warned you. Didn't I warn you?' He turned his head, addressing someone unseen. ‘Mr Cameron, please telephone the Chancellor's office for me and remind them – again – of my urgent requests to be rehoused. No one should be expected to have to work opposite … Andrew, what are you doing now? I demand you stop that at once. You'll blow us all to kingdom come.'

A furious pounding could be heard.

A voice said excitedly, ‘I think I know where I went wrong.'

‘You always say that.'

‘Well, it's usually true, Octavius. I think this time I used a little too much urine and not enough toadstool.'

‘For God's sake, Andrew, it's like a bloody witch's den in here. What
is
this? And
this
? And don't tell me what
this
is because I don't want to know.'

A quiet voice said patiently, ‘It's touchwood, Occy. You soak it in urine – lots of urine – pound the mixture into a kind of felt, and it smoulders. Portable fire. The Vikings used it a lot.

‘You are not a Viking. And the 21
^st
century has gifted us with matches. And this did not smoulder. It exploded.'

‘Yes, I think possibly the fault lies with poor quality urine. I blame the students, you know. It's probably about 90% alcohol. Really, when you think about it, an explosion was quite inevitable. I wonder if I could persuade them to stop drinking for a week or two?'

‘Andrew, I sometimes think you've lost all touch with reality.'

‘Well really, that's a little unkind. Actually, while you're here, Occy, I wonder if you'd be kind enough to donate …'

At this moment, Dr Bairstow judged it politic to intervene.

Taking a spotless handkerchief from his pocket, he attached it to one end of his stick and gently waved it around the doorway.

‘Gentlemen, may I enter?'

‘Oh for heaven's sake, Andrew, you've blown up a civilian. Come in, sir. Are you hurt?'

‘Not in any way, I assure you. May I enter?'

‘Yes, of course. Andrew, please find the gentleman a chair.'

A tall and very thin man with Einstein hair, Professor Rapson looked vaguely around as if perhaps a chair could be found dangling from the ceiling. His hair was in disarray and the front of his white coat was speckled with something that should probably not be too closely examined.

‘I am looking for Professor Rapson.'

‘Oh. Yes. That's me. How do you do?' He began to move around the room, picking up shattered equipment and uttering small, distressed sounds. Pools of fluid dripped unhappily to the floor.

‘Andrew, what are you doing?'

‘I'm looking for the rest of the student donations and they don't appear to have survived.'

‘Well thank God for that. Come and sit down for a moment, there's a good chap. You have a guest.'

‘No, you don't understand. That was the last of … Oh, well, never mind, there are many more of them waiting outside.'

‘Alas, I fear that is no longer the case,' interrupted Dr Bairstow.

‘Oh dear. Now what shall I do? I don't suppose, Occy …'

‘Absolutely not!'

He turned hopefully to Dr Bairstow. ‘I wonder, sir, if I could trouble you …'

There was a short pause. ‘I'm afraid not.'

‘Oh well, I'll just have to save up again, I suppose.'

He drooped dejectedly over the remains of a complicated glass retort.

Silence fell. And showed no signs of getting up again.

Since both of them appeared to have forgotten his presence, Dr Bairstow felt compelled to speak.

‘I am looking for Professor Andrew Rapson and Dr Octavius Dowson. I suspect that I have found them.'

‘You have indeed, sir. How can we assist you?'

‘Gentlemen, I have travelled here today to ask you, personally, whether you would be interested in joining my project. I cannot enter into any great detail at the moment, suffice to say that the work will be hazardous, noisy, a little disorganised, and extremely secret.'

It was as if a switch had been flicked. Both men stopped what they were doing and turned to fix him with stares of laser-like intensity. The two bickering academics might never have existed.

‘Why us?'

‘The University of Thirsk was the centre of resistance in this part of the country and, from reports I have read, the two of you were at the centre of the centre of resistance. The university suffered greatly because of its stand against the Fascist forces. I have in mind a scheme that will benefit everyone – me, you, and the university.'

Professor Rapson folded his arms. ‘Does the Chancellor know about this?'

‘She does. There have been extensive discussions.'

Dr Dowson smiled gently. ‘I imagine she couldn't wait to be rid of us.'

‘Actually, no. She is greatly reluctant to lose either of you but she concedes the importance of my work and recognises your value to it.'

‘You haven't told us yet what your project is.'

‘No, I haven't.'

‘Or where it is.'

‘I'm afraid I can't tell you that, either. But it will be in this country.'

‘What will we be doing?

‘I'm not yet at liberty to divulge that information.'

‘Can you give us any details at all?'

‘Not really, no.'

‘So, just to sum up – you want us to work on an unknown project in an unknown location?'

‘That is correct.'

‘And the work is hazardous …?'

‘And noisy and disorganised.'

They looked at each other. ‘Anything else we should know?'

‘Regular wages will probably not happen.'

‘Well in that case …' They looked at each other and then back to Dr Bairstow, nodding enthusiastically. ‘We accept.'

‘Good.' Dr Bairstow rose to his feet and retrieved his handkerchief. ‘I will contact you both shortly. Allow me to give you my card.'

Dr Dowson turned it over. ‘It's just your name.'

‘That is correct. Gentlemen, I will be in touch.'

He turned and made his way back through the smoke and down the stairs. Pausing at the bottom to draw on his gloves, he groped for his notebook, made two ticks, and permitted himself a satisfied smile.

‘Four
and
five. Excellent progress.'

Time passed – and who would know that better than the occupants of St Mary's?

The food improved immeasurably. Although as Mr Randall remarked, Mrs Mack could serve up a dead dog sandwich and it would still be a huge improvement on Markham's efforts. A slight scuffle followed this statement.

A steady stream of vehicles weaved their way around the potholes, seeking to deliver their cargo under Mr Strong's directions. Structural work began and was progressing well until the Society for the Protection of Historical Buildings turned up with their paperwork and put a stop to all that.

The library slowly began to take shape. It was Dr Bairstow's opinion that the library might have taken shape a little less slowly if Dr Dowson could refrain from exclaiming in excitement and sitting down, task forgotten, to read some long-forgotten treasure.

Professor Rapson, for no good reason that anyone could see, had attempted the construction of an automated mangonel. The combination of a scale model and an old lawn mower engine proved too much for the internal walls of his laboratory, one of which collapsed under the bombardment. He was accused of attempting to demolish St Mary's even before the cement had dried and, having been compelled to evacuate while the ceiling was propped up and other safety measures implemented, he retired, protesting, to assist Dr Dowson in the Library. The sounds of heated academic debate soon echoed around the building. As Major Guthrie said, however, it kept them both occupied and out of the way.

Living conditions remained somewhat spartan. St Mary's, while continuing to absorb money at an astonishing rate, had very little to spare for creature comforts.

Dr Bairstow awoke late one night to hear vigorous whispering under his window. A moment later, a vehicle coughed into life and drove away. Silence fell. Dr Bairstow turned over and closed his eyes again.

The next morning, two tables, half a dozen chairs, and a sofa appeared to have mysteriously materialised overnight. The next night saw the acquisition of three single beds. On the night after that, St Mary's appeared to have enjoyed a visit from the wardrobe fairy. With some regret, Dr Bairstow requested the presence of Mr Markham at his earliest convenience.