Christmas Past Read online

  CHRISTMAS PAST

  A St Mary’s Christmas Story

  Jodi Taylor

  Dramatis Thingummy

  Max Chief Operations Officer but – for the purposes of this story – trainee mother.

  Rosie Lee PA to Chief Ops Officer. Competent mother.

  Mr Dieter Chief Technician. Tea maker. Almost certainly not a mother.

  Polly Perkins Head of IT. Probably not a mother.

  Miss Lingoss Member of R&D. Not a mother as far as anyone knows, but hard to tell under all that hair.

  Leon Farrell Recovering Chief Technical Officer. Father.

  Matthew Farrell Part-time son. Remembering his past.

  Mrs Enderby Head of Wardrobe. Maternal status not known.

  Mrs Midgley Housekeeper. Maternal status not known.

  Mrs Mack Kitchen Supremo. Maternal status not known.

  Tim Peterson Deputy Director. Still struggling but getting better. Not Max’s mother.

  Mr Markham Head of Security. Definitely not Max’s mother. Popular opinion says he never had a mother but was somehow spontaneously spawned…

  Jamie and Joshua Climbing boys, apprenticed to Jeremiah Scrope of Grit Court.

  Mrs Scrope Very definitely not a mother.

  Mrs Scrope No – you’re not seeing double. Unless you’ve been at the eggnog again. And why not? The author has.

  Jeremiah Scrope Ex chimney sweep.

  It was Christmas Eve and all through the house

  St Mary’s was heaving like Markham’s pet louse.

  Sorry, I don’t know what came over me then. I’ve never actually had the urge to rhyme things before. Either old age or too much eggnog, I suspect. Afterwards, when all the dust had settled, I did say to Peterson, ‘When you drink eggnog, do you get the urge to write poetry?’ To which he replied, ‘I’m pleased and proud to announce I’ve never had the urge either to drink eggnog or write poetry.’ So not a great deal of help there.

  Anyway, it was Christmas Eve and St Mary’s was getting ready for the Big Day. We were busy decorating everything that didn’t move, including Vortigern, Mrs Mack’s kitchen cat, the most inanimate object on the planet, now sporting a large red tinsel bow. He was currently slumbering heavily on her desk and completely unaware of this new personal adornment, but someone would suffer when he did wake up. Just so long as it wasn’t me.

  St Mary’s looked beautiful. Our admittedly exuberant Christmas decorations covered a multitude of damp patches, peeling plaster, chipped paintwork and mysterious R&D-generated scorch marks. Our special Christmas tree stood to one side of the stairs, leaning slightly as it always did and smothered with tinsel, decorations, and six or seven sets of Christmas lights – which would normally be a cause for concern but fortunately Mr Dieter had supervised the electrics which increased our chances of getting through the Big Day without any major conflagrations. Giant sprigs of holly and ivy had been woven into bizarre three-dimensional shapes we were calling seasonal garlands, and about twenty-five miles of paper chains were festooned across the hall like a giant spider’s web from which I, at least, expected Shelob to emerge at any moment, clacking her mandibles and looking for fresh meat.

  Succulent smells were already emanating from the kitchen, giving promise of an even better tomorrow.

  The giant fireplace stood empty, awaiting the arrival of the Yule log which would be lit in the morning. The Yule log is supposed to burn for the twelve days of Christmas but that would involve something the size of a Canadian redwood, so we were making do with one of the victims of Professor Rapson’s log-rolling experiment. The one back in the autumn, when it had become sadly apparent there wasn’t a lumberjack among us and Bashford had nearly drowned.

  We do this every year – the Yule log, I mean, not the lumberjack thing. Dr Bairstow has the chimney swept ready and we have the Yule log ceremony. Which basically is not a lot different from the May Day Ceremony or the St George’s Day Ceremony or Halloween or Bonfire Night in that it involves lots of alcohol and someone usually gets hurt.

  Anyway, the whole place was a hive of activity into which I would be roped if I wasn’t careful, so I made my way back to the one place I knew no work would be happening – my office.

  Rosie Lee was clearing her desk and preparing to depart for the day. Seeing me, she said, ‘Well, I’m off,’ and waited for me to say I’d wondered what the smell was, but it was Christmas and I was filled with good will for all mankind. Even this specific specimen of womankind.

  ‘Oh, before I forget.’ She pulled out a small present, wrapped in red paper.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, touched. ‘Thank you so much. You shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ she said, heading for the door. ‘It’s for Matthew.’

  Honour compelled me at least to try for the last word. ‘Where’s the 1536 file?’

  ‘In your in tray.’

  ‘And Doggerland?’

  ‘On your desk.’

  ‘And the professor’s report on …’

  ‘Top drawer.’ She smirked briefly and slammed the door behind her. Two books fell off my book shelf. I sighed again and yanked open the top drawer to find a small package, wrapped in gold foil and bearing the label, To Max. Merry Christmas. David, Rosie and Benjamin.

  I would have felt extremely guilty except that when she opened her bag for her bus fare home she’d find a similar small package labelled To Rosie, Merry Christmas. Leon, Max and Matthew. Revenge is sweet.

  Now that the reason for having to set a good example had left for the holidays, there was no need for me even to pretend to continue working. With the exception of Dr Bairstow and Mrs Partridge, I was probably the only person still at her desk anyway and that was bad for my image, so I gave it up and trotted off to wait for Leon and Matthew instead.

  I wasn’t sure, at that moment, of my exact status. You hear of single-parent families where one of the partners isn’t around for some reason, but as far as I know, no one has invented a word for the sole remaining member of a family where fifty per cent of the parents and a hundred per cent of the kids are living in the future. ‘Alone’ seemed too depressing a word for it, but I was and had been for some time. These days, it was just me. Leon and Matthew were both living with the Time Police. Leon for medical reasons and Matthew for his own safety. They were, however, returning for Christmas. And Kal was coming down from Thirsk, too. St Mary’s likes to gather its chicks for special occasions.

  I got to Hawking Hangar half an hour early, but that was OK because Dieter made me a cup of tea while I waited. Christmas had arrived here as well. All the pods were in and were heavily festooned with seasonal black and yellow hazard tape. Someone had spray-snowed Father Christmases and snowflakes all over the windows of Leon’s office and, far from taking advantage of the seasonal lull to give the pods a thorough servicing, the entire Technical Section, together with Polly Perkins from IT and Miss Lingoss from R&D – today’s hair was a frosty, glittering pale blue – were working on a life-sized mechanical Rudolph whose nose was refusing to glow. My helpful suggestions were ignored.

  I finished my tea and wandered outside. The weather was unseasonably warm. I didn’t even need a jacket. There would be no white Christmas this year. I made a mental note to ensure Professor Rapson’s snow-making machine was mysteriously unavailable. Last year it had gone into overdrive and pumped out unbelievable amounts of white stuff which had spontaneously combusted on contact with the air and the smell of burned rubber had been with us until May.

  The Time Police turned up exactly on time. Their small black pod materialised just outside of Hawking. The door opened and Leon and Matthew, hand in hand, stepped out. They turned and waved to someone inside. The pod disappeared.

  I walked into Leon’s arms – very ca
refully so as not to overbalance him. He could walk, but only slowly and with a stick. He, Ian Guthrie and Markham had crash-landed in Constantinople. They’d all been badly injured. The pod was destroyed and it hadn’t done Constantinople a lot of good either.

  ‘Hey,’ he said gently, smiling for me alone. ‘All right?’

  ‘Absolutely fine. You?’

  ‘Also absolutely fine.’

  I turned to Matthew, waiting patiently. ‘Hello there. How about a hug, then?’

  He didn’t pull away but he wasn’t wildly enthusiastic either. I pretended not to notice.

  ‘How long have you got?’ I asked as we made our way back to Hawking.

  ‘A week,’ he said as I slipped my arm through his. ‘Then back for another check-up and if there’s no problems, back for good.’

  Matthew let go of my hand. ‘I have to find Auntie Lingoss. Tell her about my dirigible.’ He shot off.

  ‘It’s nice to have you back,’ I said, watching him run on ahead. ‘I can’t remember the last time I woke up with you beside me. How’s Matthew doing?’

  There was a slight pause. ‘He’s doing well. They like him. He likes them.’

  We stopped walking and looked at each other.

  Leon said sadly, ‘I think we’ve lost him, Max.’

  I swallowed and said carefully, ‘I don’t think we ever had him. Not since the day Clive Ronan took him away from us. But at least this is his choice. It’s where he wants to be. He’ll be happy there.’

  He took my hand. ‘Between us, how many children have we lost?’

  ‘We haven’t lost this one,’ I said firmly. ‘He can visit us whenever he wants to. I have Commander Hay’s word on that.’

  He wouldn’t look at me. ‘Suppose he doesn’t want to?’

  I squeezed his hand. ‘We must make sure that he does. Think of the advantages, Leon – we don’t have the burden of being his parents any longer. We’re the favourite aunt and uncle. We let him stay up past his bedtime. We let him watch age inappropriate holos. We let him eat as many sweets as he likes. We let him ride the rollercoaster. And then when he’s sick, fractious and exhausted, we hand him back to the Time Police.’

  He couldn’t fold his arms because of his stick, but I could see the thought was there. ‘What rollercoaster?’

  I persevered. Before I burst into tears. Because it was all about doing what was right for Matthew.

  ‘All the boring stuff – the broccoli, the homework, keeping his bedroom tidy, getting his hair cut – that’s all their responsibility. We’re the fun ones. What do you think?’

  He bent and kissed my hair again. ‘I think I wish I was as good as you at hiding a broken heart.’

  I swallowed and slapped his arm. Gently, in case I knocked him over. ‘Well, you’re not, so live with it.’

  He laughed a little and we held each other very tightly for a few minutes and then I took him inside to see Dr Stone.

  I left Leon in Sick Bay and went to look for Matthew, finding him sitting on the stairs watching what was going on in the Hall. Stifling my normal urge to go and make him talk to me, I stood and watched him for a while. His face was a complete blank. What was he thinking? This was his first Christmas with us and although Leon had told me he’d carefully explained what would be happening, he hadn’t been quite sure he’d understood.

  St Mary’s was indeed heaving – forget the louse – although now I come to think of it … Anyway, Mr Strong was setting up the long tables, which were being laid under Mrs Mack’s eagle eye. Kitchen staff were flapping tablecloths big enough to be used as sails on a Viking longboat. And, actually, after Professor Rapson’s Atlantic foray last year – the one Dr Bairstow has forbidden us to talk about so you won’t hear anything from me – some of them had been.

  They were laying out our gleaming white crockery and our best cutlery. The stuff that nearly matched. There were bowls of fruit down the middle of the table. Glassware winked in the bright lights. Every place had a Christmas cracker, handmade by R&D. It was perfectly possible that those pulling them would lose an arm in the subsequent detonation, but the professor had assured me there would be only the tiniest explosion which would be lost in the spectacular shower of glitter and stardust that would cascade from each cracker. I resolved to let someone else pull the first one – just in case. And Matthew not at all if I could help it.

  Speaking of whom … He was looking thoughtful and a little sad, still sitting on the stairs, his chin cupped in his hands, elbows on knees. What was he thinking?

  I sat down beside him and tried to get him to talk to me.

  ‘Hey. Is everything all right?’

  He nodded. He doesn’t talk if gestures will do.

  I wasn’t sure I believed him, so I said nothing and let the silence gather because sometimes that works. On this occasion, however, it didn’t seem to be successful and I was just about to get up and leave him to his thoughts when he said, ‘I …’

  I sat back down again and waited. He still finds it difficult to express himself sometimes. He chatters away to Miss Lingoss and Mr Strong. Even to Leon – especially if they’re building something together – but with me he’s still pretty much tongue-tied. I’ve learned to say nothing and wait, so I rested my forearms on my knees, watched all the activity in the Hall and waited.

  Eventually he said, ‘We didn’t have this.’ He made a gesture with his hand, encompassing all the noise and colour around us.

  I assumed that by we, he meant himself and the other climbing boys.

  Matthew was stolen from us a few months after he was born. It’s a terrible story and I’m not going to tell it now. He’d been stolen away, sold on to various people and eventually ended up as a climbing boy. There had been three of them altogether, apprenticed to one Jeremiah Scrope who had been bad enough, but his wife, old Ma Scrope, had been a monster.

  They say you should ask open questions if you want people to talk. It doesn’t work like that with Matthew who was much more comfortable with short questions and even shorter answers. Yes or no are his favourites. Actually, his favourite answer is to say nothing at all. But, he’d initiated this conversation so I was prepared to do the heavy lifting.

  ‘What were their names?’

  ‘James – Jamie. And Joshua.’

  His own name had been Joseph. Until Leon had rescued him he hadn’t known his real name was Matthew.

  If I said, ‘Tell me about them,’ he’d be so overwhelmed by words that he’d say nothing, so I said, ‘They were the other climbing boys, weren’t they?’ so he could nod.

  ‘You all lived together?’

  ‘In the shed.’ He said no more. I waited again.

  Looking at his feet, he said, ‘It’s wrong.’

  ‘What is?’

  He struggled. ‘This. Last year, we … Jamie nearly died. He was ill. It’s the soot. Makes him cough. It was cold. She sold our blanket. Gin.’ He added as I looked at him. ‘We didn’t work that day. Old Scrope was too drunk to go out but it was too cold to sleep so we just sat. Until it got dark. Rats bite in the dark.’

  He wasn’t looking at me. He was staring back down the past to his other life. A life I guessed was still sometimes more real to him than this one. I travel in time for a living and I’ve come back from long assignments and I know how the contemporary world can take a bit of getting used to.

  He looked up at me again. ‘It’s not right.’

  I sat silently. No, it wasn’t right. That we should have so much and they should have so little. St Mary’s does its best. We give to charity. We hold a children’s party every year and one day that will go well. I know Mrs Mack and one or two others work at the public food halls for those who can’t eat as regularly as they should. Like most people, we do a little bit and try not to admit it’s not enough.

  He turned to me. ‘Can we …?’ He stopped and stared down at his feet, still encased in his favourite light-up trainers.

  I said quietly, ‘Can we what?’

&n
bsp; ‘You know.’ He gestured again. ‘Can we … go there? Take them some … things? We wouldn’t miss them.’

  He was right. We wouldn’t miss a few things but that wasn’t the point. I opened my mouth to tell him, very gently, that no, we couldn’t, because that sort of thing wasn’t allowed. And then I closed it again. Because there was no physical reason why I couldn’t. The rules had some harsh things to say about interfering with contemporaries. Changing one tiny thing can have enormous consequences, but as I was very fond of saying – they’re not my rules.

  He started to speak and I said, ‘Hush a minute, I’m having a bit of a think.’ Since he was always being encouraged to talk as much as possible, he seemed slightly taken aback, but wisely he shut up and we both stared down into the Hall.

  I would need … What would I need?

  Food. And lots of it. That wasn’t a problem. Mrs Mack would pack me up something appropriate. I probably wouldn’t even have to tell her what it was for. Apart from strict adherence to the Flour Handling Regulations, Mrs Mack’s approach to the straight and narrow is nearly as wobbly as mine.

  Costumes. That might be a problem. I spent some moments trying to devise a scenario that would account for my crying need for two early 19th-century costumes right now, right this moment, on Christmas Eve, and one of those for a small boy, and failed miserably. If Mrs Enderby asked – and she might not but with my luck she would – then I’d tell her … something or other.

  And a pod. Well, that was no problem. I could use Leon’s, still quietly hidden at the back of the paint store. Blast doors and two sets of thick walls had saved it from Clive Ronan’s attempts to blow us all to kingdom come. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d indulged in a teensy-tiny illegal jump at Christmas. It would be the first one I’d ever done alone, though. Markham was back on his feet and completely recovered, but it wasn’t fair to involve him in whatever the 19th century might decide to throw at me, and Peterson … Peterson was confronting his first Christmas without Helen and had enough on his plate.

  I should probably also mention something to Leon, and I would. As a wife, obviously, I shouldn’t have any secrets from my husband and I made a note to tell him just as soon as I got back. I sighed and hoped Matthew hadn’t inherited my lax moral standards.