The Long and Short of It Read online

  They would settle themselves in for a long day’s observing and we observed the observers. After they departed, one of us would nip over and give the area the once over in case she’d dropped it there. She never had.

  As far as we could see, they were making general observations, but concentrating mainly on a ninety-foot long transportation barge, which was taking shape in front of our eyes. Four others lay alongside. Men swarmed all over them, up and down wooden ladders. Long ago, Herodotus had described how Egyptian boats were built, using methods that, with typical Egyptian resistance to change, had remained virtually unaltered over the centuries. Just wooden planking, cut to a precise shape that would fit tightly together in a brick pattern.

  ‘Not a nail in sight,’ said Peterson admiringly.

  Time passed slowly. It does in Egypt. I now knew more about Egyptian shipbuilding than was good for me. We couldn’t even fall back on that standard English conversational device, the weather, because once we’d agreed it was hot, that was pretty well it. There were flies everywhere, most of whom fell in love with Markham. At one point, nearly every insect in the country seemed to regard him as a desirable place to take up residence, or lay their eggs and bring up their family, and he was covered in lumps, bumps, bites, and stings, and had developed a small but interesting rash on his elbow.

  ‘Not a clue,’ said Peterson, peering at it. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Like buggery.’

  ‘Well, don’t scratch it.’

  ‘Is that it? You’re both field medics and the best you can come up with is “Don’t scratch it?”‘

  ‘We could amputate your arm if you like,’ I offered, out of the goodness of my heart. ‘That would certainly enable us to showcase our medical skills.’

  Peterson nodded enthusiastically.

  Markham protectively clutched his diseased arm and glared at us.

  ‘You know what,’ said Peterson, settling back as comfortably as he could, ‘one day we’ll have a normal Christmas. We’ll spend the run up decorating St Mary’s. There will be streamers and tinsel and a tree and, if I can manoeuvre Helen into the right position vis-à-vis the mistletoe, some serious snogging. There will be carols and eggnog and silly games. We’ll listen to the King’s Speech. We’ll all consume a year’s worth of calories in one meal and then, when she’s too stuffed to put up any sort of resistance, I’ll ask Helen a very important question. It will be a proper Christmas.’

  He sat, staring happily into his future. Markham and I eyed each other and said nothing.

  To pass the time, we discussed names for the baby. Agamemnon got the most votes, followed by Iphigenia.

  To assist him in his ongoing struggle against the insect world, we pumped Markham full of everything we could find in the med kit and each morning, at his request, I sprayed him thoroughly with a can of some sort of repellent he said was at the back of one of the lockers and which seemed to be doing the job, even if he did smell of rancid grease afterwards.

  ‘We’ve been here nearly a week,’ said Markham one day, wiping sweat off his face. ‘Suppose we don’t ever find it? Would it be safe to assume that if we can’t find it – and we’ve been looking hard – then no one else will either? That it’s been buried forever or at the bottom of an irrigation ditch or something?’

  ‘Not with our luck,’ said Peterson. ‘I wish they’d hurry up and launch this bloody ship. We’re running short of food and water.’

  He was right on both counts. With our luck, the gun would be picked up by some kid who, in the sort of freakish set of circumstances with which St Mary’s is so familiar, would manage to blow Hatshepsut’s head off and change History for all time. And our supplies were dwindling fast.

  I was beginning to lose my optimism. We huddled together, following our tiny patch of shade as best we could, dogging the other team’s every step, and there was no sign anywhere of that bloody gun. For two pins, I’d have stormed across, grabbed the thing from her pack, and jumped back to St Mary’s as quickly as possible, but I couldn’t. She never let it out of her reach.

  We were hot, hungry, thirsty, sunburned, stung, and going nowhere. The barge, which appeared to be the focus of their observations, was nearing completion. They would pack up and jump back and we’d have no choice other than to follow them. Then I’d have to go and have a very difficult conversation with Dr Bairstow.

  For the first time, I began to wonder whether I should have gone straight to the Time Police and left them to sort it out. Every day we were here we risked being discovered, and that would be disastrous because it would influence events that had already happened. Doubt gnawed at me and there were several occasions when I hovered on the brink of pulling us out and heading home.

  ‘No,’ said Markham, reading my mind. ‘Give it a little while longer.’

  I looked at our sunburned selves. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to explain this away. We’re going to be in such trouble.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much,’ he said, examining his rash again which had spread to his other elbow via his knees. ‘Everyone knows you can talk people into pulling the most outrageous stunts that seem perfectly logical at the time, and we always seem to get back more or less safely. It’s me that has to explain to Major Guthrie just how I managed to get trampled by a war elephant/covered in boiling oil/locked in the oubliette/stung by the scorpion and so on. He’s never impressed by any of it and somehow the mad redhead always gets off scot-free and everything turns out to be my fault.’

  ‘True,’ I said, feeling more cheerful.

  On the sixth day, we wearily heaved ourselves out of the pod and trudged off to the boatyard, carefully following in Bashford’s footsteps. Peterson checked the left-hand side of the path, Markham the right and I came along behind, acting as sweeper.

  So far, everything as usual. On this day, however, we would have some excitement. Today was the day the ship would be launched. It wasn’t completed yet, but there would be a small ceremony as it was dragged down to the water. We assumed they had to float it now before it became too big and heavy to be moved.

  ‘A bit like you in a few months, Max,’ said Markham to me.

  I suppose that, for a race which casually dots massive pyramids willy-nilly around the landscape, launching a boat, however large, presents no problems at all.

  There was the obligatory shouting, of course, even when addressing the man only two feet away, because if you don’t shout, how will people know how important you are?

  Thick, chocolate-coloured ropes were attached in what was almost a cat’s cradle. The boat had a mast but no rigging or any of the horizontal bits – whatever they’re called. There were no quarter rudders yet – that’s the two big oars at the back. Look, I’m not a sailor – OK? The big bit of wood, the sternpost, which helped compress the planking and keep it watertight, was carved in the image of a huge lotus. The work was obviously a labour of love – it was beautiful. The lotus is a sacred symbol in Egypt.

  Lines of men arrived, apparently from nowhere, their bodies already glistening with sweat. Someone somewhere had a drum. Someone always has a drum. They lined up in their teams, complete with overseer, planted their feet, spat on their hands, and took up the slack.

  The drumbeat began, slow and rhythmical. The lines of men threw themselves into a near horizontal position and heaved.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Peterson. ‘They pull backwards – like a tug of war team.’

  They were just like a tug of war team. Shifting their weight from foot to foot, barely moving an inch at a time, grunting with the effort, they began to build up a momentum. The drum banged on, providing the rhythm. Crowds of people, men, women, and children cheered with enthusiasm and threw flowers. This was obviously a great day for those who had built her. The day she went down to the water. I wondered what her name was. There would be five of these beautiful boats making that epic voyage to the fabulous land of Punt, and all their names are lost in the mists of History.

  Slowly, im
perceptibly, the boat began to move down the slipway. I say slipway, but it was just a gentle slope down to the water, baked hard as concrete by sun and regular use. Two men ran down each side, knocking away the wooden props.

  We stood up for a better view. No one was bothering to look at us, least of all Bashford and his crew. Even Grey was completely involved in what was happening, her pack clutched tightly to her chest.

  To our left, a group of priests began to chant, raising their hands skywards, possibly invoking the blessing of the great god Re as he travelled across the heavens in his solar boat. Or if not his blessing then those of whichever deities considered themselves responsible for ships and sailors in this god-laden country.

  As the boat slid majestically past them, their chanting rose to a crescendo and acolytes began flicking what I suspected was blood along the hull. There’s always blood at a ship launch. I read somewhere that the Norsemen launched their boats over living sacrifices, to ensure the keel was well and truly saturated, because that always brought good fortune. Although not to the sacrifices, of course.

  Small boys ran up and down the lines of toiling men, throwing buckets of water over them before anyone expired in the heat.

  The noise was enormous. In addition to the drum, a small group of musicians had turned up with the priests. A pipe wailed mournfully, although this was probably a happy song. It’s quite hard to tell sometimes. Cymbals clashed. Even the dogs woke up and ran around barking hysterically and getting in everyone’s way.

  ‘This is the way to launch a ship,’ shouted Markham, peering red-eyed at the scene.

  ‘It’s still done more or less this way,’ I said. ‘They just use champagne and a brass band these days. Not half so much fun, though.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peterson thoughtfully. ‘Sadly, I have to say I can’t see Princess Alice flinging a bucket of blood at a ship as it slides past. Which is a shame, really. She’d enjoy it.’

  Now, at a command from somewhere, a number of men at the front relinquished their ropes, trotted around to the back, and began to push. The boat picked up speed, reaching the point where it would be unstoppable. Anxious mothers called for their children. The dogs got out of the way. The long lines of men, beautifully coordinated, began to peel away. She was moving by herself now, eager to reach the water. Men were cheering and urging her on. This was obviously a good sign.

  And before anyone asks, I hadn’t forgotten about Grey. She still stood, eyes fixed on the launching, still holding on to her pack for dear life.

  Ten feet to go.

  Then six.

  Then three.

  She was there, gliding smoothly into the water. Pushing a bow wave before her. The lines at the back tightened. In a torrent of white water, she jerked to a halt, swaying (or whatever the nautical term is) from side to side. With a final triumphant shout, men took the strain, feet skidding in the dust. Someone lobbed a couple of sea anchors over the side and there she was. Unfinished, lacking a complete mast, sail, or oars, but beautiful nevertheless. And alive. This ship was a living thing. I can understand now why shipbuilders and sailors always refer to boats as she and endow them with living characteristics. I was so glad I’d had the opportunity to see this.

  The ship’s crew were unhitching the ropes and tossing them into the water, where they were pulled in, coiled, and stowed away.

  The crowd broke ranks, running to the water’s edge in excitement. Everyone was eager to see the new ship.

  And then it happened. I was watching and I saw exactly what happened to the gun.

  As you can imagine, there were crowds of excited kids running everywhere. Most of them were stark naked, covered in God knows what, with crusty nostrils, weeping eyes, and completely bald apart from their side knots. They made Markham look spotless and those are two words I never thought I’d get to use in the same sentence.

  A group of shrieking youngsters, all tangled up with yelping dogs, raced down to the water’s edge for a better view, and ran straight into Bashford’s team. There was no harm done, but Grey was knocked down. She staggered, fell, and dropped her pack, which hit the ground and fell open, spilling its contents everywhere.

  I took two paces to the left for a better view.

  The kids raced on regardless, kicking her stuff in all directions and I saw it. I saw the gun hit the ground and spin sideways. A laughing little boy, completely unaware of what he was doing, accidentally kicked it under a vat of caulk.

  No one noticed except me.

  Grey was on her knees, scrabbling her stuff together and ramming it back into her pack. Bashford and Gallaccio were still watching the boat. Cox stood guard over her as she knotted her pack together again and scrambled to her feet.

  I saw him say something to her, presumably asking if she had everything. I saw her look around. They both did. They both checked the area very, very thoroughly. It wasn’t their fault the gun was about ten feet away under a cauldron of cold pitch. And that was about the only thing we could be grateful for. That today the fire had been extinguished and the ashes were cold.

  Taking her arm, he helped her to run after the others at the shoreline.

  I stood undecided. Go after it now and risk the other team turning around and seeing us? Or wait for them to move off and risk losing it again?

  I hesitated and that hesitation was fatal. Even as I stood and stared, a tiny boy darted forwards, scooped up the gun, turned it over in his grubby paws, and before I could get to him, he ran off.

  ‘Bollocks! Come on.’

  We set off after him. Very carefully, because there is never a time period when chasing after a kid is a good idea. The chances were that almost everyone in this boatyard was a relation of some kind or other. My plans for Christmas did not include being impaled.

  He raced around the sail-makers’ workshop and along the riverbank.

  We trotted after him, doing our best to look inconspicuous.

  He stopped after a while, looked around, and crouched in the dust to examine his prize.

  Peterson pushed past me and sprinted. Never mind what anyone thought – if he pulled the trigger then we really would be in the shit. Even more deeply than usual.

  Peterson was nearly there. A few more yards, grab the gun, ignore the inevitable protests and possible tears, then it was everyone back to the pod, jump back to St Mary’s, replace the gun, smile at everyone, and deny everything. We could do this.

  And then another boy burst out of a reed bed. Older and bigger, he’d lost his side knot, so he wasn’t a child any longer. Looking back, he might have been an older brother, and in the manner of older brothers everywhere, he clumped the smaller kid round the side of the head, relieved him of his treasure, and was away off down the path before anyone else had quite worked out what was happening.

  I made a mental note to remember how inconveniently fast children could move.

  Markham and I caught up and stared after the vanishing figure.

  ‘Go,’ I said. ‘Both of you. I’ll catch up. Now. Go now.’

  They didn’t argue. A second later, the kid and I were alone. He knuckled his eyes and peered up at me, tears leaving tracks through the dirt on his face. I stared down at him. He looked like a giant germ. I should do something. I was going to be a mother. I should get some practice. Gingerly, I patted his head. Making a mental note that no kid of mine would ever be that sticky, I wiped my hand on my tunic and set off after my boys.

  I trotted around a stand of corn and nearly fell over Markham, sprawled across the path.

  ‘What are you doing? Are you hurt?’

  ‘No,’ he said, primly rearranging his bed sheet for decency and looking sheepish. ‘I … just … fell over.’

  ‘You tripped?’

  ‘Don’t think so. I just … lost my balance and toppled over.’ He reached up a hand and I hauled him to his feet.

  I peered at him as he swayed gently, squinting at me through swollen eyes.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK? I think you m
ight have been stung by something.’

  ‘I’ve been stung by bloody everything. This repellent you’ve been spraying’s rubbish and the fumes are making me feel sick,’ he said.

  ‘How long have you been feeling like this?’

  ‘I’ve felt a bit iffy for a day or so. It’s worse today. Come on.’

  We set off after Peterson, who was crouched behind a fig tree, peering at a group of children of indeterminate age.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘He’s met some friends.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Too many for us to take on. Hang on – he’s on the move again.’

  He was indeed, heading towards the town. Head down, he trotted purposefully along the track until the track became a path and then a small road.

  I groaned in frustration. There were far too many people around for us to attempt a little gentle highway robbery. I had a horrible feeling our best chance had been and gone and we’d blown it.

  Behind me, Markham was throwing up.

  I turned. ‘I really think you should go back to the pod.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, wiping his chin. ‘Everyone’s sick when they go to Egypt. It’s part of the tourist tradition. See the pyramids. Get ripped off in the markets. Throw up your breakfast.’

  He looked terrible. All right, the insect stings were clearing up but his rash was much worse. His eyes were swollen and red. His nose was running faster than an historian late for her tea break, and he was swaying gracefully in the breeze.

  This assignment was just going from bad to worse. Not only had we significantly failed to retrieve the gun, but Markham had obviously contracted something dreadful and was dying by inches in front of my eyes.

  I turned to Peterson, meaning to call the whole thing off there and then. We’d done our best but we’d just made things worse. Time to admit defeat, return home, and face the music.